Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  "Right, sir!" Biggles altered his course towards the officer's mess, where a tender was unloading three young officers in spotless uniforms, and their kit.

  They looked at Biggles curiously as he approached. Could this be the famous Captain Bigglesworth they had heard so much about the officer who had the reputation of being one of the deadliest air-fighters on the Western Front the man who had crossed swords with some of the enemy champions?

  They beheld a slim, boyish figure, clad in khaki slacks and a tunic soiled with innumerable oil stains. The left shoulder of the tunic was black with oil. His feet and legs were in sheepskin boots that had once reached to the thigh, but had been cut short to the knees. The strap that bound them just above the calf had been left unfastened and flapped untidily as he walked. Over his arm he carried a leather coat, greasy beyond description, with a pair of singed gauntlets hanging from the pocket.

  One of the new men started to smile, but the smile died on his lips as he raised his eyes to the pilot's face. It was pale and stern, with little tired lines round the corners of his mouth. But the eyes were clear and bright, and seemed to gaze into infinite distance as if seeking something beyond.

  "All right, chaps, stand easy," he said quietly, as they saluted. "There is no ceremony here. I'm Bigglesworth. You've been posted to my flight. Let me know if there is anything I can do for you. Which of you is Harcourt?"

  "I am," replied a fresh-complexioned youth quickly. "And there is one thing I am most anxious to know. Tell me, is it possible to get ants' eggs here?"

  "Ants' eggs!" Biggles ejaculated. "Did you say ants' eggs?"

  "Yes____"

  "But ants' eggs!" broke in Biggles, amazed. "What in the name of goodness…"

  "To feed my goldfish."

  "Goldfish!" Biggles clutched at the tender for support. "Did you say goldfish?" he cried incredulously.

  "Yes I won one at a fair in Amiens, and I've brought him with me. He's an affectionate little chap-I've named him Percy. I've got very attached to him and wouldn't like to see him starve to death. He lives on ants' eggs."

  A low moan broke from Biggles' lips.

  "How do you serve 'em?" he gasped. "Fried, poached, hard-boiled, or as an omelette?"

  "No, just plain, you know," replied Harcourt brightly.

  "You've made a mistake, son!" muttered Biggles. "This is an aerodrome, not an aquarium. And what have you brought?" he went on icily, turning to Howell. "A cage of white mice, or something?"

  Howell laughed, and shook his head.

  "What about you, Sylvester? Which have you got-a box of silk-worms, or a canary? Now, listen, you fellows," Biggles went on, becoming deadly serious. "This isn't a zoological gardens, although you'll find there are plenty of wild beasts about, waiting to bite a piece out of your ear if you give 'em half a chance. How many flying hours have you done on Camels, Harcourt?"

  "Eleven and a half, sir."

  "Never mind the 'sir' when you're on the tarmac. How about you, Howell?"

  "Ten hours."

  "And you, Sylvester?"

  "Fourteen."

  Biggles looked at the ground moodily for a moment before he spoke.

  "All right," he said tersely. "Now, I want you to listen carefully to what I say, and remember it's for your own good. You've got to realise that when you get over the Line you'll have to fight men who have done five hundred hours' flying. I don't want to put the wind up you, but you've got to know what you're up against. I've had some good lads in this flight since I came out, but one by one they've gone topsides, and my own turn can't be far off. But that doesn't matter I've had a good run, and everybody gets it sooner or later. You can't last for ever at this game, but it's up to you to last as long as you can. If you can get just one man before you go, you break even with the enemy-you've done your bit and it's all square. If you can get two Huns before you go, you're one up on the enemy, and you've helped to win the war for England. Your toughest time will be your first week, because it will all be new and strange to you. Algy-you'll meet him in a minute-has been here six weeks, and he can call himself a veteran. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but he is more useful to me today than twenty men like you. You see," he went on, "air fighting is a knack-an art, if you like-that you can't learn at home. The first time you try to ride a bike you're all over the place it's the same with swimming. And it's the same with scrapping in the clouds. It's a case of the survival of the fittest, and you've got to understand that the air over the Lines is swarming with men who know the game from A to Z. To send you over the Line alone, now, would be like committing murder. Well, we're going to fight, and I'm going to show you how. But we're going to do some flying here first. We are going to do six hours' flying a day for three days-two hours' formation, two hours' fighting practice, and two hours' gunnery. It's no use being able to fly if you can't shoot. Then I'm going to take you over the Lines, and we'll see what we can do- Hallo, who's this?" he broke off.

  A hum, which rapidly became a roar, filled the air, and a moment later a Camel swung into view.

  "Oh!" said Biggles. "It's Algy-just watch him. I've taught him to do this at least once a day since he joined my flight, and I'm going to make you do the same thing. Now watch!"

  As the Camel reached the far side of the aerodrome it suddenly stood on its nose, and a stream of tracer bullets poured from its guns. A small object on the ground sprang into the air, and trundled along for some yards. The Camel pilot cut his engine, turned, and sideslipped neatly in to a tarmac landing.

  "That's a petrol-can on the ground over there," explained Biggles, "and Algy knows he's got to hit that-if he's got any ammunition left-before he lands. At first, it used to take him half an hour, but now he can usually do it first go, as you've just seen. Well, break away now, and be back here in an hour for flying. When we are in the air, keep an eye on me all the time. We aren't likely to meet any Huns over this side, but you never know. If I rock my wings it means Huns. For no reason whatever, except engine failure, will anyone leave the formation. Stick to me, and I'll see you through-or we'll all go west together. Now let's go and get some grub."

  Four days later Biggles again addressed the new members of his flight.

  "Well, chaps," he said, "we've got to do some real work today. We're going over the Lines. Try to remember what I've taught you. Above all, keep your places, unless we get in a scrap-and remember that Algy is just above and behind you, looking after your tails. Come on!"

  The five machines took off together and climbed steadily for height. At ten thousand feet Biggles swung round in a wide turn and headed towards the Lines. Almost immediately a great black stain blossomed out in front of them-another, and another, but he ignored them. Glancing back over his shoulder, he smiled grimly as he saw his followers hesitate instinctively as they realised that they were under fire-anti-aircraft gun-fire, commonly known as archie. He throttled back a trifle to allow them to catch up, and then waved cheerfully as they came close again.

  For ten minutes he flew steadily, straight along the enemy lines, deliberately asking to be archied, knowing that the sooner the new men became accustomed to it the better. Then, satisfied that they had stood the test, he turned into the enemy sky. His eyes fell on an Aviatik plane in the distance, and he turned again to head it off, but the enemy pilot saw them and raced nose-down for home. Biggles had seen something else-something that caused him to push his throttle wide open, rock his wings, and thrust the control-stick forward for more speed.

  Far over the Line a lone Bristol Fighter was fighting an unequal battle with four enemy Albatross scouts. The Bristol pilot saw the Camels coming, and zigzagged wildly towards them, with the black-crossed enemy machines doubling their efforts to shoot him down before help arrived.

  Biggles had a thousand feet of height to spare when his flight reached the conflict. Picking out a blue-and-yellow Albatross, he plunged into the fray. The next instant the five Camels and four Albatrosses were whirling in a tight circle, each trying to
get on the tail of an opponent.

  Biggles zoomed up out of the fight to watch the combat, and to render help where it should be most needed. In spite of his anxiety, he smiled as he saw the Bristol turn about and come barging back into the fray, the gunner in the rear cockpit throwing him a wave of thanks as he passed. But his smile became a frown as a Camel suddenly turned out of the fight and raced nose-down towards the Lines. He recognised it for Harcourt's machine.

  A Hun burst into flames, and another Camel was spinning earthwards. Another Hun flung itself on the tail of a third Camel, and remained there in spite of the Camel pilot's frantic efforts to throw him off.

  Biggles tore down to the rescue. The Boche pilot saw him coming, and twisted to avoid the double stream of tracer bullets that leapt from the British pilot's guns but he was too late. The Albatross zoomed high into the air with a quick jerk, an almost certain sign that the pilot had been hit. It slipped on to its wing from the top of the zoom, and then spun dizzily. The remaining two Albatrosses streaked for home.

  "That'll do for today!" thought Biggles, as he waved the rallying signal.

  Algy joined him at once. Presently Howell also joined him. That was all. One of the Camels had gone home early in the fight, and Biggles made a swift scrutiny of the ground for the one he had seen spinning but he could not see it. With the Bristol Fighter bringing up the rear, they returned to the Lines, where, with a parting wave, the Bristol pilot left them for his own aerodrome.

  The three Camels landed, and Biggles looked around the aerodrome anxiously. Harcourt's machine was standing on the tarmac with a little group of mechanics around it. He hurried towards it and saw what it was that caused the interest. A row of neat round holes had pierced the fabric just behind the cockpit.

  "Is Mr. Harcourt hit?" asked Biggles quickly.

  "No, sir," replied the flight-sergeant.

  "Where is he?" Biggles demanded.

  "I saw him go across to his quarters, sir."

  "I see!"

  Biggles turned towards the squadron office, but "Wat" Tyler, the Recording Officer, hurried towards him from the open doorway before he reached it.

  "They've got one of your chaps," the Recording Officer said tersely.

  "Yes," Biggles replied. "Sylvester."

  "I've just had a call from one of our advanced artillery posts," the recording officer went on. "He crashed this side of the Line, badly wounded, but the M.O. thinks he might recover. They've rushed him to hospital. Get his kit packed up, will you?"

  "I seem to spend half my time nowadays packing up fellows' kit," Biggles said wearily.

  He turned on his heel and entered "C" Flight Hut. Harcourt was sitting on his bed, his face buried in his hands. He raised an ashen face as Biggles entered.

  "Why did you leave the dog-fight?" asked the flight-commander coldly.

  "I... er... I... I...."

  "Yes, I've got that. Go on I'm waiting."

  Harcourt's face twisted with a spasm of pain. It seemed to age before the other's eyes.

  "You might as well know the truth," he blurted. "I'm finished. I can't stand it. I'll never fly again-never- never-never!" His voice became a hysterical scream.

  "Stop that!"

  Biggles' voice cracked like a whip-lash. Then he went on more quietly: "Take it easy, kid," he said kindly. "You won't be the first to go home after one show over the Line. Don't sit here and brood. Take a walk-you may feel better tomorrow."

  Harcourt shook his head. His face was a picture of utter misery.

  "No, I won't," he said, and his lips trembled. "I know myself better than you do. I'm finished. I nearly fainted with fright when that archie started, and when those bullets hit my machine I didn't know what I was doing."

  "I know what it feels like," smiled Biggles. "We all feel that way about it at first. Don't worry. We'll have another talk later on."

  He found Major Mullen at the door of the squadron office.

  "Bad show, sir, I'm afraid," he said apologetically. "I've lost Sylvester, and Harcourt's no use-nerves all to bits. That only leaves me Howell of the new men. I should like you to have a word with Harcourt. He's taking it badly, and it's no use keeping him here to kill himself and break up a good machine. Hallo, what's this?" he snapped, glancing upwards.

  Almost before the words were out of his mouth he had leapt towards a mobile machine-gun that pointed upwards on a stand a few yards away.

  "Look out!" he yelled to the mechanics on the tarmac, and gripped the trigger.

  The rattle of the gun was drowned in the roar of a Mercedes engine as a Fokker D.VII, painted bright red and yellow, dropped like a meteor out of the sky. The enemy plane flattened out over the huts and then zoomed high. At the bottom of its dive something detached itself from the machine and fell with a crash on the roof of one of the huts. Biggles sent a full drum of ammunition after the retreating Boche, threw up his hands disgustedly when he realised he had missed it, and then stared at Harcourt, who was racing towards him from the hut on which the missile had fallen, waving something aloft.

  "What the deuce is it?" cried the Major.

  "Boots!" snarled Biggles. "Boots! Boots-so that we can join the infantry!"

  The next instant he was running towards the sheds, shouting to Algy and Howell as he ran to join him in the air.

  "Bigglesworth! Stop, you fool! Stop, I say!" yelled the CO. "That's just what they want you to do-go up! The whole crowd'll be waiting for you at the Line!"

  But Biggles wasn't listening. White with fury, and quivering with rage he could not suppress, he had flung on his cap and goggles, jumped into his Camel, and, without waiting to see if the others were with him. He streaked across the aerodrome in pursuit of the Hun that had offered the deadly insult. Not until he was at six thousand feet and the Line was in sight did he recover sufficiently from the blazing anger that was consuming him to look around to see if the others had followed.

  Algy was at his right wing-tip, and behind he saw Howell's machine. He glanced to the left, pushed up his goggles, and looked again. Then he gasped. There was no mistake! It was Harcourt!

  "The little fool! The crazy lunatic!" grated Biggles. "Why didn't he stay where he was? He'll collide with somebody at the first clash. I only hope it's a Hun, and not me, that's all!"

  He turned his attention again to the scene ahead. The red-and-yellow Fokker, now a mere speck in the sky, was turning in a wide circle, and Biggles' eyes instinctively probed the sky above it. His lips parted in a bitter smile.

  "So there you are!" he mused. "How many? One- two-four-seven-eight, eh? Eight and one's nine. It looks as if somebody's going to get hurt today!"

  The action was not long delayed. The enemy machines, confident of their superior strength, were turning towards the Camels, and Biggles' lips set tightly in a straight line. The heat of his fury suddenly subsided, leaving him stone cold. He didn't swerve an inch from his course, but flung his Camel at the nearest machine, and at two hundred feet gripped his gun control savagely. He knew it was madness, this blindly rushing into combat with odds of two to one against. Even if they got two or three of the enemy machines, the Camels would be lucky to get back to the Line. Howell and Harcourt hardly counted in an affair of this sort. It was he and Algy against the rest. At the back of his mind was one devouring thought-to get as many of the enemy as he could before they got him.

  As he turned to chase the leading Fokker, which had swerved under his fire, he heard bullets ripping through the fuselage behind him, but he ignored them. There was no time for tactics. Kill or be killed was the motto of today!

  The dog-fight became a delirium of whirling machines, zooming, rolling, and banking, firing and firing again through a network of tracer bullets. Machines flashed across his sights, and his guns chattered incessantly. With a grunt of satisfaction, he saw two Fokkers collide and fall, spinning, a tangled mass of splintered struts and fabric.

  A Camel roared past in a sheet of flame, missing him so narrowly that his heart stoo
d still. Another Fokker shed its wings as it pulled up in a vertical zoom at terrific speed, the fuselage falling like a stone through space.

  A red-and-yellow Fokker-the one that had dropped the boots-roared past, zigzagging wildly, with a Camel glued to its tail, and even Biggles, hardened air-fighter as he was, caught his breath at the fury of the Camel's attack. He even risked a pause to watch it, for it seemed that the Camel was deliberately trying to ram its opponent. The enemy pilot evidently thought so, too for, far from trying to return the attack, he was throwing his machine about in a panic, in a vain endeavour to shake himself clear of the mad pilot who had singled him out for destruction at any cost.

  Never in all his experience had Biggles seen such a sight, and it did not occur to him for one moment that the pilot in the attacking machine could be anyone but Algy.

  The end came suddenly. The Camel's guns spurted death at point-blank range, and the Fokker went to pieces in the air.

  The victor zoomed high, and Biggles stared in stupefied amazement as he recognised the number of Harcourt's machine. He looked around the sky. Five Fokkers were retiring back over their own Lines. Only two Camels were left. He and Harcourt were alone in the sky. Four machines were smoking on the ground below.

  Turning back towards the Lines, Biggles made out another Camel, very low, just gliding across to safety. He looked around again for Harcourt, and rapped out a startled ejaculation as he saw him in hot pursuit of the five Fokkers.

  "He's barmy! The shock has sent him off his rocker!" muttered Biggles, as he raced after the other machine.

  Catching it, he had to wave frantically and almost ram the other pilot in order to make him turn. Harcourt waved his fist furiously and reluctantly followed Biggles back towards the aerodrome.

  Biggles breathed a sigh of relief as he picked out Algy's machine, standing on its nose among the shell-holes around the reserve trenches, the pilot standing unharmed beside it.

  "Got his engine shot up, I expect," muttered Biggles, as he glided down towards the now visible aerodrome. "Must have been poor Howell I saw going down."