Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  Major Mullen nodded, tight-lipped.

  "As you say, they've made a job of it," he replied. "You'd better go and get some sleep. With only three machines left on the aerodrome, you look like being busy for the next few days!" he added dryly.

  Dawn was just breaking as Biggles, with Algy and Harcourt behind him, taxied out on to the aerodrome ready to take off-no easy matter considering the bomb-torn state of the aerodrome. The sheds were still smoking, or, rather, the pile of charred debris which marked the spot where they had once stood.

  Biggles smiled grimly as he opened his throttle, for there seemed a fair chance that the number of serviceable machines remaining in the squadron might soon be reduced from three to two. For, in spite of the catastrophe, he had resolved to make the attempt to pick up the Professor- if the Professor was indeed at the rendezvous awaiting him. That accomplished, they would then set about finding the lair of the bombers that had wrought so much mischief. The three machines took off and headed in the direction of the Forest of Langaarte.

  A big formation of enemy scouts was making for the Line, but Biggles edged away into the sun and passed them unobserved. Presently the forest loomed up on the horizon, still half-concealed by layers of early morning mist. Biggles fixed his eyes on the big field expectantly.

  The task on hand was one which called for speed and accuracy. The landing would have to be made swiftly and faultlessly, for it would be unsafe to leave the Camel on the ground for more than a minute there was no telling what eyes would watch his descent. The three machines were immediately above the field now, and the leader raised his hand in a warning signal to the others that he was going down.

  The roar of his engine died away as he throttled back, 'and the next moment the Camel was spinning viciously towards the ground. Biggles pulled the machine out of its spin, snatched a swift glance below to get his bearings, then spun again.

  He spun to within five hundred feet of the ground before he came out, and then, with control-stick hard over, dropped like a stone in a vertical sideslip. He levelled out and ran smoothly to earth not more than fifty paces from the edge of the forest.

  "Not so bad!" he grunted, as he unfastened his safety-belt, stood up, then stared fixedly towards the still-smouldering fire in the far corner of the field. All was still. Not a soul was in sight. With a frown of disappointment, he turned casually to scan the side of the wood.

  The sight that met his eyes stunned him. It was so totally unexpected that his brain refused to grasp the image reflected upon it. His jaw dropped, and a frown lined his brow as he struggled to comprehend what was happening.

  Fifty yards away, snugly set in the wood and camouflaged overhead with artificial branches of unbelievable realism, were open maws of three huge hangars. Just inside them were the indistinct outlines of a squadron of bombers. The mechanics clustered around them were staring in his direction in obvious amazement.

  And that was not the worst. Racing towards him, and already half-way between the wood and the Camel, was a line of grey-clad German troops, an officer at their head, who, seeing that he was now observed, flung up his arm and blazed away with a revolver.

  A bullet ripping through the "hump" of the Camel not two inches from where Biggles' hand rested, galvanised him into feverish activity. He dropped back into his seat with a gasp and shoved the throttle open. The Camel started forward at once.

  Straight ahead, a row of trees seemed to rear up to the sky it was obviously impossible for the Camel to clear them. Biggles swung the Camel round in its own length and tore back down-wind across the field. He ducked instinctively as a volley rang out as he raced across the front of the Germans.

  The tail of the Camel had lifted and the wings were taking the weight when a scarecrow of a figure leapt from the hedge and flung itself across his path to intercept him. Automatically the pilot swerved to avoid it. There was a ghastly grinding, rending crash as the wheels were swept off and the undercarriage buckled under the oblique strain. The nose of the Camel bored its way into the ground, and then, in a whirl of flying propeller splinters, the tail whipped up and over in a complete somersault.

  As the Camel folded itself up about the cockpit, it seemed to Biggles as if the end of the world had come. For a moment he lay still among the debris, fighting to restore his numbed faculties, and then, with the full realisation of the catastrophe flooding his consciousness, he struggled like a madman to get free. A flying wire had braced itself across his face, cutting his eye badly, but he felt no pain, and dropping to his knees burrowed like a rabbit under the top of the fuselage, which was now nearly flat on the ground. He just had time to get clear, fling himself sideways, and throw a protecting arm over his face as the petrol from the smashed tank reached the hot engine and exploded with a dull whoosh! Swaying from the shock, he snatched a glance over his shoulder. To his horror the Germans were not more than two hundred yards away, spreading out like a fan to intercept him.

  "Come on! What are you gaping at?" yelled a voice near at hand.

  Biggles swung round and stared in petrified amazement at the figure that confronted him. He had no time to take in the details, but in spite of the tattered jacket, tousled hair, and unkempt appearance, it was undoubtedly the Professor!

  "Henry!" gasped Biggles stupidly, for in the excitement and speed of events he had completely forgotten the original object of his quest.

  "Come on, you poor prune!" cried Henry frantically. "Run for it!" and he led the way by taking a running jump at the hedge, regardless of thorns and briars.

  Biggles followed blindly, still not quite knowing what he was doing, and found himself in a large pasture nearly as large as the field they had just left. He threw up his hands in dismay, for any attempt at concealment in such an open place was out of the question.

  "Back to the wood!" he cried hoarsely, but a groan burst from his lips as* his eyes fell on the grey-coated uniforms between them and the only possible cover.

  He became conscious of a roaring noise in his ears, and glanced upwards to ascertain the cause. A ray of hope shot through his brain as he saw two Camels circling low overhead. He had forgotten them, but now he realised

  that they could hardly have failed to see the tragic end of his Camel.

  "Could they land? Was the field big enough?" was the thought that crowded all others from his mind. It was at once evident that they intended to try, for they were even now gliding in, wing to wing, props ticking over, not twenty feet above his head. "Come on!" he yelled to Henry, and sprinted after them.

  The two Camels touched ground about a hundred yards away, and without waiting to finish their run, swung round to meet them. Panting and gasping for breath, Biggles flung himself at full length on the lower port wing of Algy's plane and gripped the leading edge firmly.

  He was far too spent to speak, and could only point upwards as a signal that he was ready to leave the ground. As in a dream, he heard the Bentley rotary engine begin its strident bellow. Bump, bump, bump, went the wheels on the uneven ground, and then the machine rose into the air.

  How long Biggles lay crouching in the icy-slipstream near the fuselage he did not know, but it seemed like an eternity. He was too far back to see the ground over the leading edge of the plane, so it was impossible to see what was going on below. He stared ahead through the glittering white flash of the revolving propeller, wondering vaguely where they were, and whether Harcourt had succeeded in picking up the Professor.

  He turned his head slowly and risked a glance at Algy, who threateningly signalled to him to lie still, and then pointed to the left. Following the outstretched finger, Biggles saw the other Camel a few yards away with the

  Professor crouched on the wing. It was bitterly cold in the hundred-miles-an-hour blast of air, even in his flying kit, which he was, of course, still wearing. And he wondered whether the Professor in his tattered rags would be able to hang on long enough to reach the aerodrome. So anxious was he, and so wrapped up in watching his companion in misf
ortune, that the sudden stutter of a gun near at hand made him start nervously. "Jumping fish!" he groaned. "Now we're in a mess!"

  There was another burst of fire from somewhere close at hand. The wing on which Biggles was lying vibrated suddenly, and a row of neat round holes appeared in the fabric near the tip. He half-raised himself and peered forward. Two miles away were the zigzag lines of the trenches. He screwed his head round to look at Algy, but Algy was also looking round over his shoulder.

  Biggles, following Algy's eyes, caught his breath as he saw a Fokker Triplane working itself into position for another attack. The nose of the Camel dropped a little as Algy dived for the Lines, but without shaking off his pursuer. To make matters worse, two more Fokkers were coming up behind.

  Biggles knew the situation was desperate, and sensed the feeling of helplessness Algy must be experiencing-to be shot at and yet be unable to return the attack for fear of throwing his passenger off his plane. Even a quick turn, Biggles reflected, was likely to fling him right off his precarious perch.

  The other Fokkers were coming in now, one of them swerving to attack Harcourt's Camel. Biggles ground his teeth in rage as the first Fokker stood on its nose and streamed down on their tail, its guns spraying a double stream of lead. Then he had an inspiration. Rising slowly to his feet, he clutched the centre-section strut with his left hand, and with his right groped in the cockpit for the little niche where the Very pistol was usually kept.

  He grunted with satisfaction as his hand closed over the butt, and he drew the short, bulky weapon from its case. He cocked the hammer with his thumb and took quick aim at the pilot in the Fokker, whom he could see peering forward through his gun-sights.

  Bang! The Boche pilot started violently as a glowing ball of red fire, leaving a thick trail of smoke in its wake, flamed between his wings. His head appeared over the side of the cockpit, looking up, down, and around for the source of such an unusual missile.

  Algy, grinning his approval of these tactics, quickly passed Biggles another cartridge.

  Bang! Another ball of fire, green this time, roared away astern.

  The Fokker pilot, who evidently did not approve of this method of warfare--which was not to be wondered at- waited for no more, but turned quickly towards the other Camel, and Biggles nearly choked as a ball of orange fire, changing slowly to blue, sailed over the tail of Harcourt's Camel like a Roman candle. The German saw it coming, and swerved just in time.

  Biggles knew what had happened. The Professor had seen his first shot, and, taking the cue, had followed suit with Harcourt's Very pistol. The three Germans were hesitating now, as if wondering how to cope with such an unusual state of affairs. Suddenly they turned and dived for home, and Biggles, peering out from under the wing to discover the reason, saw a formation of British S.E.5s approaching. The leader, catching sight of him, came nearer, and Biggles recognised the blue prop-boss of Wilkinson's machine-"Wilks" of 287 Squadron.

  The unusual spectacle of two Camels in formation, each with its pilot, as he thought, riding on the wing, evidently surprised the S.E.5 pilot, for he followed them back to the aerodrome, landing close behind them. Wilkinson's face was a picture as he sprang from his seat and hurried towards where Biggles and Henry were patting each other on the back.

  "What's going on?" he cried, in bewilderment. "If you want to fly two at a time, why don't you go to a two-seater squadron and do the job properly? Haven't you got enough machines to go round?"

  "No!" was the reply. "The Friedrichshafens came over last night and pretty well wiped us out. But you'd better get back, Wilks you'll be wanted for escort duty!"

  "Escort duty! Why?"

  "We've rumbled where the bombers hang out! I'm going to ring up Wing right away, and if I know anything they'll have every day-bomber within fifty miles on the job within the hour. And they'll need an escort. There won't be any forest left by dinner-time. Now I know why there wasn't any archie there!" he cried, in a flash of inspiration, turning to Algy. "They were trying to kid us there was nothing to guard! By the way, Henry," he went on, "how did you manage to light that fire with all those Huns about?"

  "Me light a fire?" cried the Professor, in amazement. "What are you talking about? I didn't light any fire!"

  "But we saw one burning!" exclaimed Biggles.

  "That was the bombers' smudge-fire-wind indicator, you poor hoot! I had only just that moment arrived at the spot, when I saw you ground-looping," admitted Henry.

  "Well, I'm dashed!" gasped Biggles. "When we went over last night and saw a fire burning we were sure you were there. If the Huns hadn't been there and lit a fire, we shouldn't have gone over for you today, and you wouldn't be here now. Well, well, as I've said before, it's funny how things pan out at this game!"

  THE GREAT ARENA

  Biggles looked up from the chock on which he sat while he filled a cartridge belt, carefully inspecting and testing each round for the slightest flaw, and throwing it out unless he was entirely satisfied.

  "Haven't you finished yet, Flight?" he asked the flight-sergeant, who with a squad of oil-smeared mechanics was working on the engine of his Camel.

  "Five minutes and she'll be ready, sir," announced the flight-sergeant.

  "Well, get a move on, or it will be dark, and I want to test her tonight. I have to be in the air early in the morning."

  "Very good, sir," answered the sergeant.

  Biggles resumed his task. His face was tired and worn, for what with the big "push" recently launched, and the arrival of the German Fokker D.VIIs on the opposite side of the Lines, air activity had reached its zenith, and the British squadrons were not having things all their own way. Replacements were slow in coming, for casualties had advanced by leaps and bounds until they reached a point far beyond the supply of new pilots, with the consequence that every available pilot along the Lines was putting in more flying hours than was normal. In common with the other pilots of his own and neighbouring squadrons, Biggles was feeling the strain, and there were moments when he loathed the war and everything concerned with it. All he wanted was rest. From the first streak of dawn until the last rays of the sun he had led his flight on offensive patrols, pausing only to rest while the tanks were refuelled. He longed for rain to provide a real excuse to rest for a while. The rain had come, but there had been no rest-the authorities had seen to that. And now, after having been in the air all day, his engine was having a badly-needed overhaul ready for the following day's work. Impatiently he was waiting for the mechanics to finish their task so that he could test it and go to bed.

  "She's ready, sir, if you are," announced the flight-sergeant, and the mechanics wheeled the Camel out of the hangar on to the tarmac.

  Biggles loaded his guns with the belts he had just filled, took his place in the cockpit, and after running the engine up to make sure she was giving her full revolutions sped across the darkening aerodrome and into the air.

  For some time he climbed steadily in wide circles, watching his revolution counter and air-speed indicator closely. Satisfied with the machine's performance, he snuggled a little lower in the cockpit and glanced around him, finding a curious sort of rest in the lonely sky Not another machine was in sight. The sun was setting in a dull red glow behind a mighty bank of cloud that was rolling up from the west. Below him the world was lost in a vast well of deep purple shadows, while the east was already wrapped in profound gloom. Even the guns along the front were silent, for he could see none of the usual twinkling flashes of light that marked their bursting shells. It would seem that even they were war-weary and glad of an opportunity to rest. Around, above, and below, was a scene of peace and unutterable loneliness. It was hard to believe that within a few miles thousands of men were entrenched, waiting for the coming of dawn to leap at each other's throats. War! He was sick of it, weary of flying, and the incredible folly of fighting men that he did not know.

  Suddenly he started, as his eye fell on a tiny speck climbing up towards him out of the dim world b
elow. It was a Fokker D.VII, a blue machine with a yellow tail, wearing the streamers of a flight-commander. He wondered who it was and what sort of man crouched in the tiny cockpit of the enemy plane.

  Biggles sighed, for he felt curiously tired and disinclined to fight. But he warmed his guns with a brisk burst of fire, and stood towards the newcomer with a queer smile on his lips The Fokker made a quick dive for speed, followed by a zoom that brought him close, bright flecks of orange flame stabbing from the Spandau guns under his centre section. Biggles returned the fire, swung round behind the other, and in another moment they were racing round on the opposite sides of a small circle, each machine in a vertical bank as it strove to get on the tail of the other.

  For five minutes they flew thus, neither able to gain an advantage, although occasionally they managed to get in a short burst of fire. It was soon clear that the German pilot was an old hand at the game. Biggles, beginning to grow dizzy with the strain, jerked the control-stick hard in a lightning turn that gave him a fleeting chance to get in a shot.

  A snarl of anger broke from his lips as his guns jammed at the crucial moment, and he hammered furiously at the cocking handles in a wild attempt to clear them, but in vain. In spite of his care, it looked as if bulged rounds of ammunition had found their way into the ammunition belts.

  He glanced across the narrow circle at his opponent, now so close that he could see his face distinctly, noting with surprise that he wore neither helmet nor goggles. He was quite young, and clean shaven, and smiling at Biggles' efforts to repair the jammed guns. Biggles could see every detail of the Fokker, even to the stitches in the canvas, and the maker's number.

  And then a remarkable thing happened. The enemy pilot waved cheerfully, turned steeply, and before Biggles was aware of his intention had lined up beside him.

  The British pilot, half-suspecting a trick, watched him closely, but as the other made no aggressive move the two birds of war flew side by side through the darkening sky. For some minutes, they flew thus, smiling at each other across the void, and then the enemy pilot, with another wave that was half a salute, turned slowly and glided away towards his own Lines, now wrapped in darkest night.