Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles returned the signal and turned homewards.

  "You're not a bad sort, Yellowtail," he thought as he throttled back and plunged down into the misty depths. "It isn't every German pilot who'll let up on you because your guns have jammed. You're a sportsman!"

  Below him he made out the sheds and landing-ground of his own aerodrome.

  Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, Major Mullen, MacLaren and Mahoney were standing on the tarmac when Biggles landed.

  "What have you been doing?" called the Major. "We thought you'd only gone for a test flight, but you've been away more than half an hour. We were just beginning to think you were not coming back."

  "Oh, just testing, sir!" replied Biggles abstractedly, for his mind was still running on the friendly behaviour of the yellow-tailed Boche machine.

  "What! You didn't get those testing!" returned the Major, frowning, pointing to a row of neat holes in the fin of Biggles' Camel.

  "No, sir. I had a little affair-nothing to speak of- with a lad in a yellow-tailed Fokker," replied Biggles.

  "Yellow tail, did you say?" exclaimed Colonel Raymond.

  "Yes, sir. A blue D.VII with a sulphur-yellow tail."

  "They say Von Doering flies that machine," went on the Colonel.

  "Shouldn't be surprised, sir," Biggles observed. "He certainly knew how to fly, anyway, and he's piling up a tidy score, by all accounts."

  "Yes, he is," snapped the Colonel. "He's the man I've come to see you about! Let's go down to the office. It happens that I'm able to tell you how Von Doering is piling up his score," went on the Colonel, when they had settled themselves in the squadron office.

  "If you had asked me I should have said it was because he's a better pilot than most people," Biggles ventured.

  "That may be so," continued the Colonel, "but there is another reason. He has scored fast because, almost without exception, the men he has shot down had never before been engaged in a combat!"

  "Then he must be very lucky, or else he's a thought-reader," suggested Biggles. "How does he pick them out?"

  "He doesn't-he's told where to find them," returned the Colonel. "Now, listen. Von Doering has a 'circus' of about thirty machines. As you know, it is now the practice for our new squadrons to be formed at home and then fly over here as complete units. Sometimes two squadrons come together, but in any case, they have to fly down the Lines, although a few miles over our side, of course, to reach the aerodrome they are to take over. About five weeks ago, No. 273 Squadron, flying Camels, flew over. Von Doering intercepted them and cut them to pieces. From all accounts, it was just plain massacre. Our fellows were shot down before they knew what it was all about. We thought it was a fluke until he repeated the performance a week later. He's done it four times now. He just happens to be on the spot every time when the new squadron comes along, and that's outside the bounds of coincidence. The Boche Intelligence Service is keeping him posted. There's no doubt of that. Well, we're going to put a stop to Von Doering's little game. That astute gentleman is due for the shock of his life, and this is how it is going to be administered," announced the Colonel grimly. "As you know, it has lately been the practice for squadrons to fly straight from their home stations in England to Marquise, just this side of the Channel. They spend the night there and then go on to their new aerodrome the next day. It must be from Marquise that Von Doering is getting his information. The time that the squadron is to take the air has to be published in Orders -even if it wasn't, the officers concerned would be bound to talk about it, anyway-so the spy, as soon as he knows, sends word back to Germany, with the result that Von Doering is on the look-out for them. Now, this is the idea. Tomorrow, 266 Squadron will fly to the coast, make a detour over the Channel, and then land at Marquise as if they have just arrived from England. Officers will be warned not to talk about their war experience, and the pilots will have to behave as if they are all as green as grass and just over in France for the first time. Get the idea?"

  "I get the idea about Von Doering attacking the squadron, thinking we are a raw lot," admitted Biggles. "But as we have only ten machines, and Von Doering has thirty, it looks as if we've got a warm time coming!"

  "Yes you will probably have your work cut out, "Colonel Raymond agreed. "You will fly at ten thousand feet, just behind the Lines, towards St. Omer. It is near St. Omer that Von Doering is most likely to attack. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Perfectly," replied Biggles in a voice that was not entirely free from sarcasm. "Who is to lead the squadron?"

  "I shall lead," replied Major Mullen. " 'A' and 'B' Flights, under Mahoney and MacLaren, will take position on my left and right. You, Bigglesworth, will bring 'C Flight along slightly above and behind."

  "Very good, sir," was Biggles' only comment on the order, which he realised quite well put him in what

  would certainly be the most dangerous place in the formation.

  "Good! Then I'll be getting back," concluded the Colonel. "Goodbye-and good luck."

  Taking Major Mullen by the arm, he led him outside and whispered something the others could not hear. There was a faint smile on the Major's face when he returned.

  "We shall have to be moving early in the morning," he announced, "so we had better see about getting some sleep."

  Two days later, at six in the morning, the ten Camels of 266 Squadron stood ticking over on the tarmac at Marquise, waiting for the signal to take off. From the tiny cockpit of his machine, Biggles looked across at Algy on his left, and grinned for the thirst for adventure was again upon him, and, as far as he was able to judge, the scheme had worked out so far exactly as it had been planned.

  Experienced pilots all, they had arrived at Marquise the previous day, full of enthusiasm to "see the Front," and had lost no time in telling all and sundry that they were jolly glad to have left England for the theatre of war. It was obvious that all ranks, from the officer commanding the station downwards, were deceived by the ruse. Indeed, there was no reason why they should suspect the true state of affairs.

  Biggles had had an anxious moment when a ferry pilot (whose job it was to take old machines back to England for reconditioning and bring back new machines to the Front) had asked him where he had got his M.C. But Biggles had passed the question off with a laugh, trusting that it would be mistaken for modesty.

  Of the serious nature of the enterprise that now lay before them he had no doubts. Von Doering and his men were seasoned warriors, and although their supposed victims were not likely to fall beneath their guns as easily as they might expect, the numerical odds in their favour was a factor that could not be overlooked.

  Biggles wondered vaguely how many of the ten Camels, now filling the air with the sickly smell of burnt castor oil, would arrive at Maranique. But the roar of Major Mullen's engine brought him back to realities, and he sped across the aerodrome in the wake of the leader, bumping slightly in the slip-stream caused by the machines in front.

  "Well, here we go, with the stage all set for the big act," he mused, as the CO., still climbing, struck off on their prearranged course.

  At ten thousand feet the ten machines levelled out and roared across the sky in the direction of St. Omer. To the west, a few thin layers of cloud hung over the trenches, but in every other direction the sky was clear. They were now in their fighting formation. In front, the streamers on the C.O.'s machine fluttered in the breeze. Just behind him, and a trifle to the right, was Mahoney with the two other machines of his flight, while MacLaren with his machines occupied a similar position on the left.

  With the wing-tips of Algy's and the Professor's Camels almost touching his own, Biggles brought up the rear, forming, as he knew quite well, the target upon which the expected attack would fall.

  "The Colonel must be crazy!" Biggles told himself savagely.

  For even taking into account the shortage of men and machines at the Front, which could only allow ten Camels for the job on hand, it was asking too much to expect them to counter th
e onslaught of a "circus" like Von Doering's. But where the CO. dared to lead, it was up to him to follow.

  The late summer sun, now high in the sky, filled the air with shimmering rays that flashed on engine-cowling, wings, and struts, making it almost impossible to see straight ahead without suffering temporary blindness. And from out of the blinding sun the attack would come. He knew that beyond all question, for Von Doering was too good a leader to overlook the value of such an asset, and he was in a position to choose the place and angle of his attack.

  They were nearing the danger zone now. Biggles fidgeted in his seat, for, as in all such actions, the waiting was more nerve-racking than the actual engagement. From time to time he raised his fur-gauntleted hand, and squinted through the fingers at the blinding orb of the sun but he could see nothing. Once a formation of British D.H.4S passed below them, heading for the Lines, and the observers, coolly leaning against their gun-rings, waved them a greeting as they passed.

  Where was Von Doering? They were in the heart of the danger zone now, and still there was no sign of a black-crossed machine. Had their plans miscarried? Had the spy been unable to get his message back-so that their flight to the coast and back would turn out to be nothing

  more than a joyride? It began to look like it, for St. Omer now lay ahead, not more than ten miles away.

  He raised his hand again and peered between thumb and finger, and caught his breath quickly. Could he see something up there? Yes! Tiny white puffs of smoke- dozens of them. Archie-anti-aircraft gun-fire! White smoke meant that it was British archie, and that could only mean one thing-enemy aircraft! He half-shut his eyes and forced himself to peer into the dancing rays of light that surrounded the gleaming white disc of the sun.

  "There they are!" he muttered, as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a number of tiny black specks hanging in the air like midges. He glanced down quickly at the Major's machine. Had the CO. seen them? If so, he gave no sign.

  Biggles rocked his wings slightly, raised his hand above his head, and looked quickly at Algy and then towards the Professor. They signalled that they, too, had seen the gathering storm.

  He looked back at the Major. What on earth was he doing? He had tilted his nose down slightly and was racing in the direction of St. Omer, the others streaming along behind him.

  Biggles snarled. If Von Doering came down now and caught them in the rear, they all stood a good chance of being wiped out before they had time to fire a shot. He lifted his eyes, and saw a dozen straight-winged machines dropping down on them like vultures. Something made him shift his gaze, and his lips set in a thin line as his eyes fell on ten more machines roaring down on their left flank. Seven or eight more were coming down on the opposite side. The sky was raining Huns!

  He crouched a little lower in the cockpit, curled his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless grin, and shifted his grip on the control-stick so that his thumb rested on the gun-button. In that brief moment before the clash he felt a pang of bitterness against the higher command that had sent them, like sheep, to be slaughtered.

  Whang-g-g! Something smashed against the rear end of his port gun and ricocheted away with a harsh metallic whir. A stream of tracer bullets flickered like a flash of lightning between his wings. Why didn't the Major turn? Ah, he was going for them now! He had rocked his wings for an instant, and then zoomed up in a steep climbing turn. It was every man for himself!

  RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! Flack-flack-flack! Biggles thrust up his goggles and whirled round, eyes seeking his gun-sights. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of two blue-painted wheels joined with a broad axle zooming up over his top plane. Another Fokker was standing on its nose as it roared down on his flank he twisted to take it head-on, and sprayed it with a stream of tracer bullets.

  The Fokker swerved wildly, and Biggles flung the Camel on its tail, guns stuttering vicious staccato bursts-rat-tat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  The black-crossed machine spun. Whether the pilot was hit, or merely throwing his machine out of the devastating stream of lead, Biggles did not know. He had no time to watch it, but turned his attention to another machine that was diving on him with streaming bullets. He recognized it instantly. It was Yellowtail-Von Doering!

  Biggles turned to meet it. His windscreen flew to pieces, and a blow like a whip-lash stung his cheek, but he did not flinch. At the last moment-only when collision seemed inevitable-Yellowtail swerved and the next instant they were tail-chasing in a crazy circle of wheeling, plunging machines.

  A long, black plume of smoke through the middle of the whirling dog-fight marked the track of a falling machine. A Camel was spinning to destruction, and two Fokkers, locked together, were turning over and over as they drifted earthwards, shedding a cloud of tangled wires and splintered struts. A flicker of flame licked along the side of the wreckage one of the pilots stood up and leapt out into the void.

  Where was Von Doering? Ah, there he was, coming at him again! They missed collision by inches as they both turned and resumed their tail-chasing tactics. Biggles snatched his eyes away for an instant to look for the Major's machine. Camels and Fokkers were scattered all over the sky in one of the most desperate dog-fights he had ever seen, but he could not see the C.O.'s Camel, and he turned back to Yellowtail, who was now trying to out-climb him.

  Something bored its way into his engine with a thud, and a sickening smell of oil filled his nostrils. His engine revolutions began to fall. Von Doering, minus hat and goggles, swept past, slightly above him, and deliberately waved. He had recognised Biggles' machine. The British pilot waved back and jerked his plane's nose up to give him a burst of fire as he flashed across his sights.

  Ah, what was that? Far up in the sky, in a line with the spouting muzzles of his guns, was a big cluster of black specks that rapidly grew larger. Farther above, another lot were dropping out of the blue sky like stones, and Biggles let out a wild yell as he recognised them. They were British S.E.5s, eighteen-twenty-no, twenty-four of them, and in a flash he understood the whole plot.

  The S.E.s had been waiting at St. Omer, far up in the blue-waiting for the Camels to lure Von Doering's circus to destruction.

  "Jumping fish, what a trap!" muttered Biggles through his clenched teeth.

  The S.E.s were thundering down in formation, twenty-four blunt noses each surrounded by the halo of its flashing propeller, a never-to-be-forgotten sight! Von Doering was doomed, for he was too far over the wrong side of the Lines to hope to get back-unless he turned instantly, and he had obviously not yet seen the British reinforcements! One or two of the others had, for they were diving full-out for the Lines.

  The sight sent a curious wave of compassion surging over Biggles. It was all in the game, of course, this trap business, but it had also been in the game for Von Doering to shoot him down two nights ago, when he had him stone-cold with jammed guns. Without pausing to wonder why he did it, Biggles looked at Yellowtail, a hundred feet away on the opposite side of the circle, raised his arm, and pointed.

  Von Doering looked back and up over his shoulder, and saw death in the streaming muzzles of the swarm of S.E.s yet he waited to throw Biggles a gesture of thanks before whirling round and racing for the Lines. The S.E.s broke formation as each pilot picked out his man, although the enemy circus was now in full flight.

  A Camel dashed across Biggles' line of vision. It was the C.O.'s machine, with the Major waving the rally, and Biggles closed up behind him, looking round eagerly to see how many Camels were left.

  One-two-three-four another was coming towards him some distance away-five-two more were climbing up from below-seven.

  Any more? No seven was the lot. Three had gone. Who were they? He looked to the right as Algy lined up beside him, pointing, thumb turned downwards.

  "So the Professor's gone!" Biggles mused. Still, perhaps he had only had to force-land with a damaged engine.

  Four or five machines were smoking on the ground, but they were too far gone to be able to distinguish friend from
foe. One by one the remaining Camels fell into position, and Biggles picked out Mac and Mahoney, settling down on either side of the CO. They, too, had escaped, then. And he fell to wondering how many of the enemy Fokkers would get back to safety. With the advantage of height which the British S.Es held, it was impossible that the Boche planes would outdistance their attackers. They would have to fight every mile of the way back, with the odds piled heavily against them.

  How many of the thirty machines of Von Doering's famous circus would limp back across the Lines? Two? Three? Not many could hope to escape the terrific onslaught of the British machines. There would be many empty hangers that night on the German side.

  He breathed a deep sigh, for he knew the combat was over. Only the Camels remained. The other planes had vanished in the haze to the east. He sank a little lower in his cockpit as the Major set a course for Maranique.

  "I must have been crazy to give Von Doering that signal!" Biggles mused. "I wonder what could have come over me? Still, one good turn deserves another, and we're quits now!"

  THE DRAGON'S LAIR

  The Professor touched his rudder-bar lightly with his right foot and swung outward from the leading machine of the formation in which he was flying, and which had banked steeply and unexpectedly-too unexpectedly for good formation flying. At the same time he took a swift, anxious look around the sky for the cause of his leader's sudden manoeuvre. It was unlike Biggles-who was leading a formation of three on an offensive patrol-to make a movement which might easily have resulted in a collision if he-the Professor-had been less alert. Fortunately, his eyes had been glued on the leading machine, so the danger was averted almost as quickly as it had arisen. Unable to discover the cause of the quick turn, yet knowing that Biggles would not make such a move unless there was an urgent reason for it, he stared hard at Biggles' leather-covered head for a sign or signal.