Biggles shook his head. 'No, sir, I haven't!' he said wonderingly.
`Then you haven't heard about Way?'
`Mark Way!' Biggles felt his face going white. Mark had been his gunner and great friend when they were together in 169 Squadron. 'Why, he isn't—?' He could not bring himself to say the fatal word.
'No, he isn't dead, but he'll never fly again,' said the C.O. quitely. Biggles' lips turned dry. 'But how—what?' he stammered.
Ì've just seen him,' went on the C.O. 'I had to attend a conference in Amiens, and I ran into Major Paynter, who was going to the hospital to see Way. He told me about it. Way is now en route for England. He'll never come back.'
`But I don't understand!' exclaimed Biggles. 'He was due to go home when I came here; he was going to get his pilot's wings. In fact I thought he'd actually gone.'
'That's right,'said the C.O. 'He packed up his kit and set off, but apparently he was kept hanging about the port of embarkation for some time. Then the Huns made their big show, and he with everyone else who was waiting to go home was recalled to his squadron.'
'But why didn't he let me know?' cried Biggles.
'He hadn't time. He arrived back just in time to be sent on a show with Captain Mapleton. They didn't return, and were posted missing the same day. Way arrived back yesterday, having crawled into our front line trench, minus his right hand and an eye.'
'Good heavens!'
'He asked to be remembered to you, and said he would write to you as soon as he was able, from home.' `But what happened, sir?'
'I'm coming to that. In point of fact, what I'm about to say was intended for you alone—
his last message—but I think it is a matter that concerns everyone, so I shall make no secret of it.' The C.O.'s face hardened. 'This is what he told me,' he continued. 'As I said, he was flying with Mapleton—'
'Where's Mapleton now?' broke in Biggles. 'Mapleton was killed. But let me continue.'
Biggles gripped the rail of the veranda, but said
nothing.
'He was, I say, acting as gunner for Mapleton,' went on the C.O. 'They were attacked by a big bunch of enemy machines, near Lille. By a bit of bad luck they got their engine shot up in the early stages of the fight, and had to go down, and the Hun who had hit them followed them down, shooting at them all the time. Their prop had stopped, and they waved to him to show that they were going to land, but he continued shooting at them while they were, so to speak helpless.'
A stir ran through the listeners.
'It was at this juncture that Way was struck in the eye by a piece of glass; but he didn't lose consciousness. Mapleton made a perfect landing in spite of the damage the machine had suffered and it looked as if they would both escape with their lives—as indeed they should have done. But the Hun thought differently. Thank Heaven they are not all like him. He deliberately shot them up after they had landed—emptied his guns at them.'
'The unspeakable hog!' Biggles ground the words out through clenched teeth.
`Mapleton fell dead with a bullet through his head. Way's wrist was splintered by an explosive bullet, and his hand was subsequently amputated in a German field hospital. Three days ago, on the eve of being transferred to a prison camp, he escaped, and managed to work his way through the Lines. He arrived in a state of collapse, and Major Paynter thinks that it was only the burning desire to report the flagrant breach of the accepted rules of air fighting, and the passion for revenge, which he knew would follow, that kept him on his feet. The Hun seems to have been a Hun in every sense of the word; he actually went and gloated over Way in hospital.'
`Mark didn't learn his name, by any chance?' muttered Biggles harshly.
`Yes. It's Von Kraudil, of Jagdstaffel Seventeen.' `What colour was his kite?' asked Biggles, his hands twitching curiously.
`Yes, that's more important, for by this we shall be able to recognize him.' The C.O. spoke softly, but very distinctly. 'He flies a sulphur-yellow Albatros with a black nose, and a black diamond painted on each side of the fuselage.'
Ì've seen that skunk!' snarled McLaren, starting up. `Yellow is a good colour for him. I'
ll—'
The C.O. held up his hands as a babble of voices broke out. 'Yes, I know,' he said quickly. 'Most of us have seen this machine; it's been working on this part of the Front for some time, so I hope it is still about.'
Ì'll nail his yellow hide up in the ante-room!' declared Mahoney.
`Such methods would have been in order a few hundred years ago, but we can hardly do that sort of thing
to-day,' smiled the C.O. 'All the same, a piece of yellow fuselage might look well—'
`Leave that to me, sir!' interrupted Biggles. 'Mark Way was my—'
`Not likely! No fear!' a chorus of protests from the other pilots overwhelmed him, and the C.O. was again compelled to call for silence. 'It's up to everyone to get him,' he went on. 'And the officer who gets him may have a week's leave!'
'I'll get that leave—to go and see Mark!' declared Biggles. Àll right, gentlemen, that's all,' concluded the C.O. `He says that's all!' muttered Biggles to Mahoney. Ìt isn't, not by a long shot!'
Under the influence of his cold fury his first idea was to rush off into the air and stay there until he had found the yellow Hun. Instead, he controlled himself, and made his way to his room to think the matter over. He was in a curious state of nerves, for the news had stirred him as nothing had ever done before. He was depressed by the tragic end of the man whom he still regarded as he best friend, and with whom he had had so many thrilling adventures. And tears actually came into his eyes when he thought of his old flight-commander, Mapleton, whom they all called Mabs, one of the most brilliant and fearless fighters in France.
He was suffering from a mild form of shock, although he did not know it, and behind it all was the burning desire for vengeance. That by his cold-blooded action the yellow Hun had signed his own death warrant Biggles did not doubt, for not a single member of either his old squadron or his present one would rest until Mabs had been avenged. But Biggles wanted to shoot the man down himself. He wanted to see his tracer bullets boring into that yellow cockpit. The mere fact that the Hun had fallen under the guns of someone else would not give him the same satisfaction. In fact, as he pondered the matter, he began to feel afraid that someone else might shoot the Hun down before he could come to grips with him.
The matter was chiefly his concern, after all, he reasoned. Mark had been his friend, and Mabs his flight-commander. No doubt machines were already scouring the sky for the murderer—for that was almost what the action of shooting at a machine on the ground amounted to.
`Well,' he muttered at last, 'if I'm going to get this hound I'd better see about it!'
He rose, washed, picked up his flying kit, and made his way to the sheds. 'Where's everybody?' he asked Smyth, the flight-sergeant.
Ìn the air, sir.'
Àh, I might have known it,' breathed Biggles. He was so accustomed to the sound of aero engines that he had hardly noticed the others taking off. But he knew only too well why the aerodrome was deserted, and he hastened to his own machine. Within five minutes he was in his Camel, heading for the Lines. He hardly expected to find Von Kraudil cruising about the sky alone; that would be asking too much. He would certainly be flying with a formation of single-seaters. If that were so, he, Biggles, would stand a better chance of finding his man by flying alone, as the Huns would certainly attack the lone British machine if they saw him, whereas they might refuse to engage the others if they were flying together.
In any case, a wide area would have to be combed, for the enemy machines operated far to the east and
west of their base. So in order to expedite matters, Biggles deliberately asked for trouble by thrusting deep into the enemy country. Ground observers could hardly fail to see him, and would, he hoped, report his presence to the nearest squadrons, in accordance with their usual practice.
Far and wide he searched, but cur
iously enough the sky appeared to be deserted. Once he saw a formation of three Camels, and a little later three more, but he did not join them. Never had he seen the sky so empty.
At the end of two hours he was forced to return to the aerodrome without having seen an enemy aircraft of any sort, and consequently without firing a shot. On the ground he learned that the other machines had already returned, refuelled, and taken off again. Then he had a stroke of luck—or so he regarded it. His tanks had been filled, and he was about to take off again, when Watt Tyler rushed out of the Squadron Office and hailed him. 'You're looking for that yellow devil, I suppose?' he inquired shortly.
`Who else do you suppose I'd be looking for?' replied Biggles coldly. Àll right, keep your hair on! I was only going to tell you that forward gunner observers have just reported that a large enemy formation has just crossed our Lines in pursuit of two Camels.'
`Where?'
Ùp by Passchendaele.'
Biggles did not stop to thank Watt for the information. He thrust the throttle open, and his wheels left the ground he soared upwards in a steep climbing turn in the direction of the well-known town.
He saw the dog-fight afar off. At least, he saw the archie bursts that clustered thickly about the isolated
machines, and he roared towards the spot on full throttle, peering ahead round his windscreen to try to identify the combatants. Presently he was able to make out what had happened, for the two Camels that had been pursued had turned, and were now hard at it, assisted by half a dozen Bristols. There seemed to be about twelve or fourteen Huns, all Albatroses. He guessed that they had chased the Camels over the Line, and, on turning, found their retreat cut off by the Bristols. That, in fact, was exactly what had happened. The enemy machines were still too far away for their colours to be distinguished, but as he drew nearer he saw one, dark blue in colour, break out of the fight some distance below him and streak for the Line.
Not so fast!' growled Biggles, as he altered his course slightly and tore down after the escaping Hun. The enemy pilot, who did not even see him, was leaning out of his cockpit on the opposite side of the fuselage, looking back at the dogfight as if he expected the other machines to follow, and wondered why they did not. For a few seconds he omitted to watch the sky around him and paid the penalty for that neglect—as so many pilots did, sooner or later.
Biggles fired exactly five rounds at point-blank range, and the Hun's petrol tank burst into flames. Biggles zoomed clear, amazed at the effectiveness of his fire, for hitherto he had fired many rounds before such a thing had happened. His first shot must have gone straight through the tank. He glanced down, to see the Hun still falling, the doomed pilot leaning back in his cockpit with his arms over his face. It crashed in a sheet of flame near a British rest camp, and Biggles turned again to the dog-fight, which had now become more scattered over a fairly wide area.
Several Huns had broken out of the fight and were racing towards the Lines. But, as far as Biggles could see, there was not a yellow one amongst them, although he wasted some precious time chasing first one and then another in the hope of recognizing the particular one he sought. He turned back towards the spot where several machines were still circling, and as he drew nearer he saw something that would normally have given him satisfaction, but on this occasion brought a quick frown to his forehead. With a quick movement of his left hand he pushed up his goggles to make quite certain that he was not mistaken. But there was no mistake about it.
A bright yellow Hun had broken clear of the fight, but was being furiously attacked by a Camel—which Biggles instantly recognized by its markings as the one belonging to Mahoney. He had never seen a Camel handled like it before, and he sensed the hatred that possessed the pilot and inspired such brilliant flying. The Hun hadn't a ghost of a chance; it was outmanoeuvred at every turn. Once, as if to make suspicion a certainty, it turned broadside on towards Biggles, who saw a large black diamond painted on its yellow wooden side. That the Hun would fall was certain. It was only a matter of time, for the Camel was glued to its tail, guns spouting tracer bullets in long, vicious bursts. The pilot of the yellow machine seemed to be making no effort to retaliate but concentrated his efforts in attempting to escape, twisting and turning like a fish with an otter behind it.
Biggles had no excuse for butting-in, and he knew it. Mahoney was quite capable of handling the affair himself, and his presence might do more harm than good. If he got in the way of the whirling machines,
the two Camel pilots would certainly have to watch each other to avoid collision, and in the confusion the Hun might escape.
That was a contingency Biggles dared not risk, much as he would have liked to take a hand. So he kept clear, and, circling, watched the end of a very one-sided duel. Suddenly in a last frantic effort to escape, the Hun spun, came out, and spun again; but the Camel had spun down behind it and was ready to administer the knock-out. Mahoney let drive again, but the Hun did not wait for any more. Once again he spun, only to pull out at the last minute, then drop in a steep sideslip to a rather bad landing in a handy field. Biggles, who had followed the fight down, beat the side of his cockpit with his clenched fist in impotent rage. 'The yellow skunk!' he grated. 'He's got away with it. Never mind, this is where Mahoney treats him to a spot of his own medicine.'
But Mahoney did nothing of the sort, as Biggles, in his heart, knew he would not. The Flight-Commander simply could not bring himself to shoot at a man who was virtually unarmed.
The knowledge that he, Biggles, could not either, made him still more angry, and with hate smouldering in his eyes, he dropped down and landed near Mahoney who had already put his machine on the ground not far from the Hun. As they jumped from their cockpits and raced towards the yellow machine Biggles was afraid that Von Kraudil would set fire to his Albatros before they could reach him; but the Boche had no such intention, either because he forgot to do so, or because he was too scared.
Ì got him!' roared Mahoney as they ran.
Àll right, I know you did. I'm not arguing about it, am I?' answered Biggles shortly. The fact that his flight-commander had shot down the yellow machine, the pilot of which, had after all escaped just retribution, was rather a bitter pill for him to swallow. He slowed down while still some yards away, for the German pilot certainly did not look the sort of man Biggles imagined he would be. He had taken off his cap and goggles and was leaning against the fuselage flaxen-haired and blueeyed—eyes now wide open with apprehension. A trickle of blood was running down his ashen cheek, and he endeavoured to stem it with a handkerchief while he looked from the two pilots to a crowd of Tommies who, with an officer at their head, were coming at the double across the field. Mahoney eyed his prisoner coldly, but said nothing. `What's your name?' snapped Biggles, eyes bright with hostility.
The German shook his head, making it clear that he did not understand. Biggles pointed at the man. 'Von Kraudil?' he asked. `Nein, neinP was the reply. Biggles looked at Mahoney, and Mahoney looked at Biggles. Ì don't believe it's him after all!' declared Biggles. `This kid doesn't look like a murderer to me. I say,' he went to the infantry officer, who now joined them, 'do you, or any of your fellows, happen to speak German?'
Ì know a bit,' admitted the youthful, mud-splashed subaltern.
`Then would you mind asking him his name?' requested Biggles. The officer put the question to the Boche, and turned back to Biggles.
`He says his name is Schultz.'
Àsk him for his identification disc; I have special reasons for not wanting to make any mistake about this.'
Again the infantry officer addressed the German, who groped under his tunic and produced a small, round piece of metal.
`He's telling the truth,' went on the subaltern, after a quick glance at it. 'Here's his name right enough—Wilhelm Schultz.'
`Then ask him if he's flying Von Kraudil's machine.'
`No!' came the prompt reply from the subaltern, who had continued the interrogation. 'He says this used to be
Von Kraudil's machine, but it was handed over to him the other day; Von Kraudil has a new one—a blue one.'
Biggles stared.
`Blue, did you say?'
The Hun stared from one to another as the question was put to him, evidently unable to make out what the questions were leading up to.
`Yes. He says Von Kraudil's machine is blue, with
a white diagonal bar behind the cross on the fuselage.' `So that was Von Kraudil, eh?'
mused Biggles softly. `Why do you say "was"?' asked Mahoney.
`Because I got him after all!' cried Biggles exultantly. Ì got a machine answering to that description ten minutes ago! Come on, let's go and confirm it!'
`How did you manage to get mixed up in this affair?' asked Mahoney, as Biggles led the way to where the blue machine had crashed in flames. 'You were missing when the rest of us took off—asleep in your room or something.'
Àsleep, my foot!' snorted Biggles. 'I was doing a
spot of thinking—wondering what was the best way to get at that yellow Hun. It was sheer luck I heard about your dog-fight. I was making for my machine when Watt Tyler gave me the news that a formation of Huns was chasing two Camels. He gave me the direction so I beetled along. I saw the blue machine break away from the fight as I came up, went after it, and sent it down a flamer.'
`How about the pilot?' asked Mahoney. 'Did he manage to jump clear of his machine? If he didn't, we're going to have a job proving that Von Kraudil was flying it. We've only that other pilot's word for it that it was Von Kraudil's machine, you know.'
`H'm!' grunted Biggles. hadn't thought of that. I certainly didn't see him jump, but he may have been flung clear when his machine crashed. Anyway,' he added, as the still smoking remains of the blue machine came into view, 'we'll soon know.'
A crowd of officers and men from the near-by rest camp were clustered around the remains. Forcing their way through the crowd, Mahoney and Biggles approached as near as they could to the hot debris of the machine. It was a terrible jumble of fused and twisted wires, utterly unrecognizable as an aeroplane.
Biggles Learns To Fly Page 16
