by W E Johns
fn7 The administrative headquarters. Each Wing commanded several squadrons. It was headed by a Lieutenant Colonel.
fn8 Offensive patrol: actively looking for enemy aircraft to attack.
fn9 Slang: aeroplane.
fn10 People responsible for the assembly and adjustment of the air frame and controls.
fn11 Non-commissioned officer e.g. a Corporal or a Sergeant.
fn12 A single-seat biplane fighter with twin machine-guns synchronized to fire through the propeller.
fn13 The German equivalent of a Squadron.
fn14 German single-seater fighter with two fixed machine-guns.
fn15 An instrument for gauging height above ground.
fn16 Only a very few pilots were given parachutes in the First World War, so to jump from a plane meant a leap to certain death.
fn17 Phosphorous-loaded bullets whose course through the air could be seen by day or night.
fn18 Instead of an aircraft gliding down to land, it flops down from a height of a few feet, after losing flying speed.
fn19 Both sides in the First World War used kite or observation balloons with observers in baskets suspended below the balloon, for spotting gun positions and troop movements. Unlike aircraft, balloons carried parachutes for the crew to use in an emergency.
fn20 Streamers were used to make it easy to identify the Squadron Leader or Flight Leader in the air.
Chapter 2:
A DESPERATE CHANCE!
He came upon the Boche balloon party quite suddenly, and crept into a coppice that bordered the lair of the silken monster in order to get a closer view of it. Balloons were common enough in the air, but few pilots were given an opportunity of examining one on the ground.
It was still poised a few feet above the field, with the basket actually touching the turf, and was being held down by the men of the balloon section, who were rather anxiously watching two observers, easily recognized by their heavy flying-kit, now talking to the officer in charge a short distance away.
It was easy to deduce what had happened. The balloon had been hauled down when Mahoney’s Camel came into sight, and a consultation was now being held as to whether or not it was worthwhile sending it up again. The observers were evidently in favour of remaining on the ground, for they pointed repeatedly to the direction in which the Camel had disappeared, and then towards the kite-balloon.
The balloon had been released from its cable and was straining in the freshening breeze, which, by an unusual chance, was blowing towards the British Lines.
As Biggles realized this, the germ of an idea crept into his mind, but it was so fantastic that he endeavoured to dismiss it. Yet in spite of his efforts the thought persisted. If the balloon was free – as it would be if the crew released their hold on it – it would inevitably be blown over the British Lines, and, naturally, anyone in the basket would go with it.
He did not stop to ponder what would happen when it got there; sufficient for him in his present predicament to know that if in some way he could get into the basket and compel the crew to release their hold on the balloon, he would soon be over friendly country, instead of remaining in Germany with the prospect of staying there for the duration of the War.
Reluctantly he was compelled to dismiss the idea, for to attack the whole balloon section single-handed and unarmed was a proposition that could not be considered seriously. So from his place of concealment he watched the scene for a few minutes despondently, and he was about to turn away to resume his march when a new factor introduced itself and made him catch his breath in excitement.
The first indication of it was the distant but rapidly increasing roar of an aero-engine. The balloon crew heard it, too, and evidently guessed, as well as Biggles, just what it portended, for there was a general stir as the men craned their necks to see the approaching machine and tried to drag their charge towards the coppice.
The stir became more pronounced as Mahoney’s Camel leapt into view over the trees and swooped down upon the balloon in its lair.
‘He’s peeved because he thinks I’ve gone West,fn1 so he’s ready to shoot up anyone and anything,’ was the thought that flashed into Biggles’ brain.
The chatter of the twin Vickersfn2 guns broke into his thoughts, and he watched the scene spellbound, for the stir had become blind panic. Two or three of the crew had fallen under the hail of lead, while several more were in open flight, leaving the balloon in the grip of the few more courageous ones, who shouted for help as they struggled to keep the now swaying gasbag on the ground.
Biggles could see what was about to happen, and was on his feet actually before the plan had been born in his brain, sprinting like a deer across the open towards his only hope of salvation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mahoney’s Camel twisting and turning as it ran for the Line through a blaze of archie.
He heard a shout behind him, but he did not stop. As a drowning man plunges at a straw in the last frenzy of despair, so he hurled himself at the basket of the balloon. As in a dream, he heard more shouts and running footsteps.
Luckily, the nearest man had his back towards him, and Biggles flung him aside with a mighty thrust. He grabbed the rim of the basket, and, lifting his feet, kicked the second man aside.
Just what happened after that he could never afterwards describe; it was all very confused. He saw the two remaining members of the crew start back, the balloon forgotten in their astonishment and fright, and the next moment he was jerked upwards with such force that he lost his grip with his right hand, and felt sure his left arm would be torn from its socket.
But with the fear of death in his heart he clung on, with the desperation of despair.
Somehow his right hand joined the left on the rim of the basket, and his feet beat a wild tattoo on the wickerwork sides as they sought to find a foothold to take his weight, in order to relieve the tension on his arms and enable him to climb up to comparative safety.
His muscles grew numb with the strain, and just as he felt his strength leaving him, his right knee struck something soft. In an instant his leg had curled round the object, and he made a last supreme effort. Inch by inch he lifted his body, which seemed to weigh a ton, until his chin was level with the rim of the basket; his foot swung up over the edge.
For two seconds he lay balanced, then fell inwards, gasping for breath and clutching at his hammering heart.
For perhaps a minute he could only lie and pant, while perspiration oozed from his face, for the strain had been terrific, and he trembled violently when he tried to rise. Then sheer will-power conquered, and, hauling himself up to the edge of the basket, he looked over the side, only to receive another shock that left him spellbound.
Just what he had expected to see he had not stopped to consider, but he certainly imagined that he would still be within reasonable distance of the ground. That the balloon, freed from its anchor, could shoot up to seven or eight thousand feet in two or three minutes was outside his knowledge of aeronautics. Yet such was the case.
So far below that he could no longer see the spot where he had left the ground, lay the earth, a vast indigo basin that merged into blue and purple shadows at the distant horizon.
‘Golly!’ he gasped, and the sound of his voice in the eerie silence made him jump.
The deep rumble of the guns along the Line, like a peal of distant thunder, was the only sound that reached his ears. He was oppressed by a curious sense of loneliness, for there was nothing he could do except watch his slow progress towards the shell-torn strip of No Man’s Landfn3 between the opposing front-line trenches now visible like a long, ugly scar across the western landscape, so he fell to examining his unusual aircraft.
Above loomed the gigantic body of the gasbag: around him hung a maze of ropes and lines. A small drawing-board, with a map pinned on it, was fastened at an inclined angle to one side of the basket, and near it, hanging half over the rim, just as it had been casually thrown by its last wearer, was the complicated webbing
harness of a parachute.
He followed the life line and saw that it was connected to a bulging case outside the basket, the same protuberance which had assisted him to climb up when he had been dangling in space.
The parachute interested him, for it represented a means of getting back to earth if all else failed. But he regarded the apparatus with grim suspicion. He had, of course, seen the device employed many times, both on the British and German sides of the Lines, but it had been from a distance, and as a mildly interested spectator. It had never occurred to him that he might one day be called upon to use one.
He fitted the harness over his shoulders, and with some difficulty adjusted the thigh straps. Then he looked over the side again, and for the first time in his life really appreciated the effort of will required to jump into space from such a ghastly height.
A terrific explosion somewhere near at hand brought his heart into his mouth, and he stared upwards under the impression that the balloon had burst.
To his infinite relief he saw that it was still intact, but a smudge of black smoke was drifting slowly past it. He recognized his old enemy, archie, and wondered why the burst made so much noise – until he remembered that he was accustomed to hearing it above the roar of an aero-engine; in the deathly silence the sound was infinitely more disturbing.
Another shell, quickly followed by another, soared upwards, and burst with explosions that made the basket quiver. The smoke being black indicated that the shells were being fired by German gunners, so he assumed that they had been made aware of what had occurred and were endeavouring to prevent him from reaching the British Lines.
At that moment a white archie burst flamed amongst the black ones, and he eyed it mournfully, realizing that the British gunners had spotted the balloon for a German, and were making good practice on it! To be archied by the gunners of both sides was something that he had never supposed possible!
Slowly, but with horrible certainty, the shells crept nearer as the gunners corrected their aim, and more than once the shrill whe-e-e-e of flying shrapnel made him duck.
‘This is no blinking joke,’ he muttered savagely. ‘I shall soon have to be doing something. But what?’
He had a confused recollection that a balloon had some sort of device which allowed the gas to escape, with the result that it sank slowly earthward. But desperate though the circumstances were, he dared not pull any of the trailing cords, for he knew that there was yet another which ripped a panel out of the top, or side, of the fabric and allowed the whole structure to fall like a stone.
He eyed the dark bulk above him sombrely. Somehow or other he must allow the gas to escape in order to lose altitude, and for a wild moment he thought of trying to climb up the guy-ropes to the fabric and then cutting a hole in it with his penknife; but he shrank from the ordeal.
An extra close burst of archie made him stagger, and in something like panic, he grabbed one of the ropes and pulled it gingerly. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, but still nothing happened.
‘Why the dickens don’t they fix control-sticks to these kites?’ he snarled, and was about to give the rope a harder pull when the roar of an aero-engine, accompanied by the staccato chatter of a machine-gun, struck his ears.
‘It looks as if it’s me against the rest of the world!’ he thought bitterly, as a Camel swept into view.
It banked steeply, a perfect evolution that in other circumstances would have been a joy to behold, and then tore back at him, guns spurting orange flame that glowed luridly in the half-light. It disappeared from view behind the bulk of the gasbag, and with a sinking feeling in his heart he knew that the end of his journey was at hand.
The chatter of the gun made him wince, and, leaning out of the basket, he saw a tiny tongue of flame lick up the side of the bellying fabric.
Now, there are moments in dire peril when fear ceases to exist and one acts with the deadly deliberation that is the product of final despair. For Biggles this was one of them. All was lost so nothing mattered.
‘Well, here goes; I’m not going to be fried alive!’ he said recklessly, and climbing up onto the edge of the basket, he dived outwards.
As he somersaulted slowly through space, the scene around him seemed to take on the curious aspect of a slow motion film. He saw the balloon, far above, enveloped in a sheet of flame; the Camel was still banking, but so slowly, it seemed, that the thought flashed through his mind that it would stall and fall into the flames.
Then the blazing mass above was blotted out by a curious grey cloud that seemed to mushroom out above him, and he was conscious of a sudden terrific jerk; the sensation of falling ceased, and he felt that he was floating in space on an invisible cushion of incredible softness.
‘The parachute!’ he gasped, suddenly understanding. ‘It’s opened!’
Then the Camel swept into sight again from beyond the parachute and dived towards him, the pilot waving a cheerful greeting.
Biggles stared at the markings on the fuselage with comical amazement; there was no mistaking them. It was Mahoney’s machine. He smiled as the humour of the situation struck him, and placing his thumb to his nose, he extended his fingers in the time-honoured manner.
Mahoney, who at that moment was turning away, changed his mind and flew closer, as if to confirm the incredible spectacle. But the swiftly falling figure raced him to the earth before he could come up with it again.
Biggles saw with a shock that he was now very close to the ground, and even while he was thinking of the best way to fall he struck it. The wind was knocked out of him, but he was past caring about such trifles. Picking himself up quickly, he saw with relief that the fabric had become entangled in some bushes, which arrested its progress and thus prevented him from being dragged.
It was nearly dark, and strangely quiet, so he assumed that he must have fallen some distance behind the Lines, a state of affairs he was quickly able to confirm from a pedestrian whom he accosted on a road which he came upon after crossing two or three fields.
An hour later, the car he had hired at the nearest village pulled up at Maranique, and, after paying the driver, Biggles walked briskly towards the mess. Noticing that a light was still shining in the Squadron Office, he glanced through the window as he passed, and saw Colonel Raymond in earnest consultation with the C.O. He knocked on the door, and smiled wanly when he saw the amazed expressions on the faces of the two senior officers.
‘Good gracious, Bigglesworth!’ stammered Major Mullen. ‘We thought – Mahoney said—’
‘Yes, I know, sir,’ broke in Biggles. ‘I went down over the other side, but I’ve managed to get back. I’m sorry to say that poor Wells has gone west, though.’
‘What happened?’ asked the C.O.
Briefly, Biggles gave him an account of his adventures. When he mentioned, quite casually, the concrete emplacements he had seen in the forest, Colonel Raymond sprang to his feet with a sharp cry.
‘You saw them?’ he ejaculated.
‘Why, yes, sir,’ replied Biggles. ‘Is there anything remarkable about them?’
‘Remarkable! It’s the most amazing coincidence I ever heard of in my life!’ And then, noting the puzzled look on the faces of the others: ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘we heard that the Boche were bringing up some new long-range guns, and to try to locate them was the mission poor Wells undertook this afternoon! And it’s you that’s found them – by sheer accident!
‘If you will mark them down on the map I’ll get back to headquarters right away!’
fn1 Slang: been killed
fn2 Machine-guns firing a continuous stream of bullets at one squeeze of the trigger.
fn3 The area of land between the opposing armies.
Chapter 3:
ONE BOMB AND TWO POCKETS
At the period when Biggles was just becoming known to other squadrons in France as a splendid fighting pilot, he was often heard to remark that his narrowest escape from being fried alive or from being transformed into
‘roast beef’ – to use the gruesome but picturesque expression then in vogue – occurred not at the time of his adventure in the German balloon over the enemy’s lines, or at any other time in the air, as one might reasonably suppose, but on the ground.
Quite apart from the dangerous aspect of the matter, it put a blot on his otherwise clean record that took some time to erase, for the authorities do not look kindly on those who destroy Government property, or, as in Biggles’ case, the person through whose instrumentality such destruction occurs. Nevertheless, to his intimate circle of acquaintances, the affair was not without its humour.
Admittedly, episodes of a similar nature had occurred at other squadrons, these being usually brought about by sheer high spirits or a sense of irresponsibility occasioned by nervous strain. Neither of these excuses helped Biggles, nor did they really apply to his case.
It was unfortunate that the authorities had just decided that such ‘pranks’ must cease, and Biggles, whose affair immediately followed this decision, was pounced upon as a suitable victim to be made an example of.
In spite of his protests that the whole matter was an accident beyond his control, he was hauled up before a court of ‘frosty-faced brass-hatsfn1’, and had a flea put in his ear, as the saying goes. In military parlance, he was reprimanded. There was a good deal of indignation over this in the squadron at the time. But once settled, the affair was never referred to again in Biggles’ presence, which may account for the fact that so little is known about it.
It came about this way, and in order to grasp the essential details we must start at the very beginning.
One day about the middle of June, during a brisk period of trench strafingfn2, Biggles spotted a Boche two-seater making for home. It had evidently been over the British Lines, and was a good deal higher than he was, but there was a fair amount of cloud about, and he thought there was a chance of stalking the enemy before he reached his aerodrome.
He at once gave chase, but, to his chagrin, the Boche – which turned out to be a Roland two-seater fighterfn3– although he had not seen his pursuer, actually glided down and landed at an aerodrome well behind the Lines, just as Biggles reached the spot.
