by W E Johns
In his mortification, Biggles looked about him for a means of making his displeasure known, and, remembering that he still had a twenty-pound bomb on his rack, he sailed down and let it go at the unconscious cause of his wrath. He saw at once that the bomb would miss its mark, which annoyed him still more, but, knowing quite well that his single-handed attack would most certainly stir up a hornets’ nest, he turned and made full-out for home.
He had not been back at Maranique for more than an hour when a dark-green Boche, who had evidently slipped over high up with his engine cut off, hurtled down out of the clouds above the aerodrome. Everyone sprinted for cover, but the anticipated attack did not materialize. Instead, the Boche, which Biggles now saw was the same Roland two-seater that he had recently pursued, dropped a small packet with a streamer attached.
This, when picked up, was found to contain a letter, the gist of which was to the effect that Biggles’ bomb had hit the carefully constructed private ‘bomb-proof’ wine-store of a certain Lieutenant Von Balchow, with disastrous results to its highly prized contents.
This, it was stated, was a knavish trick, and the officer responsible for dropping the bomb was invited to pay for the wine or meet the owner in single combat at an appointed spot at a certain time. Von Balchow was evidently a scion of an ancient family who believed in the duel as the ‘grand manner’ of settling personal disputes!
Biggles had no intention of paying for the wine – he could not have done so had he wished. But he was by no means adverse to having a ‘stab’ at the noble Von Balchow at any old time and place he liked to name.
In this admirable project, however, he was shouted down by such old-timers as Mahoney and Maclaren, who saw in the carefully prepared missive a sinister plot inviting a young British officer to come and be killed.
‘This sort of thing has happened before,’ Mahoney told him bitterly. ‘But the fellow who has gone out to meet the other chap has seldom come back. If you want to know the reason, I’ll tell you. The thing is simply a trap, and I very much doubt if you hit the wine-store.
‘Even in the event of your meeting the other fellow – which is doubtful – the rest of the bunch will be “upstairs” waiting to carve you up if you happen to knock Von Balchow down.
‘These fellows know just how to word a letter likely to appeal to the sporting instincts of poor boobs – like you!’
Biggles was hard to convince, but he finally allowed himself to be dissuaded. The following morning he did his usual patrol, which passed off without incident, and then returned, bored and bad-tempered, to the sheds, where he sat on an empty oil-drum and brooded over the matter of the previous day.
‘What do those tadpoles think they’re trying to do?’ he asked Mahoney, who had seated himself on a chockfn4 close by, as a large party of Oriental cooliesfn5 arrived and began unloading and spreading what appeared to be the brickwork of a house that had got in the way of a big shell.
‘They’re going to repair the road,’ Mahoney told him.
‘Who are those birds, anyway?’ asked Biggles curiously.
‘Chinese, from French Indo-China, I think. The French are using a lot of colonial troops, but most of them simply for fatigue work – road-making and so on – behind the lines.’
‘Is that their idea of making a road?’ Biggles continued, as the coolies, after spreading a long line of loose broken bricks, climbed back into a lorry and departed.
‘Looks like it,’ grinned Mahoney.
‘A spot of steam-rollery wouldn’t do any harm,’ growled Biggles. ‘We shall have to climb through those brickbats every time we go to or from the sheds to the Mess.’
‘It was a bad patch, anyway,’ muttered Mahoney.
‘Bad patch, my foot! We could get over it, anyway, but now we shall have to rope ourselves together and use alpenstocks and— Look out!’
He flung himself flat, as did Mahoney and his mechanics, who were fully alive to the danger that had precipitated itself from the clouds with a screaming roar. It was the green Boche two-seater. The pilot pulled up in a steep zoom at the bottom of his dive, and then tore off in the direction of the Lines. As he did so a small object, with a streamer attached, fell to the ground and bounced merrily over the aerodrome.
‘It’s Von Balchow!’ yelled Biggles. ‘Where’s my blinkin’ Camel? It’s never ready when I want it! All right, flight-sergeant, don’t start up – it isn’t worth it; he’s half-way back to the Lines by now. That’s another message for little Jimmy, I’ll bet. What does he say?’
Mahoney took the message from the air-mechanic who had retrieved it, tore open the envelope, read the contents, and then burst into a roar of laughter. ‘Read it yourself!’ he said.
Biggles read the message, which was in English, and his face grew slowly scarlet as he did so. ‘The sausage-eating, square-headed son of a Bavarian offal-merchant!’ he grated. ‘He says he’s sorry I didn’t turn up, but he didn’t really expect me; can he send me a packet of mustard to warm my feet? Warm my feet, eh? I’ll warm his hog’s-hide for him with my Vickers. Get my kite out, flight-sergeant!’
‘Don’t be a fool, Biggles!’ cried Mahoney, becoming serious. ‘Don’t let him kid you into committing suicide.’
‘You go and chew a bomb!’ Biggles told him coldly. ‘This is my show! I’m going to get that mackerel-faced merchant before the day is out, or I’ll know the reason why. Let him bring his pals if he likes – the more the merrier. Mustard, eh?’
Mahoney shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ll go and pack your kit,’ he sneered, as Biggles climbed into his cockpit.
‘You can pack what the dickens you like, but you let my kit alone,’ Biggles told him wrathfully, as he took off.
He did not see Roland in the air, but he hardly expected to, so he made a bee-line for its aerodrome, of the whereabouts of which he was, of course, aware, having chased the Hun home the day before. He was evidently unexpected, for when he reached it the aerodrome was deserted, but a long row of Rolands on the tarmac suggested that the officers of the staffel were at home, so he announced his presence by zooming low over the mess, warming his guns as he did so, but disdaining to fire at the buildings or machines.
Instantly the scene became a hive of activity. The tarmac buzzed with running figures, some of whom sprang into the seats of the machines, while others spun the propellers. He picked out the green machine as he zoomed down the line, and from two thousand feet watched it taxi out ready to take off.
He knew that his best opportunity would come as the machine actually commenced its run across the aerodrome, but he refused to take any step that would enable Von Balchow’s friends to say that he had taken an unfair advantage.
So he circled, waiting, until the machine was in the air at his own altitude before he launched his first attack, although he was well aware that other machines were climbing rapidly to get above him.
The Roland, with its powerful Mercedes engine, was a fighter of some renown, a two-seater comparable with our own Bristol fighterfn6. Biggles knew its qualities, for knowledge of the performance of one’s adversary is the first rule of air fighting, so he was aware that his opponent would not be ‘easy meat’. Still he felt curiously confident of the upshot.
Whatever else happened, he was going to get Von Balchow, the man who had suggested that he had cold feet! Afterwards he would deal with the others when the necessity arose.
He saw Von Balchow’s gunner clamp a drum of ammunition on his mobile Parabellumfn7 gun, and the pilot swing round to bring the gun to bear in preference to using his own fixed Spandaufn8 gun; but he was not to be caught thus.
Keeping the swirling propeller of the green machine between him and the deadly Parabellum, he went down in a fierce dive under the nose of the machine, zoomed up above and behind it, and before the gunner could swing his gun to bear, he fired a quick burst.
Then, while the gunner was tilting his gun upwards, he stood the Camel on its nose, went down in another dive, and ca
me up under the other’s elevators. He held his fire until a collision seemed inevitable, and then pressed the lever of his gun. It was only a short burst, but it was fired at deadly range.
Pieces flew off the green fuselage, and as he twisted upwards into a half roll Biggles noticed that the enemy gunner was no longer standing up.
‘That’s one of them!’ he thought coolly. ‘I’ve given them a bit out of their own copybook.’
It was Richthofenfn9, the ace of German air-fighters and the great master of attack, who laid down the famous maxim ‘when attacking two-seaters, kill the gunner first’.
Von Balchow, with his rear gun out of action, was crippled, and he showed little anxiety to proceed with the combat. Indeed, it may have been that he lost his nerve, for he committed the hopeless indiscretion of diving for his own aerodrome.
Biggles was behind him in a flash, shooting the green planes and strutsfn10 to pieces from a range that grew closer and closer as he pressed the control-stick forward. He could hear bullets ripping through his own machine, from the Rolands that had got above him, but he ignored them; the complete destruction of the green one was still uppermost in his mind.
Whether he actually killed the pilot or not he did not know, nor was he ever able to find out, although, in view of what occurred, it is probable that even if he was not killed by a bullet, Von Balchow must have been killed or badly injured in the crash.
Whether he was hit or not, the German had sufficient strength left to try to flatten out for a landing; but either he misjudged his distance or was mentally paralysed by the hail of lead that swept through his machine, for his wheels touched the ground while he was still travelling at terrific speed with his engine full on.
The Roland shot high into the air, somersaulted, and then buried itself in the ground in the most appalling crash that Biggles had ever seen. The victory could not have been more complete, for he had shot down his man on his own aerodrome!
As he turned away he saw the German mechanics race towards the wreck; then he turned his eyes upwards. Prepared as he was for something bad, his pardonable exultation received a rude shock when he saw that the air was alive with black-crossed machines, the gunners of which were making the most of their opportunity. To stay and fight them all was outside the question.
He had achieved what he had set out to do, and was more than satisfied; all that remained was to get home safely. So down he went and began racing in the direction of the Lines with his wheels just off the ground.
The pilots of the other machines were on his tail instantly, but their gunners, being unable to fire forward, could do nothing. Moreover, they had to act warily, for to overtake their mark meant diving into the ground. Nevertheless, Biggles did not remain on the same course for more than a few seconds at a time, but swerved from side to side, leaping over the obstructions like a steeplechaser.
More than one officer came home in the same way during the Great War; in fact, it was a recognized course of procedure in desperate circumstances, although in the case of a single-seater it had this disadvantage – the pilot had to accept the enemy’s fire, without being able to return it.
Yet, although it went against the grain to run away, to stay and fight against such hopeless odds could only have one ending. Biggles knew it, and, forcing down the temptation to turn, he held on his way, twisting and turning like a snipe. More than one bullet hit the machine, yet no serious damage was done.
He shot across the back area enemy trenches, a mark for hundreds of rifles, yet he had done too much trench-strafing to be seriously concerned about them. All the same, he breathed a sigh of relief as he tore across the British lines to safety.
Then, as he sat back, limp from reaction, but satisfied that he had nothing more to fear, a shell, fired from a field gun, burst with a crash that nearly shattered his eardrums, and almost turned the Camel over. The engine kept going, but a cloud of smoke and hot oil spurted back over the windscreen from the engine, and he knew it had been damaged.
The revolution counterfn11 began to swing back, and although he hung on long enough to get within sight of the aerodrome, he was finally forced to land, much to his disgust, in a convenient field about half a mile away.
The Camel finished its run about twenty yards from the hedge which bordered the road at that spot, and near where some Tommiesfn12 were working on an object which, as he climbed the gate, revealed itself to be a German tank – evidently one that had been captured or abandoned in the recent retreat.
He sat on the gate, watching it for a moment or two while he removed his goggles and flying-coat, for the day was hot.
‘Have any of you fellows got any water in your water-bottles?’ he asked. ‘My word, I am dry!’
‘Yes, sir – here you are!’ cried several of them willingly.
He accepted the first water-bottle, and smacked his lips with satisfaction after drinking a long draught. ‘That’s better!’ he declared.
He watched the mechanics for a few minutes, for he was in no great hurry to return to the aerodrome, and after the recent brisk affair in the air he found it singularly pleasant to be sitting beside a country road. He decided that he would ask the first passer-by to leave word at the aerodrome as to where he was and how he was situated; the air-mechanics would then fetch the machine.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked the corporal who seemed to be in charge of the party, which he noticed was composed of Royal Engineers.
‘The Huns left it behind in the retreat last week, sir,’ replied the corporal. ‘We were sent to fetch it back to the depot for examination, but she broke down, so we are trying to put her right.’
Biggles eyed the steel vehicle, with its ponderous caterpillar wheels, curiously.
‘My word, I’d hate to be shut up in that thing!’ he murmured.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad, sir. You come and look!’ suggested the corporal. ‘She stinks a bit of oil, but that’s all!’
Biggles climbed off the gate and crawled through the small steel trap that opened in the rear end of the tank. ‘By James, I should think she does stink!’ he muttered. ‘And it’s hotter than hot!’
‘You soon get used to that!’ laughed the corporal.
‘I suppose this is the wheel where the driver sits!’ went on Biggles, climbing awkwardly into the small seat behind the wheel, and peering through the ‘letterbox’ slit that permitted a restricted view straight ahead.
‘That’s it, sir,’ agreed the corporal. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ he went on as one of the men called something from outside.
Biggles nodded, and thumbed the controls gingerly. ‘Well, I’d sooner have my own cockpit!’ he mused, putting his foot on a pedal in the floor and depressing it absentmindedly.
Instantly there was a loud explosion, and the machine jumped forward with a jolt that caused him to strike his head violently on an iron object behind him. At the same moment the door slammed to with a metallic clang.
fn1 Slang; senior officers referring to the gold braid on their caps.
fn2 Using his guns to attack the trenches from the air.
fn3 German two-seater fighter, with the observer/gunner armed with a machine gun.
fn4 Wooden blocks placed in front of an aircraft’s wheels to prevent it moving before it is meant to.
fn5 Workmen – now considered to be insulting.
fn6 Two-seater biplane fighter with remarkable manoeuvrability, in service 1917 onwards. It had one fixed Vickers gun for the pilot and one or two mobile Lewis guns for the observer/gunner.
fn7 A mobile gun for the rear gunner usually mounted on a V-shaped rail to allow rapid movement with a wide arc of fire.
fn8 German machine-guns were often called Spandaus, due to the fact that they were manufactured at Spandau in Germany.
fn9 Manfred Von Richthofen ‘the Red Baron’ – German ace who shot down a total of 80 Allied aircraft. Killed in April 1918.
fn10 ‘Planes’ refers to the wings of an aircraft, as well as referring to
the whole structure. A biplane had four planes, two each side. Struts are the rigid supports between the fuselage and the wings of biplanes or triplanes.
fn11 Used for counting revolutions per minute of the engine.
fn12 Slang: British soldiers of the rank of Private.
Chapter 4:
‘STAND CLEAR – I’M COMING!’
It was sheer instinct that made him clutch at the wheel and swing it round just as the front of the vehicle was about to take a tree head-on, but he managed to clear it and get back on to the road, down which he proceeded to charge at a speed that he thought utterly impossible for such a weight.
‘Hi, Corporal,’ he shouted, ‘come and stop the confounded thing! I can’t!’
There was no reply, and, snatching a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw, to his horror, that the machine was empty.
‘Great Scott! I’m sunk!’ he muttered, white-faced. Fortunately, the road was straight. But even so, it was only with difficulty that he was able to keep the tank on it, for the steel wheel vibrated horribly, and the steering-gear seemed to do strange things on its own. He eyed a distant bend in the road apprehensively.
‘That’s where I pile her up!’ he thought. ‘I shall never be able to make that turn. What a fool I was to get into this contraption!’
At that moment his eye fell on a throttle at his left side, and, forgetting that nearly all German controls worked in the opposite direction to our own, he, as he thought, pulled it back.
Immediately the machine bounded forward with renewed impetus, and the noise, which had been terrible enough before, became almost unbearable.
The bend in the road lurched sickeningly towards him, and, as he had prophesied, he failed to make it. He clutched at the side of the tank as it struck the bank and buried itself in the hedge. But he had forgotten the peculiar properties of this particular type of vehicle. Regarded as obstructions, the bank, ditch, and hedge were so trivial that the machine did not appear to notice them.
