Biggles In France

by W E Johns

  ‘I should prefer not to say, sir, if you don’t mind, until the photo arrives.’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  Ten minutes passed slowly, and then Flight-Sergeant Smythe appeared, running towards the crowd with a broad smile on his face. He handed something to Biggles, who, after a swift glance, passed it to the major.

  ‘Where is this?’ said the staff officer, with a puzzled expression. ‘I seem to recognize those buildings.’

  ‘Brussels, sir.’

  ‘Brussels?’ cried Wilks. ‘I don’t believe it! You couldn’t carry enough petrol to get to Brussels and back!’

  ‘Whether he could or not, this is a photograph of Brussels,’ declared the major. ‘And there are leaflets fluttering down over the Palais Royal. I can see them distinctly.‘

  A yell from the Camel pilots split the air, while the S.E. pilots muttered amongst themselves.

  ‘But how on earth did you do it?’ cried the C.O. in amazement.

  ‘Ah, that’s a trade secret, sir!’ replied Biggles mysteriously. ‘But I am going to tell you, because it is only fair to Lacey, whose assistance made it possible. We flew over together, and landed in a field about forty miles over the Line.

  ‘He carried eight spare tins of petrol – four in his cockpit and four lashed to his bomb-racks. He came back home; I refuelled and went on. I had just enough petrol to get back, as you saw.’

  ‘But that isn’t fair!’ muttered Wilks.

  ‘Oh, yes, it is!’ said the major quickly. ‘There was no stipulation about refuelling.’

  ‘Do we get the gramophone, sir?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘You do!’ replied the major promptly, and he handed it over.

  Wilks’ face broke into a smile, and he extended his hand.

  ‘Good show, Biggles!’ he said. ‘You deserve it!’

  ‘Thanks!’ smiled Biggles. ‘How about you and your chaps coming over to dinner tonight? We’ll have a merry evening, with a tune on the jolly old gramophone to wind up with!’

  For a moment Wilks looked doubtful, as though the mention of the gramophone gave him a nasty taste in the mouth. Then Biggles saw a sudden gleam flash into his eyes and a smile break out on his face

  ‘Right-ho!’ said Wilks. ‘We’ll be along. Thanks very much!’ And he swung away in the direction of his plane, followed by the rest of his squadron.

  ‘H’m!’ grunted Biggles, as he watched him depart. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you mean mischief. I’ll have to keep a wary eye on you, my lad!’

  When Wilks turned up for dinner that night, only half his fellow-pilots were with him.

  ‘Hallo!’ said Biggles, as Wilks and his comrades walked into the ante-room, where the newly won gramophone was playing a lively tune. ‘Where’s the rest of your chaps? We expect you all!’

  ‘They couldn’t get away,’ explained Wilkinson.

  ‘Hard luck!’ said Biggles. ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. Well, come along – dinner’s ready.’ And he led the way into the Mess.

  Dinner was a merry affair. It seemed as though the visiting pilots were out to prove that no trace of soreness over their defeat in the gramophone contest remained. Good-natured banter was exchanged, and the room was in a constant uproar of laughter.

  It seemed to Biggles that at times the laughter of the S.E.5 pilots was a trifle forced – as if they were deliberately making a noise to drown out other possible noises, and he chuckled inwardly. And he chuckled still more when he noticed Wilks taking furtive glances at his wrist-watch.

  Suddenly Wilks noticed that Algy was not present, and he asked after him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Biggles casually, ‘he’s got a stunt on I—’

  He broke off as a sudden uproar came from the ante-room, and, pushing back his chair, he leapt for the door. Thrusting it open, he dashed out into a group of figures milling round the gramophone.

  In the midst of the group was Algy, gallantly defending the gramophone, holding off the S.E.5 pilots who had failed to turn up for dinner.

  ‘Two-sixty-six to the rescue!’ yelled Biggles, dashing into the fray.

  In a moment the affair was over as other pilots of No. 266 Squadron dashed to the rescue.

  ‘So this was Algy’s stunt!’ said the crestfallen Wilks bitterly.

  ‘It was!’ chuckled Biggles. ‘And it’s the winning stunt! It’s no good, my lad,’ he added. ‘If you want a new gramophone you’ll have to buy one. We won this, and we’re jolly well keeping it!’

  fn1 Slang: a type of incendiary anti-aircraft shell used only by the Germans.

  fn2 Usually a part of the trailing edge of a wing, used to turn the aircraft to left or right by means of the control column.

  Chapter 20:

  TWELVE THOUSAND FEET UP!

  The aerodrome of Squadron No. 266 was deserted, except for a slim figure that sat, rather uncomfortably, on an upturned chock, as a Sopwith Camel, considerably damaged, landed and taxied up to the hangars – for officers and air mechanics were in their respective messes eating the midday meal.

  The pilot of the Camel plane, Biggles, alighted slowly and deliberately. He removed the tangled remains of a pair of goggles from his head, shook some loose glass from the creases of his flying-jacket, and eyed a long tear in the arm of the garment dubiously.

  Then be bent and examined the sole of his flying-boot, the heel of which appeared to have been dragged off. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he took a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped away a quantity of black oil from the lower part of his face.

  This done, he thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket and glanced sideways at Algy Lacey, who had deserted his seat in front of the sheds, and was inspecting the much-shot-about aeroplane from various angles.

  ‘You seem to have been having some fun,’ suggested Algy.

  ‘Fun, eh?’ grunted Biggles, pointing to the shot-torn machine. ‘If that’s your idea of fun, it’s time you were locked up in a padded cell!’

  ‘All right, don’t get the heebie-jeebies!’

  ‘You’d have the screaming willies – never mind the heebie-jeebies – if you’d been with me this morning. Where’s everybody?’

  ‘At lunch.’

  ‘That’s all some people think of! If they’d do less guzzling and more— But why talk about it? Come on, let’s go! I’ll ring up Smyth from the Mess to get busy on this kite!’

  ‘Where’ve you been? You seem peeved about something,’ observed Algy, as they made their way to the dining-room.

  ‘If thirty Huns wouldn’t peeve anybody, I should like to know what would!’

  ‘Hallo, Biggles!’ called Mahoney, from the lower end of the long trestle-table. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Ah, here’s another wants to know all about it!’ replied Biggles. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. I’m going to knock the block off that hound Wilkinson!’

  ‘All right – all right, don’t get het up! What’s he done now?’

  Biggles seated himself with slow deliberation, ordered cold beef from the mess waiter, and reached for the salad. He selected a tomato and stabbed it viciously. A small jet of pink spray squirted from it and struck Maclaren, the Scots flight-commander, in the eye.

  Maclaren rose wrathfully to his feet, groping for his serviette.

  ‘Here, what’s the big idea?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Sorry, Mac,’ murmured Biggles apologetically. ‘But how did I know it was so juicy?’

  ‘Well, look what you’re doing!’

  ‘Right-ho! As I was saying – where did I get to? Oh, yes! Well, this morning, on my way out to the Line, I thought I’d drop in and have a word with Wilks and thank him for sending down that bunch of records for the new gramophone.

  ‘When I got there I found them all in a rare state. It seems that the old Boeleke “circus”, which has been away down south for the Verdun show, has come back, and planted itself right opposite Wilks’ crowd, and they don’t think much of it.

  ‘Wilks said it was
about time the Boeleke crowd had their wings clipped, and I told him that the sooner he got on with the clipping the better – there was nothing to stop him going right ahead. He turned all nerky and asked why we didn’t do something about it, and so on, and so forth.

  ‘To cut a long story short, he suggested that I should do the decoy act for them. The idea was to rendezvous over Hamel at ten-thirty, me at twelve thousand feet up, and all the S.E. planes they could muster at eighteen thousand feet. I was to draw the German Albatroses down, and our S.E.’s would come down on top of them.

  ‘Wilks was particularly anxious to have a crack from up top at the new fellow who is leading the Albatrosses – they don’t know his name. That was about ten o’clock, and I, like a fool, said “OK”, and pushed off.

  ‘Well, I got up to twelve thousand over Hamel, as arranged, and hung about until I saw nine S.E.’s high up, pushing into Hunland, where I followed them, keeping underneath, of course.

  ‘I found the Boche circus all right, or, at least, they found me – put it that way! I don’t know how many there were, but the sky was black with them. However, I thought I’d do the job properly, so I headed on towards them as if I was blind.

  ‘The Huns didn’t waste any time. No, sir! They came buzzing down as if I was the only Britisher in the sky, and everyone was full-out to get me first.

  ‘It tickled me to death to think what a surprise-packet they’d got coming when old Wilks and his mob arrived. I looked up to see where Wilks’ lot were, and was just in time to see them disappearing over the horizon.

  ‘That stopped me laughing. At first I couldn’t believe it, but there was no mistake. The S.E.’s just went drifting on until they were out of sight. And there was me, up Salt Creek without a paddle. I’d aimed to bring the German circus down, and I’d succeeded.

  ‘Oh yes, there was no doubt about that! There they were, coming down like a swarm of wasps that had been starved for a million years!

  ‘There I was, and there was the circus! But having got ’em, I didn’t know what to do with ’em, and that’s a fact!’

  ‘What did you do with them?’ asked Batson eagerly.

  He had only recently joined the squadron.

  ‘Nothing,’ Biggles said. ‘Nothing at all. Don’t ask fool questions. I came home,’ he went on, ‘and I didn’t waste any time on the way, I can assure you. I went back to Wilks’ place. Don’t ask me how I got there, because I don’t know. I half-rolled most of the way, I admit, but the main thing was I got there.

  ‘And what do you think I found? No, it’s no use guessing – I’ll tell you. I found Wilks and his crowd playing bridge – playing bridge! Can you beat that?

  ‘He looked surprised when I barged in, as well he might, and then had the cheek to say he thought I meant that the show was to be done tomorrow!’

  ‘What about the S.E.’s you saw?’ asked Mahoney.

  ‘It wasn’t them at all. It was Squadron No. 311, who are just out from England, going off on escort duty to meet some “Fours” that had gone over on a bombing raid. They didn’t know anything about me, of course, but when they got back they sent word to Wing Headquarters that they saw a Hun flying a Camel.

  ‘They were sure it must have been a Hun, because they saw it fly straight up to the Boche formation. I was the poor boob they saw, and if that’s their idea of joining a formation, I hope they never join one of ours.’

  ‘But what did Wilks say about it?’

  ‘He laughed – they all did – and said he was sorry. Then he had the nerve to suggest that I stayed to lunch. I told him that I hoped his lunch would give him corns on the gizzard, and then I pushed off back here.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ asked Algy.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ replied Biggles slowly. ‘But it’ll be something, you can bet your life on that!’

  For the next hour Biggles sat on the veranda, contemplating the distant horizon, and then a slow smile spread over his face. He rose to his feet and sought Algy, whom he found at the sheds, making some minor adjustments to his guns.

  ‘Algy!’ he called. ‘Come here! I want you. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘The answer. I’m going to pull old Wilks’ leg so hard that he will never get it back into its socket, and I want your help.’

  ‘Fine! Go ahead! What do I do?’

  ‘First of all, I’ve got to get Wilks out of the way this afternoon for as long as possible; that is, I want to get him off the aerodrome. You know Wilks has a secret passion for those big lumps of toffee with stripes on.’

  ‘Stripes on?’

  ‘Yes, you know the things I mean – you get ’em at fairs and places.’

  ‘You mean humbugs?’

  ‘That’s it – humbugs. Wilks has eaten every humbug for miles. What I want you to do is to ring up Wilks and tell him that you’ve discovered a new shop in Amiens where they have some beauties – enormous ones, pink, with purple stripes.

  ‘Lay it on thick. Make his mouth water so much that he slobbers into the telephone. Tell him you’ve got a tender going to Amiens this very afternoon, and would he like to come?

  ‘If he says yes, as I expect he will, tell him to fly over here right away, but he’d better not tell anyone where he is going, as you’re not supposed to have the tender. I’ll fix up the transport question with Tyler. You take Wilks to Amiens.

  ‘If you can find a shop where they sell humbugs, well and good. If you can’t you’ll have to make some excuse – say you’ve forgotten the shop.

  ‘Keep him out of the way as long as you can, and then bring him back here. He’ll have to come back, anyway, to collect his machine.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ replied Biggles. ‘But, tell me, has Squadron No. 91 still got that Pfalz Scoutfn1 on their aerodrome – the one they forced to land the other day?’

  ‘I think so; I saw it standing on the tarmac there a couple of days ago as I flew over.’

  ‘Fine! That’s all I want to know. You go and ring up Wilks and get him down to Amiens. Don’t say anything about me. If he wants to know where I am, you can say I am in the air, which will be true.’

  ‘Good enough, laddie!’ said Algy. ‘I’d like to know what the dickens you’re going to get up to, but if you won’t tell me, you won’t. And that’s that. See you later.’

  fn1 Very successful German single-seater biplane fighter, fitted with two or three machine-guns synchronized to fire through the propeller.

  Chapter 21:

  RETURNED UNKNOWN

  It was well on in the afternoon when a mechanic, who was snatching forty stolen winks on the shady side of the hangars on the aerodrome of Squadron No. 287, happened to open his eyes and look upwards. He started violently and looked again, and was instantly galvanized into life.

  He sprang to his feet and sprinted like a professional runner towards a dugout by the gunpits, yelling shrilly as he went. His voice awoke the dozing aerodrome, and figures emerged from unexpected places.

  Several officers appeared at the door of the mess, and after a quick glance upwards joined in the general rush, some making for the dugout and others for the revolving Lewis gunfn1 that was mounted on an ancient cartwheel near the squadron office.

  A medley of voices broke out, but above them a more urgent sound could be heard, the deep-throated song of a fast-moving aeroplane

  The cause of the upheaval was not hard to discover. From out of a high thin layer of cloud had appeared an aeroplane of unmistakable German design; it was a Pfalz Scout. And it was soon apparent that its objective was Squadron No. 287’s aerodrome.

  Like a falling rocket the machine screamed earthwards. It flattened out some distance to the east of the aerodrome, tore across the sheds at terrific speed, and then zoomed heaven ward again, the pilot twisting his machine from side to side to avoid the bullets that he knew would follow him.

  But his speed had been his salvation, for he was
out of range before the gunners could bring their sights to bear.

  As the machine disappeared once more into the cloud whence it had so unexpectedly appeared, two or three officers began running towards their machines. But, realizing that pursuit was useless, they hurried towards the spot where a little crowd had collected.

  ‘What is it?’ cried one of them.

  ‘Message,’ was the laconic reply. ‘I saw him drop it.’

  The speaker tore the envelope from the streamer to which it was attached and ripped it open impatiently. His face paled as he read the note.

  ‘It’s Wilks,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He’s down – over the other side!

  ‘The Huns got him over Bettonau, half an hour ago – got his engine. By the courtesy of the C.O. of the Hun squadron where they have taken him, he has sent this message to say that he is unhurt, and would like someone to bring him over a change of clothes.

  ‘He says he can have his shirts and pyjamas and pants – anything that we think might be useful. If someone will drop them on the Boche aerodrome at Douai, they will be handed to him before he is sent to the prison camp tonight.’

  ‘I’ll go!’ cried several voices simultaneously.

  Parker, a pilot of Wilks’ flight, claimed the honour.

  ‘Wilks was my pal,’ he insisted, ‘and this is the least I can do for him. I’ll make a parcel of his small kit and all his shirts and things and drop them on the Hun aerodrome right away. Poor old Wilks!’

  Sadly the speaker departed in the direction of Wilkinson’s quarters, and half an hour later, watched by the sorrowful members of the squadron, the S.E. departed on its fateful journey.

  Meantime, the pilot of the Pfalz Scout was not having a happy time. Twice he was sighted and pursued by British scouts, and although he managed to give them the slip, he was pestered continually by anti-aircraft gunfire, for his course lay, not over the German Lines, as one might have supposed, but behind the British Lines.

  Finally, the black-crossed machine reached its objective, and started a long spin earthward, from which it did not emerge until it was very close to the ground in the immediate vicinity of Mont St. Eloi, the station of Naval Squadron No. 91.