by W E Johns
The Pfalz made a couple of quick turns and then glided between the sheds of the aerodrome, afterwards taxi-ing quickly towards a little group of spectators.
The pilot – Biggles – switched off and climbed out of his cockpit, removing his cap and goggles as he did so. Lee, a junior officer in the Royal Naval Air Service uniform, broke from the group and hurried to meet him.
‘What’s the game, Bigglesworth?’ he said shortly. ‘You told me you only wanted to have a quick flip round the aerodrome. You’ve been gone more than half an hour.’
‘Have I? Have I been away as long as that?’ replied Biggles in well-simulated surprise. ‘Sorry, old man, but I found the machine so nice to fly that I found it hard to tear myself out of the sky.’
‘There’ll be a row, you know, if it gets known that you’ve been flying about over this side of the Line in a Hun machine. Besides, you must be off your rocker. I wonder our people didn’t knock the stuffing out of you!’
‘They did try,’ admitted Biggles, ‘but, really, I was most anxious to know just what a Pfalz could do. All our fellows ought to fly a Hun machine occasionally. It would help them to know how to attack it.’
‘Perhaps you’re right – but it would be thundering risky!’
‘Yes, I suppose it would be,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But look here – in case there is a row, or if anyone starts asking questions about your Pfalz, I should be very much obliged if you’d forget that anyone has borrowed it. In any case, don’t, for goodness’ sake, mention my name in connection with it!’
‘Right you are!’ grinned Lee. ‘Where are you off to now? Aren’t you going to stay to tea?’
‘No, thanks – I must get back. I’ve got one or two urgent things to attend to. Cheerio, laddie, and many thanks for the loan of your kite!’
With a parting wave, Biggles walked across to his Camel, took off, and set his nose in the direction of Maranique.
Biggles was comfortably seated in the anteroom, when, an hour later, a tender pulled up in front of the mess. Algy and Wilkinson, both apparently in high spirits, got out. Glancing in through the window, they saw Biggles inside, and entered noisily.
‘What do you think about this poor boob?’ began Wilks good-humouredly. ‘He rang me up this afternoon to say that he was going to Amiens, and asked if I would like to come. He told me he knew of a shop where they sold the biggest humbugs in France, and then when we got to Amiens he couldn’t remember where it was!’
‘Yes, wasn’t it funny?’ agreed Algy. ‘My memory is all going to blazes lately!’
‘Yes, it’s caused by castor oil soaking through the scalp into the brain!’ declared Biggles. ‘I’ve been like that myself. The best thing is to take a pint of petrol night and morning every day for a week, and then apply a lighted match to the tonsils.’
‘Oh, shut up! Don’t be a fool!’ laughed Wilks. ‘What about coming over to our place for dinner? We’ve got a bit of a show on tonight. We should have some fun.’
‘That’s OK by me!’ declared Biggles.
‘And me,’ agreed Algy. ‘What shall we do – go over by tender? We shan’t be able to fly back, anyway; it’ll be dark.’
‘But I’ve got my kite here.’
‘Never mind; leave it here until the morning – it’ll take no harm.’
‘Fine! Come on, then; let’s go while the tender is still here.’
The S.E. pilots of Squadron No. 187 were at tea when, shortly afterwards, Biggles, Wilks and Algy entered the Mess arm-in-arm. There was a sudden hush as they walked into the room. All eyes were fixed on Wilkinson.
‘Hallo, chaps!’ he called gaily. And then, observing the curious stares, he stopped dead and looked around him. ‘What’s wrong with you blighters?’ he said. ‘Have you all been struck with lockjaw?’
Parker, deadly white, crossed the room slowly and touched him gently on the chin with his finger.
‘What’s the idea?’ Wilks said, in amazement. ‘Think you’re playing tag?’ He turned to Biggles. ‘Looks like we’ve come to a madhouse,’ he observed.
‘Is it you?’ said Parker, in an awed whisper.
Wilks scratched his chin reflectively.
‘I thought it was,’ he said. ‘It is me, Biggles, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely you and nobody else,’ declared Biggles.
‘Come on, then, let’s go through to my room and have a wash and brush up.’
Wilks led the way along the corridor and pushed open the door of his room, then staggered back with an exclamation of alarm.
‘My hat!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve had burglars! Some skunk’s pinched my kit!’
Biggles and Algy looked over his shoulder. The room was in terrific disorder. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents scattered over the floor. The lid of a uniform-case stood open, exposing an empty interior.
The room looked like the bedroom of an hotel that had been hurriedly evacuated. Wilks continued to stare at it incredulously.
‘No,’ said a small nervous voice behind them, ‘it wasn’t burglars – it was me.’
‘You!’ gasped Wilks. ‘What do you mean by throwing my things all over the floor, you pie-faced rabbit? What have you done with my pyjamas, anyway? And where are my shirts, and—’
‘I’m afraid your things are at Douai!’
‘Douai!’ Wilks staggered and sat down limply on the bed. ‘Douai?’ he repeated foolishly. ‘What in the name of sweet glory would my clothes be doing at Douai? You’re crazy!’
‘I took them.’
Wilks swayed and his eyes opened wide.
‘Do I understand you to say you’ve taken my clothes to Douai? Why Douai? Couldn’t you think of anywhere else? I mean, if you wanted a joke you could have thrown them about the Mess, or even out on the aerodrome! But Douai – I suppose you really mean Douai?’
‘That’s right.’
Wilks looked from Biggles to Algy and back again at Biggles.
‘Can you hear what he says?’ he choked. ‘Did you hear him say that he’d taken my kit to – Douai?’
‘When you were a prisoner,’ explained Parker.
Wilks closed his eyes and shook his head savagely.
‘I’m dreaming!’ he muttered. ‘You didn’t by any chance see anybody dope that lemonade that I had in Amiens this afternoon, did you, Algy?’
‘No,’ replied Algy. ‘I didn’t, but I don’t trust—’
‘But a Hun dropped a message to say that you were a prisoner and wanted your kit!’ explained Parker. ‘Didn’t he, chaps?’ he called loudly to the officers who were now crowding into the corridor.
‘But I haven’t been near the Lines!’ protested Wilks. ‘Much less over them. Come here, Parker and tell me just what happened.’
As quickly and concisely as possible Parker narrated the events of the afternoon.
‘The skunks!’ grated Wilks. ‘They must have got hold of my name somehow and planned some dirty trick. It’s just like them. This business isn’t finished yet– Hallo, what’s that?’ He sprang to his feet as the roar of an aero-engine vibrated through the air.
‘That’s no S.E.!’ he muttered, staring at the others.
‘By gosh, it isn’t!’ cried Biggles. ‘It’s a Mercedes engine, or I’ve never heard one. Look out, chaps, it’s a Hun!’ Without waiting for a reply, he darted towards the door. Sharp yells of alarm came from outside, and the staccato chatter of a machine-gun split the air.
For a minute or two pandemonium reigned as people rushed hither and thither, some for shelter and others for weapons, but by the time they had reached them the danger had passed. A Pfalz Scout was disappearing into the distance, zig zagging as if a demon was on its tail.
A hundred yards away a large, dark round object was bounding across the aerodrome. A mechanic started towards it, but Wilks shouted him back.
‘Keep away from that, you fool!’ he bellowed. ‘Stand back, everybody!’ he went on quickly, throwing himself flat. Biggles and Algy lay beside him and watched the
object suspiciously.
‘I’m taking no risks!’ declared Wilks emphatically. ‘I wouldn’t trust a Hun an inch. It’s some jiggery-pokery, I’ll be bound. Keep down, everybody! That thing’ll go bang in a minute, but I’ll settle it!’
He jumped up and sprinted towards the nearest machine-gun, reaching it safely and, taking careful aim, sent a stream of tracer bullets through the small, balloon-like object.
It rolled over slowly, but did not explode. He fired another burst.
Again the object rolled over and jumped convulsively, but nothing else happened. A cheer broke from the spectators, in which Wilks joined.
‘I’ll make quite sure of it!’ he cried, and emptied the remainder of a drum of ammunition into it. Rat-at-at-at-at – rata-rata-rata-rata! The object twitched and jerked as the hail of lead struck it.
‘All right, I think it’s safe now!’ he went on, advancing slowly. Several of the watchers rose and followed him to where it lay, smoking at several jagged holes where the bullets had struck it. An aroma of singeing cloth floated across the aerodrome.
A low, strangled cry came from Parker, but no one noticed it.
‘What the dickens is it?’ muttered Wilks curiously. He stooped over the bundle and, with a sharp movement of his penknife, cut the cords that held it together.
It burst open, disclosing what appeared to be a number of old pieces of rag. Wilks picked up one of them and held it in the air. It was a piece of blue silk, punctured with a hundred holes, some of which were still smouldering.
‘Why, it looks like a pyjama jacket, doesn’t it?’ he said, smiling. ‘It would be a joke if we’ve shot some poor chap’s pyjamas to rags. Yes, they’re pyjamas all right,’ he went on slowly, turning the rag round and found.
‘By gosh, they’re my pyjamas!’ His voice rose to a bellow of rage. He flung the tattered debris of the garment on the ground and stamped on it.
‘Wait a minute, here’s a note!’ shouted Parker. He picked up a mangled piece of paper and smoothed it out on his knee. ‘It’s in English, too! Listen! “From Jagdstaffel Commander, Douai. Message not understood. No Captain Wilkinson at Douai. Have made inquiries at other units, but no explanation received. Thinking mistake has been made, kit is returned with compliments.” That is all!’
‘But how did he know the clothes were for me?’ demanded Wilks.
‘Because I put a note in addressed to you,’ replied Parker.
Wilks looked down at the mutilated remains of his underwear, and then started. His gaze ran over the assembled S.E.5 pilots, a new suspicion dawning in his eyes.
‘By James, I’ve got it!’ he exploded. ‘Young Algy Lacey rang me up and asked me if I liked humbugs,’ he went on quickly, ‘and then he said he knew where there were some! He was right – he did! And so do I – now. Where is he, by the way, and that skunk Biggles?’ He glanced around swiftly.
‘They were here a moment ago,’ ventured someone.
‘I saw them hurrying towards the road,’ said another.
There was a wild rush towards the main road that skirted the aerodrome. Far away a tender was racing down the long, white, poplar-lined highway, leaving a great cloud of dust in its wake.
fn1 Gun mounted on a scarf ring which completely encircled the gunner’s cockpit allowing it to point in any direction. Also used on the ground, as here.
Chapter 22:
‘HE SHOT HIM TO BITS!’
Algy Lacey ran into the officers’ mess of Squadron No. 266, R.F.C., and cast a swift, cautious glance around the room.
‘Biggles is on the way here. He’s in a blazing white-hot fury!’ he said quickly. ‘Let him get it off his chest— ahem!’ He broke off and reached for the bell as Biggles, the subject of his warning, kicked the door open and glared at the speaker from the threshold.
Biggles’ face was dead white; his lips were pressed into a thin, straight line; his nostrils quivered. His eyes, half-closed, glinted as they swept over the assembled officers.
‘You’re a nice lot of poor skates,’ he observed, in a half-choked voice. ‘It’s time some of us got down to a little war, instead of playing fool games like a lot of kids!’
‘All right – pour yourself out some tea, and get it off your chest,’ suggested Maclaren calmly. He had seen the symptoms before.
Biggles glared at him belligerently. He seemed to have difficulty in finding his voice.
‘Where’s Wilson?’ asked Mahoney.
‘Wilson’s dead!’ replied Biggles shortly. Wilson was an officer who had recently transferred to Squadron No. 266 from a two-seater squadron.
‘How did it happen?’
‘I don’t know. I saw him going down in flames, but I didn’t know whether it was Wilson or Lacey until I got back. Wilson was bound to get it sooner or later, the way he flew. He acted as if the sky was his own.’
‘Well, don’t let it worry you!’ muttered Mahoney.
‘That’s not worrying me. It was only—’
Biggles broke off, buried his face in his hands, and was silent for some seconds. Nobody spoke. Mahoney caught Algy’s eye, and grimaced. Algy shrugged his shoulders. Biggles drew a deep breath, and looked up.
‘Sorry, blokes,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m a bit het up! Any tea left in that pot?’
Mahoney pushed the teapot towards him.
‘You remember young Parker, of Wilks’ squadron?’ went on Biggles.
‘Yes. Nice lad! I always had an idea he’d do well. Got two or three Huns already, hasn’t he?’
‘He had,’ replied Biggles. ‘They don’t count now. They got him – this afternoon – murdered him!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mahoney said tersely.
Biggles made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Let me tell you,’ he said. ‘Listen here, chaps! I did the evening show today with Algy and Wilson. We worked round the Harnes, Annœulin, Don area. Just before we got to Annœulin I saw some S.E.’s ahead – four of ’em! Presently I saw it was Wilks and his Flight, so we linked up.
‘There was nothing doing for a long time, and I thought it was going to be a wash-out, when a great mob of Huns suddenly blew along from the direction of Seclin. We ought not to have taken them on. There were too many of ’em – but that’s by the way.
‘They were a new lot to me – Albatros D.5’s, orange with black stripes – it was a “circus” I’ve never seen before. Wilks turned towards them, and I followed, and then I don’t quite know what happened.’ Biggles paused and puckered his forehead.
‘They were a pretty rotten lot, or none of us would have got back,’ he went on. ‘They flew badly, and shot all over the place. Two of ’em flew straight into each other. They struck me as being a new mob that had just come up from a flying school as a complete unit – except the three leaders, who, of course, would be old hands. They wore green streamers – at least, one of ’em did – the only one I saw. Did you notice anything, Algy?’
‘I saw one with red streamers.’
‘I didn’t. No matter. Towards the finish, I saw Parker going down with a dead propellor – looked to me as if it had been shot off. Still, he was gliding comfortably enough, and was bound to land over the German side, when this Hun with the green streamers comes along, spots him, and goes down after him.
‘There was no need for him to do it; Parker was going down a prisoner, anyhow. I’ll give Parker full marks; he put up a jolly good show, although he couldn’t do anything else but go down. He kept his eye on Green Streamers, and side-slipped from side to side so that he couldn’t be hit.
‘No man worth a hang would shoot a fellow who was helpless and bound to be taken prisoner whatever else happened. It isn’t done. But Green Streamers – whether because he was sore because he couldn’t hit him, or whether it was because he wanted a flamer to make his claim good, I don’t know – shot at Parker all the way down. Even then he couldn’t hit him, and Parker managed to make a landing of sorts in a stubblefield.
‘I had to take my eyes of
f him then, because a couple more were at me, but I happened to look down again just as Parker was climbing out of his machine, waving to let us know he was all right. Green Streamers, the skunk, went right down at him, and – and—’ Biggles’ lips quivered, and the hand that held the teacup trembled.
‘He shot him,’ he went on, after a short pause. ‘Shot him to bits, in cold blood! I saw the tracer bullets kick up the ground around him. Parker just grabbed at his chest, then pitched forward onto his face. I went at Green Streamers like a bull at a gate, but some of the others got in my way, and I couldn’t reach him. Then I lost him altogether, and didn’t see him again.
‘The Huns all made off, heading towards Seclin. I was so mad that I followed them to see where they lived, and, as I expected, they went down at Seclin, where the old Richthofen crowd used to be.
‘I went down low on my way back, and saw Parker lying just as he had fallen, with a lot of German troops standing about. He was dead. There’s no doubt of that, or they’d have moved him.’
‘The pigs!’ growled Mahoney. ‘What does Wilks say about it?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him to speak to. Huns have done the same thing once or twice before, and they always make the same excuse – say they thought the fellow was trying to set light to his machine. That doesn’t go with me. Parker was, as I say, a prisoner, anyway. And I shouldn’t shoot a Hun who was down over our side for trying to do what I should do myself, and—’
Biggles broke off as the door was flung open, and Wilkinson, followed by half a dozen pilots of his squadron, entered. They were still in their flying-suits, and had evidently come over by tender. Wilks’ face was chalky white, and his eyes blazed. He came to a halt just inside the room, and pointed at Biggles.
‘You saw it, didn’t you, Biggles?’ he snapped in a tense voice.
Biggles nodded.
‘There you are, chaps!’ went on Wilks, over his shoulder. He turned to Biggles again and jerked his thumb behind him. ‘They wouldn’t believe me – said not even a Hun would do a thing like that!’
