by W E Johns
‘Well, what about it?’ asked Maclaren.
Wilks flung his cap across the room viciously.
‘This!’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m going to get that Hun with the green decorations on his struts! If someone else happens to be flying that machine, it will be his unlucky day!’
‘Never mind Green Streamers,’ put in Biggles. ‘I’ll bet he’s told the rest of his crowd about it by this time, and they’ll be laughing like hyenas. I say, let us mop up the whole lot of ’em, good and proper! We can’t have people like this about the place!’
‘Good idea! But how?’ asked Mahoney.
Biggles thought deeply for a moment.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he replied. ‘Sit down, you chaps,’ he added to the newcomers. ‘There was a time when people over here who flew behaved like gentlemen. But there has lately been a tendency towards the methods of the original Huns, and I say it is up to us to put the blighters where they belong.
‘Let us keep our department of this confounded war clean, or life won’t be worth living.
‘For a start, we’ll deal with this orange-and-black lot of tigers. But don’t forget this – it’s no use our going on as we have been working. If we do, our patrols will meet this crowd and get the worst of it. They’ve taken to flying together, while we go on flying in bits and pieces, in twos and threes. That’s no use – it won’t get us anywhere.
‘If everyone is willing, let us get together and make a clean job of it. I should say there are thirty machines in that new Hun group – three “staffels”. It’s no earthly use three of us taking on that crowd, but if we put up all our machines together – say two complete squadrons, eighteen machines or thereabouts – it will be a different proposition.’
‘What’s the debate?’
Major Mullen, the C.O., with Major Benson, of Squadron No. 301 entered the Mess and looked around curiously.
Briefly, Biggles told him of the affair of the afternoon, and the drastic steps he was going to suggest to him in order to make their displeasure known to the orange staffels.
‘But if you start cruising about, eighteen strong, you don’t suppose you will ever get near the Huns, do you?’ asked Major Mullen. ‘Small patrols are their meat.’
‘I’ve thought of that, sir,’ replied Biggles. ‘We shall have to use cunning, that’s all. The Hun hasn’t much imagination, but he is a very methodical bloke, and it is on that score that I propose to get him going. Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I shall go over and shoot up Seclin.’
‘Alone?’
‘If necessary, or with two other officers, if they’ll come. I don’t want anybody detailed for the job; I’d ask for volunteers.’
‘I’ll come,’ put in Algy quickly, and Mahoney put up his hand.
Several other officers stepped forward.
‘That’s enough,’ declared Biggles. ‘You can’t all come. Now, this is my idea. Tomorrow morning three of us will shoot the spots off Seclin aerodrome. The next morning, at exactly the same time, we’ll do it again. After the second show, it will occur to the Hun that these dawn shows are going to be a regular institution, and they’ll decide to do something about it.
‘On the third morning we shall go over as usual, and the Hun, unless I am very much mistaken, will be up top-sides bright and early, waiting for us. As it happens, we shall not be alone. The three machines will fly low, as usual, but six more Camels will be at, say, six thousand.
‘The Huns may see them; in fact, I hope they do, because they’ll think it is the escort, and not bother to look any further. They won’t see nine S.E.’s up at twelve thousand, waiting for the show to begin before they come down. They won’t hear them because they’ll be in the air, and the noise of their own engines will settle that.
‘So, when the show begins, there will be eighteen of us on the spot, and the Hun will find he is up to the neck in the gravy. That is how I hope we shall wipe these blighters and their perishing aerodrome off the map. Anybody else got any ideas?’
There was no response to the question.
‘That’s fine, then,’ went on Biggles. ‘One last thing, though. If we succeed in pushing these blighters into the ground – and we certainly shall – I suggest that we all go back straight away and strafe their sheds. That will be the finishing touch – make a clean job of it, so to speak.’
The C.O. thought for a moment.
‘I’ve no objection,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, we shall probably profit by it in the end, because if we don’t do something of the sort the Huns, by working together, will be certain to cause casualties amongst the small patrols and individual pilots.’
‘Grand! I feel better now,’ declared Biggles. ‘We’ll get out times and rendezvous later on. We’ll start the action tomorrow, Tuesday, which means that this big show will be on Thursday. Now I’m going to have a bath.’
It was still quite dark when Biggles’ batmanfn1 called him the following morning. Biggles sat up in bed, gulped down the proffered tea, and shivered.
‘Have you called Captain Mahoney and Mr Lacey?’ he inquired.
‘Yes, sir; they’re both dressing.’
Biggles crawled out of bed as the batman withdrew. ‘The number of times I’ve said that I’d never volunteer for any more of these cock-crow shows – and here I am at it again,’ he grumbled. ‘Grrrr.’
He pulled his sheepskin thigh-boots on over his pyjamas, donned a thick, high-necked woollen sweater, and then his leather flying-coat. He adjusted his flying-helmet, leaving the chin-strap flapping, and slipped his goggles over it. Then he walked through to the mess to drink another cup of tea and munch a biscuit while he waited for the others.
Mahoney and Algy followed him into the Mess almost immediately, and in reply to his terse: ‘If you’re ready, we’ll get off,’ followed him to the sheds, whence came the roar of engines being run up.
All was still on the aerodrome. A faint flush was stealing across the eastern sky, and the stars began to lose their brightness.
‘You lead,’ said Biggles, looking at Mahoney. ‘If I were you, I should go straight over, keeping low all the way. When we get there, do three circles to the left, and then hit the breeze for home, rallying on the way. We’ll pull our bomb-togglesfn2 for four bombs first time, four the second time, and use our guns the third time. How’s that?’
‘Sounds all right to me,’ said Mahoney. ‘Come on!’
The three pilots climbed into their seats, ran up their engines to confirm that they were giving their full revs, waved away the chocks, and then took off straight across the aerodrome without troubling to taxi out, for there was not a breath of wind.
Keeping low, they raced across the British trenches at a hundred feet, startling the troops, and made a bee-line for their objective. It took them exactly ten minutes to reach it, after crossing the lines. As it came into sight, Mahoney, in the lead, edged a little to the right, and then tore straight at the line of camouflaged canvas hangars.
The aerodrome was deserted. Not a soul or an aeroplane was to be seen. The only sign of life was a small party of crows just in front of the German sheds.
Biggles followed Mahoney in his downward rush at an interval of perhaps twenty yards. Algy brought up the rear. As Biggles reached for the bomb-toggle he saw several people, obviously in night attire, run out of the huts that stood just behind the hangars and throw themselves flat. He waited until the first hangar came in line with the junction of his starboard wing and fuselage, and then pulled.
He saw Mahoney’s bombs burst in quick succession as he zoomed upwards, taking a nasty bump from his leader’s slip-stream as he did so. Banking left, and glancing back over his shoulder, he saw figures running. A great cloud of smoke concealed the buildings, so it was impossible to see what damage had been done.
A long stream of tracer bullets leapt upwards from a point near the edge of the aerodrome, but Biggles only smiled. Still keeping in line, the three Camels swung round into their previous tracks an
d swooped low over the drifting smoke cloud. Mahoney’s four remaining bombs swung off the racks, and his own followed. He turned left again as the last one left his machine. This time he did not go entirely unscathed, for several bullet holes had appeared in his wings. He smiled again, and settled himself low in the cockpit for the final plunge.
All three Camels had zoomed to a thousand feet over the edge of the aerodrome, and now, as one machine, they banked steeply again and screamed down on the Boche sheds. Biggles could see Mahoney’s tracer bullets pouring into the smoke, for the target was no longer visible, and his hand groped for the gun lever.
A double stream of tracer bullets poured from the muzzles of his guns. He held the burst until his wheels were actually in the smoke, and then soared up in a climbing turn.
Algy roared up beside him, goggles pushed up, laughing. Mahoney was some distance ahead, but he throttled back to enable them to catch up, and in a tight arrow-head formation they made for home.
The return trip was an uneventful journey, although they came in for a good deal of attention from troops on the ground, as was only to be expected. Mahoney left the formation for a few moments to chase a staff car, returning after the panic-stricken driver had turned the vehicle over at the first bend. They reached Maranique just before six, having been in the air for under an hour.
‘How did it go?’ called Wat Tyler from the squadron office as they passed it on the way down to breakfast.
‘Fine!’ replied Biggles. ‘We just left our cards and came home!’
fn1 An attendant serving an officer. A position discontinued in today’s RAF.
fn2 The bomb-release handles.
Chapter 23:
‘WRITTEN OFF’
On Thursday morning, at a quarter to five, Major Mullen addressed eight other pilots in front of A. Flight shed. A short distance away, nine Camels stood in readiness for the impending ‘show’.
‘I’ll just run over everything once more, so that there can be no possibility of mistake. As you all know, one flight has already made two raids on the German aerodrome at Seclin. The second raid, made yesterday morning, was carried out at exactly the same time and in the same way as the first one.
‘Yesterday the enemy were ready – or perhaps it would be more correct to say nearly ready. They had their machines lined up on the tarmac, but were unable to get off in time to catch ours. It is hoped that they will actually be in the air this morning, awaiting a recurrence of the attack.
‘Mahoney, Bigglesworth and Lacey will fly low and raid the aerodrome as usual – at least, they will behave as if they are going to. Whether they do it or not depends upon circumstances. It is the riskiest part of the show, but they insist on doing it, and as they are best qualified for the job, knowing the layout of the aerodrome intimately, I have agreed.
‘I shall lead the remaining six Camels at six thousand feet. If the Huns are not in the air, we shall remain where we are, acting as escort to the lower formation. If, however, the Huns are in the air, they will attack the lower formation first, and we shall go to their assistance. The S.E.’s, which will be flying above us, will immediately join issue.
‘I want every officer to stand by and do his level best to destroy at least one enemy machine.
‘You all know the reason for this attack, so I need not go into it again. Our ultimate object is the complete write-off of this particular German group. A red light will be my signal to rally. That’s all. Start up!’
Biggles threw his half-smoked cigarette aside and climbed into his seat. A savage exultation surged through him, for the next half-hour would see the culmination of his plan. Whether it would result in failure or success remained to be seen. The urge to fight was on him. More than anything else he wanted to see the machine with the green streamers!
The sudden bellow of an engine warned him that his leader was taking off. He waved away his chocks, and the three Camels roared into the still air. They circled the aerodrome once to allow the other six machines to gain altitude, and then swung east on the course they had followed the two previous mornings.
They escaped the usual front-line archie, for it concentrated on the higher machines, which offered an easier target, but they came in for a certain amount of trouble from rifles and machine-guns on the ground.
Biggles took a final glance round to see that all was in order. Twenty yards to the right he could see Algy’s muffled profile, and, to the front, the back of Mahoney’s head. Looking backwards and upwards over his shoulder, he could see the other six Camels following on, but of the S.E.5’s there was no sign, due, possibly, to the slight haze that still hung in the sky.
The objective aerodrome loomed up in the near distance, and Biggles, leaning far out of his cockpit, stared long and earnestly upwards. He closed his eyes for a moment, pushed up his goggles, and looked again, and a muttered exclamation broke from his lips as he saw what he had hoped to see – the entire German circus!
His plan for getting them into the air had worked, but a sudden feeling of anxiety assailed him as he counted their numbers. He made it twenty-nine the first time and twenty-eight the second. They were flying on a westerly course, and changed direction as he watched them.
‘They’ve spotted us,’ he muttered.
Mahoney shook his wings, and Biggles smiled.
‘All right, old son – I can see ’em,’ he murmured. ‘Here they come!’
The Huns were coming – there was no doubt of that – and to an inexperienced pilot the sight would have been an unnerving one. Like a cloud of locusts they poured through the sky, plunging downwards in a ragged formation towards the approaching Camels.
‘Well, I hope those perishing S.E.’s are on time!’ was Biggles’ last thought as he swung out a little to allow Mahoney and Algy to manoeuvre without risk of collision. ‘What a mob! This looks like being a show and a-half! I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody gets hurt!’
If the Huns felt any surprise that the three Camels should continue on their way in spite of the inspiring reception prepared for them, they did not show it. Straight down, at a terrific angle they roared; in fact, so steeply did they dive that Biggles felt a thrill of apprehension lest they should ram them before they could pull out.
He stared at the Hun leader to see if he was wearing streamers, but from the angle at which he was approaching it was impossible to see if his wing struts carried them or not. Where were the rest of the Camels and the S.E.5’s? Good! There were the Camels cutting across at terrific speed to intercept the Huns, but there was no sign of the S.E.’s. If they were late, even although it was only two minutes—
Biggles thrust the thought aside, put down his nose a trifle for speed, and then zoomed up to meet the attack. It was no use trying to keep in formation now.
The first casualty occurred before a shot had been fired. A Camel pilot of the top layer, seeing that he was in danger of colliding with a Hun, swerved to avoid him, and struck another that he had evidently not seen square in the side of the fuselage. Both machines disintegrated in a mighty cloud of flying debris.
A second Hun who was close behind swerved wildly to avoid them, but failed to do so. His wing struck the remains of his comrade’s machine; it broke in halves near the centre section, and he too, plunged earthwards. Three machines – two Huns and a Camel – were hurtling down to oblivion before the fight commenced.
As the first two collided, Biggles shuddered involuntarily; he could almost sense the shock of the impact. But there was no time for contemplation.
From such a cloud of machines it was hard to single one out for individual attack, but he saw an Albatros firing at him, and accepted the challenge. For a full minute they spun dizzily round each other, neither gaining an advantage, and then the Hun burst into flames.
Biggles was not shooting at the time, nor did he see the machine from which the shots had come to send the Boche to his doom. He turned sharply to the right and caught his breath, for it almost looked as if fighting was out of
the question. The air was stiff with machines, diving, half-rolling, and whirling around in indescribable confusion. It would need all the pilots’ wits to avoid collision, much less take aim.
Another Hun was in flames, but still under control, with the pilot on his lower plane side-slipping downwards.
It seemed to Biggles that no one could hope to escape collision in such hopeless chaos. Machines of both sides hurtled past him at frenzied speed, sometimes missing him by inches. It was dodge and dodge again. Shooting was of the wildest snapshot variety.
Then, suddenly, the air seemed to clear, as if there were less machines than there had been. A Camel tore across his nose with an orange-and-black Hun on its tail. Biggles made a lightning turn to follow, saw the Camel burst into flames, fired, and saw the Hun pilot sag forward in the cockpit. An orange wing spun upwards, and the torpedo-shaped fuselage dropped like a bomb.
A burst of bullets struck Biggles’ machine somewhere just behind him, and he jerked the control-stick back into his stomach. A Hun shot past his wing-tip, so close that Biggles flinched.
‘That’s too close!’ he muttered. ‘Where the dickens are the S.E.’s?’
He could see some of the Albatroses turning away, as if they had had enough, and then out of the blue a cloud of brightly coloured Fokker triplanes tore into the fight. The fleeing Albatroses turned again and headed back to the fight.
Biggles stared.
‘My hat!’ he ejaculated. ‘It’s the Richthofen crowd – and the blinking baron himself!’ he added, as his eyes fell on a blood-red triplane.
His mouth set grimly and he twisted to bring his sights to bear, but was forced to turn away as an orange Albatros shot across his path. It was followed by another with green streamers fluttering from its V-shaped inter-plane struts. He jerked his machine round spasmodically to follow, and saw that an S.E. was already pursuing it. It was Wilkinson’s.
‘Out of my way, Wilks!’ yelled Biggles, completely carried away.
He saw the S.E. slip sideways to escape a burst of fire directed at it by the red triplane, and it left the way clear. He crouched forward, peering through his gun-sights, saw the green streamers, and fired. The Albatros turned over and spun.
