by W E Johns
‘Certainly I’ll come,’ replied Biggles quickly.
‘That’s fine! I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s all for your own good, in the long run, because the sooner you get used to archie the better. But for goodness’ sake keep close to me. You keep your eye on him, Mark. We take off at three o’clock, but be on the tarmac a quarter of an hour before that, and I’ll show you our proposed course while the engines are warming up.’
fn1 A depot to which officers were posted until assigned to an active service squadron.
fn2 Two-seater biplane with the engine behind the pilot, the gunner just in front of him.
fn3 The place where officers eat their meals and relax together.
fn4 Slang: Germans.
fn5 A German two-seater, the product of Luft Verkehrs Ges’ellschaft.
fn6 Anti-aircraft gun batteries close to the front line of battle.
fn7 Slang for the person in authority, Commanding Officer, often shortened to C.O.
fn8 An aerial battle rather than a hit-and-run attack.
fn9 Officer commanding B Flight.
It was under a cold, grey sky that Biggles sat in his cockpit the same afternoon, waiting for the signal to take off. He had made one short flight over the aerodrome immediately after lunch to accustom himself to his new machine, and he had satisfied himself that he was able to fly it without difficulty. The F. E. 2b. was not a difficult machine to fly; it had no vicious habits, which was, perhaps, the reason why those who flew it were unstinted in its praise.
The patrol was made up of three machines. Captain Mapleton, of course, was leading. Marriot and his gunner, ‘Con’ Conway, were on the right, and Biggles, with Mark Way in the front seat, on the left.
The machine was fitted with two machine-guns, one firing forward and the other backwards over the top ’plane, both operated by the gunner. A rack containing drums of ammunition was fitted to the inside of the cockpit.
Biggles felt a thrill of excitement run through him as the flight-commander’s machine began to move forward; he heard Marriot’s engine roar, and then the sound was drowned in the bellow of his own as he opened the throttle. Together the three machines tore across the damp aerodrome and then soared into the air, turning slowly in a wide circle.
A quarter of an hour later they were still over the aerodrome, but at a height of seven thousand feet, and Biggles, who had settled down into the long turn, dashed off at a tangent as the leader suddenly straightened out and headed towards the east. A sharp exclamation from the watchful Mark warned him of his error, which he hastened to rectify, although he still remained at a little distance from the other two machines.
‘Try to keep up!’ yelled Mark, turning in his seat and smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s easier for everybody then.’
Biggles put his nose down a little to gain extra speed, and then zoomed back into position, a manoeuvre which Mark acknowledged with an approving wave. For some time they flew on without incident, and then Mark began to move about in his cockpit, looking towards every point of the compass in turn, and searching the sky above and the earth below with long, penetrating stares.
Once he reached for his gun, and caused Biggles’ heart to jump by firing a short burst downwards. But then Biggles remembered that Mark had said he would fire a burst when they reached the Line, to warm the guns, which would reduce the chance of a jam.
Following the line of the gun-barrel, he looked down and saw an expanse of brown earth, perhaps a mile in width, merging gradually into dull green on either side. Tiny zigzag lines ran in all directions. Must be the Lines, he thought, with a quiver of excitement, not unmixed with apprehension, and he continued to look down with interest and awe.
‘Hi!’
He looked up with a guilty start; Mark was yelling at him, and he saw the reason – he had drifted a good hundred yards from his companions.
‘My hat!’ he mused. ‘I shall never see anything if I can’t take my eyes off them without losing them.’
But Mark was pointing with outstretched finger over the side of the cockpit, and, following the line indicated, he saw a little group of round, black blobs floating in space. Automatically he counted them; there were five – no, six. He blinked and looked again. There were eight. ‘That’s queer!’ he muttered, and even as the truth dawned upon him there was a flash of flame near his wing-tip, and a dull explosion that could be heard above the noise of the engine.
The swerve of the machine brought his heart into his mouth, but he righted it quickly and looked around for the other two. They had disappeared. For a moment he nearly panicked, but Mark’s casual nod in the direction of his right wing restored his confidence, and, peering forward, he perceived them about fifty yards or so to his right. He turned quickly into his proper place, receiving a nod of approval from his gunner as he did so.
The black archie bursts were all around them now, but Mark did not appear to notice them; he had reached for his gun and held it in a position of readiness. Suddenly he tilted it up and fired a long burst: then, as quick as lightning, he dragged it to the other side and fired again.
Biggles nearly strained his neck trying to see what Mark was shooting at, but seeing nothing but empty air decided that he must be warming up his guns again. He looked across at the machine on his right, and noticed that Conway was shooting, too. As he watched him he ceased firing and looked down over the side of his cockpit for a long time; then he looked across at Mark and held up his fist, thumb pointing upwards.
‘There seems to be a lot of signalling going on!’ thought Biggles. ‘I wonder what it’s all about?’
The time passed slowly, and he began to feel bored and rather tired, for it was the longest flight he had ever made. This seems a pretty tame business, he pondered. I should have liked to see a Hun or two, just to get an idea of what they look like. ‘Hallo!’
Mark was standing up again, trying to point his gun straight down, and for the first time he seemed to be excited. Casually Biggles leaned over the side to see what it was that could interest his gunner to such an extent. There, immediately below him, not fifty yards away, was a large green swept-back wing, but that which held his gaze and caused his lips to part in horrified amazement were the two enormous black Maltese crosses, one on each end. His skin turned to goose flesh and his lips went dry. He saw a man standing in the back seat of the machine pointing something at him; then, for no reason that he could discover, the man fell limply sideways, and the green wing folded up like a piece of tissue paper. It turned over on its side and the man fell out.
In a kind of paralysed fascination Biggles watched the brown, leather-clad body turning slowly over and over as it fell. He thought it would never reach the ground.
He was brought to his senses with a jerk by a shrill yell. The other two machines were turning – had nearly completed the turn. He swung round after them in a frantic bank, skidding in a manner that made Mark clutch at the side of his cockpit. He could see no other German machines in sight, so he decided that the time allotted for their patrol had expired.
‘My word, now he has decided to go home, he is certainly going in a hurry!’ thought Biggles, as the leading machine nearly stood on its nose as it dived full out towards the ground. He thrust his joystick forward, and with difficulty restrained a yell of delight.
The shriek of the propeller, the howl of the wind in the wires, seemed to get into his blood and intoxicate him. He wondered vaguely why Mark was looking back over his shoulder instead of looking where they were going and enjoying the fun, and he was almost sorry when the flight-commander pulled out of the dive and commenced to glide down.
He watched the ground closely, noting such land marks as he thought he would be able to recognize again, until the aerodrome came into view, when he concentrated on the business of landing.
A green Very lightfn1 soared upwards from the leading machine, and then dropped swiftly; it was the ‘washout’ signal, meaning that the machines were to land independently. He allowed
the others to land first, and then, with exultation in his heart, he followed them down and taxied up to the hangars.
Mark gave him a queer smile as he switched off the engine. ‘Pretty good!’ he said cheerfully. ‘That’s one on the slate for me on Lane’s account.’
‘You mean that green Hun underneath us?’ cried Biggles. ‘My gosh! It gave me a queer feeling to see that fellow going down.’
‘Great Scott, no! Conway got him. I got the blue-and-yellow devil.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Biggles, in amazement. ‘What blue-and-yellow devil?’
‘Didn’t you see him diving down on us from in front? He was after you.’
‘No, I didn’t, and that’s a fact,’ admitted Biggles soberly. ‘I didn’t see you shoot at him.’
‘I couldn’t at first, because I was busy plastering the black fellow who was peppering us from underneath.’
Biggles blinked and shook his head. ‘Black, blue, green! How the dickens many of them were there?’ he muttered, in a dazed voice.
‘Seven altogether. We got three of them between us.’
Biggles sat down limply. ‘And I only saw one!’ he groaned. ‘What on earth would have happened to me if I’d been alone?’
Mark laughed. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of spotting ’em,’ he said. ‘You saw that mob coming down on us at the finish?’
Biggles shook his head, eyes wide open. He couldn’t speak.
‘You didn’t? You ought to have seen those – there must have been more than a dozen of ’em. Mabs spotted them the instant they shoved their ugly noses out of the mist, and like a sensible fellow he streaked for home.’
‘Thank goodness he did!’ muttered Biggles weakly. ‘And I thought he was merely hurrying home!’
‘That’s just what he was doing,’ observed Mark dryly. ‘But let’s go and get some tea – I can do with it!’
fn1 A coloured flare fired as a signal, from a special short-barrelled pistol.
Biggles landed his F. E. after a short test flight and glanced in the direction of the sheds, where Mabs and the rest of the flight were standing watching him.
A week had elapsed since his first never-to-be-forgotten flight over the Lines. He had done at least one patrol every day since, and was already beginning to feel that he was an old hand at the game. He had picked up the art of war flying with an aptitude that had amazed everyone, particularly his flight-commander, who had reported to Major Paynter, the C.O., that young Biggles seemed to have a sort of second sight where enemy aircraft were concerned.
He jumped down now from the cockpit and with a brief ‘She’s running nicely!’ to his fitter, walked quickly towards the flight shed, where the others were apparently waiting for him.
‘Come on!’ announced Mabs, with a curious smile. ‘There’s a little party on, and we knew you wouldn’t like to be left out.’
‘You’re right!’ agreed Biggles. ‘What’s it about? I like parties.’
‘You may not like this one,’ said Mabs. ‘Stand fast while I get it off my chest. You know, of course, that headquarters have been shouting for days about a report they want making on the railway junction and sidings at Vanfleur?’
‘You mean the show that Littleton and Gormsby went on?’
‘That’s right. As you know, they didn’t come back. Neither did Blake nor Anderson, who went yesterday. Both the other flights have had a shot at it, and now it’s our turn. The Old Man says I’m not to go, otherwise I shouldn’t be here telling you about it. That means that either you or Marriot or McAngus will have to go.’
‘I’d already worked that out,’ replied Biggles. ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘Nothing! I’m just telling you, that’s all. You can settle amongst yourselves who’s going, or if there’s any argument about it I shall have to detail someone for the job. I’m not going to ask for volunteers, because you’d all volunteer on principle, and nothing would be decided. But there’s two things you’ve got to remember. In the first place, it’s no use going all the way to Vanfleur and coming back without learning something. It means counting every wagon and truck in the siding, and noting any dumps in the vicinity. In other words, the information has got to be correct. It’s no use guessing or imagining things, because incorrect information is misleading, and does more harm than good. The other thing is, it’s going to be a stick show for the man who goes. Vanfleur is forty miles over the Line, if it’s an inch. You don’t need me to tell you that there are more Hun scouts at Douai than any Bochefn1 aerodrome on the front. Rumour says that Richthofenfn2 and his crowd have just moved to Douai, and maybe that’s why the other fellows didn’t get back. Well, there it is. Tell me in five minutes who’s going.’
‘I’ll go!’ said Biggles promptly.
‘No, you don’t!’ replied Mabs quickly. ‘I’m not letting anyone commit suicide just because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. I suggest you toss for it – odd man goes – that’s the fairest way, and then whatever happens there can be no reproaches about it.’
Biggles took a coin from his pocket and the others did the same. ‘Spin,’ he said, and tossed the coin into the air. The three coins rang on the concrete.
‘Heads,’ said Biggles, looking at his own coin.
‘Tails,’ announced Marriot.
‘Same here,’ said McAngus.
‘That means I’m the boob!’ grinned Biggles. ‘When do I start?’
‘When you like – the sooner the better. I should think first thing in the morning might be the best time,’ suggested Mabs.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, that’s the time these shows are usually done.’
‘That’s what I thought – and the Huns know that as welI as we do. I’ll go this afternoon, just by way of a change, if it’s all the same to you. What do you think, Mark?’
‘Suits me!’
‘That’s that, then!’ said Mabs. ‘You’d better come with me and tell the Old Man you’re going. He’ll want to have a word with you first. And you’d better come along, too, Mark.’
The C.O. looked up from his desk when they entered the squadron office. ‘Ah, so it’s you, Bigglesworth, and Way. I had an idea it might be.’ He rose to his feet and walked over to them. ‘Now look here, you fellows,’ he went on. ‘There isn’t much I can say, but remember that these shows are not carried out just for the fun of it, or to find us jobs of work. They are of the greatest possible importance to H. Q., as they themselves are beginning to admit.’ He smiled whimsically, recalling the days when the military leaders had laughed at the idea of aeroplanes being of practical value for reconnoitring. ‘I want you to pay particular attention to the rolling stock in the sidings,’ he resumed. ‘Also, have a good look at these places I’ve marked on the map. Study the last set of photographs we got of the area – you’ll find them in the map-room. You know what to look out for; make a note of any alterations in the landscape.
‘If you see a clump of bushes growing where there were none last week, when the photos were taken, it probably means that it is a camouflaged battery. Watch for "blazes" on the grass, caused by the flash of the guns, and cables leading to the spot. You will not be able to see telephone wires, of course, but you may see the shadows cast by the poles,’ or a row of dots – the newly turned earth at the foot of each pole. You may see a track joining the dots – the footmarks and beaten down grass caused by the working party. It’s easier still to pick out an underground cable. If the trench has not been filled in, it shows as a clear-cut line; if it has been filled in, it reveals itself as a sort of woolly line, blurred at the edges. If you see several such lines of communication converging on one spot it may mean that there is an enemy headquarters there.
‘Quantities of fresh barbed wire means that the enemy is expecting to be attacked, and has prepared new positions upon which to retire. On the other hand, new trenches, saps, dug-outs, and, more particularly, light railways, means that he is preparing an offensive. B
ut there, you should have learned about these things by now so there’s no need for me to go over them again. When have you decided to go?’
‘After lunch, sir,’ replied Biggles.
‘I thought you’d start in the morning: that’s the usual time.’
‘Yes, sir; that’s why we decided to go this afternoon.’
The C.O. frowned, then a smile spread over his face. ‘Good for you!’ he said, nodding approval. ‘That’s the worst of being out here a long time; we get into habits without knowing it. Little points like the one you’ve just mentioned have been staring us in the face for so long that we can’t see them. All right, then. Good luck!’
‘Come on, Mark!’ said Biggles, when they had left the office. ‘Let’s get the machine ready. Then we can sit back and think things over until it’s time to go.’
It was exactly two o’clock when they took off. The distance to their objective was, Mabs had said, a full forty miles, and as they expected to be away at least three hours, they dared not start later, as it began to get dark soon after four.
For twenty minutes Biggles climbed steeply, crossing and recrossing the aerodrome as he bored his way upwards, knowing that the higher they were when they crossed the Lines the less chance there would be of their being molested; so he waited until the altimeter was nearly on the eight thousand feet mark before striking out for the Lines.
A few desultory archie bursts greeted them as they passed over, and for the next half-hour they had the sky to themselves. It was a good day for their purpose from one point of view, but a bad day from another aspect.
Great masses of wet clouds were drifting sluggishly eastwards at various altitudes – 6,000, 8,000 and even at 10,000 feet – and while this might afford cover in the event of their being attacked, it also provided cover for prowling enemy scouts to lie in wait for them. Again, while it concealed them from the gunners on the ground, it limited their range of vision and prevented them from seeing many of the landmarks they had decided to follow. Moreover, if their objective was concealed by cloud, they would either have to return with their mission unfulfilled, or they would have to descend very low, a dangerous performance so far over enemy territory. Nevertheless, Biggles had decided that unless enemy interference made the project hopeless, he would go down to a thousand feet, if necessary, rather than return with a blank report, which, rightly or wrongly, would be regarded as failure by headquarters.
