by W E Johns
‘Attendez!’ called the voice, and they heard the jangle of military equipment. A dark figure, closely followed by several others, loomed up in the darkness in front of them, rifles and bayonets held at the ready.
‘You do the talking!’ growled Mark. ‘I can’t speak the lingo!’
‘Je suis – nous ont – Anglaisfn2,’ began Biggles in his best French. ‘Aviateurs – aviateurs Anglais.’
There was a sharp intake of breath, and a flashlight stabbed the darkness. The figures closed around them and they were hurried a short distance into a trench, and then into a dugout, where an officer in a blue uniform sat writing.
Quickly, in a strange mixture of English and broken French, Biggles told his story to the Belgian officer. He eyed them suspiciously at first, but at the end of the story he made a brief telephone call which seemed to satisfy him.
The dripping clothes were stripped off the two airmen, blankets were produced, and boiling soup, in great basins, thrust into their hands.
An hour later a British staff officer stepped into the dugout.
‘Who are you?’ he asked curtly, obviously suspicious. But suspicion quickly gave way to friendliness as the two airmen told their story.
Mark handed over his report, which, although wet, was still legible. ‘I wish you’d get that back as quickly as you can, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve been through some trouble to get it!’
‘You can bring it yourself,’ the officer told him. ‘I have a car waiting a little way back. But you’ll have to borrow some clothes if our Belgian friends can provide them. You can’t put those wet ones on again!’
Dinner was in progress when Biggles and Mark, attired in mixed Belgian uniforms, arrived at their aerodrome. They opened the mess door, and amid dead silence, with all eyes on them, they marched stiffly to the head of the table, where the C.O. sat, and apologized for being late for dinner.
The C.O. stared at them, while a babble of voices broke out, punctuated with laughs, that finally swelled into a roar in which everyone joined. Mark, who had seen such a scene before, knew that the laughter was simply the British way of expressing relief after they had been given up for lost.
But Biggles turned a pained face to the room.
‘What’s the joke?’ he cried hotly. ‘Do you think we’re all dressed up for the fun of it?’
A fresh burst of laughter greeted his words.
‘Everyone’s glad to see you back, that’s all!’ said the C.O. ‘And that’s the chief thing. Did you get a report on the junction?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mark.
‘That’s splendid! Sit down and have your dinners. You can tell us all about it afterwards!’
fn1French: Halt! Wait! I am – we have – English. Aviators. English aviators.
fn2French: A
‘I’m not going to pretend that I know much about it, but it seems to me that if the Huns are going to mass their squadrons – as apparently they are – we shall have to do the same or else be wiped out.’ Biggles, having ventured an opinion for the first time since he joined the squadron, glanced up, half-expecting a remark about his inexperience.
‘He’s right!’ exclaimed Mabs emphatically. ‘I’ve been saying the same thing for the last month. Richthofen, they say, has grouped three squadrons together, including all the best pilots in the German Air Force. And, whether he has or not, we know for a fact that he’s sailing up and down the Lines with thirty triplanesfn1 tagged on behind him. Who’s going to face that bunch? Who’s going to take on that little lot, I’d like to know? What chance has an ordinary Line patrol of three planes got if it bumps into that pack?’
‘Rot!’ snapped Captain Rayner, of C Flight. ‘The more the merrier! Dive straight into the middle of them and the formation will go to pieces. It will take them all their time to avoid collision.’
‘Don’t kid yourself!’ declared Captain Allen of B Flight. ‘They’ve got this game weighed up nicely. They didn’t wait for us to bump into them this morning – they bumped into us and we jolly soon knew about it!’
There was silence for a moment, due to the fact that B Flight had lost two machines that very morning through the menace they were discussing.
‘I think it’s a logical conclusion that if we start sending big patrols of twenty or thirty machines against them they’ll start flying in fifties or more. Whatever we do, they will maintain numerical superiority, and at the finish formations will be flying in hundreds. A nice sort of game that will be!’ declared Marriot disgustedly.
‘Well, it may come to that some day, but if it does I hope I’m not here to see it,’ observed Allen coldly. ‘I—’
The ante-room door opened and an orderly appeared. ‘Major Paynter’s compliments, and will all officers please report to the squadron office at once?’
There was a general move towards the door.
The Major was in earnest conversation with Toddy, the Recording Officer, when they arrived, but he broke off and turned to face them as they entered.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’ve some news for you, though whether you’ll regard it as good or bad I don’t know. Will all those officers who have had any experience of night-flying please take a pace to the front?’
Mabs, a pilot of B Flight, and a pilot and observer of C Flight stepped forward.
‘That’s worse than I expected,’ said the Major. ‘Never mind; this is the position. Whether we like it or not, Wing have decided to carry out certain operations that can best be done at night. As you know, enemy scout squadrons have been concentrated opposite this sector of the Front, and our machines have neither the performance nor numerical strength of theirs. In these circumstances we are going to try to cripple them on the ground. It is thought that night raids will adversely affect their morale, to say nothing of the damage we may cause on their machines or aerodromes. It’s proposed to carry out the first raid on a very big scale; other squadrons will participate and keep the ball rolling all night. In order to put as large a number of machines in the air as possible, this squadron will take part in the raid, which will be on Douai Aerodrome, the head quarters of the Richthofen group.
‘Fortunately, our machines are well adapted for night-flying, so for the next two nights I shall want all officers to put in as much practice in the air as possible. It’s up to everyone to make himself proficient in the new conditions. Flares will be put out, and lectures will be arranged, which must be attended by all officers on the station. Has anyone any questions to ask?’
‘I take it that the attack will be in the form of a bomb raid, sir?’ said Biggles.
‘We shall attack with all arms – heavy bombs, Cooper bombs, baby incendiariesfn2, and machine-guns. Naturally, it is in our own interest to make a good job of the show; if things go according to plan, we shall meet with less opposition when we resume daylight patrols. That’s all.’
‘Well, that’s the answer to the question!’ observed Mark brightly, when they were outside.
‘What question?’
‘The thing we were talking about in the mess when the C.O, sent for us – the big Boche formations. We’re going to swipe them on the ground!’
‘Well, it may be all right,’ replied Biggles thoughtfully, ‘but we could have wiped them out in daylight shows if it comes to that. I’m thinking that there is one thing the staff people may have overlooked.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You don’t imagine for one moment that the Huns will take this night-strafing business lying down, do you? If I know anything about ’em they’ll soon be showing us that it’s a game two can play. You mark my words, they’ll be over here the next night, handing us doses of our own medicine – in spoonfuls. I hope I’m mistaken, but I reckon things will be getting warmish here presently!’
‘Well, the staff won’t mind that; they won’t be here,’ observed Mark bitterly. ‘I must say I don’t fancy being archied at night; the flashes look ghastly. I’ve been told that they are a nice bright orange when
they are close to you, and a beautiful dull crimson when they’re some distance away.’
‘We shall soon be able to see for ourselves whether your information is correct,’ returned Biggles. ‘As long as they’re not pink with blue spots on ’em I don’t mind!’
The weather on the night decided for the first raid was all that could be desired, considering the time of the year. There was no wind, and a new moon shone brightly in a clear, frosty, star-spangled sky, against which the hangars loomed as black silhouettes.
By the C.O.’s orders not a light gleamed anywhere, for every step was being taken to prevent information of the impending raid from reaching the enemy through the many spies whose duty it was to report such operations.
An engine roared suddenly in the darkness, and the end machine of a long line that stood in front of the hangars began to waddle, in the ungainly fashion of aeroplanes on the ground, towards the point allocated for the take-off; a dark red, intermittent flame, curled back from the exhaust-pipe.
‘There goes Mabs,’ said Biggles, who, with Mark his gunner, was standing by their machine.
The planes were to leave at five-minute intervals, which gave each aircraft a chance to get clear before the next one took off, and so lessened the chances of a collision either on the ground or in the air.
‘Marriot goes next, and then McAngus, so we’ve got a quarter of an hour to wait,’ went on Biggles. ‘It’s going to be perishing cold if I know anything about it,’ he remarked, glancing up at the frosty sky. ‘But there, we can’t have it all ways. We shall at least be able to see where we are, and that’s a lot better than groping our way in and out of clouds; that’s bad enough in the day-time! Hallo! There goes Marriot!’
A second machine taxied out and roared up into the darkness.
‘Mabs has got to the Line – look!’ said Mark, pointing to a cluster of twinkling yellow lights in the distant sky. ‘That’s archie!’
Lines of pale green balls seemed to be floating lazily upwards.
‘Look at the onions,’ he added, referring to the well-known enemy anti-aircraft device commonly known as flaming onions.
A third machine taxied out and vanished into the gloom.
‘Well, there goes McAngus; we’d better see about getting started up,’ said Biggles tersely.
They climbed into their cockpits, and mechanics ran to their wings and propeller.
‘Switch off!’
‘Off!’
The engine hissed and gurgled as the big propeller was dragged round to suck the gas into the cylinders.
‘Contact!’ cried the mechanic.
‘Contact!’ echoed Biggles.
There was a sharp explosion as the engine came to life; then it settled down to the musical purr peculiar to the Beardmore type.
For a few minutes they sat thus, giving the engine time to warm up; then Biggles opened the throttle a trifle and pointed to his right wing – the signal to the mechanics that he wanted it held in order to slew the machine round to the right. While a machine is on the ground with the engine running all orders are given by signals, for the human voice would be lost in the noise of the engine; even if it was heard, the words might not be distinguished clearly, and an accident result.
With his nose pointing towards the open aerodrome, Biggles waved both hands above his head, the signal to the mechanics to stand clear. The F. E. raced across the aerodrome, and then roared up into the starry night.
He did not waste time climbing for height over the aerodrome, but headed straight for the Lines, climbing as he went. Peering below, he could see the countryside about them almost as plainly as in day-time; here and there the lighted windows of cottages and farms stood out brightly in the darkness; far ahead he could see the track of the three preceding machines by the darting flashes of archie that followed them.
A British searchlight flashed a challenge to him as he passed over it, but Mark was ready, and replied at once with the colour of the night – a Very light that first burnt red and then changed to green. ‘O.K. – O.K.,’ flashed the searchlight in the Morse code, and they pursued their way for a time unmolested.
Biggles crouched a little lower in his seat as the first archies began to flash around them. It reached a crescendo as they crossed the Line, augmented by the inevitable flaming onions that rose up vertically from below like white-hot cannon-balls; but the turmoil soon faded away behind them as they sped on through the night over enemy territory, the Beardmore engine roaring sullen defiance. From time to time he peered below to pick up his landmarks, but for the most part he stared straight ahead, eyes probing the gloom for other machines.
The planes, of course, carried no lights, and although the chances of collision were remote, with machines of both sides going to and fro all the time, it was an ever-present possibility. In night raids it was usual for the machines taking part to return by a different route, or at a higher altitude to the one taken on the outward journey, and while machines adhered to this arrangement, collision was impossible.
Biggles was, of course, aware of this, but he kept an anxious eye on his line of flight in case an enemy machine had decided to take the same route as himself, but in the opposite direction, or in case Marriot or McAngus had got off their course.
Mark suddenly rose to his feet and pointed with outstretched finger. Far away, almost on the horizon, it seemed, a shaft of flame had leapt high into the air; the sky glowed redly from the conflagration, and Biggles knew that one of the machines preceding him had either reached its destination and set fire to the hangars, or had itself been shot down in flames.
The fire, however, served one good purpose, for it acted as a beacon that would guide them direct to their objective. It continued to blaze fiercely as they approached it, and presently the crew of the F. E. were able to see that it was actually on Douai Aerodrome. It looked like one of the hangars. Keeping on a line that would bring him right over it Biggles throttled back and began gliding down.
Orders had stated that machines should descend as low as five hundred feet, if necessary, to be reasonably sure of hitting the target; but the thrill of the game was in his blood, and he no longer thought of orders. At five hundred feet he shoved the throttle open wide and, pushing the stick forward, swept down so low that Mark, in the front seat, stared back over his shoulder in amazement.
The instant he opened his throttle an inferno seemed to break loose about the machine. Anti-aircraft guns and even field-guns situated on the edge of the aerodrome spat their hate; machine-guns rattled like castanets, the tracer bullets cutting white pencil lines through the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye Biggles saw Mark crouch low over his gun and heard it break into its staccato chatter.
He grabbed the bomb-toggle as the first hangar leapt into view, and, steadying the machine until the ridge of the roof appeared at the junction of his fuselage and the leading edge of the lower plane, he jerked it upwards – one, two.
Two 112-pound bombs swung off their racks, and the machine wobbled as it was relieved of their weight. Straight along over the hangars the F. E. roared, while Mark stood up and threw the baby incendiaries overboard.
When they came to the end of the line, Biggles zoomed up in a wide turn and tore out of the vicinity, twisting and turning like a wounded bird. Only when the furious bombardment had died away behind them did he lean over the side of his cockpit and look back at the aerodrome. His heart leapt with satisfaction, for two hangars were blazing furiously, the flames leaping high into the sky and casting a lurid glow on the surrounding landscape.
A body of men was working feverishly to get some aeroplanes out of one of the burning hangars; a machine that had evidently been standing outside when the attack was launched had been blown over on its back; several figures were prone on the ground, and one man was crawling painfully away from the heat of the fire.
‘Well, that should make things easy for the others; they can’t very well miss that little bonfire!’ mused Biggles with satisfaction.
Shells started bursting again in the air on the far side of the aerodrome, and he knew that Captain Allen, in the leading machine of B Flight, was approaching to carry on the good work.
‘If our people are going to keep that up all night, those fellows down there will have nasty tastes in their mouths by the morning!’ called Biggles, smiling; but the next instant the smile had given way to a frown of anxiety as a new note crept into the steady drone of the engine.
Looking back over his shoulder his heart missed a beat as he saw a streamer of flame sweeping aft from one of the cylinders. Mark had seen it, too, and was staring at him questioningly, his face shining oddly pink in the glow.
Biggles throttled back a trifle and the flame became smaller, but the noise continued and the machine began to vibrate.
‘It feels as if they’ve either blown one of my jampotsfn3 off or else a bullet has knocked a hole through the water jacket,’ he yelled. ‘If it will last for another half-hour, all right! If it doesn’t, we’re in the soup!’
With the throttle retarded he was creeping along at a little more than stalling speed, so he tried opening it again gently. Instantly a long streamer of fire leapt out of the engine, and the vibration became so bad that it threatened to tear the engine from its bearers. With a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he snatched the throttle back to its original position, and shook his head at Mark as the only means he had of telling him that he was unable to overcome the trouble.
The noise increased until it became a rattling jar, as if a tin of nails was being shaken. A violent explosion behind caused him to catch his breath, and he retarded the throttle still farther, with a corresponding loss of speed. He had to tilt his nose down in order to prevent the machine from stalling, and he knew that he was losing height too fast to reach home.
He moistened his lips and stared into the darkness ahead, for it had been arranged that a ‘lighthouse’ should flash a beam at regular intervals to guide the bombers back to their nest. Watching, he saw a glow on the skyline wax and wane, but it was still far away.
