by W E Johns
Just what happened after that he was never quite sure. In trying to keep his nose on the Hun, who was still coming down from above, he got it too high up, with the result that one of two courses was open to him. Either he could let the F. E. stall, in which case the Hun would get a ‘sitting’ shot at him at the moment of stalling – a chance he was not likely to miss – or he could pull the machine right over in a loop. He chose the latter course.
As he came out of the loop, he looked round wildly for the Hun. For a fleeting fraction of an instant he saw him at his own level, not more than twenty or thirty feet away, going in the opposite direction. At the same moment he was nearly flung out of his seat by a jar that jerked him sideways and made the F. E. quiver from propeller boss to tail-skid. His heart stood still, for he felt certain that his top ’plane, or some other part of the machine, had broken away, but to his utter amazement it answered to the controls, and he soon had it on an even keel.
Mark was yelling, jabbing downwards with his finger. Biggles looked over the side of his cockpit. The Hun was gliding towards his own Lines.
There seemed to be something wrong with the Albatros – something missing; and for the moment Biggles could not make out what it was. Then he saw. It had no propeller! How the miracle had happened he did not know, and he had already turned to follow it to administer the knock-out when another yell from Mark made him change his mind – quickly. A formation of at least twenty Huns were tearing towards the scene.
Biggles waited for no more. He put his nose down for home and not until the aerodrome loomed upon the horizon did he ease the pace. He remembered his aerial, and took hold of the handle of the reel to wind in the long length of copper wire with its lead plummet on the end to keep it extended.
The reel was in place, but there was no aerial, and he guessed what had happened. He should have wound it in immediately he had sent the CHI signal, and he knew that if he had done so he would in all probability by now be lying in a heap of charred wreckage in No Man’s Land. He had forgotten to wind in, and to that fact he probably owed his life. When he had swung round after his loop, the wire, with the plummet on the end, must have swished round like a flail and struck the Boche machine, smashing its propeller!
The C.O. was waiting for them on the tarmac when they landed. There was a curious expression on his face, but several other officers who were standing behind him were smiling expectantly.
‘You were detailed for the art obs show today, I think, Bigglesworth,’ began Major Paynter coldly.
‘That is so, sir,’ said Biggles.
‘Wing has just been on the telephone to me, and so has the commander of the battery for whom you were acting. Will you please tell me precisely what has happened?’
Briefly Biggles related what had occurred. The major did not move a muscle until he had finished. Then he looked at him with an expressionless face. ‘Far be it from me to discourage zeal or initiative,’ he said, ‘but we cannot have this sort of thing. Your instructions were quite clear – you were to do the shoot for the artillery. You had no instructions to use bombs, and your action might have resulted in the loss of a valuable machine. I must discourage this excess of exuberance,’ went on the C.O. ‘As a punishment, you will return this afternoon to the scene of the affair, taking a camera with you. I shall require a photograph of the wrecked German battery on my desk by one hour after sunset. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘That’s all, then. Don’t let it happen again. The artillery think we are trying to do them out of their jobs; but it was a jolly good show, all the same!’ he concluded, with something as near a chuckle as his dignity would permit.
fn1A target moving directly away from the gunner and therefore a relatively easy target.
fn2Slang: an easy victim.
There was no hurry. Major Paynter, the C.O., had not named any particular hour for the ‘show’. He had said that the photographs must be delivered to him by one hour after sunset and there were still five hours of daylight.
With Mark, Biggles made his way to the mess for a rest, and over coffee they learned some news that set every member of the squadron agog with excitement. Toddy, the Recording Officer, divulged that the equipment of the squadron was to be changed, the change to take effect as quickly as possible. In future they were to fly Bristol Fighters.fn1
It transpired that Toddy had been aware of the impending change for some time, but the orders had been marked ‘secret’, so he had not been allowed to make the information public. But now that ferry pilots were to start delivering the new machines, there was no longer any need to keep silent. They might expect the Bristols to arrive at any time, Toddy told them, and A Flight, by reason of its seniority, was to have the first.
Biggles, being in A Flight, was overjoyed. He had grown very attached to his old F. E. which had given him good service, but it had always been a source of irritation to him, as the pilot, that the actual shooting had perforce been left to Mark. In future they would both have guns, to say nothing of a machine of higher performance.
In the excitement caused by the news the time passed quickly, and it was nearly two-thirty when they walked towards the sheds in order to proceed with the work for which they had been detailed.
Biggles’ shoulder had been grazed by a bullet in the morning’s combat with the red-and-silver Albatros, but it caused him no inconvenience, and he did not bother to report it. Neither had Mark’s wound been very severe, not much more than a scratch, as he himself said, and it did not occur to him to go ‘sick’ with it. It was a clean cut in his forehead about an inch long, caused by a splinter of flying glass. He had washed it with antiseptic, stuck a piece of plaster over it, and dismissed it from his mind. On their way to the hangars they met the medical officer on his way back from visiting some mechanics who were sick in their huts. They were about to pass him with a cheerful nod when his eyes fell on the strip of court-plaster on Mark’s forehead. He stopped and raised his eyebrows. ‘Hallo, what have you been up to?’ he asked.
‘Up to?’ echoed Mark, not understanding.
‘What have you done to your head?’
‘Oh – that! Nothing to speak of. I stopped a piece of loose glass in a little affair with a Hun this morning,’ replied Mark casually.
‘Let me have a look at it.’ The M.O. removed the piece of court-plaster and examined the wound critically. ‘Where are you off to now?’ he inquired.
‘I’ve got a short show to do with Bigglesworth.’
‘Short or long, you’ll do no more flying today, my boy; you get back to your quarters and rest for a bit. Too much cold air on that cut, and we shall have you down with erysipelas. I’ll speak to the C.O.’
‘But—’ began Mark, in astonishment.
‘There’s no “but” about it,’ said the M.D. tersely. ‘You do as you’re told, my lad. Twelve hours’ rest will put you right. Off you go!’
Mark looked at Biggles hopelessly.
‘Doc’s right, Mark,’ said Biggles, nodding. ‘I ought to have had the sense to know it myself. I’ll bet your skull aches even now.’
‘Not it!’ snorted Mark.
‘That’s all right, Doc, I’ll find another partner,’ asserted Biggles. ‘See you later, Mark.’
He made his way to the Squadron Office and reported the matter to Toddy.
‘You wouldn’t like to take one of the new fellows, I suppose?’ suggested Toddy, referring to two new observer officers who had reported for duty the previous evening. ‘I think they’re about somewhere.’
‘Certainly I will,’ replied Biggles. ‘Someone will have to take them over some time, so the sooner the better. It’s only a short show, anyway.’
Toddy dispatched an orderly at the double to find the new officers, and Biggles awaited their arrival impatiently. He had already spoken to them, so they were not quite strangers, but they were of such opposite types that he could not make up his mind which one to choose. Harris was a mere lad, fair-haired a
nd blue-eyed, straight from school. He had failed in his tests as a pilot, and was satisfied to take his chances as an aerial gunner rather than go into the infantry. Culver, the other, was an older man, a cavalry captain who had seen service in the Dardanelles before he had transferred to the R. F. C.
They came in quickly, anxious to know what was in the wind. Briefly, Biggles told them and explained the position. ‘Toss for it,’ he suggested. ‘That’s the fairest way. All I ask is that whoever comes will keep his eyes wide open and shoot straight, if there is any shooting to be done.’
Harris won the toss, and with difficulty concealed his satisfaction, for although Biggles was unaware of it, he – Biggles – had already achieved the reputation of being one of the best pilots in the squadron.
‘Good enough. Get into your flying kit and get a good gun,’ Biggles said shortly. ‘I’ll go and start up.’
He was satisfied but by no means enthusiastic about taking the new man over. Few experienced pilots felt entirely happy in the company of men new to the job and who had not had an opportunity of proving them selves. It was not that cowardice was anticipated. Biggles knew what all experienced flyers knew; that a man could be as plucky as they make them when on the ground – might have shown himself to be a fearless fighter in trench warfare – but until he had been put to the test it was impossible to say how he would behave in his first air combat; how he would react to the terrifying sensation of hearing bullets ripping through spruce and canvas.
As a matter of fact, it was worse for an observer than it was for a pilot. It needed a peculiar kind of temperament, or courage, to stand up and face twin machine-guns spouting death at point-blank range; not only to stand up, but calmly align the sights of a Lewis gun and return the fire.
There was only one way to find out if a man could do it and that was to take him into the air. There were some who could not do it, in the same way that there were cases of officers who could not face ‘archie’. And after one or two trips over the Line this was apparent to others, even if it was not admitted. And it needed a certain amount of courage to confess. But it was better for an officer to be frank with his C.O. and tell the truth, rather than throw away his life, and an aeroplane. Officers reporting ‘sick’ in this way were either transferred to ground duties or sent home for instructional work.
Biggles wore a worried frown, therefore, as he walked up to the sheds. He realized for the first time just how much confidence he had in Mark, and the comfort he derived from the knowledge that he had a reliable man in the observer’s cockpit.
They took their places in the machine, and after Biggles had given Harris a reassuring smile he took off and headed for the strafedfn2 German battery. He would gain all the height he needed on the way to the Lines, for he proposed to take the photographs from not higher than five thousand feet. A good deal of cloud had drifted up from the west, which was annoying, for it was likely to make his task more difficult. It would not prevent him reaching his objective, but the C.O. would certainly not be pleased if he was handed a nice photograph of a large white cloud.
He crossed the Lines at four thousand, still climbing, and zigzagged his way through the archie in the direction of the wrecked German battery. He noted with satisfaction that his new partner took his baptism of anti-aircraft fire well, for he turned and smiled cheerfully, even if the smile was a trifle forced. He was rather pale, but Biggles paid no attention to that. There are few men who do not change colour the first time they find themselves under fire.
The sky seemed clear of aircraft, although the clouds formed good cover for lurking enemy scouts, and he began to hope the job might be done in record time. He skirted a massive pile of cloud, and there, straight before him, lay the scene of his morning exploit. A grin spread over his face as he surveyed the huge craters that marked the spot where the enemy battery had once hidden itself; the job had been done thoroughly, and headquarters could hardly fail to be pleased.
After a swift glance around he put his nose down and dived, and then, swinging upwind, he began to expose his plates. In five minutes he had been over the whole area twice, covering not only the actual site of the battery, but the surrounding country. With the satisfaction of knowing that his job had been well done, he turned for home. ‘Good!’ he muttered. ‘That’s that!’
Swinging round another towering mass of opaque mist he ran into a one-sided dog-fight with a suddenness that almost caught him off his guard. A lone F. E. was fighting a battle with five enemy Albatroses.
Now, according to the rules of war flying, this was no affair of Biggles’. Strictly speaking, the duty of a pilot with a definite mission was to fulfil that mission and return home as quickly as possible; but needless to say, this was not always adhered to. Few pilots could resist the temptation of butting into a dog-fight, or attacking an enemy machine if one was seen. To leave a comrade fighting overwhelming odds was unthinkable.
Biggles certainly did not think about it. The combat was going on at about his own altitude, and although the F. E. had more than one opportunity of dodging into the clouds and thereby escaping, the pilot had obviously made up his mind to see the matter through.
Biggles’ lips parted in a smile and he barged into the fight. Then, to his horror, he saw that his gunner was not even looking at the milling machines. He had not even seen them. It seemed incredible. But there it was. And Biggles, remembering his own blindness when he was a beginner, forgave him. Harris was gazing at the ground immediately below with an almost bored expression on his face.
‘Hi!’ roared Biggles, with the full power of his lungs. ‘Get busy!’
Harris’ start of astonishment and horror as he looked up just as a blue Albatros dashed across his nose was almost comical; but he grabbed his gun like lightning and sent a stream of lead after the whirling Hun.
Biggles dashed in close to the other F. E. to make his presence known. A swift signal greeting passed between the two pilots, and then they set about the work on hand,
The fight did not last many minutes, but it was red-hot while it lasted. One Albatros went down in flames; another glided down out of control with its engine evidently out of action. The other three dived for home. Biggles straightened his machine and looked around for the other F. E., but it had disappeared. He had not seen it go, so whether it had been shot down, or had merely proceeded on its way, he was unable to ascertain.
Harris was standing up surveying their own machine ruefully, for it had been badly shot about. Biggles caught his eye and nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll do!’ he told himself; for the boy had undoubtedly acquitted himself well. Then he continued on his course for the aerodrome.
He reached it without further incident and taxied in, eyes on a brand new Bristol Fighter that was standing on the tarmac. The photographic sergeant hurried towards him to collect the camera and plates, in order to develop them forthwith. Biggles jumped to the ground, and was about to join the group of officers admiring the Bristol when a cry from the N.C.O. made him turn.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked quickly.
‘Sorry sir, but look!’ said the sergeant apologetically.
Biggles’ eyes opened wide as they followed the N.C.O.’s pointing finger, and then he made a gesture of anger and disgust. The camera was bent all shapes, and the plate container was a perforated wreck. There was no need to wonder how it had happened; a burst of fire from one of the enemy machines had reduced the camera to a twisted ruin.
He could see at a glance that the plates were spoilt. His journey had been in vain. Looking over the machine thoroughly for the first time he saw that the damage was a good deal worse than he had thought. Two wires had been severed and one of the hinges of his elevators shot off. The machine had brought him home safely, but in its present condition it was certainly not safe to fly.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mapleton, his flight-commander, seeing that something was wrong.
Briefly, Biggles explained the catastrophe.
‘Wha
t are you going to do about it?’ asked Mabs.
‘I’ll have to do the show again, that’s all about it!’ replied Biggles disgustedly. ‘The Old Man was very decent about this morning’s effort. He’s waiting for these photos; I can’t let him down.’
‘You can’t fly that machine again today, that’s, a certainty.’
‘So I see.’
‘Would you like to try the Bristol?’
Biggles started. ‘I’d say I would!’
‘You can have it if you like, but for the love of Mike don’t hurt it. It’s been allotted to me, so it’s my pigeon. She’s all O.K. and in fighting trim. I was just off to try her out myself.’
‘That’s jolly sporting of you,’ declared Biggles. ‘I shan’t be long, and I’ll take care of her. Come on, Harris, get your guns – and get me another camera, Sergeant; look sharp, it will soon be dark.’
In a few minutes Biggles was in the air again, on his way to the enemy battery for the third time that day. He had no difficulty in flying the Bristol, which was an easy machine to fly, and after a few practice turns he felt quite at home in it.
He noticed with dismay that the clouds were thickening, and he was afraid that they might totally obscure the objective. Twice, as he approached it, he thought he caught sight of a lurking shadow, dodging through the heavy cloud-bank above him, but each time he looked it had vanished before he could make sure.
‘There’s a Hun up there, watching me, or I’m a Dutchman,’ he mused uneasily. ‘I hope that kid in the back seat will keep his eyes skinned.’ He shot through a small patch of cloud and distinctly saw another machine disappear into a cloud just ahead and above him. It was an Albatros, painted red and silver., ‘So’ it’s you, is it?’ he muttered, frowning, for the idea of taking on his old antagonist with a comparatively untried gunner in the back seat did not fill him with enthusiasm. With Mark it would have been a different matter.
He turned sharply into another cloud and’ approached the objective on a zigzag course, never flying straight for more than a few moments at a time. He knew that this would leave the watcher, if he were still watching, in doubt as to his actual course, but it was nervy work, knowing that an attack might be launched at any moment.
