by W E Johns
‘To carry out my idea with maximum safety, it would need three squadrons – four would be even better. This is the way of it: at four o’clock one squadron pushes along to some prearranged sector of the Line, and makes itself a nuisance – shooting up the Hun trenches, or anything to make itself conspicuous. The Hun artillery observers will see this, of course, and are almost certain to ring up the Richthofen headquarters to say there is a lot of aerial activity on their bit of Front. It stands to reason that the circus will at once make for that spot; give them their due they don’t shirk a roughhouse. Right-ho. The squadron that is kicking up the fuss keeps its eyes peeled for the Huns. It’ll pretend not to see them until they’re fairly close. Then they scatter, making towards home. The Huns are almost bound to split up to chase them, and our fellows can please themselves whether or not they stay and fight. But they must remember that their job is to split up the Huns.
‘As soon as this business is well under way, the other two – or three – squadrons will take off, climb to the limit of their height, and head over the Lines on a course that’ll bring them round by Douai. Get the idea? The Huns will think the show’s over and come drifting home in small parties, without keeping very careful watch. We shall be there to meet them, and we shall have height of them. Huns on the ground may see us, but they won’t be able to warn the fellows in the air. In that way, if the scheme works out as I’ve planned it, we shall catch these pretty birds bending when they’re least expecting it. That’s all. If the worst comes to the worst we should be no worse off than we are on an ordinary show, when we always seem to be outnumbered. At the best, we shall give the Huns a shock they’ll remember for some time. What do you think about it, sir?’
‘I certainly think there is a good deal to be said for it,’ agreed the major. ‘I’ll speak to the other squadrons. Perhaps your old squadron would oblige by kicking up the fuss with their Bristols. Then, if 287, with their S.E.s, and 231, and ourselves, get behind the Huns we shall at least be sure of meeting them on even terms, even if they do happen to keep in one formation. All right; leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do.’
It took nearly a week of conferences to bring the scheme to a stage where it was ready to be tried out, but at last, burning with im patience and excitement, Biggles made his way to the sheds with the others for the big show.
Watches had been carefully synchronized on the instrument-boards of all pilots taking part, and every possible precaution taken to prevent a miscarriage of plans. Major Paynter, of Biggles’ old squadron, had agreed to send every Bristol he could raise into the air, to make itself as obnoxious as possible at a given spot, at the arranged time.
The others were to rendezvous over Maranique in ‘layer’ formation (machines flying in tiers) at four-thirty – No. 266 Squadron at ten thousand feet, 231 Squadron at thirteen thousand feet, and 287 Squadron at sixteen thousand feet. Major Mullen was leading the whole show on a roundabout course that would bring them behind the enemy, assuming, of course, that the enemy circus would concentrate in the area where the Bristols were to lure them.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Major Mullen swung round in a wide circle that brought them actually within sight of Douai, the headquarters of the most famous fighting scouts in the German Imperial Air Service. Biggles never forgot the scene. The sun was low in the west, sinking in a crimson glow. A slight mist was rising, softening the hard outlines of roads, woods, hedges, and fields below, as though seen through a piece of lilac-tinted gauze. To the east, the earth was already bathed in deep purple and indigo shadows.
No enemy aircraft were in sight, not even on the ground, as they turned slowly over the peaceful scene to seek the enemy in the glowing mists of the west. They had not long to wait.
Biggles saw two triplanes, flying close together, slowly materialize in the mist, like goldfish swimming in a pale milky liquid. The enemy pilots were gliding down, probably with their eyes on the aerodrome, and it is doubtful if they even saw the full force of British machines that had assembled to overwhelm them. Biggles felt almost sorry for them as Major Mullen shook his wings, as a signal, and the nine Pups roared down on the unsuspecting triplanes.
It was impossible to say which machine actually scored most hits. One triplane broke up instantly. The other jerked upwards as if the pilot had been mortally wounded, turned slowly over onto its back, plunged downwards in a vicious spin with its engine full on and bored into the ground two miles below.
The Pups resumed formation and returned to their original height and course. Another Triplane emerged from the mist, but something evidently caught the pilot’s eye – perhaps the sun flashing on a wing – and he looked upwards. He acted with the speed of light and flung his machine into a spin to seek safety on the ground. The Pups did not follow, for the triplane was far below them and they would not risk getting too low so far over the Line.
A few minutes later a straggling party of seven machines appeared, followed at a distance by five more. It was obvious from the loose formation in which they were flying that they considered themselves quite secure so near their nest. They, too, must have been looking at the ground, and Biggles was amazed at the casual manner in which they continued flying straight on with death literally raining on them from the sky.
He picked out his man and poured in a long burst of bullets before the pilot had time to realize his peril. A cloud of smoke, quickly followed by flame, burst from the triplane’s engine. Biggles zoomed upwards and looked back. The seven machines had disappeared. Two long pillars of smoke marked the going of at least two of them.
How many had actually fallen he was unable to tell.
Away to the left the other five triplanes were milling around in a circle, hotly pursued by the second squadron of Pups, whilst the S.E.s were sitting slightly above, waiting to pounce on any enemy machine that tried to leave the combat.
It was the last real surprise of the day, not counting a lonely straggler that they picked up near the Lines and which they had sent down under a tornado of lead. Biggles quite definitely felt sorry for that pilot. Two or three more machines had appeared while the main combat was in progress, but the dog-fight had lost height, and they saw it at once, so were able to escape by spinning down.
The engagement really resolved itself into the sort of show that Biggles had anticipated. The enemy had been caught napping, and many of them had paid the penalty. The three squadrons of British machines reached the Line at dusk, without a single casualty and almost unscathed. One machine only, an S.E.5 of 287b Squadron, had to break formation near the Lines with a piece of archie shrapnel in its engine. Except for that, the Pups and S.E.s returned home in a formation as perfect as when they started.
Congratulations flew fast and furious when Major Mullen’s squadron landed, for it had unquestionably been one of the most successful ‘shows’ ever undertaken by the squadron. A quick comparison of notes revealed that seven triplanes had been destroyed for certain, either having been seen to crash or fall in flames. How many others had been damaged, or enemy pilots wounded, they had, of course, no means of knowing.
But the most successful part of the issue was that not a single British machine had been lost. Major Mullen thanked Biggles personally and congratulated him on his initiative, in the Squadron Office, in front of the other pilots.
‘Well, I’m glad it has turned out as I hoped it would, sir. We’ve given the Huns something to talk about in mess tonight. Maybe they won’t be quite so chirpy in future!’ observed Biggles modestly.
The party was about to break up when Watt Tyler, the Recording Officer, hurried into the room waving a strip of paper above his head; his eyes were shining as he laid it on the C.O.’s desk.
Major Mullen read the signal, and a grim smile spread over his face. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to tell you that we shall be able to give the Huns something else to think about before long; the squadron is to be equipped with the long-secret super-scout at last. Our Pups are to be
replaced by Sopwith Camelsfn1.’
A moment’s silence greeted this important announcement.
It was broken by Biggles. ‘Fine!’ he said. ‘Now we’ll show the Huns what’s what!’
fn1 Single-seater fighter aircraft, with two fixed machine-guns ‘firing through the propeller. A more powerful development of the Pup but tricky to fly.
No. 266 Squadron, R. F. C., at Maranique, had been equipped with Sopwith Camels for nearly a month, and with the improved equipment the pilots were showing the enemy – as Biggles had put it – what was what. Except for two pilots who had been killed whilst learning to fly the very tricky Camels, things had gone along quite smoothly, and Biggles had long ago settled down as a regular member of the squadron. Indeed, he was beginning to regard himself as something of a veteran.
It was a warm spring afternoon, and as he sat sunning himself on the veranda after an uneventful morning patrol he felt on good terms with himself and the world in general. ‘Where’s the Old Man?’ he suddenly asked Mahoney, who had just returned from the sheds, where he had been supervising the timing of his guns.
‘Dunno,’ was the reply. ‘I think he’s gone off to Amiens, or somewhere, for a conference. Oh, here he comes now. He looks pretty grim. I’ll bet something’s in the wind!’
The C.O. joined them on the veranda. He looked at Biggles as if he were about to speak, but he changed his mind and looked through the open window into the ante-room, where several other officers were sitting. He called to them to come outside.
‘I’ve a bit of news – or perhaps I should say a story,’ he began, when everyone had assembled. ‘It will be of particular interest to you, Bigglesworth.’
Biggles stared. ‘To me, sir?’ he cried in surprise.
‘Yes. You haven’t been over to your old squadron lately, have you?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No, sir, I haven’t!’ he said wonderingly.
‘Then you haven’t heard about Way?’
‘Mark Way!’ Biggles felt his face going white. Mark had been his gunner and great friend when they were together in 169 Squadron. ‘Why, he isn’t—?’ He could not bring himself to say the fatal word.
‘No, he isn’t dead, but he’ll never fly again,’ said the C.O. quietly.
Biggles’ lips turned dry. ‘But how – what?’ he stammered.
‘I’ve just seen him,’ went on the C.O. ‘I had to attend a conference in Amiens, and I ran into Major Paynter, who was going to the hospital to see Way. He told me about it. Way is now en route for England. He’ll never come back.’
‘But I don’t understand!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘He was due to go home when I came here; he was going to get his pilot’s wings. In fact I thought he’d actually gone.’
‘That’s right,’ said the C.O. ‘He packed up his kit and set off, but apparently he was kept hanging about the port of embarkation for some time. Then the Huns made their big show, and he with everyone else who was waiting to go home was recalled to his squadron.’
‘But why didn’t he let me know?’ cried Biggles.
‘He hadn’t time. He arrived back just in time to be sent on a show with Captain Mapleton. They didn’t return, and were posted missing the same day. Way arrived back yesterday, having crawled into our front line trench, minus his right hand and an eye.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘He asked to be remembered to you, and said he would write to you as soon as he was able, from home.’
‘But what happened, sir?’
‘I’m coming to that. In point of fact, what I’m about to say was intended for you alone – his last message – but I think it is a matter that concerns everyone, so I shall make no secret of it.’ The C.O.’s face hardened. ‘This is what he told me,’ he continued. ‘As I said, he was flying with Mapleton—’
‘Where’s Mapleton now?’ broke in Biggles.
‘Mapleton was killed. But let me continue.’
Biggles gripped the rail of the veranda, but said nothing.
‘He was, I say, acting as gunner for Mapleton,’ went on the C.O. ‘They were attacked by a big bunch of enemy machines, near Lille. By a bit of bad luck they got their engine shot up in the early stages of the fight, and had to go down, and the Hun who had hit them followed them down, shooting at them all the time. Their prop had stopped and they waved to him to show that they were going to land, but he continued shooting at them while they were, so to speak, helpless.’
A stir ran through the listeners.
‘It was at this juncture that Way was struck in the eye by a piece of glass; but he didn’t lose consciousness. Mapleton made a perfect landing in spite of the damage the machine had suffered and it looked as if they would both escape with their lives – as indeed they should have done. But the Hun thought differently. Thank Heaven they are not all like him. He deliberately shot them up after they had landed – emptied his guns at them.’
‘The unspeakable hog!’ Biggles ground the words out through clenched teeth.
‘Mapleton fell dead with a bullet through his head. Way’s wrist was splintered by an explosive bullet, and his hand was subsequently amputated in a German field hospital. Three days ago, on the eve of being transferred to a prison camp, he escaped, and managed to work his way through the Lines. He arrived in a state of collapse, and Major Paynter thinks that it was only the burning desire to report the flagrant breach of the accepted rules of air fighting, and the passion for revenge, which he knew would follow, that kept him on his feet. The Hun seems to have been a Hun in every sense of the word; he actually went and gloated over Way in hospital.’
‘Mark didn’t learn his name, by any chance?’ muttered Biggles harshly.
‘Yes. It’s Von Kraudil, of Jagdstaffel Seventeen.’
‘What colour was his kite?’ asked Biggles, his hands twitching curiously.
‘Yes, that’s more important, for by this we shall be able to recognize him.’ The C.O. spoke softly, but very distinctly. ‘He flies a sulphur-yellow Albatros with a black nose, and a black diamond painted on each side of the fuselage.’
‘I’ve seen that skunk!’ snarled McLaren, starting up. ‘Yellow is a good colour for him. I’ll—’
The C.O. held up his hands as a babble of voices broke out. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said quickly. ‘Most of us have seen this machine; it’s been working on this part of the Front for some time, so I hope it is still about.’
‘I’ll nail his yellow hide up in the anteroom!’ declared Mahoney.
‘Such methods would have been in order a few hundred years ago, but we can hardly do that sort of thing today,’ smiled the C.O. ‘All the same, a piece of yellow fuselage might look well—’
‘Leave that to me, sir!’ interrupted Biggles. ‘Mark Way was my—’
‘Not likely! No fear!’ a chorus of protests from the other pilots overwhelmed him, and the C.O. was again compelled to call for silence. ‘It’s up to everyone to get him,’ he went on. ‘And the officer who gets him may have a week’s leave!’
‘I’ll get that leave – to go and see Mark!’ declared Biggles.
‘All right, gentlemen, that’s all,’ concluded the C.O.
‘He says that’s all!’ muttered Biggles to Mahoney. ‘It isn’t, not by a long shot!’
Under the influence of his cold fury his first idea was to rush off into the air and stay there until he had found the yellow Hun. Instead, he controlled himself, and made his way to his room to think the matter over. He was in a curious state of nerves, for the news had stirred him as nothing had ever done before. He was depressed by the tragic end of the man whom he still regarded as his best friend, and with whom he had had so many thrilling adventures. And tears actually came into his eyes when he thought of his old flight-commander, Mapleton, whom they all called Mabs, one of the most brilliant and fearless fighters in France.
He was suffering from a mild form of shock, although he did not know it, and behind it all was the burning desire for vengeance. That by his cold-bloode
d action the yellow Hun had signed his own death warrant Biggles did not doubt, for not a single member of either his old squadron or his present one would rest until Mabs had been avenged. But Biggles wanted to shoot the man down himself. He wanted to see his tracer bullets boring into that yellow cockpit. The mere fact that the Hun had fallen under the guns of someone else would not give him the same satisfaction. In fact, as he pondered the matter, he began to feel afraid that someone else might shoot the Hun down before he could come to grips with him.
The matter was chiefly his concern, after all, he reasoned. Mark had been his friend, and Mabs his flight-commander. No doubt machines were already scouring the sky for the murderer – for that was almost what the action of shooting at a machine on the ground amounted to.
‘Well,’ he muttered at last, ‘if I’m going to get this hound I’d better see about it!’
He rose, washed, picked up his flying-kit, and made his way to the sheds. ‘Where’s everybody?’ he asked Smyth, the flight-sergeant.
‘In the air, sir.’
‘Ah, I might have known it,’ breathed Biggles. He was so accustomed to the sound of aero-engines that he had hardly noticed the others taking off. But he knew only too well why the aerodrome was deserted, and he hastened to his own machine.
Within five minutes he was in his Camel, heading for the Lines. He hardly expected to find Von Kraudil cruising about the sky alone; that would be asking too much. He would certainly be flying with a formation of single-seaters. If that were so, he, Biggles, would stand a better chance of finding his man by flying alone, as the Huns would certainly attack the lone British machine if they saw him, whereas they might refuse to engage the others if they were flying together.
In any case, a wide area would have to be combed, for the enemy machines operated far to the east and west of their base. So in order to expedite matters, Biggles deliberately asked for trouble by thrusting deep into the enemy country. Ground observers could hardly fail to see him, and would, he hoped, report his presence to the nearest squadrons, in accordance with their usual practice.
