by W E Johns
'We should be there, or thereabouts,' Biggles decided at last, glancing at his watch and then at his compass. With a warning wave to Algy, he throttled back and glided steadily downwards through the grey mist. Not until he was at less than five hundred feet was he clear of the clouds, and he examined the gloomy earth below anxiously.
So dark was it after the brilliant sunshine above that for a moment or two he could not see anything. Then he saw Algy, a hundred yards away, rock his wings violently, turn to the right, and plunge down, with a line of glittering tracer bullets*** leaping from his guns.
*** Phosphorus-loaded bullets whose course through the air could be seen by day or by night.
Biggles swung his Camel round in its own length and tore down after him, leaning well over the left side of his cockpit to see what Algy was shooting at. A quiver of excitement ran through him, and a grunt of surprise escaped his lips. They had emerged from the clouds almost immediately over the enemy aerodrome. But it was not that which caused him to stiffen, every nerve tense, and crouch low in the cockpit.
On the aerodrome, taxi-ing towards the sheds, were a dozen Albatroses, evidently the high patrol they had seen in the air, and which had just landed. It was at once evident that the two Camels had been seen, for pandemonium reigned on the ground. Several groups of grey-clad German troops were racing towards what Biggles rightly assumed to be mobile machine-guns.
Several pilots jumped out of their machines and flung themselves on the ground, with their arms over their heads as the tracer bullets from the Vickers guns* started tearing up the turf around them. Two Albatroses tried to turn up-wind to take off, and collided with a crash that Biggles could hear above the noise of his engine.
* Machine guns firing a continuous stream of bullets at one squeeze of the trigger.
Another black-crossed machine was whirling a blinding cloud of snow over a group of mechanics as it tore across the aerodrome on a down-wind take-off.
Biggles saw the first of Algy's bombs explode on the tarmac**, and the second within ten feet of a blue Albatros, smothering it with a shower of debris. With a grin on his face, he turned to pick out his own target.
** The paved area in front of the hangars.
Straight along the line of hangars he flew, working the bomb-toggle*** rhythmically until the eight 20-lb Cooper bombs had left their racks. At the end of the sheds he whirled the Camel round in its own length, and, pointing his nose down at the still taxi-ing machines, he sprayed them with a shower of lead. The hangars* were in flames, blazing furiously in two or three places.
*** The bomb release handle.
* Structure for housing aircraft.
Several figures were prone on the ground, and Algy was busy scattering another group with his guns. A third Albatros had become entangled with the two that had collided, and Biggles raked all three of them with a stream of bullets. Two of the pilots leaped from their cockpits and sprinted out of the withering blast. Clouds of smoke from the fires and bombs drifted across the scene of destruction and rose upwards to the cloudbank, which reflected the orange glow of the inferno below.
'I think that'll about do,' thought Biggles. 'We've certainly given 'em a very warm time. Pity that ass Henry got lost, though. He'd have made things very much warmer still!' He sprayed the tarmac with a final burst, and then, waving joyously to Algy, pulled up in a steep zoom into the opaque mist.
Bursting out into the sunlight, he swerved violently to avoid colliding with a green-striped Albatros – evidently the one that had succeeded in taking off downwind – and he had perforated its wooden fuselage with a neat row of bullet-holes before the pilot recovered from his surprise.
Algy, emerging from the cloud-bank a few yards away, pumped a stream of bullets into the black-crossed machine** from the other side as it slowly turned over on its back and plunged out of sight into the fog. Side by side the two Camels sped back towards the Lines, the pilots waving to each other from time to time out of sheer lightheartedness.
** In the First World War, the German symbol was a Maltese cross – see front cover for illustration.
Meanwhile, Henry was not having such a happy time. Somehow or other his carefully prepared plans were not panning out as he had fondly imagined they would. His trouble started early – in fact, from the very moment that he lost sight of his companions in the clammy, impenetrable fog.
After the first shock of discovery that he could no longer see his leader, he fixed his eyes on the instrument board and prepared to keep the machine on its course until he had climbed above the snow-cloud. But he quickly discovered this was not so easy as a careful study of his Flying Training Manual had led him to believe.
In spite of his efforts to prevent it, the compass needle jerked about all over the place, and he soon gave it up as hopeless and concentrated his attention on the inclinometer* in an endeavour to keep the machine on even keel. This again was far more difficult than he expected, for the bubble swung continually from one side to the other. The monotonous rush of the mist swirling past his cockpit began to make him feel dizzy, and he prayed fervently that he would not collide with one of the other two machines which he never doubted were flying alongside, although he could not see them.
* An instrument similar to a spirit level for showing the angle of the aircraft relative to the ground.
Steering an erratic course, he at last broke through the surface of the fog, like a whale coming up for air, and looked around eagerly for the other machines. They were nowhere in sight. His jaw sagged foolishly, and he steered in turn at the four points of the compass, in comical consternation. A terrible feeling of loneliness gripped him as he slowly realised that he was alone in the sky.
He got out his map and with some difficulty worked out a compass course to the German aerodrome, confident that he would find the other machines there. He flew along with a worried frown on his face, looking for a possible enemy or the other two Camels.
He had just made a mental note that the dangers of war flying had been grossly exaggerated by the other pilots who had spoken to him about it, when a strange noise reached his ears above the powerful roar of his Bentley rotary engine.
It sounded like someone knocking on a stone with a hammer at incredible speed. He was wondering vaguely what it could be, when, with a loud whang! the altimeter, which he happened to be watching, flew to pieces in a little shower of broken glass and metal.
He started so violently that he automatically jerked back in his seat, unconsciously pulling the control-stick back at the same time. The movement undoubtedly saved his life, for, looking over the side of his cockpit, he was just in time to see two lines of glittering sparks streaking across the spot where he had been a fraction of a second before. And then his eye fell on something else – something that brought his heart to his mouth and made him stare in blank astonishment.
He would have been prepared to swear that there was not another machine in the sky except his own, but there, not fifty yards away, was a large green aeroplane with a huge black cross on its side. It was a two-seater, and as he stared in horrified amazement, the gunner in the rear cockpit was calmly removing empty ammunition drums and replacing them with new ones.
Vaguely, at the back of his mind, Henry felt sure that he ought to do something, but for the life of him he could not think what it was. His brain refused to act. Uppermost in his mind was the certain knowledge that within the next three seconds that calm, dispassionate, muffled figure in the back seat would direct a deadly stream of bullets at him. He shifted his gaze to the pilot, and stared fascinated at the distorted eyes of the German glaring at him through the big round goggles above a flowing blond moustache.
Henry waited for no more. Just what stunt he did he could never afterwards say, but he admitted frankly that he pulled, pushed, and stepped on everything within reach. Even as he shot up in a crazy loop came the knowledge that he, too, had a gun, and could shoot back.
Quivering with excitement, he levelled out, gr
ipped the Bowden lever* of his guns, and tore back at the green machine. It was not there. He pushed up his goggles and looked again, unable to believe his eyes. Where the green machine had been there now stretched an infinite expanse of gleaming white mist, and above, the pale-blue wintry sky.
* The 'trigger' to fire the machine guns, usually fitted to the pilot's control column.
'This isn't flying, it's conjuring!' he groaned. 'Where the dickens can he have got to?'
He leaned far over the side of the cockpit, searching high and low for his attacker. He had just decided, with infinite relief, that in some unaccountable manner it had disappeared, when a sharp staccato stutter, louder than before, smote his ears.
He jumped violently and looked again over the other side. The green machine was almost on top of him, bearing straight down on him, a streak of orange flame leaping from the pilot's gun on the engine cowling.
At the sight a feeling of uncontrollable rage swept over Henry
'What do you think you are – a jack-in-the-box?' he snarled furiously, and flung the Camel round in its own length, at the same time grabbing for his gun lever. The chattering throb of his own guns almost startled him.
In his heart he felt quite certain that they were going to collide. It seemed unavoidable. But, remembering Biggles' instructions about not turning away from a head-on attack, he did not swerve an inch. He had a fleeting vision of two wheels missing his top plane by six inches as the other machine swept up over him. He was round in a flash, blind rage swamping all other emotions.
'Go about smashing people's altimeters, would you, you dirty dog?' he muttered, as his eye fell on the German diving steeply towards the clouds.
He thrust his control-stick forward in an endeavour to overtake it, but before he could reach it the other plane had plunged out of sight into the mist, where he knew it would be useless to follow, and he turned away disconsolately.
As he looked around, he realised with something of a shock that he was by no means certain of his position, but he struck off in what he thought was the right direction for the German aerodrome. He kept a wary eye on the sky, and got the fright of his life when three S.E.5's* burst out of the fog just in front of him. His heart was still palpitating when the pilots waved a cheery greeting to him as they passed.
* Scouting experimental single-seater British biplane fighter in service 1917-1920, fitted with two or three machine guns.
'Well, according to my reckoning, that German aerodrome can't be far away now!' he thought, and, throttling back, he dropped down through the unbroken sea of cloud. As he came out, he looked below hopefully. It was nearly dark, but there, sure enough, was a row of drab hangars on the edge of an aerodrome.
'And Biggles said I couldn't find my way!' he scoffed, as he put his nose down in a deep dive. 'They haven't found it themselves yet, anyway!' he muttered, noting the undisturbed atmosphere on the ground.
To and fro across the sheds he dived, working his bomb-toggle swiftly until all eight bombs had been released. He looked below with profound interest as he climbed once more for the clouds, but found to his bitter disappointment that the smoke from his bursting bombs had obscured the view. Dimly, he could just make out groups of men rushing about like ants, pouring out of hangars and huts and waving their arms at him furiously.
'Ha, ha!' he smiled. 'Hold that little lot!' And then, realising it would be unwise to tempt Providence by staying in the vicinity too long, he soared into the sunlight above the clouds and headed for home.
He was not quite certain of the direction, but he knew that by flying on a south-westerly course he would at least reach the British Lines and safety, after which it would not take him long to find his own aerodrome at Maranique. With his lips pursed in an inaudible whistle and his heart bounding with the joy of a job well done, he dropped once more through the mist in search of home.
Biggles and Algy were also racing home above the mist, with that curious certainty of position which some airmen seem to possess. After gliding through the concealing curtain of cloud, they picked up the aerodrome, landed, and taxied quickly towards the waiting mechanics.
'What a mess we made!' laughed Biggles, as they climbed out of their machines. 'Hallo, the Professor's back – there's his bus.' As he opened the door of the ante-room, he turned to Algy, finger on lips. A voice was speaking. It was Henry's.
'No, sir,' Henry was saying. 'I didn't see them again after we entered the clouds, so I followed my own course. I found the Hun aerodrome and dropped my bombs, but visibility was so bad that I was unable to form a reliable estimate of the damage.'
Biggles pushed the door wide open. Henry and Major Mullen were standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of pilots.
'So you found it all right?' said Biggles, keeping a straight face with an effort.
'Of course. Worked out mathematically, it was impossible to miss it,' replied Henry casually.
Biggles turned to a window to watch an S.E.5 land on the aerodrome and taxi, tail-up, towards the mess. A moment later, Major Sharp, of Squadron No. 287, breathing heavily, stood swaying on the threshold. He appeared to have some difficulty in finding his voice. Biggles, a grim suspicion already forming in his mind, turned a questioning eye on Henry, and showed his teeth in a mirthless grin.
'Which of you fools has been fanning my aerodrome?' barked the major.
There was a silence which could be felt.
'Eight confounded great holes all over the aerodrome! Fortunately nobody hurt. It'll take my men all day to fill 'em in. It was a Camel – we saw it – no argument! Its number was – er – er – '
'J–7743,' muttered Biggles involuntarily.
'How do you know that?' cried Henry hotly. 'That's the number of my machine!'
'Oh, mathematics – purely a matter of mathematics!' said Biggles softly.
The telephone rang shrilly, and Major Mullen picked up the receiver.
'Hallo!' he said. 'Yes – what's that? Good show – just a minute, and I'll ask them.' He turned towards the other pilots in the room.
'Did you have a go at a green Hannoverana* this afternoon, Biggles? The artillery are on the line, and they report a green Hannoverana crashed on landing about half an hour ago, near Saint Pol. The engine was shot to bits and the gunner was dead.'
* German two-seater fighter and ground attack biplane.
'No, I haven't seen a two-seater,' replied Biggles, in astonishment.
'Nor I,' admitted Algy.
'It's all right – I got it,' said Henry casually.
'What! Did you shoot at a green Hannoverana this afternoon?' cried Biggles, in amazement.
'I did,' replied Henry modestly, 'and the last I saw of it, it was going down through the clouds.'
'By the anti-clockwise propeller of my sainted aunt! You must have hit it. How on earth did you manage that?' almost shouted Biggles.
'Oh, mathematics – it was purely a matter of mathematics,' replied Henry, grinning, as a howl of laughter split the air.
'Mathematics, my eye! How did you work it out, anyway?' snorted Biggles.
'Well, it was this way,' replied Henry modestly. 'This Boche thought he was smart. He seemed to think that one Hannoverana plus one Camel only equalled one Hannoverana, which, as Euclid would say, is absurd. I got angry, and decided to show him where he was wrong, and that one Camel plus one Hannoverana equalled one Camel!'
'Yes, I know!' jeered Biggles. 'So you placed the point A upon the point B, so that the line A – B fell along the line – Bah! Never mind about the ABC stuff. Whereabouts along the Lines did he fall? That's what I want to know.'
'I don't know, and that's a fact,' admitted Henry, grinning. 'Our position was not included in the data. To tell you the truth, I didn't know where I was – and I didn't much care. The thing that annoyed me was that he popped about so fast that I hadn't time to prove my theorem.'
'I had an idea you'd discover that,' grinned Biggles. 'But how did you get him at the finish?'
'Well, if I must tell the truth,' he grinned, 'I threw my copybook at the cloud and went for him bald-headed. I let drive with my Vickers, and down he went, and that was that. I didn't know I'd hit him. He just buzzed off into the soup, where I couldn't follow him, and that's the last I saw of him. Then I beetled around until I found the aerodrome and unloaded my eggs* – '
* Slang: bombs.
'I think the less you say about that the better,' advised Biggles, with a sidelong glance at the major. 'The point is, you got a Hun, and if you'll leave your copybook at home in future, follow me, and do your fighting by the bald-headed method, you can come with me to-morrow. Is it a go?'
'It is!' declared Henry emphatically.
Chapter 2
The Joy-ride
Biggles sat on a chock outside A Flight hangar, and surveyed the jazz camouflage pattern on the wilting canvas of the temporary structure disconsolately.
'The fact is,' he said moodily to the little group of pilots who were lounging about the tarmac between patrols, 'this war isn't what it used to be. There seems to be a sort of blight settling over it. Why, I remember the day when you couldn't stick your nose over the Line without butting into a bit of fun of some sort or another. Now you trail up and down, and if you do see a Hun he's gone before you can pass the time of day.
'I don't know what's come over 'em – not that we do anything very clever, if it comes to that. Escort* – escort – escort – always blinking well escort. I'm sick of beetling along behind a lot of Nines. There was a time when you could go where you liked and do what you liked and no one to say how, where, or why, so long as you got a Hun once in a while.
* Single-seat fighter that flew with observer or bombing aircraft to protect against enemy attack.
'Now, what with half the old crowd gone west** or gone home, and thousands of spare brass-hats*** looking for jobs, it's escort every blinking day. That's about as far as their imagination goes. It makes me tired. I hear old Wilks, of Squadron No. 287, actually got strafed the other day for shooting up a Jerry aerodrome alone. Said he ought to wait for orders or something. By the way, where have they put that Albatros you brought down yesterday, Algy?' he asked suddenly.
