by W E Johns
Biggles laughed. The idea of any vehicle on the ground leaving his Camel, which was doing 140 miles an hour, struck him as funny. But the smile gave way to the cold, calculating stare of the fighting airman as the Camel drew swiftly into range, and Biggles' eyes sought his sights.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The twin Vickers guns began their song. The end came suddenly. Whether he hit the driver, or burst a tyre, or whether it was simply the result of the driver trying to take a bend at excessive speed, Biggles did not know, nor did he stop to ascertain. The car seemed suddenly to plough into the road, and a great cloud of dust arose above it.
The bodywork, with a deliberation that was appalling to watch, seemed slowly to spread itself over the landscape. A solitary wheel went bouncing along the road. A tongue of flame licked out of the engine, and in a moment all that was left of the wreck was concealed under a cloud of smoke.
Biggles grimaced at the unpleasant sight, and circled twice to see if by some miracle the driver was still alive. But there was a significant lack of movement near the car, and he shot off at a tangent in the direction of the infantry encampment.
He made a bad landing, excusable in the circumstances, in an adjacent field, and ran quickly towards a group of officers whom he saw watching him.
'I must speak to the Brigadier at once!' he cried, as he reached them.
'Did no one teach you how to salute?' thundered an officer who wore a major's crown on his sleeve.
Biggles flushed, and raised his hand smartly to the salute, inwardly fuming at the delay.
'I must speak to the Brigadier or the Brigade-major at once!' he repeated impatiently.
A major, wearing on his collar the red tabs of a staff-officer, hurried up and asked:
'Are you the officer who just flew low over – '
'Do you mind leaving that until later, sir?' ground out Biggles. 'I've come to tell you to move your men at once. I –'
'Silence! Are you giving me orders?' cried the brigade-major incredulously. 'I'll report you for impertinence!'
Biggles groaned, then had an inspiration.
'May I use your telephone, sir? It's very urgent!' he asked humbly.
'You'll find one at headquarters—this way!' In the Brigade Headquarters, Biggles grabbed the telephone feverishly. The Brigade-Major and an orderly-officer watched him curiously. In a few moments he was speaking to Colonel Raymond at Wing Headquarters.
'Bigglesworth here, sir!' he said tersely. 'I've found what you were looking for. That Boche came over to pick up a message from a spy who has signalled to the German gunners the position of the brigade from whose headquarters I am now speaking—yes, sir—that's right—by the side of the wood about two miles east of Buell.
'Yes, I've tried to tell the people here, but they won't listen. I killed the spy—he's lying under the wreckage of his own car on the Amiens road. Yes, sir—I should say the bombardment is due to start any minute.'
'What's that—what's that?' cried a voice behind him.
Biggles glanced over his shoulder and saw the Brigadier watching him closely.
'Just a moment, sir,' he called into the telephone, and then, to the Brigadier: 'Will you speak to Colonel Raymond, of 51st Wing Headquarters, sir?'
The Brigadier took the instrument and placed the receiver to his ear. Biggles saw his face turn pale. An instant later he had slammed down the receiver and ripped out a string of orders. Orderlies dashed off in all directions, bugles sounded, and sergeant-majors shouted.
Ten minutes later, as the tail of the column disappeared behind a fold in the ground to the rear, the first shell arrived. A salvo followed. Presently the earth where the British camp had been was being torn and ploughed by flame and hurtling metal.
Biggles ran though the inferno of flying earth and shrapnel to where he had left the Camel. The pain in his head, forgotten in the excitement, had now returned with greater intensity, and as he ran he shut his eyes tightly, fighting back the wave of dizziness which threatened him.
'I must have been barmy to leave the bus as close as this,' he thought. 'She's probably been blown sky-high by this time.'
There was reason for his disquietude, for the enemy shells were falling uncomfortably near the field where he had left the machine.
But the Camel was intact when he reached it, although the ploughed-up ground which he had looked upon as a possible take-off, showed how narrowly some of the shells had missed it.
Biggles scrambled into the cockpit and revved up the engine, then kicked hard at the rudder-bar to avoid the edge of a shell-hole as the machine lurched forward. Bumping and swaying on the torn ground, the Camel gathered speed.
'I'll have the undercarriage collapsing if I can't get off soon,' Biggles muttered, and eased back the joystick. For a few moments the wheels jolted on the rough earth, then a bump bigger than usual threw them into the air.
As he landed at Maranique, Wat Tyler, the recording officer, handed him a signal.
'From Wing,' he said. 'What have you been up to now?'
Biggles tore the envelope open and smiled as he read: 'Good work, Sherlock!' The initials below were Colonel Raymond's.
Chapter 9
The Great Arena
Biggles looked up from the chock* on which he sat while he filled a cartridge belt, carefully inspecting and testing each round for the slightest flaw, and throwing it out unless he was entirely satisfied.
* Wooden block placed in front of an aircraft's wheels to prevent it moving before it is meant to.
'Haven't you finished yet, Flight?' he asked the flight-sergeant, who with a squad of oil-smeared mechanics, was working on the engine of his Camel plane.
'Five minutes and she'll be ready, sir,' announced the flight-sergeant.
'Well, get a move on, or it will be dark, and I want to test her to-night. I have to be in the air early in the morning.'
'Very good, sir,' answered the sergeant.
Biggles resumed his task. His face was tired and worn, for what with the big 'push' recently launched, and the arrival of the German Fokker D. VII's on the opposite side of the Lines, air activity had reached its zenith, and the British squadrons were not having things all their own way.
Replacements were slow in coming, for casualties had advanced by leaps and bounds until they reached a point far beyond the supply of new pilots, with the consequence that every available pilot along the Lines was putting in more flying hours than was normal. In common with the other pilots of his own and neighbouring squadrons, Biggles was feeling the strain, and there were moments when he loathed the war and everything concerned with it with a wholehearted hatred.
All he wanted was rest—from the first streak of dawn until the last rays of the sun he had led his flight on offensive patrols,* pausing only to rest while the fuel tanks were refuelled.
* Actively looking for enemy aircraft to attack.
He longed for rain to provide a real excuse to rest awhile. The rain had come, but there had been no rest—the authorities had seen to that! And now, after having been in the air all day, his engine was having a badly-needed overhaul ready for the following day's work. Impatiently he was waiting for the mechanics to finish their task so that he could test it and go to bed.
'She's ready, sir, if you are,' announced the flight-sergeant, and the mechanics wheeled the Camel out of the hangar on to the tarmac. Biggles loaded his guns with the belts he had just filled, took his place in the cockpit, and after running the engine up to make sure she was giving her full revolutions, sped across the darkening aerodrome and into the air.
For some time he climbed steadily in wide circles, watching his revolution counter and air speed indicator closely. Satisfied with the machine's performance, he snuggled a little lower in the cockpit and glanced around him, finding a curious sort of rest in the lonely sky. Not another machine was in sight. The sun was setting in a dull red glow behind a mighty bank of cloud that was rolling up from the west. Below him the world was lost in a vast well of deep
purple shadows, while the east was already wrapped in profound gloom.
Even the guns along the front were silent, for he could see none of the usual twinkling flashes of light that marked their bursting shells. It would seem that even they were war-weary and glad of an opportunity to rest.
Around, above, and below, was a scene of peace and unutterable loneliness. It was hard to believe that within a few miles thousands of men were entrenched, waiting for the coming of dawn to leap at each other's throats. War! He was sick of it, weary of flying, and the incredible folly of fighting men that he did not know.
Suddenly he started, as his eye fell on a tiny speck climbing up towards him out of the dim world below. It was a Fokker D.VII, a blue machine with a yellow tail, wearing the streamers of a flight commander. He wondered who it was and what sort of man crouched in the tiny cockpit of the enemy plane.
Biggles sighed, for he felt curiously tired and disinclined to fight. But he warmed his guns with a brisk burst of fire, and stood towards the newcomer with a queer smile on his lips. The Fokker made a quick dive for speed, followed by a zoom that brought him close, bright flecks of orange flame stabbing from the Spandau guns under his centre section. Biggles returned the fire, swung round behind the other, and in another moment they were racing round on the opposite side of a small circle, each machine in a vertical bank as it strove to get on the tail of the other.
For five minutes they flew thus, neither able to gain an advantage, although occasionally they managed to get in a short burst of fire. It was soon clear that the German pilot was an old hand at the game. Biggles, beginning to grow dizzy with the strain, jerked the control-stick back in a lightning turn that gave him a fleeting chance to get in a shot.
A snarl of anger broke from his lips as his guns jammed at the crucial moment, and he hammered furiously at the cocking handles in a wild attempt to clear them, but in vain. In spite of his care, it looked as if bulged rounds of ammunition had found their way into the ammunition belts.
He glanced across the narrow circle at his opponent, now so close that he could see his face distinctly, noting with surprise that he wore neither helmet nor goggles. He was quite young, and clean-shaven, and smiling at Biggles' efforts to repair the jammed guns. Biggles could see every detail of the Fokker, even to the stitches in the canvas, and the maker's number.
And then a remarkable thing happened. The enemy pilot waved cheerfully, turned steeply, and before Biggles was aware of his intention, had lined up beside him.
The British pilot, half-suspecting a trick, watched him closely, but as the other made no aggressive move, the two birds of war flew side by side through the darkening sky. For some minutes they flew thus, smiling at each other across the void, and then the enemy pilot, with another wave that was half a salute, turned slowly and glided away towards his own Lines, now wrapped in darkest night. Biggles returned the signal and returned homewards.
'You're not a bad sort, Yellowtail,' he thought as he throttled back and plunged down into the misty depths. 'It isn't every German pilot who'll let up on you because your guns have jammed. You're a sportsman!'
Below him he made out the sheds and landing ground of his own aerodrome.
Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, Major Mullen, MacLaren and Mahoney were standing on the tarmac when Biggles landed.
'What have you been doing?' called the major. 'We thought you'd only gone for a test flight, but you've been away more than half an hour. We were just beginning to think you were not coming back.'
'Oh, just testing, sir!' replied Biggles abstractedly, for his mind was still running on the friendly behaviour of the yellow-tailed Boche machine.
'What! You didn't get those testing!' returned the major frowning, pointing to a row of neat holes in the fin of Biggles' Camel.
'No, sir. I had a little affair—nothing to speak of— with a lad in a yellow-tailed Fokker,' replied Biggles.
'Yellow tail, did you say?' exclaimed Colonel Raymond.
'Yes, sir. A blue D.VII with a sulphur-yellow tail.'
'They say Von Doering flies that machine,' went on the colonel.
'Shouldn't be surprised, sir,' Biggles observed. 'He certainly knew how to fly, anyway, and he's piling up a tidy score, by all accounts.'
'Yes, he is,' snapped the colonel. 'He's the man I've come to see you about! Let's go down to the office.
'It happens that I'm able to tell you how Von Doering is piling up his score,' went on the colonel, when they had settled themselves in the squadron office.
'If you had asked me I should have said it was because he's a better pilot than most people,' Biggles ventured.
'That may be so,' continued the colonel, 'but there is another reason. He has scored fast because, almost without exception, the men he has shot down had never before been engaged in combat!'
'Then he must be very lucky, or else he's a thought-reader,' suggested Biggles. 'How does he pick them out?'
'He doesn't—he's told where to find them,' returned the colonel. 'Now, listen. Von Doering has a circus of about thirty machines. As you know, it is now the practice for our new squadrons to be formed at home and then fly over here as complete units. Sometimes two squadrons come together, but in any case, they have to fly down the Lines, although a few miles over our side, of course, to reach the aerodrome they are to take over.
'About five weeks ago, No. 273 Squadron, flying Camels, flew over. Von Doering intercepted them and cut them to pieces. From all accounts, it was just plain massacre. Our fellows were shot down before they knew what it was all about. We thought it was a fluke until he repeated the performance a week later.
'He's done it four times now. He just happens to be on the spot every time when the new squadron comes along, and that's outside the bounds of coincidence. The Boche Intelligence Service is keeping him posted. There's no doubt of that.
'And so we are going to put a stop to Von Doering's little game. That astute gentleman is due for the shock of his life, and this is how it is going to be administered,' announced the colonel grimly. 'As you know, it has lately been the practice for squadrons to fly straight from their home stations in England to Marquise, just this side of the Channel.
'They spend the night there and then go on to their new aerodrome the next day. It must be from Marquise that Von Doering is getting his information. The time that the squadron is to take the air has to be published in Orders —even if it wasn't, the officers concerned would be bound to talk about it, anyway —so the spy, as soon as he knows, sends word back to Germany, with the result that Von Doering is on the look-out for them.
'Now, this is the idea. To-morrow, 266 Squadron will fly to the coast, make a detour over the Channel and then land at Marquise as if they have just arrived from England. Officers will be warned not to talk about their war experience, and the pilots will have to behave as if they are all as green as grass and just over in France for the first time. Get the idea?'
'I get the idea about Von Doering attacking the squadron, thinking we are a raw lot,' admitted Biggles. 'But as we have only ten machines and Von Doering has thirty, it looks as if we've got a warm time coming!'
'Yes, you will probably have your work cut out,' Colonel Raymond agreed. 'You will fly at ten thousand feet, just behind the Lines, towards St Omer. It is near St Omer that Von Doering is most likely to attack. Have I made myself clear?'
'Perfectly,' replied Biggles in a voice that was not entirely free from sarcasm. 'Who is to lead the squadron?'
'I shall lead,' replied the CO. 'A and B Flights, under Mahoney and MacLaren, will take position on my left and right. You, Bigglesworth, will bring C Flight along slightly above and behind.'
'Very good, sir,' was Biggles' only comment on the order which he realised quite well put him in what would certainly be the most dangerous place in the formation.
'Good! Then I'll be getting back,' concluded the colonel. 'Good-bye—and good luck.' Taking Major Mullen by the arm, he led him outside and whispered
something the others could not hear. There was a faint smile on the major's face when he returned.
'We shall have to be moving early in the morning,' he announced, 'so we had better see about getting some sleep.'
Two days later, at six in the morning, the ten Camels of 266 Squadron stood ticking over on the tarmac at Marquise, waiting for the signal to take off. From the tiny cockpit of his machine, Biggles looked across at Algy on his left, and grinned. For the thirst for adventure was again upon him, and, as far as he was able to judge, the scheme had worked out so far exactly as it had been planned.
Experienced pilots all, they had arrived at Marquise the previous day, full of enthusiasm to 'see the Front,' and had lost no time in telling all and sundry that they were jolly glad to have left England for the theatre of war. It was obvious that all ranks, from the officer commanding the station downwards, were deceived by the ruse. Indeed, there was no reason why they should suspect the true state of affairs.
Biggles had had an anxious moment when a ferry pilot (whose job it was to take old machines back to England for reconditioning and bring back new machines to the Front) had asked him where he had got his M.C.*. But Biggles had passed the question off with a laugh, trusting that it would be mistaken for modesty.
* Military Cross, a medal.
Of the serious nature of the enterprise that now lay before them he had no doubts. Von Doering and his men were seasoned warriors, and although their supposed victims were not likely to fall beneath the guns as easily as they might expect, the numerical odds in their favour was a factor that could not be overlooked.
Biggles wondered vaguely how many of the ten Camels now filling the air with the sickly smell of burnt castor oil,* would arrive at Maranique. But the roar of Major Mullen's engine brought him back to realities, and he sped across the aerodrome in the wake of the leader, bumping slightly in the slipstream caused by the machines in front.
