by W E Johns
* The rotary engine of the Camel used castor oil as a lubricant.
'Well, here we go, with the stage all set for the big act,' he mused as the CO., still climbing, struck off on their prearranged course. At ten thousand feet the ten machines levelled out and roared across the sky in the direction of St. Omer.
To the west, a few thin layers of cloud hung over the trenches, but in every other direction the sky was clear. They were now in their fighting formation. In front, the streamers on the C.O.'s machine fluttered in the breeze. Just behind him, and a trifle to the right, was Mahoney with the two other machines of his flight, while MacLaren with his machines occupied a similar position on the left.
With the wing-tips of Algy's and the Professor's Camels almost touching his own, Biggles brought up the rear, forming, as he knew quite well, the target upon which the expected attack would fall.
'The colonel must be crazy!' Biggles told himself savagely. For even taking into account the shortage of men and machines at the Front, which could only allow ten Camels for the job on hand, it was asking too much to expect them to counter the onslaught of a 'circus' like Von Doering's. But where the CO. dared to lead, it was up to him to follow.
The late summer sun, now high in the sky, filled the air with shimmering rays that flashed on engine cowling, wings, and struts, making it almost impossible to see straight ahead without suffering temporary blindness. And from out of the blinding sun the attack would come. He knew that beyond all question, for Von Doer-ing was too good a leader to overlook the value of such an asset, and he was in a position to choose the place and angle of his attack.
They were nearing the danger zone now. Biggles fidgeted in his seat, for, as in all such actions, the waiting was more nerve-racking than the actual engagement. From time to time he raised his fur-gauntleted hand, and squinted through the fingers at the blinding orb of the sun; but he could see nothing. Once a formation of British D.H.4's* passed below them, heading for the Lines, and the observers, coolly leaning against their gun-rings, waved them a greeting as they passed.
* De Havilland 4, British two-seater day bomber 1917–1920.
Where was Von Doering? They were in the heart of the danger zone now, and still there was no sign of a black-crossed machine. Had their plans miscarried? Had the spy been unable to get his message back—so that their flight to the coast and back would turn out to be nothing more than a joyride? It began to look like it, for St Omer now lay ahead, not more than ten miles away.
He raised his hand again and peered between thumb and finger, and caught his breath quickly. Could he see something up there? Yes! Tiny white puffs of smoke— dozens of them. Archie—anti-aircraft gun-fire! White smoke meant that it was British archie, and that could only mean one thing—enemy aircraft! He half-shut his eyes and forced himself to peer into the dancing rays of the light that surrounded the gleaming white disc of the sun.
'There they are!' he muttered, as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a number of tiny black specks hanging in the air like midges. He glanced down quickly at the major's machine. Had the CO. seen them? If so, he gave no sign.
Biggles rocked his wings slightly, raised his hand above his head, and looked quickly at Algy and then towards the Professor. They signalled that they, too, had seen the gathering storm.
He looked back at the major. What on earth was he doing? He had tilted his nose down slightly and was racing in the direction of St Omer, the other streaming along behind him. Biggles snarled. If Von Doering came down now and caught them in the rear, they all stood a good chance of being wiped out before they had time to fire a shot.
He lifted his eyes, and saw a dozen straight-winged machines dropping down on them like vultures. Something made him shift his gaze, and his lips set in a thin line as his eyes fell on ten more machines roaring down on their left flank. Seven or eight more were coming down on the opposite side. The sky was raining Huns!
He crouched a little lower in the cockpit, curled his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless grin, and shifted his grip on the control-stick so that his thumb rested on the gun-button. In that brief moment before the clash he felt a pang of bitterness against the Higher Command that had sent them, like sheep, to be slaughtered. Whang-g-g! Something smashed against the rear end of his port gun and richochetted away with a harsh metallic whir. A stream of tracer bullets flickered like a flash of lightning between his wings. Why didn't the major turn? Ah, he was going for them now! He had rocked his wings for an instant, and then zoomed up in a steep climbing turn. It was every man for himself!
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Flack-flack-flack! Biggles thrust up his goggles and whirled round, eyes seeking his gun-sights. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of two blue-painted wheels joined with a broad axle zooming up over his top plane. Another Fokker was standing on its nose as it roared down on his flank; he twisted to take it head-on, and sprayed it with a stream of tracer bullets.
The Fokker swerved wildly, and Biggles flung the Camel on its tail, guns stuttering vicious staccato bursts—rat-tat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The black-crossed machine spun. Whether the pilot was hit, or merely throwing his machine out of the devastating stream of lead, Biggles did not know.
He had no time to watch it, but turned his attention to another machine that was diving on him with streaming bullets. He recognised it instantly. It was Yellowtail—Von Doering!
Biggles turned to meet it. His windscreen flew to pieces, and a blow like a whip-lash stung his cheek, but he did not flinch. At the last moment—only when collision seemed inevitable—Yellowtail swerved and the next instant they were tail-chasing in a crazy circle of wheeling, plunging machines.
A long, black plume of smoke through the middle of the whirling dog-fight marked the track of a falling machine. A Camel was spinning to destruction, and two Fokkers, locked together, were turning over and over as they drifted earthwards, shedding a cloud of tangled wires and splintered struts. A flicker of flame licked along the side of the wreckage; one of the pilots stood up and leapt out into the void.
Where was Von Doering? Ah, there he was, coming at Biggles again! They missed collision by inches as they both turned and resumed their tail-chasing tactics. Biggles snatched his eyes away for an instant to look for the major's machine. Camels and Fokkers were scattered all over the sky in one of the most desperate dogfights he had ever seen, but he could not see the C.O.'s Camel, and he turned back to Yellowtail, who was now trying to outclimb him.
Something bored its way into his engine with a thud, and a sickening smell of oil filled his nostrils. His engine revolutions began to fall. Von Doering, minus hat and goggles, swept past, slightly above him, and deliberately waved. He had recognised Biggles' machine. The British pilot waved back and jerked his plane's nose up to give him a burst of fire as he flashed across his sights.
Ah, what was that? Far up in the sky, in a line with the spouting muzzles of his guns, was a big cluster of black specks that rapidly grew larger. Farther above, another lot were dropping out of the blue sky like stones, and Biggles let out a wild yell as he recognised them. They were British S.E.5's, eighteen—twenty— no, twenty-four of them, and in a flash he understood the whole plot.
The S.E's had been waiting at St. Omer, far up in the blue—waiting for the Camels to lure Von Doering's circus to destruction.
'Jumping fish, what a trap!' muttered Biggles through his clenched teeth.
The S.E's were thundering down in formation, twenty-four blunt noses each surrounded by the halo of its flashing propeller, a never-to-be-forgotten sight! Von Doering was doomed, for he was too far over the wrong side of the Lines to hope to get back—unless he turned instantly, and he had not yet seen the British reinforcements! One or two of the others had, for they were diving full-out for the Lines.
The sight sent a curious wave of compassion surging over Biggles. It was all in the game, of course, this trap business, but it had also been in the game for Von Doering to shoot him down two nights ago, when he had
him stone-cold with jammed guns. Without pausing to wonder why he did it, Biggles looked at Yellow-tail, a hundred feet away on the opposite side of the circle, raised his arm, and pointed.
Von Doering looked back and up over his shoulder, and saw death in the streaming muzzles of the swarm of S.E.s, yet he waited to throw Biggles a gesture of thanks before whirling round and racing for the Lines. The S.E.s broke formation as each pilot picked out his man, although the enemy circus was now in full flight.
A Camel dashed across Biggles' line of vision. It was the C.O.'s machine, with the major waving the rally, and Biggles closed up behind him, looking round eagerly to see how many Camels were left.
One—two—three—four; another was coming towards him some distance away—five—two more were climbing up from below—seven.
Any more? No, seven was the lot. Three had gone. Who were they? He looked to the right as Algy lined up beside him, pointing, thumb turned downwards.
'So the Professor's gone!' Biggles mused. Still, perhaps he had only had to force-land with a damaged engine. Four or five machines were smoking on the ground, but they were too far gone to be able to distinguish friend from foe.
One by one the remaining Camels fell into position, and Biggles picked out Mac and Mahoney, settling down on either side of the CO. They, too, had escaped, then. And he fell to wondering how many of the enemy Fokkers would get back to safety.
With the advantage of height which British S.E.s held, it was impossible that the Boche planes would out-distance their attackers. They would have to fight every mile of the way back, with the odds piled heavily against them.
How many of the thirty machines of Von Doering's famous circus would limp back across the Lines? Two? Three? Not many could hope to escape the terrific onslaught of the British machines. There would be many empty hangars that night on the German side.
He breathed a deep sigh, for he knew the combat was over. Only the Camels remained. The other planes had vanished in the haze to the east. He sank a little lower in his cockpit as the major set a course for Maranique.
'I must have been crazy to give Von Doering that signal!' Biggles mused. 'I wonder what could have come over me? Still, one good turn deserves another, and we're quits now!'
Chapter 10
Biggles Finds His Feet
Cruising over the Somme, France, at fifteen thousand feet, Biggles paused for a moment in his unceasing scrutiny of the sky to glance downwards. The smoke from a burning farmhouse caught his eye, and a little frown of anxiety lined his forehead as he noticed that the smoke was rolling along the ground towards Germany at an angle which could only mean that a very high wind* was blowing.
* Most First World War aircraft only flew between 70–140 miles per hour and a strong head wind would slow the aircraft equal to the speed of the wind.
He swung his Camel plane round in its own length, the frown deepening with anxiety as he realised for the first time that he was a good deal farther over the Lines than he imagined.
'It'll take me half an hour to get back against this wind. I must have been crazy to come so far over,' he thought as he pushed his joystick forward for more speed.
The archie bursts that had followed him on his outward passage with indifferent results now began to creep closer as the Camel offered a less fleeting target. The pilot was forced to change direction in order to avoid their unwelcome attentions.
'I must have been crazy,' he told himself again angrily, as he swerved to avoid a cluster of ominous black bubbles that had appeared like magic in front of him. 'I ought to have spotted that the wind had got up. But how was I to know it was going to blow a gale?'
Under the forward pressure of the joystick, his height had dropped to ten thousand feet by the time the white scars of the shell-torn trenches came into view. Suddenly he stiffened in his seat as a faint but unusual noise reached his ears. Underlying the rhythmic hum of his Bentley engine was a persistent tick-a-tack—tick-a-tack.
With a grim suspicion forming in his mind he glanced back over his shoulder. Along his line of flight, stretching away behind him like the wake of a ship, was a cloud of pale-blue smoke, and he knew then beyond doubt that his engine was giving trouble.
He turned quickly to his instrument board and confirmed it. The engine revolution counter had fallen to nearly half its normal revs. He looked over the side, now thoroughly alarmed, to judge his distance from the Lines. He decided, with a sigh of relief, that he might just reach them provided the trouble did not become worse.
But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for hardly had the thought crossed his mind than there was a loud explosion, a streamer of flame leapt backwards from the whirling rotary engine, and a smell of burning oil filled his nostrils. Instantly he throttled back, preferring to land behind the German Lines rather than be burnt to a cinder in the air.
He lost height rapidly, and fixed his eyes on the Lines in an agony of suspense. Fortunately, the sky was clear of enemy machines, a fact which afforded him some consolation, for he would have been in a hopeless position had he been attacked.
Still gliding, he moistened his lips, and tried opening the throttle a trifle. But the flames reappeared at once, and he had no alternative but to resume his former gliding angle.
The Lines were not much more than a mile away now, but his height was less than a thousand feet, a fact that was unpleasantly impressed upon him by the closeness of the anti-aircraft gun-fire. An ominous crackling, too, warned him that the enemy machine-gunners on the ground were also making good shooting at the struggling machine.
To make matters worse, there seemed to be a battle raging below. Clouds of smoke, stabbing spurts of flame, and leaping geysers of mud told a story of concentrated bombardment on both sides of the Lines. More than once the Camel rocked violently as a big projectile from the thundering howitzers hurtled by.
Biggles crouched a little lower in the cockpit, looking swiftly to left and right, hoping to ascertain his position. But he was now too low to distinguish anything except the churning inferno of smoke and mud. A battered tank, its nose pointing upwards like that of a sleeping lizard, loomed up before him and he kicked the rudder desperately to avoid it.
Barbed wire, tangled and twisted, was everywhere. Mud, water, and bodies in khaki and field-grey were the only other things he could see.
There was no question of choosing a place to land — everywhere was the same, so there was no choice. There came a deafening explosion, the Camel twisted into a sickening sideslip, and, with a crash of rending timbers, struck the upright post of some wire entanglements.
Biggles' next conscious recollection was of digging feverishly in the mud under the side of his now upside-down machine in order to get clear, and then staring stupidly at the inferno raging about him. In which direction lay the British Lines? He had no idea, but the vicious rattle of a machine-gun from somewhere near at hand, and the shrill whang of bullets striking his machine, brought him back from his semi-stunned condition with a rush, and suggested the immediate need for cover.
About twenty yards away a huge shell-crater yawned invitingly, and he leapt towards it like a tiger. A bullet clutched at the sleeve of his coat as he plunged through the mud, and he took the last two yards in a wild leap. His foot caught on the serrated rim of the crater and he dived headlong into the stagnant pool of slime at the bottom. Scrambling out blindly, he slipped and fell heavily on something soft.
'Now, then, look where you're comin' to, can't you!' What's the 'urry?' snarled a Cockney voice.
Biggles blinked and wilted into a sitting position in the soft mud on the side of the hole. On the opposite side sat a Tommy, caked with mud from head to foot, a drab and sorry spectacle; upon his knee, from which he had cut away a portion of his trousers, was a red-stained bandage which he had evidently just finished tying.
'Was I in a hurry?' inquired Biggles blandly, regarding the apparition curiously. 'Well, I may have been,' he confessed. 'This isn't the sort of place to dawdle
on an afternoon's stroll —at least, it didn't strike me like that. Where are we, and what's going on?' he asked, ducking instinctively as a shell landed just outside the crater with a dull whoosh.
'What did you want to land 'ere for? Ain't it bad enough upstairs?' snorted the Tommy. 'Life won't be worth livin' 'ere in 'arf a minute, when they start puttin' the kybosh* on your aeroplane.'
* Slang: finishing off.
'I didn't land here because I was pining to see you, so don't get that idea,' grinned Biggles. 'Where are we, that's what I want to know?'
'About in the middle, I should think,' growled the Tommy.
'Middle of what?' asked Biggles.
'The war, of course!' was the reply.
'Yes, I can see that,' admitted Biggles. 'But whereabouts are our troops, and where's the enemy?'
The soldier jerked his thumb over his shoulder and then jabbed it in the opposite direction.
'There and there, or they was last time I saw 'em, but they might be anywhere by now. You know, mate, my missus, she says to me, "Bert" she says – '
'Is your name Bert?' asked Biggles, to stop the long oration he could see was coming.
'Yes. Bert Smart, A Company, Twenty-third Londons,' replied the soldier.
'Nice name!' said Biggles.
'What's the matter with it?' growled the Tommy.
'Nothing! I said it was a nice name—nice and easy to remember!' protested Biggles.
'I thought you was pulling my leg!' growled Bert suspiciously.
'Oh, no, I wouldn't do that!' exclaimed Biggles, repressing a smile with difficulty. 'But what about getting out of here?'
'Well, I ain't stoppin' you, am I?' said Bert. 'If you don't like my blinkin' society – '
'It isn't that!' broke in Biggles quickly, a broad grin on his face. 'I'd like to sit and chat to you all day—but not here!'
'Well, it's better than chargin' up and down, with people stabbin' at you, ain't it?' asked Bert. 'If you wants to go, there's a sap* just behind you what leads to our Lines.'
