by W E Johns
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
A RIDE TO REMEMBER
THE CAMERA
THE PRIZE
HUMBUGS
THE TURKEY
WAR IN HOT BLOOD
REPRISALS
THE CHALLENGE
THE PILOT WHO LOST HIS WAY
FOREWORD
THESE ARE some of the earliest Biggles stories. They appeared in “The Modern Boy” about 1932, when the events of the Kaiser’s war were still fresh in mind, and deal with that period of air combat when one could only qualify for the title ace by shooting down a certain number of enemy aircraft. In the French Service the number was five: in Germany, ten. The Air Ministry did not acknowledge the system, but in scout squadrons victories were counted unofficially.
To the student of modern warfare and high-performance aircraft these stories will appear far-fetched. So they are. But in 1916 war-flying was far-fetched. So were some of the incidents of Hitler’s war, if it comes to that. I doubt if any writer would court derision by having his hero fall out of an aircraft flying at 18,000 feet without a parachute—and live to tell the tale.
The great difference between the two wars was this. The machines of 1915-16, with a top speed of under 100 m.p.h., and landing speeds in proportion, could get down almost anywhere. Pilots thought little of landing in a field to ask the way, have a cigarette, or beg a drink of water. In this way spies could be landed behind the enemy lines. Occasionally a pilot would do it for sheer devilment. Frank Luke, the American pilot who won the Congressional Medal of Honour, lost his life doing it. The day being hot he landed by a brook for a drink. Caught in the act by German troops he fought with his pistol until he was killed. He was the champion balloon buster, having shot down thirteen in a fortnight. Most pilots kept clear of them.
Strange stories could be told of kite balloons. An officer known to the writer, finding himself at 3,000 feet with his balloon on fire and no parachute, decided to go down the cable. He slid most of the way, removing the flesh from his hands and thighs. But he lived. Operations replaced the flesh from another part of his body, although when the author saw him, in Newcastle, after the war, he still had difficulty in closing his hands.
Colonel Strange, while his machine was upside down in a combat, fell out. But hanging on to his gun he managed to climb back, right the machine and fly home. Madon, the French ace, once shot the goggles off a German gunner—and caught them in mid-air. You may have heard the uncanny story of the R.E.8 that came home by itself and made a reasonable landing with pilot and gunner dead in their seats.
Examples to strain the credulity could be given indefinitely, and those given above are merely quoted to show the sort of thing that could happen when war-flying was in its infancy. The writer fell out of control into Germany from 19,000 feet, and—to his surprise— found himself still alive.
Discipline in some squadrons, particularly scout squadrons, hardly existed, although there was a tendency to tighten things up towards the end. But in the early days, as long as a pilot did his job, nobody bothered much about what else he did. There was no radio to tell a hunting pilot where to go, or what to do, once his wheels were off the ground.
Well, they were great days, days the world will never see again, and Biggles, like most pilots of the period, made the most of them.
W.E.J.
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A RIDE TO REMEMBER
SECOND-LIEUT. BIGGLESWORTH, of No. 266 Squadron, R.F.C., stationed at Maranique, France, settled himself in a deck-chair, cocked his feet up on the balustrade that ran round the verandah in front of the officers’ mess, yawned lazily in the summer sunshine, and then looked up at the group of pilots who had collected there while awaiting the summons of the luncheon gong.
“What do you think about it, Biggles?” asked Mahoney, his flight-commander, fishing a pip from his glass of lemon crush.
“About what?”
“I say that the fellow who goes about this war casually volunteering for this and that has about as much chance of seeing the dawn of peace as a snowball has of surviving midsummer in the Sahara. Sooner or later he gets it—he’s bound to. I could give you scores of instances. Take Leslie Binton for example—”
“I never heard anyone talk as much drivel as you,” interrupted Biggles wearily. “You sit here day after day laying down the law about how to avoid getting pushed out of this world, but do you practise what you preach? Not on your life! If the Old Man came along here now and said he wanted some poor prune to fly upside down at fifty feet over the Boche lines, you’d be the first to reach for your flying togs. I’m not saying you’re wrong about this volunteer stuff. Personally, I think you’re right, because it stands to reason that the pitcher that goest oftenest to the well gets a better chance of being busted than the one that sits on the shelf.”
“Not necessarily,” argued Wells, a Canadian pilot with a good deal of experience who had recently joined the squadron. “It’s just as likely to get knocked off the shelf on to the floor. It’s no more true than the proverb about an empty pitcher making the most noise.”
“Are you telling me I’m an empty pitcher?” inquired Biggles coldly.
“Wait a minute—let me finish. What I was going to say was, you’re as bad as Mahoney. You say the volunteer act doesn’t pay—”
“It doesn’t!”
“Then why do you take a pace forward every time a sticky job comes along?”
“To save poor hoots like you from getting their pants scorched.”
“Rot! Well, you go ahead, but anyone in his right mind can get all the trouble he wants out here in France without looking for it. All the same, I aim to outlive you guys by at least three weeks.”
There was a sudden stir, and a respectful silence fell as Major Mullen, the C.O., and Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, walked up the short flight of stairs from the Squadron Office.
Biggles took one glance at the major’s face, caught Mahoney’s eye and winked.
The C.O. was too young to dissemble and he showed his anxiety plainly when the squadron was selected for a particularly dangerous task. He looked around the assembled officers. “All right, gentlemen, sit down,” he said quietly. “Is everybody here, Mahoney?” he went on, addressing the senior flight-commander.
“Yes, I think so, sir.”
“Good. I won’t waste time beating about the bush, then. I want an officer to—”
Biggles and Mahoney sprang up together. Wells took a pace forward and several other officers edged nearer the C.O.
Major Mullen smiled. “No, I shan’t want you, Bigglesworth—or you, Mahoney. Wells, you’ve had a good deal of experience at reconnaissance, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Wells eagerly, turning to frown at Biggles, who had tittered audibly.
“Good. Have a word with Colonel Raymond, will you? He will explain what he wants.”
“But, sir—” began Biggles.
The C.O. silenced him with a gesture. “I’m not in the least anxious to lose my best pilots,” he said softly, as Wells and the Colonel disappeared into the anteroom, and the other officers filed into the dining-room as the gong sounded.
“This must be something extra sticky,” growled Biggles to Mahoney as they followed. “It would have been a lot more sensible to hand the job to someone—”
“I never heard anyone talk as much drivel as you do,” mimicked Mahoney, and sidestepped quickly to avoid the jab that Biggles aimed at him.
“You go and get on with your O.P.1,” Biggles told him sourly.
“Aren’t you flying this afternoon?”
“No, my kite’s flying a bit left-wing low, but I may test her if she’s finished in time.”
After lunch, Biggles made his way
slowly to the sheds, where he found the riggers putting the last touches to his machine. “All right, Flight?” he asked Smyth, his flight-sergeant.
“She’s O.K. now, sir, I think,” replied the N.C.O. briskly.
“Fine! Start her up. I’ll test her.”
Ten minutes later, at two thousand feet above the aerodrome, he concluded his test with a couple of flick loops, and, satisfied that the machine was now rigged as he liked it, he eyed the eastern sky meditatively.
“There’s nothing to do on the floor, so I might as well take a prowl round,” he decided, and turned his nose in the direction of the Lines.
Mahoney, sitting at the head of his Flight in front of the hangars, with his engine ticking over in readiness for the afternoon patrol, watched him go with a curious expression that was half frown and half smile.
“There he goes,” he mused. “He can’t keep out of it. One day, I suppose—”
Not waiting to complete his remark he shoved the throttle open and sped across the short turf.
For an hour or more Biggles soared in the blue sky searching for hostile aircraft, or anything to distract him from the irritating attentions of archie2, but in vain. The sky seemed deserted, and he was about to turn back towards the Lines when a movement far below and many miles inside enemy country caught his eye.
It was only a tiny flash, and would have passed unnoticed by anyone except an experienced pilot. But he knew that it was the reflection of the sun’s rays on the planes of a banking machine. Instinctively he turned towards it, peering down through the swirling arc of his propeller and pushing up his goggles to see more clearly.
Presently he made out a whirling group of highly coloured machines, and his lips set in a straight line as he observed the reason for their aerobatics. A solitary British machine, a Camel, with the same markings as his own, was fighting a lone battle against a staffel3 of Albatros scouts that swarmed around it like flies round a honey-pot. The pilot was putting up a brilliant fight twisting and half-rolling as he fought his way inch by inch towards the Lines; but he was losing height rapidly.
Biggles half closed his eyes, and his top lip curled back from his teeth as he stood his machine on its nose and plunged down like a bolt from the blue, wires and struts screaming protest.
His speed outdistanced his altimeter, and it was still on the four thousand feet mark when he was down to two thousand, with the tragedy written plain to see. It was Wells being forced down by ten or a dozen Huns.
A pilot of less courage might well have considered landing in the face of such frightful odds and thus escape the fate that must, if he persisted, sooner or later overtake him; but apparently no such thought entered Wells’ head.
Biggles was still a thousand feet away when the end came. A stream of flame leapt from the side of the Camel and a cloud of black smoke swirled aft. The pilot, instead of sideslipping into the ground, soared upwards like a rocketing pheasant, in a last wild effort to take his destroyer with him; but the wily Hun pilot saw him coming and swerved in the nick of time.
A sheet of flame leapt back over the cockpit of the stricken Camel as it stalled at the top of its zoom. The pilot, with an arm over his face, climbed out on the fuselage, stood poised for an instant, then jumped clear into space.
The German pilot, fascinated by the slowly somersaulting leather-jacketed figure, raised his hand in salute, and at that moment Biggles’ tracer bullets bored a group of holes between his shoulders. The German, without knowing what had hit him, lurched forward across his control-stick and the Albatros buried itself deep in the ground not a hundred feet from the smoking remains of its victim.
Biggles, pale as death and fighting mad, swung round just as the leader of the Hun staffel took him in his sights, far outside effective range, and fired a short burst. It was a thousand-to-one chance, but it came off. A single bullet struck Biggles’ machine, but it struck one of the few vulnerable spots—the propeller. There was a vibrating, bellowing roar as the engine, now unbalanced and freed from the brake on its progress, raced, and nearly tore itself from the engine bearers.
Biggles, not knowing for a moment what had happened, was nearly flung out by the vibration, but as he throttled back and saw the jagged ends of the wooden blades, he snarled savagely and looked below. There was no help for it; an aeroplane cannot remain in the air without a propeller, so down he had to go.
Immediately he looked below he knew that a crash was inevitable, for his height was less than five hundred feet and the combat had taken him over a far-reaching forest. He switched off automatically, to prevent the risk of fire, and flattened out a few feet above the treetops for a “pancake” landing. At the last instant, as the machine wobbled unsteadily before dropping bodily into the trees, he raised his knees to his chin and buried his face in his arms.
There was a splintering, tearing crash of woodwork and fabric, a jar that shook every tooth in his head, and then a silence broken only by the receding drone of Mercedes engines.
Slowly he unfolded himself and looked around. The machine, as he had guessed, was caught up in the topmost branches of a large tree, and it swayed unsteadily as he moved.
Remembering that more than one pilot who had crashed in similar circumstances had been killed by falling from the tree and breaking his neck, he unfastened his safety belt and crept cautiously to the nearest fork, from where he made his way, inch by inch, to the trunk. After that it was fairly plain sailing, although he had to jump the last ten or twelve feet to the ground.
In the silent aisles of the forest he paused to listen, for he knew that the Boche pilots would quickly direct a ground force to the spot; but he could hear nothing.
A steady rain of petrol was dripping from the tree, and he set about his last duty. He divested himself of his flying coat which would now only be an encumbrance, and after removing the maps from the pocket thrust it far under a bush. Then he threw the maps under the dripping petrol and flung a lighted match after them.
There was a loud whoosh as the petrol-laden air took fire. A tongue of flame shot upward to the suspended Camel which instantly became a blazing inferno. He sighed regretfully, and then set off at a steady jog-trot through the trees in the direction of the Lines.
A few minutes later the sound of voices ahead brought him up with a jerk, and he just had time to fling himself under a convenient clump of holly bushes when a line of grey-clad troops in coal-scuttle helmets, with an officer at their head, passed him at the double, going in the direction of the source of the smoke that drifted overhead.
Satisfied they were out of earshot he proceeded on his way, but with more care. Again he stopped as a clearing came into view. A low buzz of conversation reached him. He began to make a detour round the spot, but his curiosity got the better of him, and, risking a peep through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, he saw a curious sight.
An area of about two acres had been cleared, and in the middle of it four enormous concrete beds had been laid down in a rough line. Three appeared to be actually complete, and a gang of men were engaged in smoothing the surface of the fourth.
He did not stop to wonder at their purpose, but they reminded him vaguely of some big gun emplacements that he had once seen far over the British side of the Lines. Dodging from tree to tree, sometimes dropping to all fours to cross an open place, he pressed forward, anxious to get as near to the lines as possible before nightfall.
Just what he hoped to do when he reached them he did not know, but it was not within his nature to submit calmly to capture while a chance of escape remained. He would consider the question of working his way through the Lines when he reached them.
The sun was already low when the German balloon line came into view. Far beyond it he could see the British balloons hanging motionless in the glowing western sky. Presently, he knew, they would be hauled down for the night; in fact, the nearest German balloon was already being dragged down by its powerful winch.
He wondered why it was being ta
ken in so early, until the low, unmistakable hum of a Bentley engine reached his ears. Then he saw it, a solitary Camel, streaking in his direction. It was flying low, the British pilot altering his course from time to time, almost as if he was picking his way through the dark smudges of smoke that blossomed out around him as the German archie gunners did their best to end the career of the impudent Britisher.
Biggles, watching it as it passed overhead, recognised Mahoney’s streamers, and guessed the reason for its mission. It was looking for him—for the crash that would tell his own story—and he smiled grimly as the Camel circled once over the scene that appeared to tell the story of the tragedy only too plainly. Then it turned back towards the lines and was soon lost in the distance.
“They’ll be drinking a final cup to the memory of poor old Wells and myself presently!” he mused.
He hesitated on the edge of a narrow lane that crossed his path. He traversed it swiftly after a quick glance to left and right, and taking cover by the side of a thick hedge, held on his way. He came upon the Boche balloon party quite suddenly, and crept into a coppice that bordered the lair of the silken monster in order to get a closer view of it. Balloons were common enough in the air, but few pilots were given an opportunity of examining one on the ground.
It was still poised a few feet above the field, with the basket actually touching the turf, and was being held down by the men of the balloon section who were rather anxiously watching two observers, easily recognised by their heavy flying kit, now talking to the officer in charge a short distance away.
It was easy to guess what had happened. The balloon had been hauled down when Mahoney’s Camel came into sight, and a consultation was now being held as to whether or not it was worth while sending it up again. The observers were evidently in favour of remaining on the ground, for they pointed repeatedly to the direction in which the Camel had disappeared and then towards the kite-balloon.
The balloon had been released from its cable and was straining in the freshening breeze, which, by an unusual chance, was blowing towards the British Lines.
