by W E Johns
“Good gracious, no! A lens of that sort takes years of grinding to make it perfect. I doubt if that particular one was produced inside five years, and being worked on all the time.”
“I see.”
“Well, you will be sorry to hear that the camera is now in German hands again.”
“How the dickens did they get it?” exclaimed Biggles.
The Colonel made a wry face and shrugged his shoulders. “We may learn after the war is over,” he said. “Perhaps we shall never know. The two officers who were in the D.H.4 are both prisoners so we have no means of finding out. One can only imagine that they were shot down or were forced down by structural failure, although how and why they failed to destroy the camera, knowing its vital importance, is a mystery.
“We were sorry when the machine failed to return— and we were astounded when the Germans began using the camera again, because we felt certain that our fellows would have disposed of it, somehow or another. Naturally if the machine had been shot down from a great height, or in flames, the camera would have been ruined. Well, there it is. Our agents in Germany have confirmed the story. They say that the Germans have the camera, and are tickled to death about it. To make sure that they don’t lose it again they’ve built a special machine to carry it, and that machine is now operating over our Lines at an enormous altitude.”
“What type of machine?” asked Biggles.
“Ah, that we don’t know!”
“Then you don’t know where it’s operating, or what limit of climb it’s got?”
“On the contrary,” the Colonel replied, “we have every reason to believe that it is now operating over this very sector. The archie gunners have reported a machine flying at a colossal height, outside the range of their guns. They estimate the height at twenty-four thousand feet.”
“What!” Biggles exclaimed. “How am I going to get up there? I can’t fly higher than my Camel will go!”
“That’s for you to work out. We are having a special machine built, but it will be two or three months before it is ready. Meanwhile, we have got to stop the Germans using that instrument. If we can get it back intact, so much the better. Rather than let the Germans retain it, we would destroy it; but, naturally, we should like to get it back.”
“If the machine was shot down and crashed, or fell in flames, that would be the end of the camera?” Biggles queried. “And if the crew found they were forced to land they would throw the thing overboard, in which case it would be busted?”
“Unquestionably.”
Biggles scratched his head.
“You seem to have set a pretty problem,” he observed. “If we don’t shoot the machine down, we don’t get the camera. If we do shoot it down, we lose it. That’s what it amounts to. Puzzle—how to get the camera! Bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?”
“Well, there must be an answer,” smiled the Colonel, “because it has already been captured twice. We got it once and the Germans got it back.”
“Well, sir, I’m no magician, but I’ll do my best.”
“Think it over—and let me know when you’ve got it.”
Biggles walked back to the ante-room, deep in thought.
“Let him know when I’ve got it, eh?” he mused. “By James! What a nerve!”
Later in the day a lot of cloud blew up from the south and west, and as this would, he knew, effectually prevent high-altitude photography, Biggles did no flying, but roamed about the sheds trying to find a solution to the difficult problem that confronted him. Finally he went to bed, still unable to see how the impossible could be accomplished.
He was still in bed the following morning—for Mahoney was leading the dawn patrol—when an orderly-room clerk wakened him by rapping on his door and handing in a message.
Biggles took the strip of paper, looked at it, then leapt out of bed as if he had been stung. It was from the Operations Office, Wing Headquarters, and was initialled by Colonel Raymond. “High-altitude reconnaissance biplane crossed the Lines at seven-twenty-three near Bethune,” he read.
That was all. The message did not state that the machine was the machine, but the suggestion was obvious. So, pulling a thick sweater over his pyjamas and hastily climbing into his flying-suit, he made for the sheds without even stopping for the customary cup of tea and a biscuit.
He fumed impatiently in the cockpit of his Camel until the engine was warm enough to take off and then streaked into the air in the direction of the last known position of the enemy machine.
While still some distance away from Bethune he saw two S.E.5’s climbing fast in the same direction, but paid no further heed to them, for he had also seen a long line of white archie bursts marking a trail across the blue of the early morning sky.
By raising his goggles and riveting his eyes on the head of the trail of smoke he could just see the tiny sparks of white light from the blazing archie as the gunners followed the raider, who was, however, still invisible.
“By James, he’s high, and no mistake!” thought Biggles as he altered his course slightly, to cut between the hostile machine and the Lines, noticing that the two British S.E.5’s carried on the pursuit on a direct course for the objective.
Five minutes later, at fifteen thousand feet, he could just see the Boche, a tiny black speck winging slowly through the blue just in front of the nearest archie bursts. Another ten minutes passed, during which time he added another two thousand feet to his altitude, and he could then see the machine plainly.
“That plane came out of the Halberstadt works, I’ll bet my shirt!” he mused, as he watched it closely. “There’s no mistaking the cut. Well, I expect that’s it!” he concluded, as the terrific height at which the machine was flying became apparent. He had never seen an aeroplane flying so high before, and from the Colonel’s description it could only be the special photographic machine.
It did not take him long to realise that any hopes he may have had of engaging it in combat were not to be fulfilled, for although he could manage twenty thousand feet, the enemy plane was still a good two thousand feet above him. To his intense annoyance it actually glided down a little way towards him, and he distinctly saw the observer produce a small camera and take a photograph of him.
“That’s to show his pals what a lot of poor boobs we are, I suppose,” Biggles muttered. Then a slight flush tinged his cheeks as the observer leaned far out of his cockpit and put his thumb to his nose to express his contempt.
“So that’s how you feel, is it, you sausage guzzler?” snarled Biggles. “That’s where you spoil yourself. I’m going to get you, sooner or later, if I have to sprout wings out of my shoulder-blades to do it!”
An S.E.5 sailed across his field of view, nose up and tail dragging at stalling-point as the propeller strove to grasp the thin air. As he watched, the machine slipped off on to one wing and lost a full thousand feet of height before the pilot could recover control.
He recognised the machine as Wilkinson’s, from the neighbouring squadron, and could well imagine the pilot’s disgust, for it would take him a good twenty minutes to recover his lost height.
“Ugh, it’s perishing cold up here!” he muttered, as he wiped the frost from his windscreen, and then turned his attention again to the Hun, who was now flying to and fro methodically in the recognised manner of a photographic plane obtaining strip photographs of a certain area. Looking down, Biggles saw that it was over a large British rest-camp.
“I’d better warn those lads when I get back that they are likely to have a bunch of bombs unloaded on ‘em tonight,” he thought, guessing that before the day was out the photographs now being taken by the black-crossed machine would be in the hands of the German bomber squadrons.
“Well, I suppose it’s no use sitting up here and getting frost-bitten,” he continued morosely, as he saw the S.E. abandon the chase and begin a long glide back towards its aerodrome. “Still, I’ll just leave you my card.”
He put his nose down to gather all the speed possi
ble, and then, pulling the control-stick back until it touched his safety-belt, he stood the Camel on its tail and sprayed the distant target with his guns. He was still at a range at which shooting was really a waste of ammunition, but he derived a little satisfaction from the action. The Camel hung in the air for a second, with vainly threshing prop, and a line of tracer bullets streaked upwards.
The enemy observer apparently guessed what Biggles was doing, and called the pilot’s attention, but he did not bother to return the fire. As one man, pilot and observer raised their thumbs to their noses and extended their fingers.
Biggles’ face grew crimson with mortification, but he had no time to dwell on the insult, for the nose of the Camel whipped over as it stalled viciously, and only the safety-belt prevented him from being flung over the centre section. From the stall the machine went into a spin, from which he could not pull it out until he was down to eighteen thousand feet.
For a moment he thought of going over the Lines in search of something on which to vent his anger, but the chilly atmosphere had given him a keen appetite so he decided to go home for some breakfast instead, and turned his nose towards Maranique. Looking back, he could still see the enemy pilot pursuing his leisurely way.
After a quick breakfast, he returned to the sheds, and called Smythe, his flight-sergeant, to one side.
“Now,” he began, “by hook or by crook I’ve got to put three thousand feet on to the ceiling of this machine!”
The N.C.O. opened his eyes in surprise, then shook his head. “That’s impossible, sir,” he said.
“I knew you’d say that,” replied Biggles, “but it’s only because you haven’t stopped to think. Now, suppose some tyrant had you in his power and promised to torture you slowly to the most frightful death if you couldn’t put a few more feet on to the altitude of a Camel. What would you say?”
The flight-sergeant hesitated. “Well, in that case, sir, I believe—”
“You don’t believe!” retorted Biggles. “You know jolly well you’d do it: you’d employ every trick you knew to stick those extra few feet on. Very well; now let’s get down to it and see what we can do. First of all, what weight can we take off her? Every pound we take off means so many extra feet of climb—that’s right, isn’t it?”
“Quite right, sir.”
“Well, then, first of all we can take the tank out and put a smaller one in holding, say, an hour’s petrol. Instead of carrying the usual twenty-six gallons, I’ll carry ten, which should save about a hundred pounds, for a rough guess. That means I can climb faster from the moment I take off. All the instruments can come out, and I can cut two ammunition belts to fifty rounds each. If I can’t hit him with a hundred rounds he deserves to get away. If you can think of anything else to strip off, take it off. Talking of ammunition reminds me that I want the cut belts filled with ordinary bullets, not tracer. I don’t want to set fire to anything. So much for the weight. Now, can you put a few more horses in the engine?”
“I could, but I wouldn’t guarantee how long it would last.”
“No matter—do it. If it will last an hour, that’s all I want. And you can get some fellows polishing up the struts and fabric—and the prop. Skin friction takes off more miles an hour than a lot of people imagine. Now, is there any way that we can track on some more lift? It isn’t speed I want, it’s climb. Do you think we could build extensions on the wing-tips? Every inch of plane-surface helps.”
“If we did,” answered the flight-sergeant, “the machine would be a death-trap; they’d come off at the slightest strain.”
“Still, it could be done.”
The flight-sergeant thought hard for a moment. “I’ll take the fabric off and look at the main spar,” he said. “I’ve got two or three old wings about, so I should have material. I’m afraid the extensions would break away, though, or pull the whole plane clean off. The C.O.—”
“Don’t you say a word about this to the C.O.. He’d want me to go down to the repair depot, and you know what they’d do. They’d just laugh their silly heads off. Well, you have a shot at it, flight-sergeant. I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to finish.”
“Tomorrow morning! It would take two or three days, even if it’s possible!”
Biggles tapped him on the shoulder. “I shall be along at sparrow chirp tomorrow morning and if that kite isn’t ready to fly, and, what is more, fly to twenty-three thousand, someone will get it in the neck!”
“Very good, sir,” replied the flight-sergeant grimly.
He had been set a difficult task—almost an impossible one; but he knew when Biggles spoke in that tone of voice it was useless to argue. He got busy right away.
Biggles walked briskly back to the mess.
True to his word Biggles strode across the dew-soaked turf towards the sheds the following morning as the first grey streak appeared in the eastern sky, having already rung up Wing Headquarters and asked that he might be informed at once if the high-flying German photographic machine was observed to cross the Lines within striking distance of Maranique.
A broad smile spread over his face as his eyes fell on his machine, to which a party of weary mechanics, who had evidently been up all night, were just putting the finishing touches.
Every spot of oil and every speck of dust had been removed from wings and fuselage, while the propeller gleamed like a mirror; but it was not that that made him smile. It was the extensions, for the top planes now overlapped the lower ones by a good eighteen inches.
“It looks pretty ghastly, I must say,” he confessed to the flight-sergeant, who was superintending his handiwork with grim satisfaction. “Any of our lads who happen to see me in the air are likely to throw a fit.”
Smyth nodded. “Yes, sir,” was all he said, but it was as well that Biggles did not know what was passing in his mind.
“Well, let’s get her out on to the tarmac ready to take off,” ordered Biggles.
“Are you going to test her, sir?”
“I most certainly am not; there’s no sense in taking risks for nothing. I can do all the testing I need when I’m actually on the job.”
After a swift glance around to make sure no one was about they wheeled the modified Camel out on to the tarmac. A mechanic took his place by the propeller ready to start up and Biggles got into his flying kit.
The minutes passed slowly as the sky grew gradually lighter, and Biggles began to fear that the enemy machine was not going to put in an appearance. Just as he had given up hope, Wat Tyler, the recording officer, appeared running, with a strip of paper in his hand. He stopped dead and recoiled as his eyes fell on the Camel’s wing-tips, conspicuous in their incongruity.
“What the—what the—” he gasped.
“She’s all right—don’t worry,” Biggles told him. “Her wings have sprouted a bit in the night, that’s all. Is that message for me?”
“Yes. The German machine crossed the Lines about four minutes ago, between Bethune and Annoeulin, following the Bethune-Treizennes road. Wing have discovered that it’s attached to the Flieger Abteilung at Seclin.”
“Thanks!” replied Biggles, and climbed into his seat. He waved the chocks away after the engine had been run up and taxied slowly out into position to takeoff. “Well, here goes!” he muttered, as he opened the throttle.
The lightness of the loading was instantly apparent, for the machine came off the ground like a feather— so easily that he was off the ground before he was aware of it.
For some minutes he watched his new wing-tips anxiously, but except for a little vibration they seemed to be functioning perfectly, although a dive would no doubt take them off—and perhaps the wings as well.
Grinning with satisfaction he made for the course of the photographic machine, and, as on the previous morning, first picked it out by the line of archie smoke that was expending itself uselessly far below it.
A D.H.4 that was presumably under test came up and looked at him as he passed over the aerodrome of Chocques
, the pilot shaking his head as if he could not believe his eyes.
“He thinks he’s seeing things!” smiled Biggles. “He’s going home now to tell the boys about it.”
Three S.E.s were converging on his course some distance ahead, and they all banked sharply to get a clearer view of the apparition. Biggles waved them away, for he had no wish to be compelled to make a steep turn that might spell disaster.
He reached nineteen thousand feet in effortless style, and from the way the machine was behaving he felt that it would without difficulty make the three or four thousand feet necessary to reach the enemy machine. Progress became slower as he climbed, of course, and the German began to draw away from him, for it was flying level; so he edged his way between it and the Lines and watched for it to make the first move on its return journey.
He began to sing as the Camel climbed higher and higher, for whether he managed to bag the Hun or not he was at least getting a new thrill for his trouble. But soon afterwards he began to feel the effects of the rarefied air, which he had forgotten to take into consideration, so he stopped singing and concentrated his attention on the enemy aircraft, which was, he guessed, probably equipped with oxygen apparatus.
What his own exact altitude was he did not know, for the altimeter had been removed with the other instruments, but he felt that it must be between twenty-two and twenty-three thousand feet. He was still slightly below the Hun, but he felt that he could close the distance when he wished. The other was now flying up and down in regular lines as it had done before, with both members of the crew seemingly intent on their work. Once the observer stood up to glance below at where the three British S.E.s were still circling, and then resumed his task without once looking in Biggles’ direction, obviously considering himself quite safe from attack.
Slowly but surely Biggles crept up under the enemy’s tail, a quiver of excitement running through him as the moment for action drew near. To force the German machine to land without causing any damage to the camera was a problem for which he had still found no solution unless it was possible for him to hit its propeller, although he had doubt as to his ability to do that.
