by W E Johns
Biggles sat quite still, with his engine idling, as the orange Hun taxied towards him. At a distance of about twenty yards the pilot stopped, switched off his engine, jumped to the ground, and walked quickly towards the Camel.
Biggles waited until only half a dozen paces divided them, then sat upright. The German stopped dead as he found himself staring into the smiling face of the British pilot, obviously undecided whether to go on or go back. Like most pilots he was probably unarmed, but Biggles was taking no unnecessary risks. His plan had so far succeeded, and he lost no time in carrying it to completion. He raised his hand in salute to the astonished German, blipped his engine derisively, and then sped away across the turf.
He cleared the hedge, tore across the German aerodrome with his wheels only a foot or two from the ground, and still keeping as low as possible, set his nose for home. On the far side of the aerodrome he saw the German pilots, who had left their machines, running back to them, and others taxiing to get head into wind; but he was not alarmed. In the minute or two that would elapse before they could take up the trail again he would get a clear lead of two miles, a flying start that the Germans could never make up.
And so it transpired. The Camel came under a certain amount of rifle fire from the troops on the ground, both in the reserve trenches and the front Line, but as far as Biggles knew not a single bullet touched the machine.
Ten minutes later he landed at Maranique, where the C.O. and several officers were apparently awaiting his return.
Major Mullen threw a quick glance over the Camel as Biggles climbed out, camera in hand. “You didn’t have much trouble, I see!” he observed.
“No, sir,” replied Biggles coolly. “I didn’t find it necessary to fire a shot.”
“Did you get your photo?”
“I think so, sir. I should like it developed as soon as possible. Wilks might like to have a copy of it.”
“Here’s a letter for you from Wilks,” said Wat Tyler, passing him a large, square envelope. “A motor-cyclist brought it to the Squadron Office just after you took off.”
Biggles looked at the envelope suspiciously, tore it open, and from it he withdrew a whole-plate photograph. It was an oblique picture, and showed a fairly large town; but it was half obscured by what seemed to be hundreds of small white specks that ran diagonally across it, just as his own leaflets had appeared above Tournai. A frown creased his forehead. “Can anybody recognise this place?” he said sharply.
Major Mullen took the photograph, looked at it for a moment, and then turned it over.
“Ah!” he said. “I thought so! It’s Gontrude taken from 18,000 feet. He must have taken the photograph yesterday, after he left here.”
“Where’s Gontrude?” asked Biggles slowly. “I don’t remember ever seeing it.”
“No, it’s rather a long way over,” replied Major Mullen with a curious smile. “It’s about twelve miles the other side of Tournai, I fancy.”
Biggles staggered back and sat down suddenly on a chock. “Well, the dirty dog!” he exclaimed. “So I’ve been all the way to Tournai for nothing!”
“It rather looks like it,” agreed the Major sympathetically.
“So Wilks thinks he’s being funny, does he?” muttered Biggles. “Well, we shall see! There’s another day left yet!” He strode off towards the mess.
Later in the day he called Algy over to him. “Look, laddie,” he said, “I’ve been exercising my mental equipment on this crazy long-distance stunt, and the points that stick out most clearly in my mind are these: First of all, if it goes on, somebody’s going to get killed; it’s asking for trouble. Secondly, we can’t let Wilks and his crowd get away with it. Hitherto, we’ve always managed to put it across them, so if they pull this off they’ll crow all the louder. If they get the gramophone they’ll play it every guest night, and everyone for miles will know what it means. I made a mistake in telling Wilks that I was going to Tournai, because then he knew just how far he had to go to beat me. The way I see it is this. It’s no use doddering about just going another five miles, and another five miles, and so on. Apart from anything else, it’s too risky. We’ve got to do one more show, and it’s got to be such a whizzer that Wilks will never suspect it. At the same time it’s no use risking running out of petrol on the wrong side of the Lines—that would be just plain foolishness.”
Algy looked at him knowingly.
“You’ve got an idea under your hat,” he said shrewdly. “What is it? Come on, cough it up!”
“You’re right,” admitted Biggles. “I have. I’m thinking of going to—come here.” He caught Algy by the arm and whispered in his ear.
Algy started violently. “You must be off your rocker!” he exclaimed. “You’d run out of petrol for a certainty. The only way you could possibly do it would be by taking straight off over the Lines without climbing for any height, and then the Huns would see to it that you didn’t get there. No—”
“Shut up a minute,” said Biggles, “and let me say my little piece! D’you suppose I haven’t thought of all that? I’m out to put it across Wilks, but I’ve no intention of having my bright young life nipped in the bud for any measly gramophone. To start on such a show by flying low over the lines would be like putting your head into the lion’s mouth and expecting it not to bite. The higher the start, the better. The danger lies near the lines—not fifty miles beyond them, where they’d no more expect to see a Camel than a brontosaurus. I should climb to 18,000 feet over this side, while it’s still dark, so that I couldn’t be seen, and aim to be forty miles over the other side by the time it began to get light. It would be a thousand to one against meeting a Hun there, particularly at that height, and it’s unlikely that I should be spotted from the ground.”
“But if you had to climb to that height at the start you wouldn’t have anything like enough petrol to—”
“Wait a minute—let me finish. That’s where you come in!”
Algy frowned. “Me!” he exclaimed. “So I’m in this, am I?”
“You wouldn’t like to be left out, would you?” murmured Biggles reprovingly.
Algy regarded him suspiciously.
“Go ahead!” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
At eleven-thirty the following morning the aerodrome at Maranique presented an animated appearance, for rumours of the contest had leaked out and pilots had come from nearby squadrons to see the conclusion.
The S.E.5 pilots of 287 Squadron were there in force, as was only to be expected.
Major Mullen, looking a trifle worried, was talking to Colonel Raymond, who had just arrived in his car.
Wilks had not yet turned up, and Biggles was conspicuous by his absence, a fact which caused a good deal of vague speculation, for although certain other officers had aspired to win the prize in the earlier stages of the contest, they had soon abandoned their ideas before the suicidal achievements of the two chief participants, Biggles and Wilks.
Algy came out of the mess and made his way towards the crowd on the tarmac, to be bombarded with the question: “Where’s Biggles?” He looked tired, and there was a large smear of oil across his chin. He turned a deaf ear to the question.
“Where have you been?” asked an S.E.5 pilot suspiciously.
“What’s that got to do with you?” retorted Algy. “Where’s Wilks, anyway?”
As if in answer to the question, all eyes turned upwards as an S.E.5 roared into sight over the far side of the aerodrome; it pulled up steeply into a spectacular climbing turn, side-slipped vertically, and made a neat tarmac landing.
Wilks, his face beaming, stepped out holding in his hand a sheet of paper, which, as he approached, could be seen to be a photograph. He walked straight up to Colonel Raymond, saluted, and handed the photograph to him.
“That’s my final entry for the competition, sir,” he announced.
The Colonel returned the salute, and looked at the photograph.
“Where is this?” he asked.
&n
bsp; “Mons, sir.”
A cheer broke from the S.E.5 pilots, for at that period of the war Mons was between fifty and sixty miles inside German-occupied territory.
“Well, that will take some beating,” admitted the Colonel, amid renewed cheers. He looked around the sky. “Where’s Bigglesworth?” he said.
As a matter of fact, Biggles was not quite sure himself. He knew vaguely, but cloud interference had blotted out the earth, and although he caught occasional glimpses of it from time to time he had found it impossible to pick up the landmarks he had followed on the outward journey.
As in the case of his raid on Tournai, he had reached his objective with ridiculous ease, and had turned his back on it half an hour previously; but against the everlasting prevailing west wind he was still, according to his reckoning, some forty miles from the Lines.
That they were likely to prove the hardest part of his trip he was well aware, for even if his presence over the objective had not been reported to German headquarters by ground observers, his passage would have been noted by hostile air units, who would climb to the limit of their height to await his return.
He had realised that this was inevitable, and although he had given the matter a lot of thought he was still unable to make up his mind whether it would be better to stay where he was—at 18,000 feet—or go right down to the ground and hedge-hop home, when there might be a chance of evading the watching eyes above; although what he gained on the swings he was likely to lose on the roundabouts, for at a very low altitude he would come under the fire of all arms—machine-guns, anti-aircraft guns, flaming onions, and even field-guns.
He peered ahead through his centre-section struts with searching intensity and drew a deep breath. Far away—so far that only the keenest eyes could have detected them—were three groups of tiny black specks. They stretched right across his course, and not for an instant did he attempt to delude himself as to what they were. So far from the Lines they could mean only one thing—hostile aircraft; German scouts in formation.
He moistened his lips, pushed up his goggles, and looked down. It was the only way. Quickly but coolly he made up his mind, and acted. He retarded his fine adjustment throttle, and as the noise of the engine died away he deliberately allowed the machine to stall, at the same time kicking on right rudder.
The Camel needed no further inducement to spin. In an instant it was plunging earthward, rotating viciously about its longitudinal axis—the dreaded right-hand spin that had sent so many Camel pilots to their deaths.
But Biggles knew his machine, and although he was temporarily out of control he could recover it when he chose.
He allowed the spin to persist until the fields below became a whirling disc; then he pulled out and spun in the reverse direction.
The spin was not quite so fast, but he pulled out feeling slightly giddy, and flew level, to allow his altimeter to adjust itself; for in his rush earthwards he had overtaken it, losing height faster than the needle could indicate it.
“Six thousand!” he muttered.
In a minute of time he had spun off twelve thousand feet of height.
He warmed his engine again, sideslipping as he did so in order to continue to lose height. The wind howled through his rigging, and a blast of air struck him on the right cheek. He tilted the machine over to the right, control-stick right over, applying opposite rudder to keep his nose up and prevent the machine from stalling.
These tactics he continued until he was less than a hundred feet from the ground; then, with throttle wide open, he raced tail up for the Lines, leaning far back in the cockpit to enable him to command a wide view overhead.
A cloud of white smoke, from which radiated long, white pencil-lines, blossomed out in front of him, and he altered his course slightly.
“Dash it!” he muttered. It was no time for half measures. Lower and lower he forced the Camel until his wheels were just skimming above the ground. Only by flying below the limit of the trajectory of that gun could he hope to baffle the gunners.
On, on between trees and over scattered homesteads he roared in the maddest ride of his life. Cattle stampeded before him, poultry flapped wildly aside, and field labourers flung themselves flat before the demon that hurtled towards them like a thunderbolt. All the time he was getting nearer home, raising his eyes every few seconds to watch the enemy machines overhead.
Five minutes passed—ten—fifteen, and then a grim smile spread over his face.
“They’ve spotted me!” he muttered. “Here they come!” He glanced at his watch. “About five miles to go. They’ll catch me, but with luck I might just do it!”
A wide group of many-hued shark-like bodies was falling from the sky ahead of him, but he did not alter his course a fraction of an inch, although he flinched once or twice as he tore past flashing wings. He heard the rattle of guns behind him, but he did not stop to return the fire.
“Out of my way!” he snarled, as a fresh formation appeared in front of him. “Turn, or I’ll ram—oh!” He caught his breath as an Albatros shot past, its nose missing him by inches.
A bunch of Fokker triplanes tore into his path, but as if sensing the berserk madness of the lone pilot, they prudently swung aside to let him through.
He tilted his wing to enable him to clear a church spire that suddenly appeared and then twisted violently the other way to avoid a tall poplar. He snatched a swift glance behind him, and his eyes opened wide.
“What a sight!” he gasped. “Well, come on, boys; I’ll take you for a joyride!”
A sudden hush fell on the crowd on the tarmac at Maranique as the drone of a Bentley rotary engine was borne on the breeze, and all eyes turned upwards to where a Camel could be seen approaching the aerodrome.
Over the edge of the aerodrome the engine choked, choked again, and backfired. The prop stopped, and the nose of the machine tilted down. The watchers held their breath as it became apparent that the Camel was in difficulties. A long strip of fabric trailed back from a wing-tip, and a bracing wire hung loose from the undercarriage. One of the ailerons seemed to be out of position, as if it was hanging on by a single hinge.
There was silence as the pilot made a slow, flat turn, that brought him into the wind, the machine flopping. A few feet from the ground the pilot caught it again and bounced to a bumpy landing.
A sigh of relief, like the rustle of dead leaves on an autumn day, broke from the spectators as the tension was relaxed.
Algy had started running towards the machine, but pulled up as Biggles was seen climbing from the cockpit. In his hand he carried a camera. A mechanic of the photographic staff ran out to meet him as if by arrangement, and relieved him of the instrument. Biggles walked slowly on towards the group, removing his cap and goggles as he came. He was rather pale, and looked very tired, but there was a faint smile about the corners of his mouth. He changed his direction slightly as he saw Colonel Raymond, and made towards him.
“Sorry, sir, but I shall have to keep you a minute or two until my photograph is developed,” he said. “But I’ve still got another quarter of an hour or so, I think?”
The Colonel looked at his wrist-watch. “Fourteen minutes,” be said. Then his curiosity overcame him. “Where have you been?” he inquired, with interest.
“I should prefer not to say, sir, if you don’t mind, until the photo arrives.”
“Just as you like.”
Ten minutes passed by slowly, and then Flight-sergeant Smyth appeared, running towards the crowd with a broad smile on his face. He handed something to Biggles, who, after a swift glance, passed it to the Colonel.
“Where is this?” said the staff officer, with a puzzled expression. “I seem to recognise those buildings.”
“Brussels, sir.”
“Brussels?” cried Wilks. “I don’t believe it! You couldn’t carry enough petrol to get to Brussels and back!”
“Whether he could or not, this is a photograph of Brussels,” declared the Colonel, “And there are le
aflets fluttering down over the Palais Royal. I can see them distinctly.”
A yell from the Camel pilots split the air, while the S.E. pilots muttered amongst themselves.
“But how on earth did you do it?” cried the C.O. in amazement.
“Ah, that’s a trade secret, sir!” replied Biggles mysteriously. “But I am going to tell you, because it is only fair to Lacey, whose assistance made it possible. We flew over together, and landed in a field about forty miles over the Lines, He carried eight spare tins of petrol—four in his cockpit and four lashed to his bomb-racks. He came back home; I refuelled and went on. I had just enough petrol to get back, as you saw.”
“But that isn’t fair!” muttered Wilks.
“Oh yes it is!” said the Colonel quickly. “There was no stipulation about refuelling.”
“Do we get the gramophone, sir?” asked Biggles.
“You do!” replied the Colonel promptly, and he handed it over.
Wilks’ face broke into a smile, and he extended his hand. “Good show, Biggles!” he said. “You deserve it!”
“Thanks!” acknowledged Biggles. “How about you and your chaps coming over to dinner tonight? We’ll have a merry evening, with a tune on the jolly old gramophone to wind up with!”
For a moment Wilks looked doubtful, as though the mention of the gramophone gave him a nasty taste in the mouth. Then Biggles saw a sudden gleam flash into his eyes and a smile break out on his face.
“Right-ho!” said Wilks. “We’ll be along. Thanks very much!” He swung away in the direction of his S.E., followed by the rest of his squadron.
“H’m!” grunted Biggles, as he watched him depart. “If I’m not mistaken, you mean mischief. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, my lad!”
When Wilks turned up for dinner that night, only half his squadron’s pilots were with him.
“Hallo!” said Biggles, as Wilks and his comrades walked into the ante-room, where the newly won gramophone was playing a lively tune. “Where are the rest of your chaps? We expected you all!”
