by W E Johns
“They couldn’t get away,” explained Wilkinson.
“Hard luck!” said Biggles. “Can’t be helped, I suppose. Well, come along—dinner’s ready.” And he led the way into the mess.
Dinner was a merry affair. It seemed as though the visiting pilots were out to prove that no trace of soreness remained over their defeat in the gramophone contest. Good-natured banter was exchanged, and the room was in a constant uproar of laughter.
It seemed to Biggles that at times the laughter of the S.E.5 pilots was a trifle forced—as if they were deliberately making a noise to drown other possible noises, and he chuckled inwardly. And he chuckled still more when he noticed Wilks taking furtive glances at his wrist-watch.
Suddenly Wilks noticed that Algy was not present, and he asked after him.
“Oh,” said Biggles casually, “he’s got a stunt on. I—”
He broke off as a sudden uproar came from the anteroom, and, pushing back his chair, he leapt for the door. Thrusting it open, he dashed out into a group of figures milling round the gramophone.
In the midst of the group was Algy, gallantly defending the gramophone, holding off the S.E.5 pilots who had failed to turn up for the dinner.
“Two-sixty-six to the rescue!” yelled Biggles, dashing into the fray.
In a moment the affair was over as the other pilots of No. 266 Squadron dashed in.
“So that was Algy’s stunt!” said the crestfallen Wilks bitterly.
“It was!” grinned Biggles. “And it’s the winner. It’s no good, laddie,” he added. “If you want a new gramophone you’ll have to buy one. We won this, and we’re jolly well keeping it!”
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HUMBUGS
THE AERODROME of 266 Squadron was deserted, except for a slim figure that sat, rather uncomfortably, on an upturned chock, as a Sopwith Camel, considerably damaged, landed and taxied up to the hangars. Officers and air mechanics were in their respective messes eating the midday meal.
Biggles, the pilot of the Camel, alighted slowly and deliberately. He removed the tangled remains of a pair of goggles from his head, shook some loose glass from creases of his flying jacket, and eyed a long tear in the arm of the garment dubiously. Then he bent and examined the sole of his flying-boot, the heel of which appeared to have been dragged off. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he took a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped a quantity of black oil from the lower part of his face. This done, he thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket and glanced sideways at Algy Lacey, who had deserted his seat in front of the sheds, and was inspecting the much-shot-about aeroplane from various angles.
“You seem to have been having some fun,” suggested Algy.
“Fun, eh?” grunted Biggles, pointing to the shot-torn machine. “If that’s your idea of fun, it’s time you were locked up in a padded cell!”
“All right, don’t get the heebie-geebies !”
“You’d have the screaming willies—never mind the heebie-geebies—if you’d been with me this morning. Where’s everybody?”
“At lunch.”
“That’s all some people think of. If they’d do less guzzling and more—but why talk about it? Come on, let’s go! I’ll ring Smyth from the mess to get busy on this kite.”
“Where’ve you been? You seem peeved about something,” observed Algy, as they made their way to the dining-room.
“If thirty Huns wouldn’t peeve anybody, I should like to know what would!”
“Hallo, Biggles!” called Mahoney, from the lower end of the long trestle-table. “Where’ve you been?”
“Ah, here’s another wants to know all about it!” replied Biggles, “All right, I’ll tell you. I’m going to knock the block off that hound Wilkinson!”
“All right—all right, don’t get het up! What’s he done now?”
Biggles seated himself with slow deliberation, ordered cold beef from the mess waiter, and reached for the salad. He selected a tomato and stabbed it viciously. A small jet of pink spray squirted from it and struck MacLaren, the Scots flight-commander, in the eye.
MacLaren rose wrathfully to his feet, groping for his napkin. “Here, what’s the big idea?” he spluttered.
“Sorry, Mac,” murmured Biggles apologetically. “But how did I know it was so juicy?”
“Well, look what you’re doing!”
“Right-ho! As I was saying—where did I get to? Oh, yes! Well, this morning, on my way out to the Line, I thought I’d drop in and have a word with Wilks and thank him for sending down that bunch of records for the new gramophone. When I got there I found them all in a rare state.
“It seems that the old Boelcke ‘circus’, which has been away down south for the Verdun show, has come back, and planted itself right opposite Wilks’ crowd, and they don’t think much of it. Wilks said it was about time the Boelcke crowd had their wings clipped, and I told him that the sooner he got on with the clipping the better. There was nothing to stop him going right ahead. He turned all nerky and asked why we didn’t do something about it, and so on, and so forth.
“To cut a long story short, he suggested that I should do the decoy act for them. The idea was to rendezvous over Hamel at ten-thirty, me at twelve thousand feet, and all the S.E.s they could muster at eighteen thousand. I was to draw the Albatroses down and the S.E.s would come down on top of them. Wilks was particularly anxious to have a crack from up top at the new fellow who is leading the Albatroses—they don’t know his name. That was about ten o’clock, and I, like a fool, said ‘O.K.’ and pushed off.
“Well, I got up to twelve thousand over Hamel, as arranged, and hung about until I saw nine S.E.s high up pushing into Hunland. I followed them, keeping underneath, of course. I found the Boche circus all right, or, at least, they found me—put it that way! I don’t know how many there were, but the sky was black with ‘em. However, I thought I’d do the job properly, so I headed on towards them as if I was blind.
“The Huns didn’t waste any time. No, sir! They came buzzing down as if I was the only Britisher in the sky, and every one was full-out to get to me first. It tickled me to death to think what a surprise-packet they’d got coming when old Wilks and his mob arrived. I looked up to see where Wilks’ lot were, and was just in time to see them disappearing over the horizon.
“That stopped me laughing. At first I couldn’t believe it, but there was no mistake. The S.E.s just went drifting on until they were out of sight. And there was me, up Salt Creek without a paddle. I’d aimed to bring the circus down, and I’d succeeded. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about that! There they were, coming down like a swarm of wasps that had been starved for a million years! There I was, and there was the circus! But having got ‘em, I didn’t know what to do with ‘em, and that’s a fact!”
“What did you do with them?” asked Batson eagerly. He had only recently joined the squadron.
“Nothing,” Biggles said. “Nothing at all. Don’t ask fool questions. I came home,” he went on, “and I didn’t waste any time on the way, I can assure you. I went back to Wilks’ place. Don’t ask me how I got there because I don’t know. I half-rolled most of the way, I admit, but the main thing was I got there. And what do you think I found? No, it’s no use guessing—I’ll tell you. I found Wilks and his crowd in the mess playing bridge—playing bridge! Can you beat that? He looked surprised when I barged in, as well he might, and then had the cheek to say he thought I meant that the show was to be done tomorrow.”
“What about the S.E.s you saw?” asked Mahoney.
“It wasn’t them at all. It was 311 Squadron, who are just out from England, going off on escort duty to meet some ‘Fours’ that had gone over on a bombing raid. They didn’t know anything about me, of course, but when they got back they sent word to Wing Headquarters that they saw a Hun flying a Camel. They were sure it must have been a Hun, because they saw it fly straight up to the Boche formation. I was the poor boob they saw, and if that’s their idea of joining a f
ormation I hope they never join one of ours.”
“But what did Wilks say about it?”
“He laughed—they all did—and said he was sorry. Then he had the nerve to suggest that I stayed to lunch. I told him that I hoped his lunch would give him corns on the gizzard, and then I pushed off back here.”
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Algy.
“I don’t know yet,” replied Biggles slowly. “But it’ll be something, you can bet your life on that!”
For the next hour Biggles sat on the verandah, contemplating the distant horizon. Then a slow smile spread over his face. He rose to his feet and sought Algy, whom he found at the sheds making some minor adjustments to his guns.
“Algy !” he called. “Come here! I want you. I’ve got it.”
“Got what?”
“The answer. I’m going to pull old Wilks’ leg so hard that he will never get it back into its socket, and I want your help.”
“Fine! Go ahead! What do I do?”
“First of all, I’ve got to get Wilks out of the way this afternoon for as long as possible; that is, I want to get him off the aerodrome. You know Wilks has a secret passion for those big lumps of toffee with stripes on.”
“Stripes on?”
“Yes, you know the things I mean—you get ‘em at fairs and places.”
“You mean humbugs?”
“That’s it—humbugs. Wilks has eaten every humbug for miles. What I want you to do is to ring up Wilks and tell him that you’ve discovered a new shop in Amiens where they have some beauties—enormous ones, pink, with purple stripes. Lay it on thick. Make his mouth water so much that he slobbers into the telephone. Tell him you’ve got a tender going to Amiens this afternoon, and would he like to come?
“If he says yes, as I expect he will, tell him to fly over here right away, but he’d better not tell anyone where he’s going, as you’re not supposed to have the tender. I’ll fix up the transport question with Tyler. You take Wilks to Amiens. If you can find a shop where they sell humbugs, well and good. If you can’t you’ll have to make some excuse—say you’ve forgotten the shop. Keep him out of the way as long as you can, and then bring him back here. He’ll have to come back here, anyway, to collect his machine.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Never you mind,” replied Biggles. “But tell me, has 91 Squadron still got that Pfalz Scout on their aerodrome—the one they forced to land the other day?”
“I think so; I saw it standing on the tarmac there a couple of days ago as I flew over.”
“Fine! That’s all I want to know. You go and ring up Wilks and get him down to Amiens. Don’t say anything about me. If he wants to know where I am you can say I’m in the air, which will be true.”
“Good enough, laddie!” said Algy. “I’d like to know what the dickens you’re up to, but if you won’t tell me, you won’t. See you later.”
It was well on in the afternoon when a mechanic who was snatching forty stolen winks on the shady side of the hangars of 287 Squadron happened to open his eyes and look upwards. He started violently and looked again, and was instantly galvanised into life.
He sprang to his feet and sprinted like a professional runner towards a dugout by the gunpits, yelling shrilly as he went. His voice awoke the dozing aerodrome and figures emerged from unexpected places.
Several officers appeared at the door of the mess, and after a quick glance upwards joined in the general rush, some making for the dugout and others for the revolving Lewis gun that was mounted on an ancient cartwheel near the squadron office.
A medley of voices broke out, but above them a more urgent sound could be heard, the deep-throated song of a fast-moving aeroplane.
The cause of the upheaval was not hard to discover. From out of a high, thin layer of cloud had appeared an aeroplane of unmistakable German design; it was a Pfalz Scout. And it was soon apparent that its objective was the aerodrome.
Like a falling rocket the machine screamed earthwards. It flattened out some distance to the east of the aerodrome, tore across the sheds at terrific speed, and then zoomed heavenward again, the pilot twisting his machine from side to side to avoid the bullets that he knew would follow him. But his speed had been his salvation, for he was out of range before the gunners could bring their sights to bear.
As the machine disappeared once more into the cloud whence it had so unexpectedly appeared, two or three officers began running towards their machines. But, realising that pursuit was useless, they hurried towards the spot where a little crowd had collected.
“What is it?” cried one of them.
“Message,” was the laconic reply. “I saw him drop it.”
The speaker tore the envelope from the streamer to which it was attached and ripped it open impatiently. His face paled as he read the note.
“It’s Wilks,” he said in a low voice. “He’s down— over the other side! The Huns got him over Bettonau, half an hour ago—got his engine. By the courtesy of the C.O. of the Hun squadron where they have taken him, he has sent this message to say that he is unhurt, and would like someone to bring him over a change of clothes. He says he can have his shirts and pyjamas and pants—anything that we think might be useful. If someone will drop them on the Boche aerodrome at Douai they will be handed to him before he is sent to the prison camp tonight.”
Parker, a pilot of Wilks’ flight, claimed the honour.
“Wilks was my pal,” he insisted, “and this is the least I can do for him. I’ll make a parcel of his small kit and all his shirts and things and drop them on the airfield at Douai right away. Poor old Wilks!”
Sadly the speaker departed in the direction of Wilkinson’s quarters, and half an hour later, watched by the sorrowful members of the squadron, the S.E. departed on its fateful journey.
Meantime, the pilot of the Pfalz Scout was not having a happy time. Twice he was sighted and pursued by British scouts, and although he managed to give them the slip, he was pestered continually by antiaircraft gunfire, for his course lay, not over the German Lines, as one might have supposed, but behind the British Lines.
Finally, the black-crossed machine reached its objective, and started a long spin earthward, from which it did not emerge until it was very close to the ground in the immediate vicinity of Mont St. Eloi, the station of 91 Squadron.
The Pfalz made a couple of quick turns and then glided between the sheds of the aerodrome, afterwards taxiing quickly towards a little group of spectators.
The pilot—Biggles—switched off and climbed out of his cockpit, removing his cap and goggles as he did so. Lee, a junior officer in the Royal Naval Air Service uniform, broke from the group and hurried to meet him. “What’s the game, Bigglesworth?” he said shortly. “You told me you only wanted to have a quick flip round the aerodrome. You’ve been gone more than half an hour.”
“Have I? Have I been away as long as that?” replied Biggles in well simulated surprise. “Sorry, old man, but I found the machine so nice to fly that I found it hard to tear myself out of the sky.”
“There’ll be a row, you know, if it gets known that you’ve been flying about over this side of the Line in a Hun machine. Besides, you must be off your rocker. I wonder our people didn’t knock the stuffing out of you!”
“They did try,” admitted Biggles. “But, really, I was most anxious to know just what a Pfalz could do. All our fellows ought to fly a Hun machine occasionally. It would help them to know how to attack it.”
“Perhaps you’re right—but it would be thundering risky!”
“Yes, I suppose it would be,” admitted Biggles. “But look here—in case there’s a row, or if anyone starts asking questions about your Pfalz, I should be very much obliged if you’d forget that anyone has borrowed it. In any case, don’t, for goodness’ sake, mention my name in connection with it!”
“Right you are!” grinned Lee. “Where are you off to now? Aren’t you going to stay to tea?”
“No, thanks—I must get back. I’ve got one or two urgent things to attend to. Cheerio, laddie, and many thanks for the loan of your kite!”
With a parting wave, Biggles walked across to his Camel, took off, and set his nose in the direction of Maranique.
He was comfortably seated in the ante-room, when, an hour later, a tender pulled up in front of the mess. Algy and Wilkinson, both apparently in high spirits, got out. Glancing in through the window, they saw Biggles inside, and entered noisily.
“What do you think about this poor boob?” began Wilks good-humouredly. “He rang me up this afternoon to say that he was going to Amiens, and asked if I would like to come. He told me he knew of a shop where they sold the biggest humbugs in France, and then when we got to Amiens he couldn’t remember where it was!”
“Yes, wasn’t it funny?” agreed Algy. “My memory is all going to pieces lately!”
“It’s caused by castor oil soaking through the scalp into the brain!” declared Biggles. “I’ve been like that myself. The best thing is to take a pint of petrol night and morning every day for a week and then apply a lighted match to the tonsils.”
“Oh, shut up! Don’t be a fool!” laughed Wilks. “What about coming over to our place for dinner? We’ve got a bit of a show on tonight. We should have some fun.”
“That’s O.K. by me!” declared Biggles.
“And me,” agreed Algy. “What shall we do—go over by tender? We shan’t be able to fly back anyway; it’ll be dark.”
“But I’ve got my kite here.”
“Never mind; leave it here until the morning—it’ll take no harm.”
“Fine! Come on, then; let’s go while the tender is still here.”
The S.E. pilots of 287 Squadron were at tea when, shortly afterwards, Biggles, Wilks, and Algy entered the mess arm-in-arm. There was a sudden hush as they walked into the room. All eyes were fixed on Wilkinson.
“Hallo, chaps,” he called gaily. Then, observing the curious stares, he stopped dead and looked around him. “What’s wrong with you blighters?” he said. “Have you all been struck with lockjaw?”
