by W E Johns
Another Hun was in flames, but still under control, with the pilot on his lower plane side-slipping downwards.
It seemed to Biggles that no one could hope to escape collision in such hopeless chaos. Machines of both sides hurtled past him at frenzied speed, sometimes missing him by inches. It was dodge and dodge again. Shooting was of the wildest snapshot variety.
Then, suddenly, the air seemed to clear, as if there were fewer machines than there had been. A Camel tore across Biggles’ nose with an orange and black Hun on its tail. Biggles made a lightning turn to follow, saw the Camel burst into flames, fired and saw the Hun pilot sag forward in the cockpit. An orange wing spun upwards, and the torpedo-shaped fuselage dropped like a bomb.
A burst of bullets struck Biggles’ machine somewhere just behind him, and he jerked the control-stick back into his stomach. A Hun shot past his wing-tip, so close that Biggles flinched.
“That’s too close!” he muttered. “Where the dickens are the S.E.s?”
He could see some of the Albatroses turning away, as if they had had enough, and then out of the blue a cloud of brightly coloured Fokker triplanes tore into the fight. The fleeing Albatroses turned again and headed back to the fight.
Biggles stared.
“My hat!” he ejaculated. “It’s the Richthofen crowd. With the Baron himself!” he added, as his eyes fell on a blood-red triplane.
His mouth set grimly and he twisted to bring his sights to bear, but was forced to turn away as an orange Albatros shot across his path. It was followed by another with green streamers fluttering from its V-shaped interplane struts. He jerked his machine round spasmodically to follow, and saw that an S.E. was already pursuing it. It was Wilkinson’s.
“Out of my way, Wilks!” yelled Biggles, completely carried away.
He saw the S.E. slip sideways to escape a burst of fire directed at it by the red triplane.
It left the way clear.
He crouched forward, peering through his gun-sights, saw the green streamers, and fired. The Albatros turned over and spun.
“No, you don’t!” snarled Biggles. “You can’t get away with that!”
His suspicion that the Hun was shamming was well founded, for after two or three spins the Boche recovered control and dived away.
But Biggles had followed him down. The Hun made a bad turn that almost caused him to stall, and for a couple of seconds Biggles had a “sitter”. Taca-taca-taca-taca! stuttered his guns.
The Hun turned slowly over on its back, and, with the tell-tale streamers still fluttering in the slipstream, roared earthwards, black smoke pouring from its engine.
Biggles suddenly remembered the Richthofen circus.
“This looks like being a bad business,” he thought. “The Huns outnumber us now by at least two to one.”
He looked up, and a yell broke from his lips. A Bristol Fighter, with its gunner crouched like a monkey behind the rear gun, cut clean through the dog-fight. Another and another followed it—the air was full of Bristols.
“Gosh! It’s Benson and his crowd! He heard us discussing it, and decided to butt in at the death,” was the thought that flashed through Biggles’ mind.
Then he started and stared incredulously as an R.E.8 swam into view, heading for the thickest of the fighting, and three D.H.4’s suddenly appeared on the right.
“What the dickens is happening?” he muttered. “If this goes on much longer the whole blinking Flying Corps will be here!”
It was almost true. Machines of all types, two-seaters and scouts, seeing the fight from afar, decided to take a hand, but it was unquestionably the arrival of the Bristol Fighters at the crucial moment that saved the day. Shortly after their arrival there must have been at least a hundred machines engaged, and the Huns began to disappear like magic.
Presently all the machines that Biggles could see were British; the Huns had had enough.
Turning slowly, he looked around and saw a red Very-light flare sinking earthward; it was Major Mullen’s signal to rally. Looking up, Biggles saw him circling above and climbed up to join him. The Major did not wait, but set off towards the Lines, several Camels following in loose order.
Biggles landed and joined the C.O. on the tarmac.
“Did you ever see anything like that in your life, sir?” he cried, as he ran up. “If anybody asks me if I’ve been in a dog-fight I shall now be able to say ‘Yes’!”
Within ten minutes several Camels had landed and he knew there would be no more.
“What about this bombing trip?” he asked the C.O..
“Yes, we’re going to do it,” replied the Major. “All three squadrons are going to rendezvous over the aerodrome in half an hour. Get filled up as fast as you can, everybody—petrol and ammunition.”
Thirty minutes later a mixed formation of Camels, S.E.5s and Bristol Fighters headed once more towards the scene of the great air battle.
The formation reached the aerodrome without opposition, and, diving low, laid their eggs. The Seclin aerodrome became a blazing inferno, although just how frightful was the damage inflicted was not revealed until a reconnaissance machine returned with photographs the following morning. Seclin aerodrome had been “written off”, as Biggles had planned.
“Well, that’s a bonnie picture!” observed Biggles next morning as he examined the photograph of the stricken aerodrome. “We said we’d wipe ‘em out, and, by gosh, we have! Wilks agrees that we have settled Parker’s account for him!”
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REPRISALS
ALGY LACEY had no intention of landing at Cassel when he took off on a short test flight, but after wandering aimlessly through the blue for some minutes and finding himself within easy distance of the aerodrome he decided he would drop in and leave his card at the mess of the new squadron—No. 301—that had recently arrived in France from England with its Bristol Fighters.
In accordance with the custom in vogue at the time he did not land immediately. For the honour and glory of the squadron to which he belonged he first treated any casual spectators of his arrival to a short performance in the art of stunting.
He pushed his nose down and roared low over the mess —so low that his wheels almost touched the roof, in order to indicate that his show was about to commence.
Thereafter, at various altitudes, he proceeded to put his machine through every evolution known to aviation. Loops, slow rolls, fast barrel-rolls, whip-stalls and Immelman turns followed each other in swift succession until, feeling slightly giddy, he decided he had done enough.
He cut out his engine, glided in between the hangars in a manner that effectually scattered his audience, then skidded round to a neat one-wheel, cross-wind landing, satisfied that he had upheld the tradition of No. 266 Squadron. He then taxied, tail-up, towards the sheds.
Only when collision with the line of machines on the tarmac seemed inevitable did he swing round and come to a stop, a bare ten yards from the assembled spectators.
Whistling happily, he leapt lightly to the ground, took off his cap and goggles, threw them into his seat, and, with a broad smile on his face, advanced towards the members of the new squadron.
One stood a little apart from the others, and at the expression on his face Algy’s lost something of its gaiety and acquired a new look of faint surprise.
The isolated officer, whom Algy now observed wore on his arm the three stars of a captain, took a pace towards him. “Who are you?” he barked, in such a peremptory voice that Algy jumped.
The greeting was unusual, to say the least of it.
“Why—er—I’m Lacey, of No. 266,” replied Algy startled.
“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me! I am in command here during the temporary absence of Major Benson!”
“Sorry, sir!” replied Algy, abashed and not a little astonished.
“What do you mean by acting like a madman over my aerodrome?” the other demanded.
Algy blinked and looked helplessly at the other officers.
“Not like a madman, sir, I hope!”
“Don’t argue with me! I say your flying was outrageous—a wanton risk of Government property!”
“But I—”
“Silence! Consider yourself under open arrest! Report your name and unit to my office, and then return instantly to your own squadron. I shall refer the matter to Wing Headquarters. You will hear further from your own C.O..”
Algy stiffened and swallowed hard. “Very good, sir!” he ground out between his clenched teeth. He saluted briskly, reported to the squadron office as instructed, then returned to the tarmac.
Several officers regarded him sympathetically. One of them winked and inclined his head.
Algy halted near him. “What’s the name of that dismal Jonah?” he asked softly. “And what’s biting him, anyway? Has he had a shock of some sort, or is it just plain nasty-mindedness?”
“That’s it—born like it! They must have fed him on crab apples when he was a kid. Watch out, though; he’s acting C.O..”
“What’s his name?”
“Bitmore.”
“He’s bit more than he can chew this time, and he’ll soon know it!” declared Algy. “Has he been to France before?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get those three pips on his sleeve?”
“Chasing poor little pupils round the tarmac at a flying-training school.”
“Well, this isn’t one, and he isn’t chasing me!” snapped Algy. “My crowd will soon show him where he steps off if he’s going to try being funny! The sooner some nice friendly Hun pushes him into the ground the better for everybody. Give your blokes my condolences. Cheerio!”
“Cheerio, laddie!”
Algy climbed into his machine, took off, and raced back to Maranique. He parked his Camel in its usual place in front of the sheds and marched stiffly towards the squadron office. On the way he met a party of officers, including Biggles and Mahoney, on their way to the hangars.
“Stand aside!” he said curtly as they moved to intercept him. “I’m under arrest.”
Biggles stopped dead. “You’re what?” he gasped.
“Under arrest.”
“Arrest my foot! What’s the game?”
“No game—it’s a fact. I went to call on No. 301 Squadron this morning—you know, the new crowd over at Cassel—and I gave them the once-over before I landed. When I got down a mangy skunk named Bitmore, who is acting C.O.., dressed me down properly and put me under open arrest.”
“Your show must have given him a rush of blood to the brain.”
“Looks like it. Anyway, he’s reporting me to Wing.”
Biggles frowned and looked at Mahoney. “The scallywag!” he muttered. “What are we going to do about it? We can’t have blighters like this about the place. Life won’t be worth living. Think of what the poor chaps in his own squadron must go through. Quite apart from ourselves, I think we ought to do something for them. If Mr. Bitmore is going to start chucking his weight about, it’s time we did a bit of heaving ourselves!”
“Absolutely!” declared Mahoney.
“I tell you what,” went on Biggles, and, drawing Mahoney to one side, he whispered in his ear. Then he turned again to Algy.
“All right, laddie,” he said, “you had better go and report to Wat Tyler. You’ve had orders, and if you don’t obey them it’ll only make things worse.”
Algy departed in the direction of the squadron office, while Biggles and Mahoney walked quickly back towards their quarters.
A couple of hours later two Sopwith Camels appeared over the boundary of 301’s aerodrome at Cassel. To the officers lounging on the tarmac and in front of the officers’ mess it was at once apparent that neither of the pilots was adept in the art of flying.
Twice they circled the aerodrome, making flat turns and committing every other fault that turns the hair of instructors prematurely grey. Twice they attempted to land. The first time they undershot, and, opening up their engines at the last moment, staggered across the front of the sheds, scattering the watchers far and wide and narrowly missing disaster.
The second time they overshot hopelessly, and, skimming the trees on the far side of the aerodrome, skidded round to land downwind. The spectators wiped the perspiration from their faces and groaned in unison, while the ambulance raced madly round, trying to anticipate the exact spot on which the crash would occur.
The first of the two machines made its third attempt to get in, and a cry of horror arose as the Camel drifted along on a course in a dead line with the wind-stocking pole.
At the last moment the pilot appeared to see it, skidded violently, missed it by an inch, and flopped down to a landing that would have disgraced a first soloist. The second machine followed, grazing the mess roof, and together they taxied an erratic course almost up to the hangars.
The two pilots, clad in brand-new bright yellow flying coats and crash helmets, climbed out of their machines and approached the little crowd of officers and air mechanics who had collected to watch the fun.
Slightly in front of them Captain Bitmore stood waiting. He was in his element. Such moments were food and drink to his warped mentality. His taciturn face twisted itself into an expression in which disgust and rage were predominant. “Come here!” he snarled.
Obediently the two officers altered their course towards him.
“What do you call yourselves?” went on Bitmore, curling his lip into a sneer. “Pilots! Pilots, eh?” He choked for a moment, and then got into his stride with a harsh scornful laugh. “You’re not fit to pilot a perambulator down a promenade, either of you. You’re a disgrace to the Service! A steam-roller driver could have put up a better show! Never have I seen such a disgraceful exhibition of utter inefficiency, complete uselessness, and supreme inability! How and why you are still alive is a mystery to me, and the sooner you are put on ground duties the safer the air will be for other people who can fly! You make me—”
His voice trailed away to a silence that could be felt as the nearer of the two recipients of his invective slowly unfastened his flying-coat and took it off, disclosing the insignia of a full colonel. The other had followed his example, and stood arrayed in the uniform of a staff major.
The Colonel eyed the Captain with cold fury. “Have you quite finished?” he said, in a voice that made the spectators shiver. “Because, if you have, I will begin. What is your name?”
“Bitmore, sir.”
“Bitmore? Ah, I might have known it. I’ve heard of you for a useless, incompetent, incapable piece of inefficiency! Who is in command at this station?”
There was a titter from the other officers, but it faded swiftly as the Colonel’s eye flashed on them.
“I am, sir. I am—”
“Silence! You dare to tell me that you are in command of a squadron, and take it upon yourself to criticise my flying! How long have you been in France?”
“Well, sir—”
“Don’t ‘well’ me—answer my question!”
“Two days, sir.”
“Aha! Two days, eh? No doubt you think that qualifies you to call yourself a war pilot—to question the actions of officers who have learnt their flying in the field. You dolt! You imbecile! You—” The Colonel choked for breath for a moment, and then continued.
“I called here for petrol, and this is the reception I get!”
“I’m sorry, sir!”
“You will be, I promise you! Get my tanks filled up, and have your mechanics clean both machines. Come along—jump to it! We’ve no time to waste!”
Captain Bitmore, ashen-faced, lost no time in obeying the order, and the mechanics needed no urging. With smiles they could not repress, the mechanics set about the machines, and in ten minutes the two Camels were refuelled. Their props, wings and struts were polished until they looked as if they had only just left the workshops of the makers, but not until they were completely satisfied did the Colonel and his aide-de-camp climb into their seats.
“I shall
bear your name in mind,” was the Colonel’s parting shot at the discomfited Captain, as, with the Major in attendance, he taxied out and took off.
A quarter of an hour later both machines landed at Maranique. The two pilots leapt to the ground, and, to the great surprise of Flight-Sergeant Smyth, ran quickly round to the back of the hangars and then on to the officers’ quarters. It struck Smyth, from their actions as they ran, that they were both in pain.
They were; but not until they were in Biggles’ room and had discarded their borrowed raiment did the so-called staff officers give way to their feelings. Biggles lay on his bed and sobbed helplessly. Mahoney, with the major’s jacket on the floor at his feet, buried his face in his hands and moaned weakly.
“Poor chap!” said Biggles, at last, wiping his face with a towel. “He’ll never be able to live that down as long as he lives! Right in front of the whole blinking squadron, too! Still, it served him right.”
“My word, if he ever finds out there will be a rare old stink!” declared Mahoney.
But nothing happened, and by the next evening the incident was half forgotten.
Two days later a middle-aged officer, with an imposing array of medal ribbons on his breast, landed at Maranique and walked briskly towards the squadron office.
Major Mullen, the commanding officer of 266 Squadron, was working at his desk, and looked up in surprise as the visitor entered. Then his face broke into a smile of welcome, and he sprang to his feet.
“Why, hallo, Benson!” he cried. “I’m glad to see you again! What brings you here?”
Major Benson shook hands warmly. “I’m back over here again now,” he said. “Just brought out a new squadron—No. 301. We’re at Cassel, just over the way, so I hope we shall be seeing something of each other. I’ve been on a few days’ leave, and sent the squadron ahead of me in charge of Bitmore, my senior flight-commander. I only got back this morning. I’ve brought a fine lot of chaps over, so I hope we shall do well.”
“Good—I hope you will!”
