51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter Read online

  Sitting on the 'hump' of his Camel, he removed the capsule and extracted a small flimsy piece of paper. One glance at the jumbled lines of letters and numbers was sufficient to show him that the message was in code.

  Ì'd better get this to Intelligence right away,' he thought, and looked up to see an officer and several Tommies regarding

  him curiously from the hedge.

  Àre you all right?' called the officer.

  `Yes,' replied Biggles. 'Do you know if there is a field-telephone anywhere near?'

  `There's one at Divisional Headquarters—the farmhouse at the end of the road,' was the answer.

  `Can I get through to 91st Wing from there?'

  Ì don't know.'

  Àll right; many thanks,' called Biggles. 'I'll go and find out. Will you keep an eye on my machine? Thanks.'

  Five minutes later he was speaking to Colonel Raymond at Wing Headquarters, and after explaining what had happened, at the Colonel's invitation read out the message letter by letter. `Shall I hold on?' asked Biggles at the end.

  `No; ring off, but don't go away. I'll call you in a minute or two,' said the Colonel crisply.

  Five minutes passed quickly as Biggles warmed himself by the office fire, and then the phone bell rang shrilly.

  `For you, sir,' said the orderly, handing him the instrument. Ìs that you, Bigglesworth?'

  came the Colonel's voice. `Yes, sir.'

  Àll right; we shan't want you again.'

  `Hope I brought you good news,' said Biggles, preparing to ring off.

  `No, you brought bad news. The message is from one of our fellows over the other side.

  The machine that went to fetch him last night force-landed and killed the pilot. That's all.'

  `But what about the sp---man?' asked Biggles, aghast.

  Ì'm afraid he is in a bad case, poor devil. He says he is on the north side of Lagnicourt Wood. The Huns have got a cordon of troops all round him and are hunting him down with dogs. He's heard them.'

  `How awful!'

  `Well, we can't help him; he knows that. It will be dark in an hour and we daren't risk a night landing without looking over the ground. They'll have got him by tomorrow. Well, thanks for the prompt way you got the message to us. By the way, your M.C. is through; it will be in orders tonight. Goodbye.' There was a click as the Colonel rang off.

  Biggles sat with the receiver in his hand. He was not thinking about the decoration the Colonel had just mentioned. He was visualizing a different scene from the one that would be enacted in mess that night when his name appeared in orders on the noticeboard. In his mind's eye he saw a cold, bleak landscape of leafless trees through which crawled an unkempt, mud-stained, hunted figure, looking upwards to the sky for the help that would never come. He saw a posse of hard-faced, grey-coated Prussians holding the straining hounds on a leash, drawing ever nearer to the fugitive. He saw a grim, blank wall against which stood a blind-folded man—the man who had fought the war his own way, without hope of honour, and had lost.

  Biggles, after two years of war, had little of the milk of human kindness left in his being, but the scene brought a lump into his throat. 'So they'd leave him there, eh?' he thought. '

  That's Intelligence, is it?' He slammed the receiver down with a crash.

  `What's that, sir?' asked the startled orderly.

  `Go to blazes,' snapped Biggles. 'No, I didn't mean that. Sorry,' he added, and made for the door.

  He was thinking swiftly as he hurried back to the Camel. `North edge of Lagnicourt Wood, the Colonel said; it's nearly a mile long. I wonder if he'd spot me if I got down.

  He'd have to come back on the wing—it's the only way, but even that's a better chance than the firing party'll give him. We'll try it, anyway; it isn't more than seven or eight miles over the line.'

  Within five minutes he was in the air heading for the wood, and ten minutes later, after being badly archied, he was circling over it at 5,000 feet.

  `They haven't got him yet, anyway,' he muttered, for signs of the pursuit were at once apparent. Several groups of soldiers were beating the ditches at the west end of the wood and he saw hounds working along a hedge that ran diagonally into its western end.

  Sentries were standing at intervals on the northern and southern sides. 'Well, there's one thing I can do in case all else fails. I'll lay me eggs first,' he decided, thinking of the two Cooper bombs that still hung in their racks. He pushed the stick forward and went tearing down at the bushes where the hounds were working.

  He did a vertical turn round the bushes at fifty feet, levelled out, and, as he saw the group just over the junction of his right-hand lower plane and the fuselage, he pulled the bomb-toggle, one—two. Zooming high, he half rolled, and then came down with both Vickers guns spitting viciously. A cloud of smoke prevented him from seeing how much damage had been done by the bombs. He saw a helmeted figure raise a rifle to shoot at him, fall, pick himself up, fall again, and crawl into the undergrowth. One of the hounds was dragging itself away. Biggles pulled the Camel up, turned, and came down again, his tracer making a straight line to the centre of the now clearing smoke. Out of the corner of his eye he saw other groups hurrying towards the scene, and made a mental note that he had at least drawn attention to himself; which might give the spy a chance to make a break.

  He levelled out to get his bearings. Left rudder, stick over, and he was racing low over the wood towards the northern edge. At thirty feet from the ground he tore along the side of the wood, hopping the trees and hedges in his path. There was only one field large enough for him to land in; would the spy realise that, he wondered, as he swung round in a steep climbing turn and started to glide down, 'blipping' his engine as he came.

  He knew that he was taking a desperate chance. A bad landing or a single well-aimed shot from a sentry when he was on the ground would settle the matter. His tail-skid dragged on the rough surface of the field; a dishevelled figure, crouching low, broke from the edge of the wood and ran for dear life towards him. Biggles kicked on rudder and taxied, tail up, to meet him, swinging round while still thirty yards away, ready for the takeoff. A bullet smashed through the engine cowling; another struck the machine somewhere behind him.

  `Come on!' he yelled frantically, although it was obvious that the man was doing his best.

  'On the wing—not that—the left one—only chance,' he snapped.

  The exhausted man made no answer, but flung himself at full length on the plane, close to the fuselage, and gripped the leading edge with his bare fingers.

  `Catch!' cried Biggles, and flung his gauntlets on to the wing within reach of the fugitive.

  Bullets were flicking up the earth about them, but they suddenly ceased, and Biggles looked up to ascertain the reason. A troop of Uhlans were coming down the field at full gallop, not a hundred yards away. Tight-lipped, Biggles thrust the throttle open and tore across the field towards them. His thumbs sought the Bowden lever of his Vickers guns and two white pencil lines of tracer connected the muzzles with the charging horsemen.

  A bullet struck a strut near his face with a crash that he could hear above the noise of his engine, and he winced. Zooming high, he swung round towards the lines.

  Ì've got him—I've brought it off!' hammered exultantly through his brain. 'If the poor fellow doesn't freeze to death and fall off I'll have him home within ten minutes.' With his altimeter needle touching 4,000 feet, he pulled the throttle back and, leaning out of the cockpit, yelled at the top of his voice, `Ten minutes!' A quick nod told him the spy had understood.

  Biggles pushed the stick forward and dived for the line. He could feel the effect of the '

  drag" of the man's body, but as it counterbalanced the torque2 of his engine to some extent it did not seriously interfere with the performance of the machine.

  He glanced behind. A group of small black dots stood out boldly against the setting sun.

  Fokkers!

  `You can't catch me, I'm home,' jeered Biggle
s pushing the stick further forward.

  He was down to 2,000 feet now, his air-speed indicator showing 15o m.p.h.; only another two miles now, he thought with satisfaction.

  Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Three black clouds of smoke

  blossomed out in front of him, and he swerved. Whoof!—Spang! Something smashed against the engine with a force that made the Camel quiver. The engine raced, vibrating wildly, and then cut out dead. For a split second Biggles was stunned. Mechanically he pushed his stick forward and looked down. The German support trenches lay below.

  `My gosh! What luck; I can't do it,' he grated bitterly. 'I'll be three hundred yards short.'

  He began a slow glide towards the Allied front line, now in sight. At 50o feet, and fast losing height, the man on the wing twisted his head round, and the expression on his face haunted Biggles for many a day. A sudden thought struck him and an icy hand clutched at his heart.

  `By heavens! I'm carrying a professed spy; they'll shoot us both!'

  The ground was very close now and he could see that he would strike it just behind the Boche front line. 'I should think the crash will kill us both,' he muttered grimly, as he eyed the sea of shell-holes below. At five feet he flattened out for a pancake landing; the machine started to sink, slowly, and then with increasing speed. A tearing, ripping crash and the Camel closed up around him; something struck him on the head and everything went dark.

  `Here, take a drink of this, young feller—it's rum,' said a voice that seemed far away.

  Biggles opened his eyes and looked up into the anxious face of an officer in uniform and his late passenger.

  `Who are you?' he asked in a dazed voice, struggling into a sitting position and taking the proffered drink.

  `Major Mackay of the Royal Scots, the fust of foot, the right of the line and the pride of the British Army,' smiled his vis-a-vis. `What are you doing here—where are the Huns?'

  `We drove 'em out this afternoon,' said the Major, 'luckily for you.'

  `Very luckily for me,' agreed Biggles emphatically.

  BIGGLES looked up from his self-appointed task of filling a machine-gun belt as the distant hum of an aero engine reached his ears; an S.E.5, flying low, was making for the aerodrome. The Flight-Commander watched it fixedly, a frown deepening between his eyes. He sprang to his feet, the loose rounds of ammunition falling in all directions.

  `Stand by for a crash!' he snapped at the duty ambulance driver. 'Grab a Pyrene, everybody,' he called; 'that fellow's hit; he's going to crash!'

  He caught his breath as the S.E. made a sickening flat turn, but breathed a sigh of relief as it flattened out and landed clumsily. The visiting pilot taxied to the tarmac and pushed up his goggles to disclose the pale but smiling face of Wilkinson, of 287 Squadron.

  `You hit, Wilks?' called Biggles anxiously.

  `No.'

  Biggles grinned his relief and cast a quick, critical glance at the machine. The fabric of the wings was ripped in a dozen places; an interplane strut was shattered, and the tail-unit was as full of holes as the rose of a watering-can.

  `Have you got a plague of rats or something over at your

  place?' he inquired, pointing at the holes. 'You want to get some cats.'

  `The rats that did that have red noses, and it'll take more than cats to catch 'em,' said Wilkinson meaningly, climbing stiffly out of the cockpit.

  `Red noses, did you say?' said Biggles, the smile fading from his face. 'You mean—'

  `The Richthofen crowd have moved down, that's what I mean,' replied Wilkinson soberly. 'I've lost Browne and Chadwicke, although I believe Browne managed to get down just over our side of the line. There must have been over twenty Huns in the bunch we ran into.'

  `What were they flying?'

  Àlbatrosses. I counted sixteen crashes on the ground between Le Cateau and here, theirs and ours. There's an R.E.8 on its nose between the lines. There's a Camel and an Albatross piled up together in the Hun front-line trench. What are we going to do about it?'

  `Pray for dud weather, and pray hard,' said Biggles grimly. `See any Camels on your way?'

  Wilkinson nodded. 'I saw three near Mossyface Wood.'

  `That'd be Mac; he's got Batty and a new man with him.'

  `Well, they'll have discovered there's a war on by now,' observed Wilkinson. 'Do you feel like making Fokker fodder of yourself, or what about running down to Clarmes for a drink and talk things over?'

  `Suits me,' replied Biggles. 'I've done two patrols today and I'm tired. Come on; I'll ask the C.O. if we can have the tender.'

  Half an hour later they pulled up in front of the Hotel de Ville, in Clarmes. In the courtyard stood a magnificent touring car which an American staff officer had just vacated. Lost in admiration, Biggles took a step towards it.

  `Thinking of buying it?' said a voice at his elbow.

  Turning, Biggles beheld a captain of the American Flying Corps. 'Why, are you thinking of selling it?' he asked evenly.

  As he turned and joined Wilkinson at a table, the American seated himself near them. '

  You boys just going to the line?' he asked. 'Because if you are I'll give you a tip or two.'

  Biggles eyed the speaker coldly. 'Are you just going up?' he inquired.

  `Sure,' replied the American. 'I'm commanding the 299th Pursuit Squadron. We moved in today—we shall be going over tomorrow.'

  Ì see,' said Biggles slowly; 'then I'll give you a tip. Don't cross the line under fifteen thousand.'

  The American flushed. 'I wasn't asking you for advice,' he snapped; 'we can take care of ouselves.'

  Biggles finished his drink and left the room.

  `That baby fancies himself a bit,' observed the American to Wilkinson. 'When he's heard a gun or two go off he won't be so anxious to hand out advice. Who is he?'

  `His name's Bigglesworth,' said Wilkinson civilly. 'Officially, he's only shot down twelve Huns and five balloons, but to my certain knowledge he's got several more.'

  `That kid? Say, don't try that on me, brother. You've got a dozen Huns, too, I expect,'

  jibed the American.

  Èighteen, to be precise,' said Wilkinson, casually tapping a cigarette.

  The American paused with his drink halfway to his lips. He set the glass back on the table. 'Say, do you mean that?' he asked incredulously.

  Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.

  `What did he mean when he said not to cross the line under fifteen thousand?' asked the American curiously.

  Ì think he was going to tell you that the Richthofen circus had just moved in opposite,'

  explained Wilkinson.

  Ì've heard of that lot,' admitted the American. 'Who are they?'

  Wilkinson looked at him in surprise. 'They are a big bunch of star pilots each with a string of victories to his credit. They hunt together, and are led by Manfred Richthofen, whose score stands at about seventy. With him he's got his brother, Lothar—with about thirty victories. There's Gussmann and Wolff and Weiss, all old hands at the game.

  There's Karjust, who has only one arm, but shoots better than most men with two. Then there's Lowenhardt, Reinhard, Udet and—but what does it matter? A man who hasn't been over the line before meeting that bunch, has about as much chance as a rabbit in a wild-beast show,' he concluded.

  `You trying to put the wind up me?'

  `No. I'm just telling you why Biggles said don't cross under 15,000 feet. You may have a chance to dive home, if you meet 'em. That's all. Well, cheerio; see you later perhaps.'

  Ìt's a thundering shame,' raved Biggles, as they drove back to the aerodrome. 'Some of these Americans are the best stuffin the world. One or two of'em have been out here for months with our

  own squadrons and the French Lafayette and Cigognes Escadrilles. Now their brass-hats have pulled 'em out and rolled 'em into their own Pursuit Squadrons. Do they put them in charge because they known the game? Do they? No! They hand 'em over to some poor boob who has done ten hours' solo in T
exas or somewhere, but has got a command because his sister's in the Follies; and they've got to follow where he leads 'em. Bah! It makes me sick. You heard that poor prune just now? He'll go beetling over at five thousand just to show he knows more about it than we do. Well, he'll be pushing up the Flanders poppies by this time tomorrow night unless a miracle happens. He'll take his boys with him, that's the curse of it. Not one of'em'll ever get back—you watch it,' he concluded, bitterly.

  `We can't let 'em do that,' protested Wilkinson.

  `What can we do?'

  Ì was just thinking.'

  Ì've got it,' cried Biggles. 'Let them be the bait to bring the Huns down. With your S.E.s and our Camels together we'll knock the spots off that Hun circus. How many S.E.s can you raise?'

  Èight or nine.'

  `Right. You ask your C.O. and let me know tonight. I'll ask Major Mullen for all the Camels we can get in the air. That should even things up a bit; we'll be strong enough to take on anything the Huns can send against us. I'll meet you over Mossyface at six. How'

  s that?'

  f'

  'Suits me. I hope it's a fine day,' yawned Wilkinson.

  The show turned out to be a bigger one than Biggles anticipated. Major Mullen had decided to lead the entire Squadron himself, not so much on account of the possibility of the American Squadron being massacred, as because he realised the necessity of massing his machines to meet the new menace.

  Thus it came about that the morning following his conversation with Wilkinson found Biggles leading his Flight behind the C.O. On his right was 'A' Flight, led by Mahoney, and on his left `B' Flight, with MacLaren at their head. Each Flight comprised three machines, and these, with Major Mullen's red cowled Camel, made ten in all. Major Sharp, commanding the S.E.5. Squadron, had followed Major Mullen's example, and from time to time Biggles looked upwards and backwards to where a formation of nine tiny dots, 6,000 feet above them, showed where the S. E.s were watching and waiting. A concerted plan of action had been decided upon, and Biggles impatiently awaited its consummation.

  Where were the Americans? He asked himself the question for the tenth time; they were a long time showing up. Where was the Boche circus? Sooner or later there was bound to be a clash, and Biggles thrilled at the thought of the coming dog-fight.