Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  The Count turned to speak to Hess while von Stalhein beckoned to Biggles, who walked over quickly to where the German was waiting for him.

  ‘Count von Faubourg has just told me about the business of Mayer,’ began von Stalhein abruptly. ‘From what I gather, you put up a remarkably fine performance. Can you remember exactly where Mayer’s machine crashed?’

  ‘I think I can mark the position to within a mile or two, but Mayer was flying, not me, so I couldn’t guarantee to be absolutely correct,’ replied Biggles, wondering what was coming.

  ‘Do you think you could find the crash?’

  ‘Oh yes, there should be no difficulty about that.’

  ‘Good! Then I want you to fly over and drop an incendiary bomb on the wreck. You must set it on fire with a direct hit, otherwise there is no point in going. The machine must be utterly destroyed. Do you think you could manage it?’

  ‘I’m quite sure of it,’ returned Biggles quickly, looking out of the window so that the other could not see the satisfaction in his eyes for the mission presented an opportunity for which he was anxiously waiting.

  ‘Very well. Then get off at once; and will you please take a camera with you? To satisfy myself I should like to see a photograph—’

  ‘Do you doubt my word, sir?’ asked Biggles with an air of injured innocence.

  ‘No, but important matters are at stake, and the only way to be quite sure of a thing is to see it with one’s own eyes.’

  ‘I understand,’ replied Biggles. ‘I’ll take a Pfalz and go over immediately.’ He bowed and left the room and, collecting his overalls and flying kit from his room, made his way to the tarmac. As he walked along to the hangars of the Pfalz Squadron he stopped for a moment to look at a new scarlet and white Pfalz D. III Scout, around which a number of mechanics were standing, lost in admiration, for it was the latest product of the famous Pfalz works and far and away the best thing they had ever turned out. There was no aircraft in the Middle East to touch it for speed and climb, and to Biggles, who knew something of the value of these qualities in a fighting aeroplane, the chief reason for the successes of the German Ace was made clear—for he had no doubt to whom the Pfalz belonged.

  There was a strange, ruminating look in his eyes as he walked on to the Pfalz Squadron, and asked if he could have a machine for a special mission. On being answered in the affirmative, he requested that four twenty-pound incendiary bombs be fitted to the bomb racks, and in a few minutes, with these in place, he taxied out and took off in the direction of his previous day’s adventure.

  II

  He found plenty to occupy his mind as he cruised watchfully towards the place where the remains of the unfortunate Halberstadt were piled up, but the two chief matters that exercised his thoughts were von Stalhein’s anxiety to secure the destruction of the machine, and the possibility of having a word with Algy.

  As far as the crashed machine was concerned, it seemed certain that it contained something of importance, something that von Stalhein did not want to leave lying about, possibly a document of some sort. ‘Obviously, I shall have to try to find out what it is before I start the bonfire,’ he decided. ‘I’d better attend to that first, and then go on to Abba Sud afterwards to see if Algy is still hanging about.’

  He found the crash without difficulty, and after circling round for a few minutes looking for the best landing place, finally selected a patch free from rocks and camel-thorn, about half a mile away; it was the nearest place where he could get down without taking risks that he preferred to avoid. Leaving the propeller ticking over, he hastened to the well-remembered scene, and began a systematic search of the wreckage. At first he concentrated on the battered pilot’s cockpit, going through all the pockets in turn; but they yielded nothing. For half an hour he hunted, and then, just as he was about to abandon the quest, thinking that perhaps after all von Stalhein was simply concerned with the destruction of the machine, he came upon an article so incongruous that he regarded it in stupefied amazement. He found it in what had evidently been a secret stowage place between the two cockpits, but the cavity had been burst open by the crash, revealing what lay within. It was a British officer’s field service cap. There was nothing to show to whom it belonged, but the maker’s name was that of a well-known London outfitter.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what I expected to find, but if I’d been given a thousand guesses I should never have guessed that,’ thought Biggles, as he turned the cap over and over in his hands. ‘But all the same, that must be the thing that friend Erich was scared about; or is it simply a souvenir? It’s no use burning a good hat, so I’ll take it with me. And I might as well make sure of setting the crash alight, in case I miss it with my bombs,’ he went on, as he took out a box of matches, struck one and held it to the sun-dried fabric. When it was well alight he ran back to his machine, took off, and dropped his bombs on the conflagration. Then he took two or three photographs of the fire with the oblique camera that he had brought for the purpose; still not entirely satisfied, he waited for a few minutes until the destruction of the machine was clearly revealed, when he took another photograph, and then raced off in the direction of the oasis of Abba Sud.

  He saw Algy afar off long before he reached the oasis, a tiny speck in the sky that circled round and round the dark belt of trees, and presently resolved itself into an aeroplane of unorthodox design. The straight top plane, and lower ones set at a pronounced angle, could not belong to any other machine than a Sopwith Camel. At first Biggles could hardly believe his eyes as it came towards him, and he stared at it wonderingly. He fired a red Very light, the prearranged signal, to ensure that there should be no mistake, and his first words, as he jumped from his cockpit and ran towards the other machine that had landed near him, were, ‘Algy! where did you get that kite?’

  ‘Never mind about that; where the dickens have you been all this time?’ growled Algy. ‘I’ve been frizzling here like a herring in a pan for the last two blinking days. I was just beginning to think that the Huns must have shot you.’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ retorted Biggles. ‘Do you think I’ve nothing to do but chase to and fro between Zabala and here? I repeat, where did you get that Camel?’

  ‘It’s a special one that’s been sent up for headquarters use. Fellows were beginning to grouse because a Hun—Hess, we hear his name is—is playing Old Harry up and down the lines with one of the Pfalz D. Ill’s, and we’ve nothing to get near him in.’

  ‘So I believe. I was talking to Hess this morning. The Huns think he’s a prize piece of furniture, but, as a matter of fact, he’s the prince of all swine.’

  ‘Well, we got a Camel up from Heliopolis, and it’s been handed over to me pro tern.,’ went on Algy. ‘I shot down a Halberstadt yesterday.’

  Biggles started and his eyes narrowed. ‘Where?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘About twenty miles to the north-east of where we are now. It hit the floor a dickens of a crack and went to pieces.’

  ‘You needn’t tell me: I was in it,’ Biggles told him, grimly.

  ‘You were—Oh, great Scott! Well, I wasn’t to know that, was I? Why didn’t you fire a red light?’

  ‘A fat lot of chance you gave me. I didn’t even see you until you started pumping out lead.’

  ‘Of course; I didn’t think of that. My word! I might have killed you.’

  ‘Might! You thundering nearly did.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t to know. I saw a Hun and I went for him. It didn’t occur to me that you might be in it, because I thought you were wandering about behind the British lines.’

  Biggles looked perplexed. ‘How the deuce did you know that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because sometime about midnight young Fraser, the lad who is in charge of Number Five post, rang up headquarters to say that he had collected a Hun prisoner named Brunow from a bunch of Arabs and wanted to know what he was to do with him. Headquarters told him to hang on to him until the morning and then send him along. Then they sent out
the usual chit to Intelligence people asking if they wanted to interrogate him. Poor old Raymond nearly threw a fit when he heard it was you. He sent for me in a hurry, and at the first crack of dawn I went up with special instructions to fly you down to Kantara, but when I got there I found you’d already left in charge of a party of Major Sterne’s Arabs who—’

  ‘Whose Arabs?’ Biggles fired the question like a pistol shot.

  ‘Sterne’s–why, what’s wrong?’

  Biggles looked at him oddly. ‘Was Sterne up there when you got there?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No, he’d just gone; pushed off out into the desert on one of his trips.’

  Biggles stared and said nothing for a moment. ‘Go on,’ he murmured at last.

  ‘Well, I went back to report what had happened, and in the afternoon the Arabs rolled up with a tale of how you’d escaped,’ continued Algy.

  ‘How had I escaped?’

  ‘By jumping on the best horse while you were all resting, and leaping a terrific chasm over which it was impossible to follow you. They fired at you but missed, and then you disappeared behind some rocks and were never found again.’

  ‘So, that’s what they told you, is it?’ mused Biggles. ‘My gosh! what a tale. Makes those yarns about the Arabian Nights sound tame. I expect you got quite a kick out of it.’

  ‘Why, didn’t you bolt?’

  ‘Bolt, my foot. But I haven’t time to tell you the whole story now. Mayer, one of our Huns at Zabala, picked me up, and we were on our way back when you butted in and shot us down. Mayer got a crack on the side of the nut from one of your bullets, but he wasn’t dead, so I dragged him to an oasis where I saw a big bunch of Arabs collecting. I’d got a machine there—don’t ask me how or why—so I flew down to Kantara to let you know what was going on. Did you get my message?’

  ‘We certainly did. The telephone wires were red hot for a bit, I can tell you, and a whole lot of troops, mostly Australian cavalry, lost their beauty sleep. When the Sheikhs rolled up they were waiting for them, and they gave them such a plastering that they’re not likely to forget in a hurry. Some got killed and some got away, but a lot were taken prisoners, and they’re bleating for the blood of the man who led them into the trap, for that’s what they swear happened. When—’

  ‘I see. That clears things up a bit,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘I begin to see daylight. By the way, did you see the waterworks blow up when you were over Zabala the other night?’

  Algy laughed. ‘Too true I did,’ he cried. ‘What a wizard it was! I hooted like a coot in spite of the archie.’

  ‘You reported it when you got back?’

  ‘Of course. Our people were tickled to death, although they still don’t know who did it, or how it was done. Raymond is as dumb as a church mouse.’

  ‘I’m glad he is,’ declared Biggles. ‘And what about that news you had for me—the news you mentioned in the message you dropped?’

  ‘Oh yes! I’ve been waiting to tell you about that. Raymond got a direct dispatch, in code, from London,. The Air Board told him that if possible he was to warn you to beware of Brunow.’

  ‘Brunow! What the dickens has he got to do with it? He’s in London.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. Something must have happened in London, and although our people were watching him like a cat watching a mouse, he disappeared suddenly as if he’d got the wind up, and they fancy it was something to do with you. They traced him as far as Hull, and then lost track of him, but they think he departed for Germany hot foot, via Holland. They thought you ought to be warned, in case he turned up here.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Don’t ask me; I don’t know.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Look! There’s one last thing,’ went on Algy. ‘We’ve laid out a dummy aerodrome, twelve miles south-east of Kantara. It looks fine from the air. If you want to please the Huns and at the same time would like to see them waste some bombs, you can tell them where it is. It’s all ready, fairly aching to be bombed,’ he concluded with a broad grin.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Biggles walked over and took the officer’s cap that he had found in Mayer’s cockpit from the back seat of his machine and handed it to Algy. ‘Hang on to that,’ he said. ‘Take it back to Raymond when you go and tell him to hide it—bury it if he likes. He can do what he likes with it, but on no account must any one see it. Got that?’

  ‘Yes. That’s quite clear.’

  ‘Good! Now lend me that Camel for half an hour. You can wait here for me; I’ll bring it back.’

  Algy’s jaw dropped. ‘Lend you the Camel?’ he gasped.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ returned Biggles. ‘What are you gaping at; is it an unnatural request?’

  ‘Er—no. But what do you want it for?’

  ‘Because I’ve a strong urge to be myself for a few minutes.’

  ‘Be yourself? What are you talking about? Have you got a touch of sun or something?’

  ‘My goodness! You are dense this morning. I just have a feeling that I’d like to forget that I’m Brunow for a little while and be what I am–a junior officer in the R.F.C.’

  ‘But what for?’

  Biggles looked exasperated. ‘All right, if you must know,’ he said slowly and deliberately. ‘There’s a fellow floating about the atmosphere in a red and white Pfalz D. III who thinks he’s cock of the roost. He’s promised to fry his twenty-seventh Englishman to-day—the conceited ass—and when I saw your Camel it struck me that it wouldn’t be a bad scheme if I took a hand in this frying business.’

  ‘You mean Hess.’

  ‘Yes rhymes with Hess, and so does mess, which is as it should be,’ observed Biggles, ‘because I’m going to do my best to get Mr. Hess in the biggest mess he was ever in. Are these guns O.K.?’

  ‘Perfectly O.K.’

  ‘Then give me a swing.’

  Algy ran to the propeller. The engine sprang into life, and the Camel sped across the desert like a blunt-nosed bullet with the slipstream hurling a cloud of sand high into the air behind it.

  Chapter 13

  Vickers Versus Spandaus

  In his heart Biggles knew that from the first moment he saw the swaggering German Ace the greatest ambition of his life was to see him given the lesson he so richly deserved, the lesson which would inevitably be administered sooner or later by somebody; and he had resolved to set about the task that morning in the Pup he assumed Algy would be flying. That his partner was, in fact, flying a Sopwith Camel was better luck than he could have imagined, for it evened things up.

  Previously, in a Pfalz D.III, Hess could choose his own battle-field and select his opponent, for in the event of his catching a foeman who turned out to be a tartar, he could break off the combat and escape by virtue of his superior speed. This advantage of superior equipment was the dominating factor that enabled many German Aces to pile up big scores during certain periods of 1916 and 1917, a lamentable state of affairs that came to a sudden end with the arrival at the front of the Camel and the S.E.5, as the appalling death roll of German Aces towards the end of 1917 reveals.

  Sopwith Camels had been in France, where the fighting was most intense, for some time, but none had reached the outlying theatres of war; consequently, a German pilot arriving in one of the distant battle-fields with the latest German fighting machine, finding himself opposed to aeroplanes of obsolete type, had every opportunity of acquiring a reputation that was often proved to be false when he encountered opponents on level terms.

  But with these matters Biggles was not concerned as he sped towards the German side of the battlefield, which he knew would be the most likely place to find the German Ace lying in wait for a British two-seater; and he was jubilant at once more finding himself in the cockpit of a Camel for two reasons. In the first place he was thoroughly at home, and secondly he would be able to force the German to fight, provided he found him, for the simple reason that he would not be able to run away, as the two machines were about equal in performa
nce.

  He might, of course, have shot the German down from his own Pfalz, but the thought did not occur to him, for it would have been little short of murder; he felt that in a regular British aircraft he was perfectly justified in fighting Hess. He would forget for the moment that he had ever existed as Brunow, and behave precisely as if he had been posted to the Middle East as an ordinary pilot of a fighter squadron. In those circumstances the combat, if it occurred, would be perfectly fair.

  He reached the lines but could see no signs of aerial activity, so climbing steadily for height, he began a systematic search of the whole sector. Once he saw a Halberstadt in the distance but he ignored it, for it was not the object of his quest, and he continued on his way, eyes probing the skies above and below for the red and white fuselage of the Pfalz. A little later he passed close to an antiquated B.E.2 C*1 and exchanged greetings with its crew, at the same time admiring their courage for taking the air in a conveyance so hopelessly out of date. ‘That’s the sort of kite Hess is hoping to meet, I’ll bet; and if he could poke in a burst of fire without being seen he’d be tickled to death; probably go back to Zabala and tell the boys how easy it is to shoot down Englishmen,’ he mused. ‘Pah! Well, we’ll see.’

  He had flown on for some little distance and was scanning the sky ahead when something—possibly the instinct which experienced air fighters seemed to develop—made him look back long and searchingly at the B.E., now a speck in the eastern sky. Was it his imagination, or was there a tiny speck moving far above it? He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked again, forcing them to focus in spite of the glare; then he caught his breath sharply and swung the Camel round in the lightning right-hand turn that was one of its most famous characteristics. He had not been mistaken. Far above the plodding B.E. a minute spark of light had flashed for a brief instant. No one but an old hand would have seen it or known what it portended; but Biggles knew that it was the sun’s rays catching the wings of a banking aeroplane.