Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  A minute or two later he could see it clearly as it stalked its quarry from the cover of the sun’s blinding glare; he could see from its shape that it was a Pfalz, but it was still too far off for him to make out its colours. ‘No matter,’ he thought; ‘I shall have to give those two boys in the B.E. the tip, whether it’s Hess or not, or else it looks like being their unlucky day.’

  He was flying rather higher than the German scout, which in turn was some distance above the slow two-seater, and his advantage of height gave him the extra speed necessary to come up with them. While he was still half a mile away his lips parted in the grim smile he always wore when he was fighting as he picked out the colours of the Pfalz. They were red and white. It had placed itself in an ideal position for attack, and its nose was already going down to deliver the thrust that would send the British two-seater to its doom.

  Biggles shoved his joystick forward savagely, and the needle of his air speed indicator swung upwards to the one hundred and eighty miles an hour mark; but he did not see it, for his eyes were glued on the now diving scout. He snatched a glance downwards and saw the gunner of the B.E. leaning over the side of his cockpit, looking down at the ground and making notes in a writing-pad, unconscious of the hand of death that was falling on him from the skies.

  Biggles was afraid he was going to be too late, so he took the only course open to him; his hand closed over the firing lever of his guns and he fired a long deflexion*2 shot in the direction of the Hun, more with the object of calling attention to himself than in any real hope of hitting it. Hess apparently did not hear the shots, for he continued his swoop, but the British pilot did, and acted with admirable presence of mind. He glanced up, not at the Pfalz but in the direction from which the rattle of guns had come, and saw the Camel. Whether he suspected that the British pilot had mistaken him for a Hun, or whether he felt the presence of some unseen danger, Biggles never knew, but he turned sharply, so sharply that his gunner fell back into his seat with alarm as he reached for his gun.

  The action was quite enough to disconcert the Pfalz pilot, who may have suspected a trap, for he swerved wildly and careered round in a wide circle, looking over his shoulder for the cause of the B.E. pilot’s manœuvre. It was a foolish move, and at once betrayed the man’s lack of real ability, for Biggles swept down on him and could have fired a burst which might well have ended the combat there and had he been so inclined. But this was not his intention. Moved by some impulse altogether foreign to his nature and his usual methods of fighting, he roared down alongside Pfalz, passing it so closely that their wing tips almost touched. As he passed he tore off his helmet and goggles, flung them on the floor of the cockpit, and stared with smouldering eyes into the face of the German. There was no smile on his own face now, but a burning hatred of the man who shot down machines of inferior performance and then boasted of his prowess. He saw the look of recognition spring into the German’s eyes, and the fear that followed it. ‘Not so sure of yourself now, are you?’ snarled Biggles. ‘Come on, you skunk—fight!’

  With a savage exaltation that he had never known before, he whirled round, and nearly collided with the B.E. which, with the best intentions, had decided to take a hand. For a moment he saw red. ‘Get out of my way, you fool,’ he raged, uselessly as he tilted his wing, and missing the B.E. by inches, gave its pilot the shock of his life.

  The moves had lost him two seconds of time, and before he was on even keel again the Pfalz had got a lead of a quarter of a mile, and was racing, nose down, for home. ‘Not so fast, my cock,’ growled Biggles, as he stood on the rudder and shoved the stick forward. What happened to the B.E. after that he did not know, for he never saw it again. He sent a stream of tracer down the slipstream of the red and white machine, and sneered as the pilot swerved away from it, regardless of the fact that at such a range the odds were a thousand to one against a hit.

  ‘You cold-footed rabbit; what about the frying you were so anxious about this morning?’ muttered Biggles, as he closed the gap that separated them and sewed a line of leaden stitches down the red and white fuselage. The German swung round with the desperate courage born of despair and sprayed a triple*3 line of bullets at his relentless pursuer; but Biggles touched his rudder-bar lightly and side-slipped away, whereupon Hess, acknowledging his master, cut his engine and began to slip towards the ground.

  ‘You’re not getting away with that, you rat,’ grated Biggles, blazing up with fury at such a craven display. ‘If you want to go down, then go, and I’ll help you on your way,’ he snarled, as he roared down on the tail of the falling Ace. He held his fire until his propeller was a few feet from the blackcrossed rudder, and then pressed the gun lever. A double line of orange flame leapt from his engine cowling. To Biggles’ atonishment, the German made no effort to defend himself. For a fraction of a second he looked back over his shoulder and read his fate in the spouting muzzles of the twin Vickers guns; then he slumped forward in his cockpit. A tiny tongue of flame curled aft from the scarlet petrol tank; it grew larger and larger until it was a devouring furnace that dropped through the air like a stone.

  Biggles pulled out of his dive and turned away feeling suddenly sick, as he often did when he sent down an enemy machine in flames; when he looked back a great cloud of black smoke, towards which tiny figures were running, marked the funeral pyre of the man who had sworn to fry an Englishman as his own birthday present.

  ‘I might as well get back,’ he thought, glancing round the sky. The B.E. had disappeared, and there were no other machines in sight, so he set a course for the oasis, feeling tired and irritable now that his anger had burned itself out.

  He found Algy examining the Pfalz with professional interest when he got back to Abba Sud.

  ‘Any luck?’ queried Algy, expectantly, as he walked towards him.

  ‘You can call it luck if you like,’ replied Biggles, simply, ‘but Hess won’t worry our fellows any more. Make out a combat report when you get back and put in a claim for a red and white Pfalz that fell in flames three miles north of Jebel Tire at 10.51 a.m. Our forward observation posts must have seen the show and will confirm it.

  ‘I shall do nothing of the sort,’ cried Algy indignantly; ‘he was your meat.’

  ‘I don’t want the Huns to know that, do I, you ass?’ snapped Biggles. ‘You do what you’re told. And remember, you don’t know it’s Hess. Our people will get that information from the other side in due course. That’s all, laddie,’ he went on with a change of tone. ‘I must be getting back now.’ He looked suddenly old and tired.

  ‘O.K., Skipper,’ replied Algy, looking at him under his lashes, and noting the symptoms of frayed nerves. ‘When am I going to see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Biggles, ‘but pretty soon, I hope. Tell Raymond that I’m running on a hot scent,’ he went on wistfully, ‘and I hope to be back in 266 Squadron again before the end of the month—or else—’

  ‘Or else?’ questioned Algy.

  ‘Nothing.’ Biggles looked Algy squarely in the eyes. ‘Thank God it will soon be over one way or the other,’ he said quietly. ‘I wasn’t made for this game, and I’ve had about enough. But I’ve got to go on—to the end—you see that, don’t you, old lad?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Algy, swallowing something in his throat.

  ‘I thought you would. Well, cheerio, old boy.’

  ‘Cheerio, old son.’

  Their hands met in a firm grip, the only time during the whole war that either of them allowed their real feelings to get uppermost.

  Algy stood beside the Camel and watched the Pfalz until it disappeared from sight. ‘Those soulless hounds at the Air Board need boiling in oil for sending a fellow like Biggles on a job like this,’ he muttered huskily. ‘Still, I suppose it’s what they call war,’ he added, as he climbed slowly into his cockpit.

  Chapter 14

  Biggles Flies a Bomber

  Biggles arrived back at Zabala just as the station was closing down w
ork for lunch. He handed his camera to the photographic sergeant with instructions to be particularly careful with the negatives, and to bring him a print of each as quickly as possible, and he was walking down to the headquarters offices when he saw von Stalhein and the Count, who had evidently heard him land, waiting for him.

  ‘Did you manage it all right?’ inquired von Stalhein, with his eyes on Biggles’ face.

  ‘I burnt the machine and took the photographs, but naturally I can’t say what they’re like until I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Did you land?’ Von Stalhein asked the question sharply, almost as if his intention was to catch Biggles off his guard.

  ‘Land!’ replied Biggles with a puzzled frown. ‘Why should I risk a landing in the desert when I had incendiary bombs with me?’

  ‘Oh, I merely wondered if you had—just as a matter of interest,’ retorted von Stalhein. ‘You’ve been a long time, haven’t you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ admitted Biggles. ‘I intended going straight there and back, but I saw something that intrigued me and I thought it was worth while following it up.’

  ‘Indeed! and what was it?’ asked the Count, interestedly.

  ‘A new type of British machine, sir,’ answered Biggles. ‘I didn’t think they had any of them on this front; maybe they have only just arrived.’

  ‘What sort of machine was it?’

  ‘A very fast machine with no dihedral on the top plane; they call it the Camel, I think, and it’s made at the Sopwith works.’

  The Count grimaced. ‘I’ve heard of them in France’ he said quickly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I took up a position in the sun and watched it, thinking it might possibly lead to the aerodrome of a new squadron.’

  ‘Splendid! What then?’

  ‘The machine crossed the British lines and began to glide down, so I climbed as high as my machine would take me and saw it land at what looks like a new aerodrome about twelve miles south-east of Kantara. I’m not sure about it being a new aerodrome because I haven’t had time to verify it in the map-room; it may have been there a long time, but I’ve never noticed it before.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of an aerodrome there,’ declared the Count, while von Stalhein looked puzzled.

  ‘It wasn’t there a few days ago,’ he said slowly.

  Biggles wondered how he knew that, but said nothing.

  ‘Very well, go in and get some lunch,’ went on the Count. ‘Our Brunow is becoming quite useful, eh, Erich?’

  Von Stalhein smiled a curious smile that always gave Biggles a tingling feeling down the spine, but whatever his thoughts were he did not disclose them, so Biggles saluted and departed in the direction of the Mess.

  He had just finished lunch when an orderly arrived with a message that he was wanted at headquarters, so he tossed his napkin on the table, swallowed the last drop of coffee in his cup, and with an easy mind made his way to the Count’s office.

  ‘Ah, Brunow, there you are,’ began von Faubourg, who was sitting at his desk while von Stalhein leaned in his usual position against the side, blowing clouds of cigarette smoke into the air. ‘We’ve been talking about this report of yours concerning the new aerodrome,’ continued the Count, ‘and we have decided that there is a strong probability that the British have brought out a new squadron, in which case it would be a good plan to let it know what to expect. If we can put some of the machines out of action so much the better, otherwise we’re likely to have some casualties. I suppose you’ve heard that Hess hasn’t come back from his morning patrol? We don’t take the matter seriously, but I’ve rung up the other squadrons who say that they have seen nothing of him, so it rather looks as if he had forced landed somewhere.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That must be the case, sir. One can hardly imagine him coming to any harm,’ he said seriously.

  ‘No, the thought is preposterous. But about this projected bomb raid. You marked down the exact position of the aerodrome, did you not?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘I thought I understood you to say that. I’ve detailed six machines to go over this afternoon and strike while the iron is hot, so to speak, and in order that there should be no mistake I want you to fly the leading one.’

  Biggles started. ‘You want me to lead the bombers, sir?’ he ejaculated.

  ‘Why not? It is a trifle irregular, I know, and Oberleutnant*1 Kranz, who is commanding the Staffel in Mayer’s absence, may feel hurt about it, but as you know where the place is you will be able to go straight to it. Kranz can still be in command, but you could show the way and take charge of the operation just while you were over the British lines. Is that quite clear?’

  ‘Quite, sir,’ replied Biggles, whose head was in a whirl at this fresh complication. The idea that he might have to accompany a raid, much less lead one, had not occurred to him.

  ‘Each machine will carry two heavy bombs,’ continued the Count, ‘and one machine will, of course, take a camera so that we can study the layout of the aerodrome at our leisure as well as see if the bombs do any damage.’

  ‘I’ll take the camera if you like, sir,’ volunteered Biggles, who thought he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

  ‘That would be excellent. Then I’ll leave it to you to fix up the details with Kranz. Good luck!’

  Biggles saluted and withdrew with mixed feelings, for the fact that the dummy aerodrome lure had worked out well was rather overshadowed by the part that he had been detailed to play, and he realized that during the next two hours there was a strong possibility that he would be shot down by his own countrymen; and he did not overlook the fact that in the event of his formation being attacked, he might find it difficult not to put up some sort of fight, or pretence of fighting, yet he had no desire to be responsible for the death of a British pilot.

  ‘I shall have to hope for the best, that’s all there is to it,’ he thought as he walked along to the hangars where the bustle indicated that preparations for the raid were going forward.

  Half an hour later the six machines left the ground in V-formation with Biggles flying at the spear-head, and climbed steeply for altitude. For nearly an hour they roared upwards on a broad zigzag course before heading straight for the lines. They crossed over through a thin and futile archie barrage, and then raced on full throttle towards the now visible aerodrome.

  Biggles, who, of course, had not seen it before, was completely amused at the realism of the bait. It was complete in every detail, even to some machines standing on the tarmac. There was no wind so it was unneccesary to turn in order to deliver the attack, and the first six bombs sailed down. But to Biggles’ disgust they nearly all went wide; one only fell on the aerodrome and none touched any of the buildings. He had hoped to take a really thrilling photograph back to the Count, showing at least one hangar in flames.

  The six machines turned slowly in a wide circle in order not to lose formation, and then returning from the opposite direction, laid their remaining eggs, that is, all except Biggles, who was determined to score a hit, for now that he was actually engaged in the task, the idea of bombing a British aerodrome amused him.

  This time the aim was better. Two bombs fell on the aerodrome, and one in the end hangar, but still he was not satisfied, so he dived out of formation, losing height as quickly as possible, and turning again towards the aerodrome, took the centre buildings in his bomb-sight and pulled the toggle. For a few seconds the bomb diminished in size in a remarkable manner as it plunged earthwards, and then a pillar of smoke and flame leapt high into the air. It was a direct hit. He had his camera over the side in an instant, but the movement might almost have been a signal, for he had only taken two photographs when such a tornado of archie burst around him that he dropped the instrument quickly on to the floor of the cockpit and pulled up his nose to rejoin the formation.

  The other five machines were in no better case, and it seemed to him as he raced through a sea of smoke and flame that every anti-aircr
aft gun on the British front had been concentrated on the spot.

  ‘Of course they have: what a fool I am,’ he swore. ‘Raymond would know that I’d give the Huns the position of the aerodrome, in which case it would be certain that sooner or later a formation of Boche bombers would come over. He could easily get the guns together without disclosing anything about my part of the business. My gosh! I ought to have thought of that.’ He flinched as a piece of metal tore through his wing and made the machine vibrate from nose to rudder. A shell burst under his tail, and his observer, a youth named Bronveld, made desperate signals to him to get out of the vicinity as soon as possible.

  He needed no urging. His one idea at that moment was to remove himself with the utmost possible speed from the hornets’ nest he had stirred up, and all the time he was wondering what the other pilots would say, and more important still, what the Count would say when they got back—if they did—for the whole exploit bore a suspicious likeness to a well-laid trap. ‘No,’ he reasoned, as he side-slipped away from a well-placed bracket*2 that blossomed out in front of him, ‘they can’t blame me very well, for after all, I’m in the show myself, and no one is fool enough to step into a trap they have themselves set. In fact, it begins to look almost as if it were a good thing that I came on the show, otherwise—’

  His high speed soliloquy was cut short by an explosion under his wing tip that nearly turned him upside down. He tried the controls with frantic haste, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness when he found that they were still functioning, but a long strip of fabric that trailed aft from his lower starboard plane made him feel uneasy. One of the other machines suddenly dipped its nose and began gliding down; he noted that its propeller had stopped, but thought it might just manage to reach the German lines that now loomed up ahead of them.

  The formation, which had become badly scattered in the barrage, now began to re-form, and he had just taken his place in the lead when, glancing forward through the centre-section, he saw something that set his finger-tips tingling. Cutting across their front on a course that would effectually cut them off from the German lines were two squadrons of aeroplanes that needed no second look to identify them. One squadron, approaching from the west, was composed of eight Sopwith Pups with a solitary Camel hanging on its flank; the other, which was coming up from the east, comprised six Bristol Fighters.