by W E Johns
One glance showed Biggles that the Colonel had not underestimated the difficulty. “From what height was this taken?” he asked, holding up a photograph on which was marked a small white cross.
“Six thousand feet,” replied the Colonel. “The white mark is the position of the packet. When our man knew the game was up he shoved the plans down a rabbit-hole at the foot of a tree in the corner of that field. His last act was to release a pigeon, pin-pointing the position. The bird could not, of course, carry the plans.”
“Stout effort,” said Biggles approvingly. “So the plans are in the corner of the field I land in. From this photo I should say that the field is about 150 yards long by 60 yards wide. I might just get in, but the wind would have to be right.”
“It is right, now,” replied the Colonel, softly but pointedly.
“Now?”
“Now!”
“What about 287 Squadron?” asked Biggles curiously. “Don’t think I’m inquisitive, sir, but they’ve got S.E.s’s and they are nearer than we are.”
“If you must know,” returned the Colonel, “we have already been to them. They have lost two officers in the attempt and we can’t ask them for another. Neither of them reached the field; arrhie got one, and we can only suppose that enemy aircraft got the other. You will pass both crashes on the way.”
“Thanks,” said Biggles grimly. “I can find my way without them. It’s about twenty miles over, isn’t it?”
“About that, yes.”
“All right, sir,” said Biggles, “I’ll go, but I’d like to ask one thing.”
He turned to Major Mullen. “Do you mind if I ask for MacLaren or Mahoney to watch me from upstairs? If they could meet me on the way home it might help. I shall be low coming home—cold meat for any stray Hun that happens to be about?” He turned to Colonel Raymond. “What would happen if I had to land with those plans on me?” he asked.
“I expect the enemy would shoot you,” returned the Colonel. “In fact, I am sure they would.”
“All right, sir,” said Biggles, “as long as we understand. If my engine cuts out while I am over the other side those plans are going overboard before I hit the deck. I don’t mind dying, but when I die I’ll die sitting down, like an officer and a gentleman—not standing with my back to a brick wall. If I come back, I shall have the plans with me—if they are still there.”
“That’s fair enough,” agreed Colonel Raymond.
“May I take Mac and Mahoney with me to look after the ceiling?” he asked the C.O..
“Any objection, sir?” asked Major Mullen.
“None, as far as I am concerned,” replied the Colonel.
“Good; then I’ll be off,” said Biggles, rising. “Going to wait for the plans, sir? I shall be back within the hour, or not at all.’
“I’ll wait,” said the Colonel gravely.
Major Mullen accompanied Biggles to the door. “Get those plans, Biggles,” he said, “and the Squadron’s name is on the top line. Fail—and it’s mud. Goodbye and good luck.” A swift handshake and Biggles was on his way to the sheds.
As he gave instructions for his Camel to he started up, he noticed that the sun was already sinking in the west; he could not expect more than an hour and a half of daylight. He turned towards the Mess, a burst of song greeting him as he opened the door.
“Mac! Mahoney! Here a minute,” he called.
“What’s the matter now, you hot-air merchant?” growled Mahoney as they advanced to meet him. “Can’t you—?” Biggles cut him short.
“Show on,” he said crisply. “I’m going to Ariet—to fetch a packet.”
“To Ariet?” said Mahoney incredulously.
“You’ll get a packet all right,” sneered MacLaren, “but why go to Ariet for it?”
“Never mind, I can’t tell you,” said Biggles. “Serious, chaps, I’m going to land at Ariet. I shall go over high up, but I shall be low coming home, right on the carpet most of the way, in all probability. Shan’t have time to get any height. I’m going straight there and, I hope, straight back. You can help if you will by watching things up topsides. I’ve got to bring something back besides myself or I wouldn’t ask you, and that’s a fact. It’s a long way over —twenty miles— and I expect every Hun in the sky will be looking for me as I come back. If they spot you they may not see me. That’s all,” he concluded.
“What the—?” began Mahoney.
Biggles cut him short. “I’m off now,” he announced. “May I expect to see you shortly?”
“Of course,” said Mahoney. “I don’t understand what it’s all about and it seems a fool business to me.” He glanced up and saw Colonel Raymond and Major Mullen walking towards the Mess. “Confound these brass-hats,” he growled. “Why can’t they stay at home on a dud day? Righto, laddie; see you presently.”
Twenty minutes later, well over the line at 12,000 feet, Biggles scanned the sky anxiously. Far away to the right, 3,000 feet above him, a formation of “Fours” were heading towards the line after a raid; he hoped that they would prove an attractive lure for any prowling enemy aircraft.
Ariet lay just ahead and below; Biggles put his nose down and dived, his eyes searching for his objective. Two miles west of Ariet, the Colonel had said! Good heavens, there seemed to be hundreds of oblong fields two miles west of Ariet. He looked at the photograph, which he had pinned to his instrument-board, and compared it with the ground below. That must be the field, over there to the right. He spun to lose height more rapidly.
Pulling out, he examined the field closely. An encampment seemed dangerously close—perhaps a mile away, not more. There was the field. He noticed two horses idling in a corner and looked anxiously at the row of poplars which stood like a row of soldiers at the far end. “If I do get into the field I shall be mighty lucky to get out of it again,” he mused.
Fortunately the wind, as the Colonel had said, was blowing in the right direction, otherwise it would be impossible.
He was only a couple of hundred feet up now and he could see men running about the encampment; some were clustered in little crouching groups, and as he cut his engine off he heard the faint rattle of a machine-gun. He winced as something crashed through the fuselage behind him. “That’s too close,” he muttered, and in the same breath, “Well, here goes.”
He did a swift S turn, then kicked out his left foot and brought the stick over in a steep sideslip. As he levelled out, the tops of the trees brushed his undercarriage wheels and he fishtailed desperately to lose height.
The poplars at the far end of the field appeared to race towards him and he held his breath as his wheels touched ground. A molehill now, and I somersault, he thought, savage with himself for coming in so fast. His tail dropped, the skid dragged, and he breathed again. Without waiting for the machine to finish its run he swung round towards the tree in the corner. That must be the one, he thought. Springing quickly from the cockpit he looked round-ah, there was the rabbit-hole! He was on his hands and knees in a second, arm thrust far down. Nothing!
For a moment he remained stupefied with dismay. Must be another hole—or another tree, he thought, frantically, as he sprang to his feet. Realizing that he was on the verge of panicking, he steadied himself with an effort, and ran towards the next tree; his foot caught in an obstruction and he sprawled headlong, but he was on his feet again in an instant, instinctively glancing behind him to ascertain the cause of his fall. It was a rabbit-hole— there was a cluster of them. Of course, there would be, he thought grimly, and thrust his hand into the nearest. Ah! His finger closed around a bulky object; he pulled it out; it was a thick packet of papers.
He raced towards the Camel. Two hundred yards away a file of soldiers with an officer at their head were coming at the double. He tossed the packet into the cockpit, swung himself into his seat, and the next instant was racing, tail up, down the field to get into the wind. His heart sank as he surveyed the poplars; they seemed to reach upwards to the sky. Can’t be done, he told
himself grimly. In one place there was a gap in the line where a tree had fallen; could he get between them? He thought not, but he would try.
Already the grey-clad troops were scrambling through the hedge below the poplars. He opened the throttle and shoved the stick forward. The tail lifted. Hop—hop thank goodness, she was off! He held his nose down for a moment longer and then zoomed at the middle of the gap. He flinched instinctively as a sharp crackling stabbed his ears and the machine shivered; whether it was gunshots or breaking wings, he didn’t know.
He was through, in the air, and he’d got the plans! He laughed with relief as he dodged and twisted to spoil the aim of the marksmen below.
Dare he waste time trying to gain height? He thought not. He would never be able to get to a safe height. Better to stick at two or three thousand feet just out of range of small arms from the ground, race for home, and trust to luck. With every nerve vibrating he looked up, around and below; most of the time he flew with his head thrown back, searching the sky above and in front of him, the direction from which danger would come. Not a machine was in sight. Halfway home he had climbed to 4,000 feet; tail up, he raced for the line. Ten minutes! A lot could happen in the air in ten minutes. His eyes were never still; anxiously they roved the air for signs of enemy aircraft, or for Mahoney or MacLaren’s Camels.
Where was the packet? He groped about the floor of the cockpit, but couldn’t find it. It must have got under his seat and drifted down the fuselage out of reach. Instinctively he glanced at the rev. counter. If he had to force-land now the enemy would find the packet. Would they? He felt for his Very pistol and made sure that it was loaded. Provided I don’t crash I can always set fire to her, he reflected; the plans will burn with the rest.
His eyes, still searching, suddenly stopped and focused on a spot ahead. His heart missed a beat and his lips curled in a mirthless smile. Across the sky, straight ahead, moving swiftly towards him, were a line of straight-winged aeroplanes. Fokkers! Six of them.
He looked above the Fokkers for the expected Camels, but they were not there. “All right,” he muttered. “I’ll take the lot of you; come on.”
For perhaps a minute they flew thus, the Camel, cut off by the Fokkers, still heading for the line, with the distance rapidly closing between them.
“They’ll get me. I can’t fight that lot and get away with it,” thought Biggles.
Even as the thought crossed his mind the enemy machines made a swift turn and started climbing for more height. A puzzled expression crossed Biggles’s face as he watched the manceuvre. “‘What’s the big idea?” he muttered. “They’re making a lot of fuss about one poor solitary Camel. They behave as if they were scared of me.”
Not since the first moment that he had spotted the enemy aircraft had Biggles taken his eyes off them; now, still following the Fokkers round, they stopped abruptly and he started with astonishment. Twenty feet away from his right wing-tip was a Camel. Mahoney, in the cockpit, pushed up his goggles and grinned derisively at him. Biggles looked to the left and saw another Camel; he recognized MacLaren’s machine. He glanced behind him and saw two more Camels bringing up the rear.
Biggles almost felt himself turn pale. “Phew!” he breathed. “Where did they come from? And I never saw them! Am I going blind? Suppose they had been Fokkers; it would have been just the same, except that I’d be smoking on the floor by now. No wonder the Fokkers swerved when they saw this lot coming. Five against six,” he mused, “that’s better. They’ll come in now, but they’ll have to be quick to stop us; it isn’t four miles to home.” Already he could see the British balloon line. “Good old Mac, good old Mahoney!” he thought exultantly.
The Fokkers were coming in now, the leader dropping on one of the rear Camels, which swung round like a whirlwind and nosed up to face its attack head-on. The other Fokkers closely followed the first, and Mac and Mahoney turned outwards to meet them. Biggles’s hand gripped the stick in a spasm of impotent rage at the realization that he would have to run for it and leave them to do his fighting for him. Twice he half-turned and checked himself. “I’ll never take on another job like this as long as I live,” he vowed.
Two Fokker triplanes passed him to the eastward, making for the dog-fight now ranging behind him. He was low, and against the sun they had not seen him. Thrusting aside the temptation to take advantage of his ideal position for attack, Biggles raced across the line, muttering savagely to himself. He dare not trust himself to look back. Suppose they got Mac or Mahoney—he daren’t think of it. Drat that brass-hat and his messenger-boy errands, anyway. Well, he was over the line now— safe—safe with his confounded packet. As the aerodrome loomed up he shifted slightly in his seat for a better view. He moved his hand to shift a lump which seemed to have formed in the cushion on his seat and the lump came away in his hand. It was the packet. “It must have fallen on the seat and I’ve been sitting on it all the time— too worried to notice it,” he laughed. Then he put his nose down and dived for the aerodrome; 100, 120, 150 ticked up on the speed-indicator.
Major Mullen and Colonel Raymond were standing on the tarmac waiting for him; he could see the Colonel’s red tabs. He took the joystick in his left hand and the packet in his right—100 feet—50 feet—30—he saw the Colonel duck as he flung the plans at him, and then, after a wild zoom, swung round in a climbing turn for the line.
As he neared the support trenches he saw three Camels coming towards him. He looked anxiously for Mahoney’s blue propeller boss; it was not among them.
“They’ve got old Mahoney!” He swallowed a lump in his throat.
The three Camels turned and fell in line with him. Mac, in the nearest, flew doser and waved his hand and jabbed downwards. Looking down, Biggles saw a Camel with a smashed undercarriage standing crookedly among the shell-holes. By its side was a figure waving cap and goggles. Mahoney! He must have been shot up and just made the line, thought Biggles, as, with joy in his heart, he turned for home.
The C.O. was waiting for him on the tarmac when he landed.
“Don’t you know better than to throw things at staff-officers?” he said, smiling. “The Colonel has dashed back to headquarters with your billet-doux; he has asked me to thank you and say that he will not forget today’s work.”
“You can tell him when you see him that I won’t, either,” grinned Biggles. “Come on, chaps, let’s go and fetch Mahoney, and finish that rubber.”
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J-9982
BIGGLES hummed contentedly to himself as he circled slowly at 6,000 feet. He looked at his watch and observed that he had been out nearly two hours on a solitary patrol which had so far proved uneventful. I’ll do another five minutes and then pack up, he decided.
Below hint lay a great bank of broken alto-cumulus cloud. Detached solid-looking masses of gleaming white mist floated languidly above the main cloudbank. Not another plane was in the air, at least, not above the cloud, as far as he could see. Every few minutes he turned, and holding his hand before his eyes studied the glare in the direction of the sun long and carefully between extended fingers. If danger lurked anywhere it was from there that it would probably come. He examined the cloud-bank below in detail, section by section. His eyes fell on a Camel coming towards him, far below, threading its way between the broken masses of cloud, through which the ground occasionally showed in a blur of bluey-grey.
Biggles placed himself between the sun and the other Camel so that it would pass about a thousand feet below him. “You poor hoot,” he thought, as he watched the machine disinterestedly. “If I was a Fokker you’d be a dead man by now. Ah, here comes his partner!”
A second Camel had emerged from the cloud-bank and was now rapidly overtaking the first. The pilot of the leading Camel was evidently wide-awake, for he turned back towards the second machine to allow it to overtake him. Biggles noted that the second Camel was slightly above the leading one and that instead of putting its nose down to line up with it, the pilot was delib
erately climbing for more height.
The second Camel was not more than fifty feet behind the first when its nose suddenly dropped as if the pilot intended to ram it. “Silly ass,” thought Biggles. “What fool’s game is he playing? That’s how accidents happen.” He caught his breath in amazed horror as a stream of tracers suddenly spurted from the guns of the topmost Camel point-blank into the cockpit of the one below. The stricken machine lurched drunkenly; a tongue of flame ran down the fuselage; its nose dropped and it dived through the cloud-bank out of sight, leaving only a little dark patch of smoke to mark its going.
For a moment Biggles stared unbelievingly, his brain refusing to believe what his eyes had seen.
“What the...?” he gasped, and then, thrusting his stick forward, dived on the murderer out of the sun. But the other Camel was diving too, the pilot evidently intending to get below the cloud to watch the result of his handiwork. Biggles noted that the pilot did not once look up, and he was barely thirty feet behind it and slightly to one side when it disappeared into the swirling mist. Biggles pulled up to avoid a collision.
“J-9982,” he muttered aloud, naming the maker’s number which he had seen painted in white letters on the fin of the diving machine. “J-9982,” he repeated again. “All right, you swine, I’ll remember you.”
He circled for a moment and dived through a hole in the clouds, not daring to risk a collision in the opaque mist. He looked about him quickly as he pulled out below the cloud, but the Camel had disappeared. Far below he could see a long trail of black smoke where the fallen machine was still burning. For ten minutes he searched in vain, and then, feeling sick with rage and horror, he headed for the line. He wondered who was in the Camel which had been so foully attacked; he knew that it must be either from his own or 231 squadron, as they were the only Camel squadrons in that area. He landed, and taxied quickly towards the sheds, where a group of pilots lounged.