51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter

by Captain W E Johns

  It was a glorious day; not a cloud broke the serenity of the summer sky. Biggles kept his eyes downwards, knowing that the S.E.s would prevent molestation from above.

  Suddenly, a row of minute moving objects caught his eye, and he stared in amazement.

  Then he swore. A formation of nine Spads was crossing the line far below. 'The fools; the unutterable lunatics!' he growled. 'They can't be an inch higher than four thousand.

  They must think they own the sky, and they haven't even seen us yet. Oh, well, they'll wake up presently, or I'm no judge.'

  The Spad Squadron was heading out straight into enemy sky, and Biggles watched them with amused curiosity, uncertain as to whether to admire their nerve or curse their stupidity. 'They must think it's easy,' he commented grimly, as his lynx-eyed leader altered his course slightly to follow the Americans.

  Where were the Huns? He held his hand, at arm's length, over the sun, and extending his fingers squinted through the slits between them. He could see nothing, but the glare was terrific and might have concealed a hundred machines.

  `They're there, I'll bet my boots,' muttered the Flight-Commander; 'they are just letting those poor boobs wade right into the custard. How they must be laughing!'

  Suddenly he stiffened in his seat. The major was rocking his wings—pointing. Biggles followed the outstretched finger and caught his breath. Six brightly painted machines were going down in an almost vertical dive behind the Spads. Albatrosses!

  He lifted his hand high above his head, and then, in accordance with the plan, pushed the stick forward and, with Batson and Healy on either side, tore down diagonally to cut off the enemy planes. He knew that most of the Hun circus was still above, somewhere, waiting for the right moment to come down. How long would they wait before coming down, thus bringing the rest of the Camels and S.E.s down into the mix-up with them?

  Not long, he hoped, or he might find his hands full, for he could not count upon the inexperienced Spad pilots for help.

  The Spad Squadron had not altered its course, and Biggles' lip curled as he realised that even now they had not seen the storm brewing above them. Ah, they knew now! The Albatrosses were shooting, and the Spads swerved violently, like a school of minnows at the sudden presence of a pike. In a moment formation was lost as they scattered in all directions. Biggles sucked in his breath quickly as a Spad burst into flames and dropped like a stone. He was among them now; a red-bellied machine appeared through his sights and he pressed his triggers viciously, cursing a Spad that nearly collided with him.

  A green Albatross came at him head-on, and, as he charged it, another with a blue-and-white checked fuselage sent a stream of tracer through his top plane. The green machine swerved and he flung the Camel round behind it; but the checked machine had followed him and he had to pull up in a wild zoom to escape the hail of lead it spat at him.

  `Strewth!' grunted Biggles, as his wind-screen flew to pieces. `This is getting too hot.

  My gosh! what a mess!'

  A Spad and an Albatross, locked together, careered earthwards in a flat spin. A Camel, spinning viciously, whirled past him, and another Albatross, wrapped in a sheet offlame, flashed past his nose, the doomed pilot leaping into space even as it passed.

  Biggles snatched a swift glance upwards. A swarm of Albatrosses were dropping like vultures out of the sky into the fight; he had a fleeting glimpse of other machines far above and then he turned again to the work on hand. Where were the Spads? Ah, there was one, on the tail of an Albatross. He tore

  after it, but the Spad pilot saw him and waved him away. Biggles grinned. 'Go to it, laddie,' he yelled exultantly, but a frown swept the grin from his face as a jazzed machine darted in behind the Spad and poured in a murderous stream of lead. Biggles shot down on the tail of the Hun. The Spad pilot saw his danger and twisted sideways to escape, but an invisible cord seemed to hold the Albatross to the tail of the American machine.

  Biggles took the jazzed machine in his sights and raked it from end to end in a long deadly burst. There was no question of missing at that range; the enemy pilot slumped forward in his seat and the machine went to pieces in the air.

  The Spad suddenly stood up on its tail and sent two white pencils of tracer across Biggles' nose at something he could not see. A Hun, upside down, went past him so closely that he instinctively flinched.

  `Holy smoke!' muttered Biggles. 'He saved me that time; that evens things up.'

  His lips closed in a straight line; a bunch of six Albatrosses were coming at him together.

  Biggles fired one shot, and went as cold as ice as his gun jammed. Bullets were smashing through his machine when a cloud of S.E.s appeared between him and the Hun, and he breathed again.

  `Lord, what a dog-fight,' he said again, as he looked around to see what was happening.

  Most of the enemy planes were in full retreat, pursued by the S.E.s. Two Camels and two Albatrosses were still circling some distance away and four more Camels were rallying above him. Biggles saw the lone Spad flying close to him. Seven or eight crashed machines were on the ground, two blazing furiously, but whether they were Spads or Camels he couldn't tell.

  He pushed up his goggles and beckoned to the Spad pilot, whom he now recognised as his acquaintance of the previous day, to come closer.

  The American waved gaily, and together they started after the Camels, led by Major Mullen's red cowling, now heading for the line.

  Biggles landed with the Spad still beside him; he mopped the burnt castor-oil off his face and walked across to meet the pilot. The American held out his hand. 'I just dropped in to shake hands,' he said. 'Now I must be getting back to our field to see how many of the outfit got home. I'd like to know you better; maybe you'll give me a tip or two.'

  Ì can't tell you much after what you've seen today,' laughed Biggles, turning to wave to an S.E.5, which had swung low over them and then proceeded on its way.

  `Who's that?' asked the American.

  `That's Wilks, the big stiff you saw with me yesterday,' replied Biggles. 'He's a good scout. He'll be at the Hotel de Ville tonight for certain; so shall I. Do you feel like coming along to tear a chop or two?'

  `Sure,' agreed the Spad pilot enthusiastically.

  3

  THE ZONE CALL

  ÒH, my batman awoke me from my bed;

  I'd had a thick night and I'd got a sore head; So I said to myself, To myself, I said,

  Oh, I haven't got a hope in the mo-orning.

  So I went to the sheds to examine my gun, And then my engine I tried to run, But the revs she ga-ave.

  Were a thousand and one.

  So I hadn't got a hope in the mo-orning.'

  The words of the old R.F.C. song, roared by forty youthful voices to the tune of 'John Peel', drowned the accompaniment of the cracked mess piano in spite of the strenuous efforts of the pianist to make his notes audible.

  Biggles pushed the hair off his forehead. 'Lord, it's hot in here; I'm going outside for a breath of air,' he said to Wilkinson of 287

  Squadron, who had come over for the periodical party.

  The two officers rose and strolled slowly towards the door. It was still daylight, but a thick layer of thundercloud hung low in the sky, making the atmosphere oppressive.

  Òh, we were escorting "twenty-two," Hadn't got a notion what to do, So we shot down a Spa-ad,

  And an S. E. too,

  For we hadn't

  `Stop!' Biggles had bounded back into the centre of the room and held up his arms for silence. `Hark!'

  At the expression on his. a sudden hush fell upon the assembly, and the next instant forty officers had stiffened into attitudes of tense expectancy as a low vibrating hum filled the air. It was the unmistakable 'pour-vous' of a Mercedes aeroengine, low down, not far away.

  À Hun!' The silence was broken by a wild yell and the crash of fallen chairs as Biggles darted through the open door and streaked like a madman for the sheds, shouting orders as he went. The ack-emmas had
needed no warning; a Camel was already on the tarmac; others were being wheeled out with feverish speed. Capless and goggleless, tunic thrown open at the throat, Biggles made a flying leap into the cockpit of the first Camel, and within a minute, in spite of Wilkinson's plaintivèWait for me', was tearing down-wind across the sun-baked aerodrome in a cloud of dust.

  He was in the air, climbing back up over the sheds, before the second machine was ready to take off. The clouds were low, and at 1,000 feet the grey mist was swirling in his slipstream. He could no longer hear the enemy plane, for the roar of his Bentley Rotary drowned all other sound. He pushed his joystick forward for a moment to gather speed and then pulled it back in a swift zoom. Bursting out into the sunlight above he literally flung the machine round in a lightning righthand turn to avoid crashing into a Pfalz scout, painted vivid scarlet with white stripes behind

  the pilot's seat.

  `My gosh!' muttered Biggles, startled. 'I nearly rammed him.

  He was round in a second, warming his guns as he came. The Pfalz had turned, too, and was now circling erratically in a desperate effort to avoid the glittering pencil lines of tracer that started at the muzzles of Biggles' guns and ended at the tail of the Boche machine. The German pilot made no attempt to retaliate, but concentrated on dodging the hail of lead, waving his left arm above his head. Biggles ceased firing and looked about him suspiciously, but not another enemy machine was in sight.

  `Come on; let's get it over,' he muttered, as he thumbed his triggers again; but the Boche put his nose down and dived through the cloud, Biggles close behind him.

  They emerged below the cloud bank in the same relative positions, and it at once became obvious that the German intended to land on the aerodrome, but a brisk burst of machine-gun fire from the Lewis guns in front of the mess caused him to change his mind; instead, he hopped over the hedge and made a clumsy landing in the next field.

  Biggles landed close behind him and ran towards the pilot, now struggling to get a box of matches from his inside pocket to fire the machine.

  Biggles seized him by the collar and threw him clear.

  `Speak English?' he snapped.

  `Yes.'

  `What's the matter with you? Haven't you got any guns?' sneered the British pilot, noting the German's pale face. `Nein, no guns,' said the German quickly.

  `What?'

  The German shrugged his shoulders and pointed. A swift glance showed Biggles that such was indeed his case.

  `Great Scott!' he cried, aghast. 'You people running short of weapons or something? We'

  d better lend you some.'

  Ì vas lost,' said the German pilot resignedly. 'I am to take a new Pfalz to Lille, but the clouds—I cannot see. The benzine is nearly finished. You come—I come down, so.'

  `Tough luck,' admitted Biggles as a crowd of officers and ack-emmas arrived on the scene at the double. 'Well, come and have a drink—you've butted into a party.'

  `Huh! No wonder your crowd scores if you go about shooting at delivery pilots,' grinned Wilkinson, who had just landed.

  `You go and stick your face in an oil sump, Wilks,' cried Biggles hotly. 'How did I know he hadn't any guns?'

  Biggles sprang lightly from the squadron tender and looked at the deserted aerodrome in astonishment. It was the morning following his encounter with the unarmed Pfalz. For some days a tooth had been troubling him, and on the advice of the Medical Officer he had been to Clarmes to have the offending molar extracted. He had not hurried back, as the M.O. had forbidden him to fly that day, and now he had returned to find every machine except his own in the air.

  `Where have they all gone, Flight?' he asked the Flight-Sergeant.

  `Dunno, sir. The C.O. came out in a hurry about an hour ago and they all went off together,' replied the N.C.O.

  `Just my luck,' grumbled Biggles. 'Trust something to happen when I'm away for a few hours! Oh, well!'

  He made his way to the Squadron office, where he found Tyler, commonly known as `

  Wat', the Recording Officer, busy with some papers.

  `What's on, Wat?' asked Biggles.

  Èscort.'

  Èscorting what?'

  `You remember that Hun you got yesterday?'

  Biggles nodded.

  `Well, apparently he was three sheets in the wind when Wing came and fetched him. He blabbed a whole lot of news to the Intelligence people. This is what he told 'em. He said that three new Staffels were being formed at Lagnicourt. A whole lot of new machines were being sent there; in fact, when he was there two days ago, over thirty machines were being assembled.'

  `Funny, him letting a thing like that drop,' interrupted Biggles. 'He didn't strike me as being blotto, either. He drank

  practically nothing.'

  `Well, Wing says he was as tight as a lord, and bragged that the three new circuses were going to wipe us off the map, so they decided to nip the plot in the bud. They've sent every machine they can get into the air with a full load of bombs to fan the whole caboodle sky-high—all the Fours, Nines, and Buffs' have gone and even the R.E.8s they can spare from Art. Obs.2 Twoeight-seven, two-nine-nine and our people are escorting '

  em.'

  `Well, they can have it,' said Biggles cheerfully. 'Escorting's a mouldy business, anyway.

  Thanks, Wat.'

  He strolled out on to the aerodrome, gently rubbing his lacerated jaw, and catching sight of the German machine now standing on the tarmac made his way slowly towards it. He examined it with interest, for a complete ready-to-fly-away Boche machine was a rara axis. He slipped his hand into the map case, but the maps had been removed. His fingers felt and closed around a torn piece of paper at the bottom of the lining; it was creased as if it had been roughly torn off and used to mark a fold in a map. Biggles glanced at it disinterestedly, noting some typewritten matter on it, but as it was in German and conveyed

  nothing to him he was about to throw it away when the Flight-Sergeant passed near him.

  `Do you speak German, Flight?' called Biggles. `No, sir, but Thompson does; he used to be in the Customs Office or something like that,' replied the N.C.O.

  Àsk him to come here a minute, will you?' said Biggles. `Can you tell me what that says?' he asked a moment later, as an ack-emma approached him and saluted.

  The airman took the paper and looked at it for a minute without speaking. It's an extract from some orders, sir,' he said at length. 'The first part of it's gone, but this is what it says, roughly speaking: "With effect"—there's a bit gone there—"any flieger"—flyer, that is—"Falling into the hands of the enemy will therefore repeat that three Jagdstaffels are being

  assembled at Lagni

  " Can't read the place, sir. "By doing so, he will be doing service by assisting"—can't read that, sir. It ends, "Expires on July 2 1st at twelve, midnight. This order must on no account be taken into the air." That's all, sir.'

  `Read that again,' said Biggles slowly.

  After the airman had obeyed, Biggles returned to the Squadron office deep in thought.

  He put a call through to Wing Headquarters and asked for Colonel Raymond.

  `That you, sir? Bigglesworth here,' he said, as the Colonel's crisp voice answered him. '

  About this big raid, sir. Do you mind if I ask whether you know for certain that these Boche machines are at Lagnicourt?'

  `Yes; we made reconnaissance at dawn, and the observer reported several machines in various stages of erection on the tarmac. Why do you ask?'

  Ì've just found a bit of paper in the Pfalz that Boche brought over. I can't read it because it's in German, but I've had it translated, and it looks as if that Hun had orders to tell you that tale. Will you send over for it?'

  Ì'll send a messenger for it right away, but I shouldn't worry about it; the Huns are there; we've seen them. Goodbye.'

  Biggles hung the receiver up slowly and turned to Wat, who had listened to the conversation.

  You'll get shot one day ringing up the Wing like that!' he sa
id reprovingly.

  Ìt would be a deuce of a joke to send forty machines to drop twenty thousand quid's worth ofbombs on a lot of obsolete spare parts,' mused Biggles. 'But there's more in it than that. The Boche want our machines out of the way. Why? That's what I want to know. Lagnicourt lies thirty miles north-west of here. I fancy it wouldn't be a bad idea if somebody went and had a dekko what the Huns were doing in the north-east. Even my gross intelligence tells me that when a Hun is told what he's got to say when he's shot down there's something fishy about it.'

  `The M.O. says you're not to fly today,' protested the R.O.

  `Rot! What the deuce does he think I fly with, my teeth?' asked Biggles sarcastically. '

  See you later.'

  Within ten minutes Biggles was in the air, heading into the 'blue roughly to the north-east of the aerodrome. An unusual amount of archie marked his progress and he noticed it with satisfaction, for it tended to confirm his suspicions.

  `What ho!' he addressed the invisible gunner. 'So you don't want any Peeping Toms about today, eh?' Want to discourage me.

  The archie became really hot, and twice he had to circle to spoil the gunner's aim. He kept a watchful eye on the ground below, but saw nothing unusual.

  He passed over an R.E.8 spotting for the artillery, manfully plodding its monotonous figure-of-eight 3,000 feet below, and nodded sympathetically. Presently he altered his course a little westerly and the archie faded away. 'Don't mind me going that way, eh?

  Well, let's try the other way again,' he muttered. Instantly the air was thick with black, oily bursts of smoke, and Biggles nodded understandingly. 'So I'm getting warm, am I?'

  he mused. 'They might as well say so; what imaginations they've got.'

  Straight ahead of him, lying like a great dark green stain across the landscape, lay the forest of Duvigny. Keeping a watchful eye above for enemy aircraft, he looked at it closely, but there was no sign of anything unusual about its appearance.