51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter

by Captain W E Johns

  Oh—look at that!'

  `That' was a line of Camels that plunged down out of the blue and scoured the ground with double lines of glittering tracer bullets. Straight along the war-torn earth they roared, guns rattling, bullets stuttering a deadly tattoo on the ground. At the end of their dive the Camels soared upwards to let the S. E.s go by, and then, after a steep, stalling turn, came down again, raking the earth with streams of lead. The colonel watched in stupefied amazement. Biggles slid down the parapet and caught the sergeant by the sleeve.

  `Now, sergeant,' he said tersely, 'I've got you out of a hole, and I want you to help me get someone else out of one.'

  `You bet I will!' cried the N.C.O. delightedly.

  `Come on then!' cried Biggles, darting down the trench towards the old front line that had been their original position.

  Reaching it, he did not stop, but slithered across the intervening stretch of mud towards the crater near the crashed Camel. Bullets zipped and whined about them, and Biggles had a fleeting glimpse of a grey-clad figure rising about thirty yards in front of him, one arm raised in the act of throwing. Instinctively he flung himself full-length in the mud, dragging the sergeant with him. A moment later, a roar to their left, accompanied by a flame-hearted explosion, told them where a hand-grenade thrown by the German had struck.

  Almost before the flurry of the explosion had subsided, Biggles was on his feet again, the sergeant following closely at his heels. Scrambling and slithering over the ground, they made a few more paces' headway. Then again that grey-clad figure rose up, and again the arm swung. But this time the grenade was not thrown. From somewhere behind them came a sharp crack of a rifle, and the German bomb-thrower sagged in mid-air in the very act of throwing.

  It was the Britishers' chance—and they took it. Crouching low, they sped across to the crater where Bert was waiting, and scrambled down beside the wounded man.

  Bert was sitting just as he had left him, calmly smoking a cigarette.

  `Here you are!' he cried. 'I thought you'd gone without me. When I tell my missus about this she'll say, "Bert," she'll say—'

  Biggles seized him unceremoniously by the scruff of the neck.

  `Take his feet, sergeant,' he panted; and together they bore the wounded man to the rear.

  They found the colonel where they had left him.

  `What are you up to?' he shouted, as Biggles and the sergeant came into view with their burden. 'I've been waiting for you. Couldn't make out where you'd disappeared to. The machines have opened up the communication trenches, and we can get through now. We'

  d better be going.'

  Half an hour later, Biggles was washing the grime of war from his face in a headquarters dug-out behind the support trenches. The senior officer, monocle still in place, was talking.

  'It was jolly smart of you to hold up the Boche advance by conjuring up those machines,'

  he said.

  `Boche advance? I didn't know they were advancing,' replied Biggles. 'All directions looked alike to me.'

  `Then what on earth did you do it for?' cried the Colonel.

  `So that I could go and fetch Bert. What else do you think? I promised him I would, so I had to,' replied Biggles, grinning broadly.

  BIGGLES, cruising along the line on a dawn patrol, pressed on the rudder-bar with his left foot as his ever-searching eyes fell on a line of white archie bursts to the south-east, far over the British lines. The colour of the bursts told him at once that the shells were being fired by British guns, for German anti-aircraft gunfire was usually black. It could only mean that one or more enemy machines were in the vicinity, an event sufficiently unusual to intrigue him immensely.

  Ì must look into this,' was his unspoken thought as he headed his Camel along a course which would intercept the target of the rapidly-lengthening line of archie bursts.

  A small, black speck, well in front of the foremost bursts, soon became visible and his curiosity increased, for the machine was of a type unknown to him. As he drew nearer a puzzled frown lined his forehead.

  Ì don't believe it; it can't be true,' he murmured at last, when only a few hundred yards separated him from his objective.

  The anti-aircraft fire ceased when the gunners observed his presence, and Biggles closed rapidly with the other machine, which with sublime indifference continued on its way, without paying the slightest attention to him. Large Maltese crosses on the tail and fuselage left no doubt as to its nationality.

  It was the largest aeroplane Biggles had ever seen. He noted two engines, one on each side of the fuselage, and raked his memory for some rumour or gossip by which he could identify it.

  Ìt isn't a Gotha,' he mused. 'Dashed if I know what it is; but I'll bet she carries a tidy load of eggs.'

  Almost unconsciously he had been edging nearer to the nose of the big machine as he inspected it, but a sudden burst of fire from the gunner in the nacelle, and an ominous flack! flack! flack! behind warned him that the crew were on the alert and well prepared to receive him. He made a lightning right-hand turn, and as he flashed back past the bomber a murderously accurate burst of fire from the rear gunner startled him still further.

  `Strewth!' swore Biggles. 'This is a bit hot.'

  The big machine had not moved an inch from its course, and to be thus treated with contempt annoyed him intensely. They were rapidly approaching the Lines and if he was to prevent the return of the bomber to its aerodrome, something would have to be done quickly.

  Biggles swept to the rear of the machine, muttering again as the Camel bumped violently in the slipstream of the two engines.

  'All right, let's see how you like this one,' he snapped angrily, and put his nose down in a steep dive. He was following the usual practice of attacking a two-seater, judging his speed and distance to bring him up under the elevators of the enemy machine, out of the field of fire of both gunners.

  The attack was perfectly timed and the Camel soared up like a bird immediately under the big fuselage. Biggles glanced through the sights and took the bomber at where he judged the pilot's seat to be, withholding his fire until the Camel was almost at stalling point in order to make certain of his aim. What happened next occurred with startling rapidity. The muzzles of a pair of twin Parabellum guns slid out of a trap-door in the floor of the bomber and the next instant a double stream of lead was shooting the Camel to pieces about him. Flack! Flack! Whang! Whang! sang the bullets as they bored through fabric and metal.

  Biggles, shaken as never before in all his flying experience, kicked out his left foot spasmodically and flung the stick over and back into his stomach. The Camel whirled over and fell into a dive; the 15o h.p. Bentley Rotary coughed once—twice—and then cut out altogether. The propellor stopped dead and the thoroughly alarmed pilot started to glide earthwards with the rapidly-diminishing hum of the bomber's engines in his ears.

  Biggles pushed up his goggles and looked downwards, and then up at the fast disappearing Boche machine.

  `Phew!' he breathed soberly. 'That'll stop me laughing in church in the future. What a trap. Who would have guessed it? Well, we live and learn,' he concluded bitterly, and turned his attention to the inevitable forced landing. He anticipated no difficulty, for he had ample height from which to choose a landing ground. 'Thank goodness I'm over my own side of the line,' he mused philosophically, as he slowly lost height.

  He could not get to his own aerodrome, at Maranique, but 287 Squadron might just be reached, and although he did not look forward with any degree of pleasure to the inevitable jibes of the S.E.5 pilots it was better than risking damaging the machine in an open field.

  He made a good landing in the middle of the aerodrome and sat up on the 'hump' of the Camel to await the arrival of the mechanics to tow the machine to the tarmac, where a group of cheering pilots awaited him.

  `Get stung, Biggles?' yelled Wilkinson, the good-natured flight-commander.

  Ì got stung all right,' acknowledged Biggles ruefully. 'That kite's go
t more stings than a hornet's nest. What is it, anyway?'

  `That's our pet Friedrichshafen. Come and have a drink while we ring up your old man and tell him you're O.K., and I'll tell you about it,' said Wilks, linking his arm through that of the Camel pilot's.

  `Have you had a go at it?' inquired Biggles.

  `Me? We've all had a go at it. It comes over just before dawn nearly every day, lays its eggs, and beetles home about this time.'

  Ànd so you mean to say that you can't stop it?' exclaimed Biggles incredulously.

  Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders. 'You didn't do a lot yourself, did you? The only thing that did any stopping was your cowling, by the look ofit. It's as full of holes as a colander. It'd be easier to sink a battleship than that flying arsenal. There isn't a blind spot anywhere that we've discovered; the usual weak spots aren't weak any longer. They just plaster you whichever way you come—oh! I know. Twin mobile guns'll beat fixed guns any day. I'm not aching to commit suicide, so I let it alone, and that's a fact. There was a rumour that Wing had offered three pips to anybody who got it. Lacie of 281 had a go, and went down in flames. Crickson of 383 had a stab at it in one of the new Dolphins, and it took a week to dig him out of the ground. Most people keep their distance now and watch archie do its stuff; but they couldn't hit a Zeppelin at fifty yards.

  Guns' reckons that the Friedrichshafen costs our people, who are paying for the War, five thousand pounds a day for archie ammunition, and I reckon he isn't far out.'

  Ì see,' said Biggles thoughtfully. 'Well, I'll be getting back if you can find me transport.

  I'll come back for the Camel later on. Cheerio, Wilks.'

  `Cheerio, Biggles. Keep away from that Hun till the first of the month. I'll send you a wreath, but I'm broke till then.'

  `Yes? Well, don't chuck your money away on losers. What you'll need is a pair of spectacles next time I meet that Hun.'

  After seeing the damaged Camel brought home, and the ignition lead which had caused the engine failure repaired, Biggles spent the evening with a lead pencil and some paper, making drawings of the big bomber as he remembered it. He marked the three guns and drew lines and circles to represent the field of fire covered by each. He quickly discovered that what Wilkinson had told him concerning the guns covering all angles of approach was correct, and ordinary attack was almost

  useless, and certainly very dangerous.

  The old weakness in the defence of all big machines, which was underneath the fuselage, did not exist. The only possible spot which could be regarded as 'blind' was immediately under the nacelle, and even so he would be exposed to the fire of at least one of the gunners while he was manoeuvring into that position. He considered the possibility of dropping bombs, but discarded it as impracticable. If he dropped the bombs over his own side of the line and missed, the people down below would have something to say about it, and it was hardly likely that he would be allowed to go about it unmolested over the German side.

  No! The only chance was the spot under the nacelle and then use a Lewis gun which fired upwards through his centre section. He did not usually carry this weapon, and he infinitely preferred head-on tactics with his double Vickers guns. Not entirely satisfied with the result of his calculations, he gave instructions for the Lewis gun to be fitted, told his batman to call him an hour before dawn, and went to bed.

  It was still dark when, with his flying coat and boots over his pyjamas, he climbed into the cockpit of his Camel the following morning. He felt desperately tired and disinterested in the project, and half regretted his decision to pursue it, but once in the air he felt better.

  It was a glorious morning. A few late stars still lingered in the sky; to the east the first gleam of dawn was lightening the horizon. He pointed his nose and cruised steadily in the direction of his encounter of the preceding day, climbing steadily and inhaling the fresh morning air. As he climbed, the rim of the sun, still visible to those below, crept up over the skyline and bathed the Camel in an orange glow. Around and below him the earth was a vast basin of indigo and deep purple shadows, stretching, it seemed, to eternity. He appeared to hang over the centre of it, an infinitesimal speck in a strange world in which no other living creature moved. The sense of utter loneliness and desolation, well known to pilots, oppressed him, and he was glad when six D.H.gs, which had crept up unseen from the void beneath, gleamed suddenly near him like jewels on velvet as the rays of the sun flashed on their varnished wings. He flew closer to them and waved to the observers leaning idly over their Scarf rings.' The Nines held on their way and were soon lost in the mysterious distance. Biggles idly wondered how many of them would come back. The dome above him had turned pale-green, and then turquoise, not slowly, but quickly, as if hidden lights had been switched on by the master of a stage performance.

  Ànd this is war!' mused the pilot. 'It's hard to believe—but unless I'm mistaken here it comes,' he added, as his eye caught a cluster of tiny sparks in the far distance at about his own height. `Good morning, Archibald, you dirty dog,' he muttered, as he eyed the approaching flashes, at the head of which he could now discern the silhouette of the big bomber. He swiftly closed the distance between them, warming his guns as he went, and the answering stream of tracer from the forward guns of the bomber brought a faint smile to his lips. There was no chance of approaching unobserved and he had not attempted it.

  He circled slowly 50o feet above the big machine and looked down; the gunner in the rear cockpit gave him a mock salute, and waved back.

  He wasted no further time on pleasantries, but dived steeply, still well outside effective range. Down and down he went until he was well below the bomber and then slowly pulled the stick back; the bomber seemed to be dropping out of the sky on to him. He was coming up under the nacelle and his eyes were glued to the trap-door, through which he could see the crouching gunner. A spurt of flame leapt outwards towards him and the ominous tell-tale flack! flack! behind and on each side told that the gunner was making good shooting. A moment later he was flying on even keel not more than twenty feet below the nacelle and in the same direction as the other machine.

  Something seemed to drop off the bomber and whizz past him; he looked upwards with a start, in time to see another bomb swing off the bomb-rack and hurtle past dangerously near. He looked along the line of racks, but could see no more bombs, which relieved him greatly, for he had entirely overlooked the fact that the bomber might not have laid all its eggs. He could see the face of the forward gunner peering over the side, looking at him, and a quick glance astern revealed spasmodic bursts of tracer passing harmlessly under the tail of the Camel. Satisfied that the gunner could not reach him, he took the joystick between his knees and seized his top gun, left hand grasping the spade grip and right forefinger curled around the trigger. Rat-tat

  He muttered as he struggled to

  clear the jammed gun. Why did guns always jam at the crucial moment?

  The bomber was turning now and he had to grab the stick with one hand to keep his place. He stood up in the cockpit and hammered at the ammunition drum with his fist. He tried the trigger, found the gun was working and dropping back into his seat, just had time to push the stick forward as the bomber came down on him as its pilot tried to tear his wing off with its undercarriage. He side-slipped in a wild attempt to keep in position, but his windscreen flew to pieces as a stream of tracer from the rear gun caught him. He dived frantically away, kicking alternate feet as he went to spoil the gunner's aim.

  Safely out of range, he pushed up his goggles and wiped his forehead. 'Dash this for a game,' he moaned, 'but for that jam I'd have had him then.'

  He glanced down and was horrified to see that they were already over the enemy's lines.

  He tested his top gun to make sure that it was working and then savagely repeated his manoeuvre to come up underneath the bomber. He held his breath as he ran the gauntlet of the gunners again, and then at point-blank range he dropped the stick, seized the gun and pressed the t
rigger.

  There was no mistake this time. He held the burst until the Camel began to fall away from under him and then he dropped back into his seat, grabbing wildly at the stick as the machine went into a spin, bracing himself with all his strength against the sides of the cockpit to prevent himself being thrown out.

  `By gosh! That's all I want of that,' he muttered, as he got the machine under control and looked around for the bomber.

  It was steering an erratic course for the ground, obviously in difficulties. He dived after it and noticed that the rear gunner's cockpit was empty.

  I've hit the pilot, and the observer is trying to get the machine down,' he decided instantly, and a closer view confirmed his suspicions, for he could see the observer holding the joystick over the shoulder of the limp figure of the pilot. 'I hope he manages it,' thought Biggles anxiously, and held his hand up to show that they had nothing more to fear from him, afterwards circling round to watch the landing. It was a creditable effort; the big machine flattened out, but failed to clear a line of trees; Biggles almost fancied he could hear the crash as it settled down in a pile of torn fabric and splintered wood.

  Ì'll have to go and tell Wilks about this,' said Biggles to himself, as he steered a course for the S. E.5 aerodrome. 'He'll be tickled to death!'

  BIGGLES, glanced up carelessly at the noticeboard in passing; a name caught his eye and he took a step nearer. The name was his own. He read:

  Captain 1.C. Bigglesworth: posted to 69 F.T.S. Narborough. W./48 P./1321.

  For a full minute he looked at the notice uncomprehendingly, and as its full significance dawned upon him strode purposefully to the Squadron office.

  `Yes, Biggles?' said Major Mullen, glancing up from his desk. 'Do you want to see me?'