Ì see I'm posted to Home Establishment,' replied Biggles. `May I ask why?'
The C.O. laid down his pen, crossed the room and laid a fatherly hand on the flight-commander's shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Biggles,' he said simply, 'but I've got to send you home. Now
listen to me. I've been out here longer than you have. I know every move in the game; that's why I'm commanding 266. I know when a man's cracking up; I saw you start weeks ago; when Batson went west you were at breaking-point. Now, remember, I'm telling you this for your own good—not to hurt your feelings. I think too much of you for that. If I thought less of you, why, I'd leave you here to go on piling up the score in the Squadron
"game book". If you did stay here, you wouldn't last a month. You'll be caught napping; you'll stall taking-off, or you'll hit a tree coming in. Cleverer pilots than you have gone out that way. You can't help it and you can't stop it. No one can stand the pace for ever.
This game makes an old man of a young one without him knowing it. That's the truth, Biggles. You've got to have a rest. If you don't rest now you'll never be able to rest again.
You are more use to us alive than dead; put it that way if you like. That's why I put your posting through.'
`But can't I have a rest without being posted?' said Biggles bitterly.
`No; I have asked you to take some leave. The M.O. has asked you, and I've heard Mac and Mahoney telling you to—they've both been on leave and it's done them a power of good.'
Àll right, sir. I'll go on leave if you'll cancel the posting. It would kill me to hang about an F.T.S."
`Very well. Fill in your application. Ten days, with effect from tomorrow. I'll send it to Wing by hand right away. You stay on the strength of 266.'
Ì've only one other thing to ask, sir. May I fly home?'
`There you go, you see. You can't leave it alone. Well, you might get a lift with a ferry pilot from Bourget. How's that?'
`Not for me,' said Biggles firmly. 'I'm not trusting my life to any ferry pilot. I'll fly myself in a Camel.'
`How am I going to account for the Camel if you break it up?' `Break it up! I don't break machines up.'
`You might.'
`Well, send one back for reconditioning. I'll take it.'
Àll right,' said the C.O. after a brief pause. 'It's against regulations and you know it.
Don't come back here without that Camel, that's all:'
`Very good, sir.'
Biggles saluted briskly and departed.
Major Mullen turned tòWat' Tyler, the Recording Officer, who had been a witness to the scene, and deliberately winked. `You were right, Tyler,' he smiled. 'That posting worked the trick; that was the only way we would have got him to take some leave.'
Early the following morning Biggles, in his best uniform, took off and steered a course for Marquise, where he proposed to refuel before crossing the Channel. He eyed the enemy sky longingly, but true to his word to the C.O. held firmly to his way. The trip proved uneventful, and midday found him lunching in the officers' mess at Lympne. He reported to the officer commanding the station, presenting his movement order, saw his machine safely in a hangar, and went on to London by train. Arriving home, he discovered the house closed; he telephoned a friend of the family, only to find out that his father and brother, his only living relations, were in the Army and `somewhere in France'.
`Well, that's that,' said Biggles, as he hung up the receiver. 'I might have known they would be.'
For a week he hung about town, thoroughly bored, doing little except drift between his hotel and anywhere he thought he might strike somebody he knew, home on leave from the Front. The weather was cold and wet and he looked forward joyfully to his return to the Squadron. And then, walking down Shaftsbury Avenue, he met Dick Harboard, his father's greatest friend and business associate. Over some coffee Biggles briefly explained his position, bitterly lamenting the time he was wasting when he might be doing something useful in France.
Ì'm sick of loafing about here,' he concluded. 'London is getting me down fast. I hate the sight of the place, but there's nowhere else to go.'
`Why not come down to my place for the rest of your time.
I've a shooting party down for the week-end. Mixed crowd, of course—some funny people have got the money these days—hut it can't be helped. What about it?'
`Where is your place?'
Felgate, in Kent—near Folkestone.'
'Folkstone is near Lympne, isn't it?'
`Next door to it. Why?'
Òh, I just wondered,' said Biggles vaguely. He did not think it worth while explaining that he had a machine at Lympne and had visions of putting in a few hours' flying-time if the weather improved.
`Good enough,' said Harboard as they parted. 'I shall expect you tonight in time for dinner.'
Ì'll be along,' agreed Biggles. 'I'll come down in mufti, I think, and forget the war for a bit. Cheerio—see you later.'
Biggles, clad in grey flannels and a sweater, deep in a novel from his host's library, paused to pull his chair a little nearer to the hall fire. It was bitterly cold for the time of the year; lowering skies and a drizzle of rain had put all idea of flying out of his head, and he settled down for a comfortable spell of reading.
He frowned as the door opened to admit a party of men and girls whose heavy boots and mackintoshes proclaimed them to be a shooting party, bound for the fields. At their head was Frazer, a big, florid, middle-aged man to whom Biggles had taken an instant dislike when they had been introduced the previous evening. Biggles did not like the easy air of familiarity with which he had addressed him. His loud, overbearing manner, particularly when there were women present, irritated his frayed nerves. He had noticed on arrival that none of the party was in uniform, and he wondered vaguely why a man of such obviously splendid physique as Frazer was not in the Army; to save any possible embarrassment he had asked to be introduced as Mr. Bigglesworth. He was not left long in wonder, for Frazer, tapping his chest ruefully with his forefinger, complained at frequent intervals of the weak heart that kept him at. home and thus prevented him from showing in actual practice how the war could be ended forthwith. The fact that he was obviously making a lot of money out of the war did nothing to lessen Biggles'
irritation, and these were the reasons why he had decided to remain in the hall with a book rather than have to suffer the fellow's society with the shooting party.
`Well, well,' observed Frazer in affected surprise, with his eyes on the slippers on Biggles' feet. 'Not coming out with the guns?'
`No, thanks,' replied Biggles civilly.
`Huh! I should have thought a bit of exercise would have done you good; a shot or two at the birds will get your eye in for when you join the Army.' The sneer behind the words was unmistakable.
Ìt's too confoundedly cold, and I hate getting my feet wet,' said Biggles quietly, keeping his temper with an effort.
Ì can't understand you young fellows,' went on Frazer, when the snigger that had followed Biggles' words had subsided. Ànyway, I should have thought there were plenty of things you could do with a war on besides rotting over a fire.'
Again the inference was obvious, and Biggles choked back a hot retort. 'Bah! Why argue,
' was his unspoken thought. The man was in his element, holding the floor; well, let him.
He eyed Frazer coldly, without answering, and it may have been something in his eye that caused Frazer to shift uneasily and turn to the outside door.
'Well, let's get along, folks,' he said loudly. 'Somebody has got to keep the home fires burning, I suppose,' was his parting shot as the door closed behind them.
Biggles, left alone, smiled to himself for a moment, and then settled down to his book.
The telephone in the next room shrilled noisily—again, and yet again, and Biggles breathed a prayer of thankfulness when he heard Lea, the butler, answer it. He was halfway through the first chapter of his book when the phone again jarred his nerves with its insistent ja
ngle. He laid down his book with a weary sigh. 'My gosh! I can't stand this infernal racket,' he muttered, and looked up to see Lea standing white-faced in the doorway.
`What's the matter, Lea?' he asked irritably. 'Is the house on fire or something?'
`No, sir; but Mr. Harboard is out. He is the chief Constable, you know, and they say that two German seaplanes are bombing Ramsgate.'
`What?' Biggles leapt up as if he had been stung by a hornet. `Say that again.'
`Two German seaplanes
Biggles made a flying leap to the window and cast a critical eye at the sky. The rain had stopped and small patches of blue showed through the scudding clouds.
`Quick!' he snapped, every nerve tingling with excitement. `Get the car round.'
The butler, shaken from his normal sedate bearing by the brisk command, departed almost at a run.
`Get me to Lympne as quickly as you can; put your foot down and keep it down,' Biggles told the chauffeur a few minutes later, as, with flying-coat, cap and goggles over his arm, he jumped into the big saloon car.
For fifteen minutes Biggles fretted and fumed with impatience as the car tore through the narrow Kentish lanes.
`Go on,' he shouted, when they arrived at the aerodrome, `straight up to the hangar.'
The guard at the gate challenged him, but Biggles yelled him aside with a swift invective.
`Get that Camel out of No. 3 shed,' he snapped at a group of idling mechanics. 'Number 9471—jump to it!' and then he burst into the C.O.'s office.
`Captain Bigglesworth, 266 Squadron, on leave from overseas, sir. You remember I reported last week?'
Òh, yes, I remember,' said the C.O. 'What's the hurry?
`Two Huns are bombing Ramsgate—I'm going for them. I've got ammunition—and I had two belts put in in case I ran into anything coming over.'
`But
Biggles was already on his way; he took a flying leap into the cockpit.
`Switches off, petrol on,' sang out the ack-emma.
`Petrol on,' echoed Biggles.
`Contact!'
`Contact!'
The Bentley started with a roar and sent a cloud of smoke whirling aft in the slipstream.
He adjusted his goggles, waved the chocks away, and a few minutes later was in the air heading N.N.W., with the coastline cutting across the leading edge of his starboard wing.
He had no maps, but he estimated the distance to Ramsgate to be about fifteen to twenty miles, not more; with the wind under his tail he should be there in less than ten minutes.
Deal was on his starboard quarter now, and Sandwich loomed ahead; in the distance he could see the sweep in the coast where the North Foreland jutted out.
He had been flying low in order to watch the landmarks, but now he pulled the joystick back and climbed through a convenient hole in the clouds. Above, the cloud-tops were bathed in brilliant sunshine, and, still climbing, he looked eagerly ahead for the enemy machines. The only machine he could see was an old F.E. circling aimlessly some distance inland, so he pointed his nose north-west and headed out to sea in an endeavour to cut the raiders off should they have started on the homeward journey.
For a quarter of an hour he flew thus, peering ahead and around him for the hostile machines. Doubts began to assail him. Suppose the whole thing was a wild rumour?
What a fool he had been not to get some reliable information before he started. His altimeter was registering 10,000 feet; the clouds through which he could occasionally see patches of grey sea, were far below.
He commenced a wide circle back towards land, noting that he had already ventured much too far away to be safe should his engine give trouble. He throttled back to three-quarters and for a few minutes cruised quietly in a due easterly direction, touching his rudder-bar from time to time to permit a clear view ahead.
A movement—or was it instinct—made him glance to the north. Far away, flying close together, were two machines—seaplanes. He was round in an instant heading north-west to cut
them off Five minutes later he 'Could see that he would catch them, for they were appreciably nearer. He could tell the moment they saw him, for they turned in a more northerly direction away from him and put their noses down for more speed. A few minutes later he could see the black crosses and the gunners standing up waiting to receive him.
`Well,' mused Biggles, 'this is no place to mess about in a Camel. If I run out of fuel, or if they get a shot in my tank, I'm sunk. I must have been crazy to come right out here. It's neck or nothing if I'm going to do anything. Here goes.'
He pushed his nose down for speed and then pulled up in a steep zoom under the elevators of the nearest machine; but the pilot had seen his move and swung broadside on and exposed him to the full view of his gunner, who at once opened fire; but his shooting was wild, and Biggles could see his tracer passing harmlessly some distance away. The Camel pilot deliberately hung back until the other had emptied his drum of ammunition and started to replace it with a new one; then he zoomed in to point-blank range, and, knowing that he might not get such another opening, held his fire until his sights were aligned on the forward cockpit, and then pressed his triggers.
The nose of the Brandenburg seaplane tilted sharply upwards, and then dropped; the machine made an aimless half-turn that quickly became a 'spin as the nose dropped, and then whirled downwards with the engine still at full throttle.
Biggles fell off on to his wing and peered through his centre section for the second seaplane. For a moment he could not see it, and when he did spot it it was going down in a steep dive towards the clouds.
`Looks as if he's lost his nerve,' muttered the Camel pilot, as he pushed his stick forward and went down like a thunderbolt in the wake of the diving German.
He opened fire some distance away at a range which he knew quite well could not be effective unless a lucky shot found its mark, but he did it with the deliberate intention of rattling an obviously nervous foe.
The Brandenburg dropped tail-up into the cloud-bank and
Biggles carefully followed it; he found it again just below the clouds and resumed the chase. Just ahead, a wide patch of blue sky showed through a gap in the cloud, and Biggles closed in quickly, but the German swung round in obvious indecision.
`The fool can't be thinking of trying to land,' thought Biggles in astonishment, and fired a series of short bursts to confuse his opponent still more.
But the German had had enough, and apparently having no wish to share the fate of his companion, cut off his engine and commenced to glide down towards the water.
A new possibility occurred to Biggles. 'If he gets that kite down on the water safely the gunner might be able to hold me off.' A floating target would be more difficult to hit than one in the air, for he dare not risk overshooting his mark. 'Well, I've got to cramp his style,' thought Biggles, and he dived recklessly at the seaplane, guns streaming tracer, to which, to his surprise, the enemy gunner made no reply. 'What a gutless hound,' he thought. 'Hullo
there he goes!'
The Brandenburg pilot, in his haste to get out of that withering blast of lead, had tried to land too fast; the floats struck the surface of the sea with a terrific splash; the nose buried itself under the water and the tail cocked high into the air. Biggles watched both occupants climb along the elevators, and, circling low, pointed in the direction of the shore, in the hope that they would realize that he had gone for help.
`You are wanted on the phone, sir,' said Lea, the butler, apologetically.
It was late in the afternoon. Biggles put down his book and hurried to the instrument, for he was expecting the call, and anxious to hear the fate of the two German airmen. He picked up the receiver.
`Major Sidgrove speaking, from Lympne,' said a voice. `Captain Bigglesworth here, sir,'
replied Biggles.
`Good show, Bigglesworth; we found both machines in the sea. The crew of the first were both dead—gunshot wounds—but the others were all right except for shoc
k and exposure.
Rather funny; the pilot had a brace of beautiful black eyes that the observer had given him. The pilot was an N.C.O. under the command of an officer in the rear seat; the Germans fly like that, you know.'
Biggles knew well enough, but he made no comment.
Àpparently it was the pilot's first show,' went on the Major, ànd when you started shooting he went to bits. He made for the water with the officer beating hell out of him and yelling for him to get into the clouds. He was swiping him over the nut instead of shooting at you. I've never seen a man so peeved in my life. Well, that's all. I thought you'd like to know. I've forwarded your report to the Ministry. They've been on the phone wanting to know what the dickens you were doing at Lympne, where you got the Camel, who gave you instructions, and goodness knows what else! They seem more concerned about that than about the two Huns—they would be! I expect they'll send for you during the next day or two; where can I get hold of you if they do?'
`Maranique,' replied Biggles shortly. 'I'm going back tomorrow. Many thanks, Major; goodbye.'
Biggles hung up the receiver and returned to the hall. The door opened and the shooting party, covered with mud, entered. Frazer looked at Biggles in undisguised disgust.
`Still keeping the fire warm,' he sneered. 'You should have been with us; we've had great sport.'
`So have I,' said Biggles softly.
Ì got in some pretty shooting,' continued Frazer. `Funny; so did I,' said Biggles, smiling faintly.
`You! Why, you haven't been out. I can't understand why some people are so careful about their skins.'
One of the girls came forward.
`There,' she said. 'I've brought you a little souvenir.' She laid a small white feather on the table.
`Thanks,' said Biggles evenly. 'I've always wanted a feather in my cap. I've got one today.'
Mr. Harboard bustled into the room.
`What's that—what's that—feather in your cap? I should say it will be. I shouldn't be surprised if you got the D.S.O. Well
done, my boy; you deserve it.'
`D. S. 0 . —D. S.O.
?' echoed Frazer stupidly. 'What the devil for?'
51 Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter Page 10