Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles must have sensed the penetrating stare at the back of his head, for he half-glanced over his shoulder and then pointed upwards. The Professor, after a quick glance at Algy, who was flying on his left, to make sure they were a safe distance apart, followed the outstretched finger with his eyes.

  An aeroplane, a British Bristol Fighter, was spinning earthwards a few miles to the east, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. Instinctively the Professor's eyes lifted, seeking the cause of the disaster. But except for a filmy white cloud drifting slowly across it the sky was unbroken from horizon to horizon.

  "That's queer!" he muttered, for he knew that things did not happen in the sky of France without reason- usually a very good one-and he returned his gaze to the Bristol, half-expecting to see the pilot make some effort to pull out of the spin. But no such thing happened. A curious fascination held the Professor's horrified gaze, and his eyes followed the Bristol until it struck the earth with a crash that he almost fancied he could hear above the noise of his engine, about two miles behind the German Lines.

  A cloud of smoke and a streamer of flame leapt upwards, and he turned away, sick at heart, to where Biggles was still probing the sky with his eyes, goggles pushed up, a puzzled expression on his face.

  The Professor saw him lean over the side of his cockpit, sweep the ground with a long, penetrating stare, and then turn in the direction of the Line.

  "Well, what did you make of that?" Biggles asked, after they had landed and removed their flying kit. "I couldn't believe my eyes when he went right down like that, straight into the ground. There wasn't a Hun in the sky, and no archie I'll swear to that. He was spinning when I first spotted him, at about six thousand feet, I should think. And there isn't a Hun machine in France that could have been so high in the sky that I couldn't have picked him out if he had been there!" "Controls broke?" suggested the Professor

  "Broke-fiddlesticks!" snapped Biggles. "That would set the machine on fire, would it?"

  "More likely the gunner accidentally fired his Very pistol into his own cockpit, or into the gravity tank, and set the machine alight like that," volunteered Algy.

  "That might have been it," admitted Biggles, frowning -"although it doesn't seem likely to me. All the same, I should feel inclined to let it go at that, but for one thing -or, rather, three things: three crashes on the ground within a mile of the same spot! They were burnt out, so I couldn't say whether they were our own machines or Huns. But I've got a nasty feeling in my bones-only a feeling, mind you-that they were ours. I don't know what makes me think that, but there you are. There are four machines there now, piled up within an area of a mile. Why? That's what I want to know. It isn't the hunting ground for any particular German 'circus'. What did it, then? It looks like a new form of Hun devilment to me, and I feel like giving that place a wide berth. You'd better do the same. It isn't healthy. Well, come on we'd better go and report the matter. 'One of our machines failed to return', will be in the communiqué tonight."

  The mystery of the falling Bristol Fighter stuck in Biggles' mind all that night, and daybreak found him in his Camel, heading for the spot, drawn by some unaccountable fascination, almost against his will. He had never made any secret of the fact that anything to do with war-flying that he did not understand worried him, and this was no exception. Why a Bristol should fall in flames out of a clear sky was a mystery for which he could find no satisfactory solution. Nevertheless, for his own peace of mind, it was a problem he would have to solve before he could once more proceed on ordinary routine work.

  He was approaching the suspicious area now, every nerve braced and taut. Unceasingly his eyes roved the early-morning sky, clear, yet pregnant with a menace- a danger he could not define. He turned his eyes downwards and examined the ground closely, and he caught his breath sharply as he counted the number of crashes visible. There were five. Had he missed one when he had counted them yesterday? Had there been five crashes all the time? No, those circles of black-charred earth were too conspicuous to be overlooked. Another machine had "gone west"!

  His eyes lifted. Nothing above him. Eastward, toward the morning sun, they turned. Nothing there, either. What about the ground? A quick look revealed an apparently harmless French landscape-a few scattered hamlets, and the ruins of the once magnificent Chateau Contrableu, wantonly destroyed by vandals in the German advance, shining whitely in its park of verdant green. Even the roads were deserted. In the far distance a train was crawling along the Lille-Le Cateau railway, the only movement on the sleeping landscape.

  Something-perhaps it was instinct-made him glance upwards, and simultaneously, so swiftly did his muscles respond to the will of his brain, he flung the Camel over in a wild turn that was neither a half-roll nor a bank, but an odd mixture of both. He had a fleeting glimpse of a dozen little white snake-like streamers of smoke missing his wing-tip by inches and then he was stunting as he had never stunted in his life before, all the time working his way towards the lines.

  A minute later he paused and snatched another upward glance. Only a small fleecy cloud, too large for an archie burst, broke the blue surface of the sky as it drifted sluggishly before the light breeze towards Germany. He hurried from the vicinity, still watching it closely, for a grim suspicion was already forming in his mind. He recalled that there had been just such a cloud in the sky on the previous day, when the unlucky Bristol had fallen on the long drop to oblivion. He watched the cloud until it became no more than a filmy shadow and finally dispersed in the light breeze. Then, in deep thought, he turned homewards.

  "That was no cloud!" he told himself, as he landed and taxied in. "Yet what could it have been?"

  No known form of archie could have made a burst of smoke that size-and what were those snake-like tendrils that left sinister trails in the air, like falling rocket-sticks? Where had they come from? What sort of machine had fired them?

  He was aroused from his reverie by the urgent voice of Smyth, his flight-sergeant.

  "How did this happen, sir?" Smyth was asking curiously.

  Biggles leapt from the cockpit and hurried to the wing-tip which the N.C.O. was examining closely. A hole, about the size of a teacup, had been burned clean through the wing. It looked as if a red-hot iron had been placed on the plane and allowed to burn its way right through it, to fall out on the other side.

  The flight-sergeant bent over it, sniffing.

  "Matches!" he said. "That's what it smells like to me -matches-the sort that have red tops!"

  "You've got it!" exclaimed Biggles. "That's it! Matches! Phosphorus! They're throwing up big masses of phosphorus, with an explosive charge inside to scatter it! The charge bursts and sprays the stuff all over the sky, and whatever it falls on it burns The piece that did that," he went on, pointing to the hole "must have gone slap through without setting the fabric alight. Maybe it was because the wing-tip was travelling so fast-I certainly was moving a bit-that the very speed put the flame out before it could catch hold. Flying's going to be a nice game if it starts raining phosphorus!"

  "What are you going to do about it, sir?" asked the N.C.O.

  "Do about it? There's only one thing to be done about it that I can see, and that is, find the instrument that shoots the stuff, and then put a lid on it-and the sooner it's done, the better! The idea of flying with lumps of red-hot phosphorus dropping down the back of my neck isn't my idea of aviation-not by a long shot!"

  He found the other members of his flight having breakfast in the dining-room, impatiently awaiting his return.

  "Well, have you found it?" inquired Algy, with his mouth full of toast.

  "Not exactly," Biggles replied. "But I know what it is, so it can only be a question of time before we run the beast to earth."

  "Beast?"

  "Yes-a dragon that spits fire and brimstone!"

  "Dragon?"

  "You heard what I said! Come and look at my wing if you don't believe it!" invited Biggles, snatching a quick cup of coffee.

&nbs
p; "What are you going to do about it?" asked the Professor.

  "That's what Smyth wanted to know. We've got to find its lair and then give it a dose of its own medicine!"

  "Who's going to find it?" said Algy.

  "Ah, I thought you'd ask that!" said Biggles. "The man who fancies his chance at it is likely to get the seat of his trousers warmed up. Our best chance would be to wait for a cloudy day. There's some cloud coming up now," he added, turning towards the window.

  "The weather report says wind high, south-east, fair at first, unsettled later, thunder locally," volunteered the Professor.

  "Well, if we can find some good clouds to cover our approach, we may be able to snatch a quick glance or two. In that case we had better work independently, circling left so that we don't barge into each other."

  A few minutes later the three Camels were in the air, heading for the scene of action. Biggles, leading, was by no means satisfied with their plan, yet he could think of nothing better. Openly to approach the area where they had seen the unlucky Bristol fall flaming from the sky was obviously suicidal. A close investigation could only be made at great risk. Yet how could they investigate without approaching close? That was the problem that baffled him as they drew near.

  At his signal the three machines went off on different courses, each pilot employing any method he wished in an attempt to locate the machine or gun that dealt death so effectively. That it was a gun of some sort Biggles had no doubt, although it would have to be one of a large calibre to fire a charge heavy enough to form the huge white cloud that resulted from the burst.

  "It might be a sort of mortar," he reflected-"a large edition of those used by the infantry in the trenches."

  He glanced around at the sky. Great masses of dark raincloud were sweeping up from the south-east towards the place where the burnt-out crashes told their pitiful story, and he eyed the panorama moodily, uncertain how to commence his search. He saw the other two Camels, now some distance apart, disappear into a low surging belt of cloud, and then turned his attention to the ground.

  For ten minutes he circled nervously, ready to act swiftly at an instant's notice, for this searching for an unknown antagonist was nerve-racking work. Not a mark, not a sign, not even the broad wheel-tracks of a gun-limber or an ammunition lorry showed anywhere to give him a clue as to the possible position of the dragon that spat a fire more devastating than those of legend or fairy-tale! Only the chateau, about three miles away, pathetic in its fallen glory, formed an outstanding landmark. He eyed it grimly. Nothing could have appeared more innocent. And yet, was there not something suspicious about its very innocence? Where were the troops that might reasonably be expected to have been billeted within those protecting walls? Where were the transport wagons, the horses of which could have been so comfortably stabled in those rambling outbuildings?

  With suspicion growing in his mind, the place began to wear a more sinister aspect. Was this the lair of the monster? He did not know neither could he think of any feasible plan to put his suspicions to the test. The idea of flying closer to it did not fill him with enthusiasm.

  "Well," he decided, "whatever is to be done will have to be done soon."

  For the clouds were thickening and dropping nearer to the ground, where he had no doubt they were precipitating their moist contents in the form of rain.

  Where were the others? He glanced upwards, searching the atmosphere through a rift in the clouds. Then, without warning, from the opposite cloud-bank he saw something emerge. It was a sight so utterly unexpected that for a full minute he could only stare in amazement. Straight out of the swirling grey mist, sailing serenely across the open on a course that would take them immediately over the chateau, was a formation of eleven German Albatross scouts.

  But that was not all a formation of hostile scouts had long ago ceased to inspire him with either astonishment or alarm. Trailing along with the black-crossed machines, and not more than ten feet away from the rearmost, was a Camel. The spectacle of a lone British machine flying in a formation of Hun scouts was so utterly grotesque that he was unable to make up his mind whether to laugh or be angry.

  He saw, or rather he felt, the leader of the German machines mark him down, as he could hardly fail to do, and change direction towards him. And then he saw a sight that was to linger in his memory for all time.

  The pilot of the rear German machine, seeing another machine near him out of the corner of his eye, turned his head casually to see who it was. Biggles saw him start violently as his amazed glance fell upon the flaunting red-white-and-blue cockade on the tail of the Camel. It almost seemed as if the Camel pilot realised his mistake at the same moment, for there was a flurry of tracer bullets that brought half a dozen more Huns round in a flash, and the Camel shot into a cloud-like a minnow with a shoal of pike on his tail.

  Biggles had a fleeting glimpse of the hopeless confusion into which the discovery had thrown the Boche pilots as they swerved wildly to avoid collision and then he, too, flung his Camel into the nearest cloud and dived in the direction of the Line. The prospect of getting mixed up with a crowd of Huns, or even British machines, for that matter, in the raincloud was too risky to be lightly undertaken. He breathed a sigh of relief as he emerged once more into clear sky, and roared across the Line to safely, where he could give the unusual occurrence further thought.

  Another Camel broke from the clouds a mile to the south, the pilot also racing towards his own country and safety. Presently a third emerged, the pilot streaking for Maranique as if intent on reaching home in the shortest possible time.

  Biggles joined the nearest machine, and recognised Algy, laughing hysterically, in the other cockpit. Side by side they followed the homeward-bound Camel towards the aerodrome.

  Landing, they taxied in, to find the Professor waiting for them on the tarmac. His face was rather pale from shock, or excitement, and he made no attempt to conceal either sensation as he unfolded his story.

  "Are you tired of my company, or something?" inquired Biggles sarcastically. "What's the idea-formating with a lot of Huns? Aren't we good enough for you?"

  "Rats to you!" the Professor chuckled. "If you'll shut up a minute I'll tell you what happened. I was circling round, trying to spot the dragon, making the chateau the centre of the circle because I had a feeling that those walls were not as innocent as they looked."

  "I had the same idea," Biggles said. "Go on."

  "Well, every now and then I spotted you two at different points of the compass, and then I didn't see you for some time. But then I picked you up, as I thought, just disappearing into a cloud. I thought the best thing I could do was to close up behind you, because the weather was thickening fast, and I didn't want to lose you again. I figured it out that we would all emerge from the other side of the cloud together. So we did, if it comes to that. Only it wasn't you at all! The funny part about it was I didn't spot my mistake for a bit. I noticed that we had come out of the cloud, and I could see some machines in front of me out of the corner of my eye, but I was really paying more attention to the ground. When I looked up I found I was in the middle of a circus of Huns. At first I couldn't believe it-thought I was dreaming. But when I realised it was true I got so completely shattered that I didn't know what to do, and that's a fact. Then I spotted that we were nearly over the top of the chateau, and it suddenly struck me that if I could throttle back a bit where the Huns might not notice me, I might get a close squint of the middle of the chateau. I reckoned that the gun, or whatever it is, daren't shoot while I was so close to the Huns, for fear of hitting its own people."

  "Pretty good!" grinned Biggles. "Go on."

  "Well," continued the Professor, "the rear Hun spotted me just as we were passing over the building, and I'll never forget the look on his face as long as I live. His eyes popped out so far that they nearly pushed his goggles off. When I saw that I was spotted I had to bolt for it, of course."

  "So I saw," grinned Biggles.

  "Yes,"
went on the Professor "I bolted, and I don't mind because I'd spotted it."

  "Spotted what?" asked Biggles.

  "The dragon!" was the reply.

  "You saw it?" cried Biggles and Algy together.

  "Well, I can't exactly say I saw it," admitted the Professor, "but I saw all I needed to see. The middle part of the building is hollow. It's all scooped out like the cone of a volcano, giving a clear view upwards to the people inside. I saw them, all clustered round a big black thing. When they saw me they started dragging a canvas curtain across the top-but they weren't quick enough. When I looked back the curtain was in place, and it looked like a roof-the prettiest bit of camouflage I ever saw in my life. Well, it's there. The question is now, what are we going to do about it? Who fancies his chance as St. George?"

  "We shall have to act pretty quickly now they know it's been spotted, or they'll move the thing," declared Biggles. "But it's no use being in such a hurry that we bite off more than we can chew. The man who flies over the top of that dragon's lair, or anywhere near the top of it, is likely to get a brace of dragon's eggs in his eye. We know that only too well. Wait a minute-let me think, I've got it!" he went on. "We'll blind the beast first."

  "Blind it? How?" cried Algy.

  "Smoke! We'll give it a dose of its own medicine. Now, this is my idea, and if anyone can think of a better plan cough it up. Two of us will get a load of those smoke-bombs the infantry use-there should be plenty of them at the nearest depot. We'll get well on the windward side, and lay 'em good and thick, keeping pretty low outside the arc of fire of the dragon. The wind will carry the smoke over the chateau, so that the gunners won't be able to see a blessed thing. The third man then nips in and drops a bunch of Cooper bombs in the middle of it. If he scores a hit, the place should go up like an ammunition dump, with all those phosphorus bombs they must have got tucked away inside there. You found the beast, Professor, so-do you want to do the bombing?"