Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  At first he could only see two players in a game which he could not understand. A little to his left, and a trifle below him, was one of those curious small wartime airships known as Blimps, apparently steering an erratic course over an invisible switchback. Almost immediately under it was the long, sleek form of a destroyer, most of the crew of which were staring upwards at the airship. From time to time both craft changed their courses suddenly, and presently it dawned upon the watching Camel pilot that they were acting in a sort of vague unison. When the Blimp turned, the destroyer turned. But of the two, the surface craft was the faster in the face of the stiffish head-wind that had sprung up, and the antics of the Blimp were caused by the frantic efforts of its pilot to keep up with the other.

  "Apparently I'm not the only one who plays the fool on the high seas!" murmured Biggles, after watching this seemingly purposeless game for some moments. "I suppose that's what's called fleet co-operation. I wish I had my Camel here-I'd show 'em a spot of co-operation!"

  Then, quite by accident, he saw something else, something that brought a sharp hiss of understanding from his tightly-pursed lips. About two hundred yards in front of the destroyer, under the water, sped a long, grey, cigar-shaped shadow. That its crew were aware of the presence of its deadliest enemies above was at once apparent by its desperate manoeuvring. Being below the surface, it was, of course, invisible to the crew of the destroyer, and when

  it turned it temporarily eluded its pursuer, which over-ran it, and had to be brought back on its trail once more by the crew of the Blimp, who could see the tell-tale shadow all the time.

  "A German U-boat, by all that's marvellous!" grunted Biggles, a quiver of excitement surging through him. "It looks to me as if this is where I come in!" He turned flatly, for he dared not risk a steep bank in the crazy contraption he was flying, and sped along in the wake of the other three actors in this sinister game of follow-my-leader.

  His heart came into his mouth as he struck the "bump" of the Blimp's slipstream. For a moment, he thought his controls had gone, but the next instant the machine was on even keel again, diving steeply under the gas-bag towards the destroyer. Just what the crew of the Blimp or the destroyer might think of his butting-in he did not know, nor did he care. His eyes found and held the shadow of the under-water raider, towards which he was rushing at a speed that was likely to strip his wings off at any moment, although he was quite beyond caring about such matters in the excitement of the chase. Then his hand gripped the primitive bomb-release.

  As he closed in, the shadow of the enemy submarine became less distinct, owing to his rapidly diminishing height, but he marked its course before it disappeared altogether. He passed low over the destroyer, and tore down to where he judged the quarry would be. Then with a swift movement, he pulled the bomb-toggle, and jerked the control-stick back to zoom clear of the explosion.

  Of the precise happenings of the next few minutes he had no knowledge, for his next conscious recollection was of swimming feebly in a sea of oil, trying to get his oil-corroded goggles off his face, and, at the same time, keep himself afloat. He was still only half-conscious when willing hands seized him by the collar and hauled him into a boat, where he lay gasping like a stranded fish.

  "What were you carrying on that stick-and-wire chariot of yours-an arsenal?" asked the youthful skipper of the destroyer coldly, when Biggles had been dragged up on to the deck and more or less restored.

  "What happened?" Biggles gasped.

  "What happened? You thundering nearly blew us out of the water-that's what happened!" grinned the naval officer.

  "But what happened to the doctor's kite-that's what I want to know?" asked Biggles anxiously. "He thinks the world of it," he added plaintively.

  "Stand up and take a look," invited the captain.

  Biggles rose unsteadily to his feet, and staggered to the rail. The sea was thick with oil, in which pieces of wood and fabric told their own story.

  "Is that all that's left of it?" he asked sorrowfully.

  "I can't see any more of it, can you?" replied the skipper.

  "No!" admitted Biggles. "I can't! By the way, what happened to the sardine tin-the U-boat?"

  "You opened it all right!-look at the oil! The thing you dropped would have opened a squadron of tanks. I've never heard such a bang in my life. What was it?"

  "It was a patent bomb, made by a friend of mine!" replied Biggles. "He asked me to try it out for him."

  "Well, you seem to have done that all right," grinned the other. "It was a pity he wasn't here to see it. Your kite just went to bits, like a busted egg, and you fell out of the middle like a newly-hatched chicken. Lucky you weren't high enough to hurt yourself!"

  "Great Scott! How am I going to get back?" cried Biggles in dismay, suddenly realising his position. "I'm supposed to be flying on patrol over Bapaume!"

  "You'll be able to tell your old man that you did it over the North Sea, instead," grinned the other.

  "But where are you bound for?" demanded Biggles.

  "Rosyth," was the reply. "Scotland, you know."

  "I'll get court-martialled for this little jape!" muttered Biggles bitterly. "I suppose there's no way I could get on that thing, is there?" he asked, suddenly, pointing to the Blimp, which, with its engines idling, was hovering just above them. "If the pilot's got a heart, he could put me ashore somewhere!"

  "All right I'll signal to him to come down," promised the naval officer. "Those things can pretty well sit on the water when it's as calm as this. I could get him to put you ashore at Yarmouth-that's the nearest place he'll be able to manage."

  "Well, that would be better than Rosyth!" replied Biggles thankfully. "I could get someone to fly me down from the station at Yarmouth to Manston, and that isn't far from where I left my Camel. I might still get back to my squadron before dark, after all!"

  At four o'clock that afternoon a taxicab pulled up outside Dr. Duvency's house and discharged a flying-officer whose dishevelled appearance was certainly not in accordance with the best traditions of the Service. His shrunken uniform had apparently been made for someone several sizes smaller.

  Biggles-for it was he-paid the driver, and hurried along a path that led round the back of the house towards the field where he had left his Camel. He had already opened the throttle preparatory to swinging the propeller, when his action was stayed by a peremptory shout.

  "Hi! You there, what are you doing with that aeroplane?"

  Biggles turned, and saw a dejected figure coming towards him.

  "Why, hallo, doctor!" he cried. "It's me, and I'm getting ready to buzz off I shall have to put a jerk into it, too, or I shall be late."

  At the first sound of his voice, the doctor had pulled up short, then he came on at a sharp trot.

  "But, my dear boy, they told me you had been killed!" he cried excitedly. "Witnesses on shore distinctly stated that they saw you fall into the sea after the explosion!"

  "I fell into the sea right enough!" Biggles laughed. "Look at my perishing uniform! It looks as if I'd pinched my kid brother's Sunday suit! They put it on the engine to dry, and shrunk the blinkin' thing to nothing!"

  "Thank heavens you're all right! I've been nearly distracted, thinking it was all my fault. Not even the Air Ministry telegram could cheer me up!" declared the old man.

  "What telegram?" Biggles demanded.

  "Why, don't you know? No, of course you don't! The captain of the destroyer made a signal to the Admiralty that a U-boat had been blown clean out of the water by an aircraft carrying a new type of bomb. The Admiralty got in touch with the Air Ministry, and I have been requested to report to them tomorrow, bringing my plans and formula with me. I was going to call the explosive 'Biggelite'-in your memory!"

  "You dare, and I'll blow you and your works up with your own bombs!" retorted Biggles coldly. "I shan't hear the last of this, as it is, but if fellows in France were suddenly dished out with Biggelite bombs my life would be a misery. You call it 'Finalite'
!"

  "Why Finalite?" asked the doctor.

  "Because it finishes things off-it nearly finished me off, anyway!" explained Biggles.

  "Splendid! Finalite it is, then!" chuckled the old man.

  "Good! That's that, then!" agreed Biggles. "And you can send me a new uniform out of the profits. Well, I must be getting, or I shan't be back before dark!"

  It was a weary pilot who landed at Maranique that evening in the light of the last rays of the setting sun. A little group of pilots who had been sitting disconsolately on the tarmac rushed to meet him, anxiety swiftly turned to hilarity when they saw who it was.

  "Where have you been all day?" demanded Algy sternly. "You've given us a rare fright. We've rung up every squadron along the Line for news of you, but you seemed

  to have just faded-----" His voice trailed away to silence as Biggles pushed up his goggles, disclosing two lovely black eyes.

  "Where did you collect those?" asked one of the pilots.

  "If I told you that I'd fallen out of an aeroplane over the North Sea and bashed my face on the periscope of a German submarine you wouldn't believe me, would you?" said Biggles, as he climbed stiffly from the cockpit. "Well, I did, and I'm just going to make out my combat report- 'One U-boat shot down out of control and totally destroyed. Officially observed from shore.' That's more than any of you stick-in-the-muds can boast!"

  SCOTLAND FOR EVER!

  Biggles glanced at the watch on his instrument-board impatiently.

  "Another five minutes," he mused, as he noted that the hands indicated five minutes to eight, the hour marking the end of his patrol.

  He glanced behind him to make sure that Algy and the Professor were still in their places, and then eased the nose of his Camel plane until it pointed in the direction of the British Lines. He was glad when they came into view, for a leave pass-from France to home-was in his tunic pocket, and although he was not superstitious he had felt uneasy during the whole patrol. Somehow, he could not forget the fact that, for some unaccountable reason, ill-luck nearly always seemed to dog those who flew after that desirable document-a leave pass-had been issued.

  Biggles had been surprised that his pass had been issued, for rumours were abroad of a great German offensive, which all the world knew, if it came off, would be a last mighty thrust at Calais and the last great battle of the war. The German plans were being laid with care. This time there would be no mistake!

  Like a mighty battering-ram the German hordes would be flung against the hard-held British Lines, with what result no one could prophesy. All leave had been stopped for the infantry and the gunners, for the authorities had two important questions to answer: Where and when would the attack be launched? They did not know, and they were taking no risks.

  "Not for a day or two, anyhow, that's certain," Biggles told himself, as he snuggled lower in his cockpit, for the March air was bitterly cold and found its way through the weak places in his well-worn flying-coat. "Well, that's that!" he went on, with satisfaction, as he crossed the Lines and commenced a long glide towards the aerodrome.

  It struck him that there was a good deal of activity going on below, but he paid little heed to it, riveting his attention on the aerodrome, which he could now see in the distance. He reached for his Very pistol and fired the "wash-out" signal, which meant that the patrol was over and that the other two machines with him were at liberty to land independently. In answer to the signal, Algy and the Professor at once opened out and swung wide to allow their flight-commander to land first, as was usual, and Biggles began side-slipping steeply towards the hedge that marked the boundary of the aerodrome. At the last minute he levelled out, and the Camel bumped over the uneven ground, running to a stop at the very doors of the hangars.

  The pilot breathed a sigh of relief, pushed up his goggles, and glanced upwards to see if the other two machines were coming in. Satisfied that they were just gliding in over the hedge, he turned and slid swiftly from his cockpit to the ground.

  Almost before his feet touched the wet turf, he made a wild spring to regain his seat, but he was too late. Two pairs of grimy hands clutched both his arms simultaneously and dragged him back to the ground.

  He stared unbelievingly into the faces of two grinning, mud-coated German soldiers-saw a crowd of them beyond -then dropped his eyes to where the point of a bayonet was actually touching his tunic in the region of his stomach.

  Subconsciously he heard the sudden bellow of the engines of the other two Camel planes, as Algy and the Professor discovered the situation at the last moment and tore wildly into the air again, followed by a fierce but futile hail of fire from the German troops.

  To say that Biggles was stunned by the swift and incredible turn of events is to put it mildly. For a full minute-a long time for one accustomed to think and act with the speed of light-his brain reeled under the shock as he strove to grasp what had happened.

  Slowly the staggering truth dawned upon him. The presence of the German troops on the aerodrome could mean only one thing. The great German attack had been launched while he was in the air. The British Line had been smashed, and the enemy was pressing forward with speed. How rapid had been the advance, he could judge by the fact that the aerodrome presented its normal appearance. The sheds, the squadron office, and the officers' mess, as well as the air mechanics' quarters, were still intact-not destroyed as they certainly would have been had the C.O. received warning of what was happening.

  Biggles did not know, of course, that the same thing had happened at several British aerodromes, and that the first notice many people had had of the big advance was the presence of grey-coated German troops, and Uhlans charging across their aerodromes. Never was a retreat more sudden and overwhelming in its effect than that of the great Cambrai retreat of March, 1918.

  Biggles realised instantly that something terrible had happened, and that the position of the Allies was critical. For himself, the affair was tragic, although even now the full enormity of the tragedy had not penetrated his numbed brain.

  The Germans, who seemed to be in a good mood as a result of their victory, offered him no bodily harm, somewhat to his surprise. In fact, it was obvious at a glance that they themselves hardly knew what they were doing, so sudden and unexpected had been the breakthrough.

  For the moment he had been left, exactly where he had dismounted, with an armed guard, and although he looked longingly at his Camel, so near and yet so far, he made no move towards it, for he knew beyond doubt that such an action would be suicidal. For the Germans would shoot on the slightest provocation-for which they could hardly be blamed-and at such a point-blank range it was asking for a miracle to expect them to miss him.

  He decided swiftly that it was no earthly use just throwing his life away on the impulse of the moment. Sooner or later, a more reasonable opportunity to escape would present itself, and when that time came he would not be slow in taking advantage of it.

  An orderly now appeared, and, after a few words in German, the party moved off towards what that morning had been the squadron office of Squadron No. 266, R.F.C.

  Now, from the C.O.'s chair, a German officer regarded him coldly.

  "So," he said in quite good English, "you have had bad luck!"

  "You've said it in one," Biggles agreed.

  "Your name?" the officer demanded.

  "Bigglesworth-most people call me Biggles for short," he added, with a grin.

  "Rank?"

  "Captain."

  "Squadron?"

  Biggles shook his head.

  "That I must ask you to find out for yourself," he said.

  The German flushed.

  "It will pay you to be accommodating!" he said harshly.

  Biggles eyed him coolly.

  "My name and rank I have told you, and that, as you know, is as much as I am compelled to tell you by the rules of war. In fairness to you, and in order to save you wasting your time, I may as well say at once that I have no intention of imparting any fu
rther information of any sort. In fairness to myself, I trust you will not ask me. Just think what you would do if the positions were reversed!"

  The German looked at him with a curious expression on his face.

  "Your friends were fortunate!" he observed. "But for the fools outside showing themselves too soon, we should have captured three instead of one. Well, it makes little difference. For you, the war is over. Germany has broken your Line, and nothing can now stop our advance to Paris and to victory!"

  "That may be so," admitted Biggles, for, in the circumstances, the statement did not seem unreasonable in any case, it was hardly worth contradicting.

  "Well, your friends are gone-----"

  "But not forgotten," interrupted Biggles, whose keen ear had detected the distant sound of aero-engines. At the same time a pang of misgiving shot through him. Every step would be taken by the authorities to destroy the war material that had fallen into German hands, and if British squadrons were now returning to bomb the aerodrome, as he strongly suspected they were, he stood a fair chance of losing his life in the raid.

  The German officer cocked his ear and listened.

  "Our airmen are arriving!" he said triumphantly.

  "Yes, our airmen are arriving," agreed Biggles, not in the least surprised at the German's ignorance, for an infantryman could hardly be expected to tell the difference between the musical hum of the British Bentley engine and the deeper and more sinister growl of the German Benz or Mercedes. Biggles knew without looking that the machines arriving were British Camels, not German Albatrosses or Fokkers.

  Suddenly the notes of the engines increased in volume and there came a sound of rifle fire from outside. A German non-commissioned officer burst into the room, frantic with excitement. He started to say something, but the scream of a falling bomb drowned his words.

  Biggles, risking a thrust from a bayonet, flung himself flat on his face, and he was only just in time. There was a deafening crash outside, another, and then the squadron office seemed to leap into the air from the centre. Biggles was on his feet in a moment, gasping and choking in a blue cloud of acrid smoke. One glance revealed the full havoc caused by the bomb. The German officer lay motionless, half-buried under a pile of debris. The N.C.O. had completely disappeared, while the two guards were both struggling to rise, one groaning. The room itself was completely wrecked. Maps and pictures had fallen from the walls, files of documents had been blown from their cases, strewing their contents over the splintered furniture.