Biggles of the Camel Squadron

by Captain W E Johns

  Flicking a trickle of blood from his eyes, for his forehead had been grazed by a splinter, Biggles stepped quickly under the sagging doorway into the hall. As he expected, five or six flying-coats and helmets still hung from their pegs, just as they had been left by the departing officers of his squadron.

  He slipped one of the coats on, jammed a helmet on his head, then hurried along the corridor to the rear of the building, where the crash of bursting bombs told him that the work of destruction was still being pursued with vigour.

  Two German soldiers rushed past him, too taken up with their own safety to worry about him, or else they did not recognise him.

  Reaching the door, he paused for a moment, uncertain what to do next or which direction to take. In spite of his precarious position, a grin flickered across his face as he glanced upwards at the British scouts that were banking, wheeling, zooming, diving, and turning to dive again. The aerodrome was bedlam let loose, and the din terrific.

  Yet, in spite of the bombardment, little damage of real importance had been done. True, his Camel lay a tangled and twisted wreck of torn fabric and splintered wood, and the two end hangars were blazing furiously, but the ammunition store and armoury were intact, as was the petrol dump.

  After a brief survey of the scene, his first impulse was the most natural one-it was to get an aeroplane and escape! Any aeroplane would do as long as it would fly, and with this intention in view he darted towards the nearest hangar.

  Most of the Germans were busy seeking shelter, or firing at the Camels that were now raking the ground with streams of tracer bullets, and with his leather coat buttoned up there was nothing to indicate that he was not a German pilot or dispatch-rider.

  He reached the hangar, but had to fling himself flat as a Camel, with its wheels grazing the ground, bore down on him, its guns crackling. Glancing upwards as it passed over him he saw its number, and recognised Algy's machine.

  "That's the stuff, boy!" he murmured approvingly. There was no possible means by which he could convey his identity to the pilot, who had passed over him at a speed that could not have been much less than a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

  The immediate danger past, Biggles sprang to his feet and hurried into the hangar. To his bitter disappointment it was empty, except for half a dozen German soldiers skulking in a corner. They sprang to their feet, sheepishly, when they saw him, evidently mistaking him for a German officer. With a lordly wave of his arm that might have meant anything, he turned on his heel and ran round to the back of the hangar.

  Which way? He knew the direction where the British troops would be, but he had no idea how far away they were. One thing was certain-in order to reach them he would have to pass through the German Lines that had moved forward with the attack. Moreover, he had no doubt that a fierce battle was raging in that direction, as the British strove to stem the tide and the Germans endeavoured to press home their advantage. To make his way through the barrage that would be forming by the time he reached the spot, without being hit by one side or the other, was asking for the impossible. So, for the first time in his life, he was absolutely nonplussed. Presently the Camels would depart, when the Germans would recover their composure and start looking for their prisoner.

  The only course that seemed open to him was to find a hiding-place where he could lie low until the tide of war surged over him, when it might be possible to devise some plan for reaching the nearest frontier. That the aerodrome was lost was certain, and he eyed a stack of petrol cans that had escaped the raiders. He looked at the ammunition hut, where the squadron's bombs as well as machine-gun ammunition were stored. It was a pity it hadn't been destroyed, he reflected, for the Germans would soon be using it against them. Well, he would see what could be done about it.

  The Camels were rallying now, obviously preparing to depart, so there was little time to lose. Behind him the sheds were still blazing. To his left, the mess and anteroom were still standing, although they had suffered considerably. German troops were everywhere, some lying down firing their rifles at the Camels, others gathered at certain points under the supervision of officers and N.C.O.s. None of them was paying any attention to him.

  Suddenly making up his mind, he whipped up a can of petrol in each hand and walked briskly towards the ammunition store. He would prevent that falling into German hands, anyway! The door, as he expected, was locked, but he put his shoulder to it and forced it open.

  It was the work of a moment to unscrew the caps from the petrol tins, fling these inside, and throw a lighted match on the gurgling liquid that gushed out. So far so good, he thought, as he beat a hasty retreat.

  Which way? He started off towards the village of Maranique, which would normally have been well behind the British Lines, but the appearance of a surging crowd of German troops, and the brisk rattle of rifle fire, caused him to change his mind and turn hurriedly towards the only available hiding-place-the ruins of the officers' mess.

  He reached it without being challenged, and glanced inside. The German officer still lay where he had fallen, but his eyes were wide open, and on the appearance of his late prisoner his hand moved rapidly.

  Biggles sprang sideways as the hand reappeared gripping a revolver, and a bullet buried itself in the wall. He stooped at the end of his jump, snatched up the loose leg of a chair, and without hesitation brought it down on the German's head.

  "You hold that, and lie still for a bit!" he growled.

  A sudden noise of shouting sent him swiftly to a window. Clouds of black smoke were streaming across the aerodrome from the burning ammunition hut, towards which a crowd of Germans were hurrying under the direction of an N.C.O. with the obvious intention of subduing the flames, if possible. From another direction a fresh crowd was converging upon the mess.

  "I'm sunk!" Biggles muttered, looking around desperately. "If they come in here I'm done for!"

  Only one place of concealment was open to him-a gaping hole in the ceiling, through which the bomb had crashed and demolished a large part of it, exposing a dark cavity between the ceiling of the room and the rafters of the sloping roof.

  Without further delay he took a running jump, seized the edge of the ceiling-which rocked sickeningly in his grasp-then pulled himself into the recess.

  He was not a moment too soon. Hardly had he wriggled along to the end wall, and stretched himself on the floor in the darkest place, than a party of Germans bundled into the building and took up positions at the windows. At the same instant there was a terrific burst of rifle fire from somewhere near at hand, and it took him a minute or two to realise that it was the small-arms ammunition exploding in the heat of the flames. A moment later there was a mighty roar as the ammunition hut blew up, and the air became black with fumes.

  Almost stunned by the explosion and the clamour below, he lay still, wondering vaguely what would happen next. He was soon to know! There came a long, whinnying howl, followed immediately by a vicious plop! -and again the place rocked to the roar of an explosion. Then came another and another, until the air was filled with the shriek of shells, punctuated with explosions.

  "It's the British guns!" groaned Biggles. "They're shelling us now!" He could do nothing except remain where he was and hope for the best. "What a war!" he muttered, half-sick with the din and anxiety. "What a war!"

  Then came more shouting from below, and rifle fire of such intensity that it brought a faint gleam of hope to his mind. The British were counter-attacking! If they could retake the aerodrome he would be saved!

  The din in the room underneath became indescribable. And then his ear caught a sound that set his heart palpitating violently. He felt the roof sag as if under a heavy weight, and the next minute a German soldier hauled himself up into the cavity and lay flat, staring down into the room. Then came another, but they did not so much as glance in his direction. They both lay flat and stretched their arms downwards for something that was being handed up to them from below. The muzzle of a German maxim-gun came
into view, and then the whole weapon. The first German quickly hacked a hole through the soft felt roofing. The gun was dragged into position, and began spitting viciously.

  From time to time a voice of authority from below shouted to the two men manipulating the gun, but Biggles had no idea what was said. Box after box of ammunition was handed up and worked through the gun, and presently the firing below decreased in volume.

  For a few minutes Biggles struggled to understand what was going on, and then the solution burst upon him. The machine-gun was holding up the advance of the returning British troops!

  "So that's it, is it!" he breathed.

  The knowledge that the gun was probably mowing down scores of British Tommies put a different complexion on matters escape now became a matter of secondary consideration. At all costs the gun must be silenced, though Biggles knew quite well that he could not hope to fight the crowds surging in the ante-room.

  Still, he might put the gun out of action for a few minutes, either by damaging it or by toppling it bodily through the hole into the room below.

  The next instant he was wriggling like a snake towards the gunners, who, unconscious of their danger, were in the act of reloading. On his way his hand closed over a length of rafter that had been ripped off by the bomb, and he clung to it desperately.

  He was on the gunners before they were aware of his presence. There was no room to wield the improvised club above his head, but he rose to his knees and swung it around horizontally, putting his full weight behind the blow.

  The first gunner, as if warned by instinct, looked up at the precise moment that the weapon reached him. The rough edge caught him slap in the face and lifted him bodily through the hole as if he had been a feather cushion.

  The force of the blow was such that the wood splintered in Biggles' grasp, leaving him clutching a jagged piece about two feet long. Before the second gunner had time to grasp what was happening, Biggles, using his weapon like a bayonet, prodded him violently in the pit of the stomach, and then, as the other doubled up, brought it down with a resounding whack on the back of the gunner's head.

  The German collapsed limply across the gun, and Biggles, without further ado, kicked him through the hole, where he crashed to the floor, narrowly missing an officer who had at that moment arrived to see what the unusual sounds meant.

  Breathing heavily, Biggles paused in his work and stared straight down into the startled faces of a dozen German soldiers! With a gasp of exertion he sprang to the gun, dragged it from its temporary emplacement, and jerked the muzzle downwards.

  For perhaps two seconds he fumbled with the unusual firing arrangements, while bullets tore and ripped through the flimsy woodwork around him then his thumbs closed over the firing button and jabbed it viciously.

  It is impossible to describe the scene of confusion that followed. Biggles, quite beside himself now that the fighting fever was upon him, traversed the floor from end to end in long bursts. Below, all was pandemonium, yells mingling with the crash of rifles and the ripping of woodwork.

  Then came a sound that sent the blood surging to his head. It was a wild, ringing, British cheer.

  As one man, the surviving Germans fled helter-skelter through the doorway, and Biggles sank limply across the gun as the line of troops in familiar British "tin" helmets, khaki tunics, and kilts of a Scots regiment poured into the room, a sergeant at their head.

  "Hey, sling a bomb in yon hole, Angus!" roared the sergeant. "Some o' them may still be skulkin' aboot!"

  Biggles, still dazed, saw a brawny Highlander whip out a black, egg-shaped thing from his pocket his arm went back like a bowler's------

  "Och hi! Hold hard!" yelled Biggles.

  The effect of his words was comical. The sergeant's mouth gaped open and his eyes goggled in his head.

  "Hoots, mon!" said a voice.

  "Never mind hooting!" said Biggles. "Help me down!"

  An officer burst through the doorway, revolver in hand, but he stopped dead as his eyes fell on the smoke-blackened face peering down at him.

  "Come on doon oot o' that!" he snapped fiercely. "I want you!"

  Biggles slid his legs over the edge of the ceiling until they were swinging in space.

  "Is that so?" he said coolly. "I'll ask you to remember that you're a guest in my mess-but I'm real glad to see you. Come right in! And it looks to me as if 'mess' is a good name for it, too!" he added, his eyes roving over the scene of destruction. "My aunt, what a bloomin' mess!"

  "Who are you?" asked the officer curiously, stepping forward.

  "Name's Bigglesworth-they call me Biggles for short. This is my aerodrome, or what's left of it-or, at least, it was. The Germans nabbed me, but I got away."

  "Did you silence that gun up there?" asked the Highlander."I did," replied Biggles. "I had to do something about it. You see, I'm going on leave to-day, and I was afraid I should miss my train. Scotland for ever!"