by W E Johns
‘Can’t you ring up someone and find out?’
‘I might ring up Raymond, at Wing Headquarters – and be told to mind my own business! In any case, the fellow will have gone before our people do anything. We can’t detain him on suspicion!’
‘Then what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to plant a trap,’ said Biggles. ‘If he’s what he says he is he will come on this trip with me this afternoon; if he isn’t, then he won’t – at least, I can’t imagine him shooting down a Hun machine if he’s a Hun himself!
‘What is he doing here, at Maranique? Obviously, he is here to pick up all the information he can. Having got it, he’ll try to get back to where he came from. On the table in the map-room I’ve put a map; it shows the aerodromes of as many squadrons as I can think of – but they are not in the right places.
‘I want you to go back to the Mess and suggest to Butterworth that it might be a good thing if he walked along to the map-room and ascertained the exact position of Maranique, in case he loses us this afternoon. Show him the room, and then leave him there.
‘He’ll see the map, and I imagine he will try to get away with it, because it would look like a first-class prize to take to Germany.
‘lf he does pocket it, his next idea will be to get away as soon as he can. By the way, you can tell him that his machine is now OK; mention it casually when you leave him in the map-room. If he’s on the level, he’ll go back to the Mess; if he isn’t, he’ll go up to the sheds and take off.’
‘But what about you?’ Algy asked. ‘He’ll be certain to wonder where you are, and what you are doing. What shall I tell him?’
‘Tell him I’ve had an urgent call from an archie battery, and I may be late back. Suggest to him that our proposed trip might have to be postponed for a little while. As a matter of fact, I shall be in the air, high up, watching the aerodrome.
‘You will watch him, and if he makes a break for it, run out and wave a towel in front of your room, or wherever you happen to be. That will tell me that he has left the ground. He will probably be surprised to find me upstairs. I shall suggest to him by certain methods that I want him to come back with me. If he doesn’t—’ Biggles shrugged his shoulders expressively.
‘That’s my idea, and we’ll put it into action right away. Are you sure you’ve got it quite clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good! Then I’ll get off!’
fn1 A much fought over section of the front line which bulged, sometimes by up to five miles, into German-held territory. It was to the east of the town of Ypres. Over three quarters of a million men on both sides died struggling over possession of this piece of land.
fn2 Cover surrounding the engine.
fn3 William Avery Bishop VC 1894–1956 Canadian fighter pilot with 72 confirmed victories. The 2nd highest scoring RFC pilot in the First World War, M. Mannock VC being the highest with 73 victories. James McCuddens VC 1895–1918 British fighter pilot with 57 confirmed victories (40th highest scorer). Killed in a flying accident in July 1918.
Chapter 15:
OFF AND AWAY!
Algy watched Biggles climb into his machine and take off, and then turned and walked thoughtfully towards the Mess. Butterworth was still in conversation with Mahoney and several other officers of the squadron who were not on duty.
The man seemed so absolutely at home, so self-possessed and natural in his speech and movements, that a sudden doubt assailed Algy. Suppose Biggles had made a mistake? Spy scares were common in every branch of the fighting services, he knew. That spies operated anywhere and everywhere could not be denied, and some of them with amazing effrontery.
Algy watched the suspected officer closely for some sign or slip that might betray him; but he watched in vain.
‘Well, there‘s no point in wasting time,’ he decided, and touched Butterworth on the arm.
‘Oh, Butterworth,’ he said, ‘I’ve a message for you from Bigglesworth. He’s been sent off on a job – had to go and see an archie battery about something – and he may be late back; so this proposed show of ours may have to wait for a little while.
‘He will probably be back not later than half-past three; but, in the meantime, he suggests that you have a look round the map-room, so that if you get separated from us during the show you’ll know your way back – either here or to your own aerodrome.’
‘I see,’ replied the other. ‘That’s not a bad idea! I think I’ll follow his advice!’
He picked up his flying-coat, cap and goggles, and threw them carelessly over his arm.
Algy raised his eyebrows.
‘You won’t want those, will you?’ he said.
‘I may as well take ’em along; I should only have to come back for them afterwards,’ replied Butterworth coolly. ‘I don’t think too much of the weather,’ he went on, looking under his hand towards the horizon, where a dark indigo belt was swiftly rising.
‘That looks to me like thunder coming up. If it starts coming across this way, I may push along home without waiting for Bigglesworth to come back. I don’t want to get hung up here for the night, and we can postpone the show until another day if necessary!’
Algy’s heart missed a beat, for it began to look as if Biggles was right.
‘Right-ho!’ he said. ‘You do just as you like. I’ll show you the map-room!’
Together they walked across to the deal and corrugated iron building.
‘Here we are!’ he said, glancing at the map that had been purposely left lying on the table. ‘I think I’ll go back to the Mess, if you don’t mind. Let me know if I can help you.’
‘Right-ho! Thanks!’
‘And, by the way, you might like to know that your machine is OK now.’
‘That’s fine!’
Algy left the room, closing the door behind him, and passed the window as if he was returning to the Mess. But as soon as he was out of sight he doubled back to the rear of the building and quietly placed his eye to a small hole where a knot had fallen out of a board.
Butterworth was bending over the map on the table, studying it carefully. He made a note or calculation on the margin, folded the map, and then walked across to the window. For a moment or two he looked at the sky thoughtfully, and then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he put the map in his pocket, picked up his flying-kit, and left the room.
From his place of concealment, Algy watched him walk straight up to the sheds and climb into his machine; a mechanic ran to the propeller, as if Butterworth had called him in a hurry. The engine started, and the machine began to taxi slowly into position for a take-off.
Algy waited for no more. He rushed into the lavatory, tore a towel from its peg, then darted back into the open, waving it above his head. High up in the sky he could just make out Biggles’ Camel, circling slowly as it awaited the signal.
‘By Jingo, he was right!!’ he muttered, as Butterworth’s machine took off and headed towards the Line, and the topmost Camel swung round to follow it.
‘Is that Butterworth taking off?’ said a voice at his elbow.
Algy spun round on his heel, and saw that it was Mahoney who had spoken.
‘Yes,’ he said quickly.
‘Bad show about his brother.’
‘Whose brother?’ Algy asked.
‘Butterworth’s brother, of course.’
Algy puckered his forehead.
‘Butterworth’s brother?’ he repeated foolishly.
‘What’s the matter with you? Have you gone ga-ga or something? I said it was a bad show about his brother being shot down yesterday. He told me about it while you and Biggles were up at the sheds.’
Algy staggered.
‘What did he tell you?’ he gasped.
‘He said that his brother, Frank Butterworth, went West yesterday. They were both in the same squadron. That’s his brother’s cigarette-case he’s got; he borrowed it from him a day or two ago. That’s how he came to tell me about it.
> ‘The funny thing was he would have been with his brother but for the fact that he had lent his machine to another fellow just before the show and the fellow went and got himself shot up – got a bullet through the leg. He hasn’t even had the Camel patched— Hi! What’s wrong with you?’
But Algy wasn’t listening. Understanding of the whole situation flooded his brain like a spotlight, and he ran like a madman towards the hangars, praying that he might be in time to prevent a tragedy.
Biggles, sitting in the cramped cockpit of his Camel, eight thousand feet above the aerodrome, stiffened suddenly as he saw Algy’s tell-tale signal below, a tiny white spot against the brown earth, and his jaw set grimly as his probing eyes picked out a Camel streaking over the aerodrome at the head of a long trail of dust.
‘So Butterworth’s making a bolt for it, is he?’ he mused. ‘Very well, he’s got a shock coming to him!’
He swung round, following the same course as the lower Camel, which was apparently climbing very slowly, although it was heading towards the Lines. The thought suddenly struck him that perhaps Butterworth did not intend to climb – that he might streak straight across No Man’s Land to the German Lines.
A haze was forming under the atmospheric pressure of the advancing storm, and already the lower machine was no more than a blurred grey shadow. If Biggles didn’t hurry he might lose him, after all. He pressed his knees against the side of the cockpit, and eased the control stick forward, gently at first, but with increasing force.
His nose went down, and the quivering needle of the air-speed indicator swung slowly across the dial – 100 – 120 – 130 – 140— The wind howled through the straining wires, and plucked at the top of his helmet with hurricane force.
The low drone of his engine became a shrill wail as the whirling propeller bit the air; the ground floated upwards as if impelled by a hidden mechanism.
At three thousand feet Biggles flattened out, about five hundred feet above and behind the other machine. It was still heading towards the Lines, now not more than a couple of miles away.
Biggles could see Butterworth’s helmet clearly; he appeared to be looking at the ground, first over one side of his machine and then the other. Not once did he look about or behind, and Biggles smiled grimly.
‘If I was a Hun, you’d be a dead man by now!’ he muttered. ‘You haven’t long to live, if that’s your idea of war flying!’ It occurred to him that possibly the machine was known to German pilots, who had received instructions not to molest it, but after a moment’s reflection he scouted the idea. A German pilot could hardly be expected to examine every Camel he encountered for special marks or signs before he attacked.
He pushed the control-stick forward again, and sped down after his quarry, intending to head him off and signal to him to return. If he refused – well – Biggles’ fingers closed over the control of his guns.
At that moment Butterworth looked back over his shoulder.
For one fleeting instant Biggles stared into the goggled face, and then moved like lightning, for the Camel had spun round on its axis, its nose tilted upwards, and a double stream of tracer bullets poured from its guns, making a glittering streak past Biggles’ wing-tip.
Biggles kicked out his right foot and flung the control-stick over in a frantic side-slip; for although the attack was utterly unexpected, he did not lose his head, and he was too experienced to take his eyes off his opponent even for a moment. Quick as thought he brought the machine back on to its course, and took the other Camel in his sights.
At that moment Butterworth was within an ace of death. But Biggles did not fire. As his hand squeezed the gun lever for the fatal burst, his head jerked up as something flashed across his sights, between him and his target – a green, shark-like body, from which poured a long streamer of orange flame – a blazing Albatros.
For the next three seconds events moved far more swiftly than they can be described; they moved just as swiftly as Biggles’ brain could act and adjust itself to a new set of conditions – conditions that completely revolutionized his preconceived ideas.
After the first shock of seeing the blazing Albatros – for there was no mistaking the German machine – he looked up in the direction whence it had come, and saw five more machines of the same type pouring down in a ragged formation.
He realized instantly that Butterworth had not fired at him, as he had at first supposed, but at the leader of the German planes, and had got him with a piece of brilliant shooting at the first burst.
Butterworth had shot down a Hun!
It meant that something was wrong somewhere, but there was no time to work it out now. Where was Butterworth? Ah, there he was – actually in front of him, nose tilted upwards, taking the diving Huns head-on!
Biggles roared up to him, peering through his centre section, and his lips parted in a smile as he saw something else. Roaring down behind the rearmost Albatros, at a speed that threatened to take its wings off, was another Camel.
For perhaps three seconds the machines held their relative positions – the two lower Camels side by side, facing the five diving Huns, and the other Camel dropping like a stone behind them.
Then, in a flash, the whole thing collapsed into a whirling dog-fightfn1, as the Albatrosses pulled out of their dive; that is, all except the last one, which continued its dive straight into the ground. Four against three!
It is almost impossible to recall the actual moves made in an aerial dog-fight; the whole thing afterwards resolves itself into a series of disjointed impressions. Biggles took a dark green machine in his sights, fired, and swerved as he heard bullets hitting his own machine.
He felt, rather than saw, the wheels of another machine whiz past his head, but whether friend or foe he did not know. An Albatros, with a Camel apparently tied to its tail by an invisible cord, tore across his nose; another Camel was going down in a steep side-slip, with a cloud of white vapour streaming from its engine.
Another Albatros floated into his sights; he fired again, and saw it jerk upwards to a whipstall. He snatched a swift glance over his shoulder for danger, but the sky was empty. He looked around. The air was clear. Turning, he was just in time to see two straight-winged aeroplanes vanishing into the haze.
Below, two ghastly bonfires, towards which people were running, poured dense clouds of black smoke into the air. Near them was a Camel, cocked up onto its nose; some troops were helping the pilot from his seat. Another Camel was climbing up towards him, so he went down to meet it, and saw, as he had already half-suspected, that it was Algy’s machine.
So it was Butterworth on the ground. What the dickens was he doing, fighting Huns?
There was something wrong somewhere, and the sooner he – Biggles – got back to the aerodrome and found out all about it the better it would be!
Algy was waving, signalling frantically, obviously trying to tell him something. Biggles waved back impatiently, and signalled that he was returning to the aerodrome, where he landed a few minutes later and ran down to the squadron office.
‘Have you had any phone messages?’ he asked the recording officer.
‘Was that you in the mix-up behind Vricourt?’ the recording officer wanted to know.
‘Yes, me and Algy and Butterworth – you know, the fellow who dropped in to lunch. He’s down. Is he hurt?’
‘No. Shaken a bit, that’s all.’
‘Has he gone to hospital?’
‘No; he’s on his way back here in a tender.’
Biggles went outside and met Algy who had just clambered out of his machine.
Algy looked worried.
‘Is he all right?’ he called.
‘If you mean Butterworth – yes.’
‘Thank goodness! My word, Biggles, you nearly boobed that time!’
‘So it seems. But what do you know about it?’
‘It’s Butterworth’s brother. I mean this fellow is the brother of the fellow you know.’
‘Brother?’ gasped Bi
ggles.
‘Yes. I’ll tell you all about it—’
‘Shut up – here he comes! Don’t, for goodness’ sake, say anything about this spy business!’
Butterworth climbed out of the tender that had pulled up on the road, and hurried towards them.
‘Say, I guess I’ve got to thank you for helping me to get that Hun!’ Butterworth cried.
‘Don’t thank me,’ replied Biggles – ‘thank your lucky star. By the way, what made you push off the way you did, without waiting for me to come back?’
Butterworth jerked his thumb upwards towards the darkening sky.
‘I thought I’d better try to get home before the storm broke.’
‘You pinched the map out of the map-room,’ Algy accused him.
‘Yes, I know I did,’ replied Butterworth. ‘I thought I’d take it to make sure of finding my way home. I would have brought it back in a day or two – it would have been an excuse to come. I like you fellows.
‘By the way, did I hear you say something to Algy about a spy? I thought I just caught the word.’
‘Yes,’ replied Biggles. ‘But it was only a rumour!’
fn1 An aerial battle rather than a hit-and-run attack.
Chapter 16:
TURKEY HUNTING
Biggles stood by the ante-room window of the officers’ mess with a coffee cup in his hand and regarded the ever-threatening sky disconsolately.
It was Christmas-time, and winter had long since displaced with its fogs and rains the white, piled clouds of summer, and perfect flying weather was now merely a memory of the past. Nor did the change of season oblige by providing anything more attractive or seasonable than dismal conditions. A good fall of snow would have brightened up both the landscape and the spirits of those who thought that snow and Yuletide ought always to go together; but the outlook from the officers’ mess of No. 266 Squadron was the very opposite of what the designers of Christmas cards imagine as an appropriate setting for the season.
‘Well,’ observed Biggles, as he looked at it, ‘I think this is a pretty rotten war! Everything’s rotten! The weather’s rotten. This coffee’s rotten – to say nothing of it being half-cold. That record that Mahoney keeps playing on the gramophone is rotten. And our half-baked mess caterer is rotten – putrid, in fact!’