by W E Johns
The nearest Albatros was less than a quarter of a mile away. Once it caught him he would be compelled to stay and fight, for to fly straight on would mean being shot down like a sparrow.
‘Well, I’ll get as near home as I can before we start,’ he thought, pushing the control-stick forward. The note of the engine, augmented by the scream of the wind round wires and struts, increased in volume as the Camel plunged downwards.
Biggles flew with his head twisted round over his shoulder, watching his pursuers, and as the leader drew within range he kicked the rudder-bar and threw the Camel into a spin, from which he did not pull out until he was as near the ground as he dare go.
He came out facing the direction of the Lines; and although the Albatroses had spun with him, as he knew they would, he managed to make another two or three miles before they came up to him again.
The combat could no longer be postponed, yet if he stayed to fight so far from home, the end was inevitable.
However many machines he shot down, in the end his turn would come, for the longer he fought, the more enemy machines would arrive. A large field lay almost immediately under him, and a little further on he saw an aerodrome, and an idea flashed into his head, although he had no time to ponder on it.
The vicious rattle of a machine-gun reached his ears, warning him that the Hun leader was already within range. He jerked the control-stick back and side-slipped earthwards, imitating as nearly as he could the actions of a pilot who had been badly hit. Would it work? He could but try.
Following his plan, he swerved low over the tree-tops, throttled back, and ran to a standstill at the far side of the big field, after steering an erratic course. Then he sagged forward in the cockpit and remained still.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the many-hued torpedo-like Albatroses circling above him. An orange-coloured machine, the one that had fired at him, detached itself from the others and glided down to land.
One by one the remainder turned over the hedge and made for the aerodrome, from which a party was no doubt on its way to take charge of the wounded ‘prisoner’.
Biggles sat quite still, with his engine idling, as the orange Hun taxied towards him. At a distance of about twenty yards the pilot stopped, switched off his engine, jumped to the ground, and walked quickly towards the Camel.
Biggles waited until only half a dozen paces divided them, and then he sat upright, and the German stopped dead as he found himself staring into the smiling face of the British pilot, the German obviously undecided as to whether he should come on or go back.
Like most pilots, he was probably unarmed, but Biggles was taking no unnecessary risks. His plan had so far materialized, and he lost no time in carrying it to completion.
He raised his hand in salute to the astonished German, blipped his engine derisively, and then sped across the turf at ever increasing speed.
He cleared the hedge on the far side, tore across the German aerodrome with his wheels only a foot or two from the ground, and still keeping as low as possible, set his nose for home.
On the far side of the aerodrome he saw the German pilots, who had left their machines, running back to them and others taxi-ing to get head into wind; but he was not alarmed.
In the minute or two that would elapse before they could take up the trail again, he would get a clear lead of two miles, a flying start that the Germans could never make up!
And so it transpired. The Camel came under a certain amount of rifle fire from the troops on the ground, both in the reserve trenches and the front Line, but as far as Biggles knew not a single bullet touched the machine.
Ten minutes later he landed at Maranique, where the C.O. and several officers, were apparently awaiting his return.
Major Mullen threw a quick glance over the Camel as Biggles climbed out, camera in hand.
‘You didn’t have much trouble, I see!’ he observed.
‘No, sir,’ replied Biggles coolly. ‘I didn’t find it necessary to fire a shot.’
‘Did you get your photo?’
‘I think so, sir. I should like it developed as soon as possible – Wilks might like to have a copy of it.’
‘Here’s a letter for you from Wilks,’ said Wat Tyler, passing him a large square envelope. ‘A motor-cyclist brought it to the Squadron Office just after you took off.’
Biggles looked at the envelope suspiciously, then tore it open, and from it he withdrew a whole-plate photograph. It was an oblique picture, and showed a fairly large town, but it was half-obscured by what seemed to be hundreds of small white specks that ran diagonally across it, just as his own leaflets had appeared above Tournai. A frown creased his forehead.
‘Can anybody recognize this place?’ he said sharply.
Major Mullen took the photograph, looked at it for a moment, and then turned it over.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I thought so! It’s Gontrude, taken from eighteen thousand feet. He must have taken the photograph yesterday, after he left here.’
‘Where’s Gontrude?’ asked Biggles slowly. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing it.’
‘No, it’s rather a long way over,’ replied Major Mullen, with a curious smile. ‘It’s about twelve miles the other side of Tournai, I fancy.’
Biggles staggered back and sat down suddenly on a chock.
‘Well, the dirty dog!’ he exclaimed. ‘So I’ve been all the way to Tournai for nothing!’
‘It rather looks like it,’ agreed the major sympathetically.
‘So Wilks thinks he’s being funny, does he?’ muttered Biggles. ‘Well, we shall see! There’s another day left yet!’ and he strode off towards the mess.
Chapter 19:
GETTING A GRAMOPHONE
Later in the day Biggles called Algy over to him.
‘Look, laddie,’ he said, ‘I’ve been exercising my mental equipment on this crazy long-distance stunt, and the points that stick out most clearly in my mind are these:
‘First of all, if it goes on, somebody’s going to get killed; it’s asking for trouble.
‘Secondly, we can’t let Wilks and his crowd get away with it. Hitherto, we’ve always managed to put it across them, so if they pull this off they’ll crow all the louder.
‘If they get the gramophone, they’ll play it every guest night, and everyone for miles will know what it means.
‘I made a mistake in telling Wilks that I was going to Tournai, because then he knew just how far he had to go to beat me. The way I see it is this – it’s no use doddering about just going another five miles, and another five miles, and so on – apart from anything else it’s too risky.
‘We’ve got to do one more show, and it’s got to be such a whizzer that Wilks will never suspect it. At the same time, it is no use risking running out of petrol on the wrong side of the Line – that would be just plain foolishness.’
Algy looked at him knowingly.
‘You’ve got an idea under your hat,’ he said shrewdly. ‘What is it? Come on, cough it up!’
‘You’re right,’ admitted Biggles, ‘I have. I’m thinking of going to – come here.’ He caught Algy by the arm and whispered in his ear.
Algy started violently.
‘You must be off your rocker!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’d run out of petrol for a certainty. The only way you could possibly do it would be by taking straight off over the Lines without climbing for any height, and then the Huns would see to it that you didn’t get there. No—’
‘Shut up a minute,’ said Biggles, ‘and let me say my little piece! D’you suppose I haven’t thought of all that! I’m out to put it across Wilks, but I’ve no intention of having my bright young life nipped in the bud for any measly gramophone.
‘To start on such a show by flying low over the Lines would be like putting your head into the lion’s mouth and expecting it not to bite. The higher the start, the better.
‘The danger lies near the Lines – not fifty miles beyond them, where they’d no more expect to see a Came
l than an extinct brontosaurus. I should climb to 18,000 feet over this side, while it is still dark, so that I couldn’t be seen, and aim to be forty miles over the other side by the time it began to get light.
‘It would be a thousand to one against meeting a Hun there, particularly at that height, and it is unlikely that I should be spotted from the ground.’
‘But if you had to climb to that height at the start you wouldn’t have anything like enough petrol to—’
‘Wait a minute – let me finish. That’s where you come in!’
Algy frowned.
‘Me!’ he exclaimed. ‘So I’m in this, am I?’
‘You wouldn’t like to be left out, would you?’ murmured Biggles reprovingly.
Algy regarded him suspiciously.
‘Go ahead!’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
At eleven-thirty the following morning, the aerodrome at Maranique presented an animated appearance, for rumours of the contest had leaked out, and pilots had come from nearby squadrons to see the conclusion.
The S.E.5 pilots of Squadron No. 287 were there in force, as was only to be expected. Major Mullen, looking a trifle worried, was talking to Major Raymond, who had just arrived in his car.
Wilks had not yet turned up, and Biggles was conspicuous by his absence, a fact which caused a good deal of vague speculation, for although certain other officers had aspired to win the prize in the earlier stages of the contest, they had soon abandoned their ideas before the suicidal achievements of the two chief participants, Biggles and Wilks.
Algy came out of the Mess and made his way towards the crowd on the tarmac, to be bombarded with the question: ‘Where’s Biggles?’ He looked tired, and there was a large smear of oil across his chin; he turned a deaf ear to the question.
‘Where have you been?’ asked an S.E.5 pilot suspiciously.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’ retorted Algy. ‘Where’s Wilks, anyway?’
As if in answer to the question, all eyes turned upwards as an S.E.5 roared into sight over the far side of the aerodrome; it pulled up steeply into a spectacular climbing turn, side-slipped vertically, and made a neat tarmac landing.
Wilks, his face beaming, stepped out holding in his hand a sheet of paper which, as he approached, could be seen to be a photograph. He walked straight up to Major Raymond, saluted, and handed the photograph to him.
‘That is my final entry for the competition, sir,’ he announced.
The major returned the salute, and looked at the photograph.
‘Where is this?’ he asked.
‘Mons, sir.’
A cheer broke from the S.E.5 pilots, for at that period Mons was between fifty and sixty miles inside German occupied territory.
‘Well, that will take some beating,’ admitted the major, amid renewed cheers.
He looked around the sky.
Where was Biggles? He wondered.
As a matter of fact, Biggles was not quite sure himself. He knew vaguely, but cloud interference had blotted out the earth, and although he caught occasional glimpses of it from time to time, he had found it impossible to pick up the landmarks he had followed on the outward journey.
As in the case of his raid on Tournai, he had reached his objective with ridiculous ease, and had turned his back on it half an hour previously, but against the everlasting prevailing west wind he was still, according to his reckoning, some forty miles from the Lines.
That they were likely to prove the hardest part of his trip he was well aware, for even if his presence over the objective had not been reported to German headquarters by ground observers, his passage would have been noted by hostile air units, who would climb to the limit of their height to await his return.
He had realized that this was inevitable, and although he had given the matter a lot of thought he was still unable to make up his mind whether it would be better to stay where he was – at 18,000 feet – or go right down to the ground and hedge-hop home, when there might be a chance of evading the watching eyes above.
Although what he gained on the swings he was likely to lose on the roundabouts, for at a very low altitude he would come under the fire of all arms – machine-guns, anti-aircraft guns, flaming onions,fn1 and even field-guns.
He peered ahead through his centre section struts with searching intensity, and then drew a deep breath.
Far away – so far that only the keenest eyes could have detected them – were three groups of tiny black specks. They stretched right across his course, and not for an instant did he attempt to delude himself as to what they were.
So far from the Lines, they could mean only one thing – hostile aircraft; German scouts in formation.
He moistened his lips, pushed up his goggles, and looked down. It was the only way. Quickly but coolly he made up his mind, and acted simultaneously. He retarded his fine adjustment throttle, and as the noise of the engine died away he deliberately allowed the machine to stall, at the same time kicking on the right rudder.
The Camel needed no further inducement to spin. In an instant it was plunging earthward, rotating viciously about its longitudinal axis – the dreaded right-hand spin that had sent so many Camel pilots to their deaths.
But Biggles knew his machine, and although he was temporarily out of control he could recover it when he chose.
He allowed the spin to persist until the fields below became a whirling disc; then he pulled out and spun in the reverse direction.
The spin was not quite so fast, but he pulled out feeling slightly giddy and flew level, to allow his altimeter to adjust itself, for in his rush earthwards he had overtaken it, losing height faster than the needle could indicate it.
‘Six thousand!’ he muttered.
In a minute of time he had spun off twelve thousand feet of height!
He warmed his engine again, side-slipping as he did so in order to continue to lose height. The wind howled through his rigging, and a blast of air struck him on the right cheek. He tilted the machine over to the right, control-stick right over, applying opposite rudder to keep his nose up and prevent the machine from stalling.
These tactics he continued until he was less than a hundred feet from the ground; then, with throttle wide open, he raced, tail up, for the Lines, leaning far back in the cockpit to enable him to command a wide view overhead.
A cloud of white smoke, from which radiated long, white pencil-lines, blossomed out in front of him, and he altered his course slightly.
‘Dash it!’ he muttered. It was no time for half-measures. Lower and lower he forced the Camel, until his wheels were just skimming above the ground.
Only by flying below the limit of the trajectory of that gun could he hope to baffle the gunners.
On, on between trees and over scattered homesteads he roared in the maddest ride of his life. Cattle stampeded before him, poultry flapped wildly aside, and field labourers flung themselves flat before the demon that hurtled towards them like a thunderbolt.
All the time he was getting nearer home, raising his eyes every few seconds to watch the enemy machines overhead.
Five minutes passed – ten – fifteen, and then a grim smile spread over his face.
‘They’ve spotted me!’ he muttered. ‘Here they come!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘About five miles to go. They’ll catch me, but with luck I might just do it!’
A wide group of many-hued bodies were falling from the sky ahead of him, but he did not alter his course a fraction of an inch, although he flinched once or twice as he tore past flashing wings and whirling propellers. He heard the rattle of guns behind him, but he did not stop to return the fire.
‘Out of my way!’ he snarled as a fresh formation appeared in front of him. ‘Turn, or I’ll ram— Oh!’ He caught his breath as an Albatros shot past his nose, missing him by inches.
A bunch of Fokker triplanes tore into his path, but as if sensing the berserk madness of the lone pilot, they prudently swung aside to let him through.
He tilted his wing to enable him to clear a church spire that suddenly appeared in his path, and then twisted violently the other way to avoid a tall poplar. He snatched a swift glance behind him, and his eyes opened wide.
‘What a sight!’ he gasped. ‘Well, come on, boys; I’ll take you for a joy-ride!’
A sudden hush fell on the crowd on the tarmac at Maranique as the drone of a Bentley rotary engine was borne on the breeze, and all eyes turned upwards to where a Camel could be seen approaching the aerodrome.
Over the edge of the aerodrome the engine choked, choked again, and back-fired. The prop stopped, and the nose of the machine tilted down. The watchers held their breath as it became apparent that the Camel was in difficulties.
A long strip of fabric trailed back from the wing-tip, and a bracing wire hung loose from the under-carriage; one of the aileronsfn2 seemed to be out of position, as if it was hanging on by a single hinge.
There was silence as the pilot made a slow, flat turn that brought him into the wind, and then sagged earthwards like a drunken man. A few feet from the ground he caught it again, and flopped down to a bumpy landing.
A sigh of relief, like the rustle of dead leaves on an autumn day, broke from the spectators as the tension was relaxed.
Algy had started running towards the machine, but pulled up as Biggles was seen climbing from the cockpit. In his hand be carried a camera.
A mechanic of the photographic staff ran out to meet him as if by arrangement, and relieved him of the instrument. Biggles walked slowly on towards the group, removing his cap and goggles as he came.
He was rather pale, and looked very tired, but there was a faint smile about the corners of his mouth. He changed his direction slightly as he saw Major Raymond and made towards him.
‘Sorry, sir, but I shall have to keep you a minute or two until my photograph is developed,’ he said. ‘But I’ve still got another quarter of an hour or so, I think?’
The major looked at his wrist-watch.
‘Fourteen minutes,’ he said. Then his curiosity overcame him. ‘Where have you been?’ he inquired, with interest.