Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

by W E Johns

  A civilian, visiting the Front for the first time, might have wondered what had caused the change of attitude, for it was by no means obvious. From the far distance came the thunder of guns along the Line. Above it, sharper detonations, also in the distance, could be heard. Every man in the room knew that it was archie, bursting high in the sky.

  'Coming closer!' observed Biggles.

  'Hope they aren't coming here,' grunted Mahoney.

  The door burst open, and 'Wat' Tyler, the Recording Officer, dashed into the room.

  'Get those lights out, your poor prunes!' he grated. 'Can't you hear that archie? Bombers are heading this way. Haven't you any more sense than to sit here with all the candles alight, making the place like a blinking beacon? Get 'em out—quick!'

  Biggles strolled towards the door.

  'I wish you wouldn't get so panicky, Wat,' he complained. 'Let's go and watch the fireworks.'

  As he opened the door the noise increased a hundredfold. A few miles away the air was full of stabbing flashes of red flame and the dull rumble of powerful engines.

  'They're coming over us, if they aren't actually coming here,' declared Algy. 'I'm going to find a hole!'

  'It'll need to be a deep 'un if you think it's going to stop the bombs those boys carry,' grinned Biggles. 'Hold hard, I'll come with you.'

  Around them on the ground complete darkness reigned. Not a glimmer of light showed anywhere on the aerodrome. Harcourt joined them a trifle breathlessly, eyes riveted upwards to the sparkling flashes now approaching with deadly certainty. A dozen searchlights were probing the sky, their long, white fingers criss-crossing and scissoring through the inky blackness. The deep 'pour-vous, pour-vous, pour-vous' of the engines of the bombers, sinister in the distance, took on a more menacing note.

  The archie-bursts were almost immediately above them now, filling the air with an orgy of sound. A brilliant white light, shedding a dazzling radiance over the whole aerodrome, appeared like magic overhead, and hung, apparently motionless. Biggles made a swift leap towards a trench that encircled the nearest hut.

  'Look out,' he yelled, 'we're for it! They're dropping parachute flares*!'

  * Burning flares suspended beneath a parachute, used to illuminate ground targets at night time.

  A faint wail, like the whistle of an engine far away, became audible, and Biggles crouched lower in the trench.

  'Here they come!' he muttered, as the wail became a howling shriek. Instinctively the airmen flinched as the missile came nearer, seeming to be falling on their very heads. A blinding sheet of flame rose in the air not far away. There was a deafening detonation, and the earth rocked.

  'That's too close for my liking,' snarled Biggles, risking a peep over the parapet, in spite of the howl of more falling bombs. 'Look, they've got A Flight sheds!' he yelled. 'They're alight. They'll set ours on fire—the wind's blowing that way. Come on, chaps.' The next instant he was sprinting towards the sheds, gleaming whitely like ghosts in the ghastly glare of the flares.

  Major Mullen leapt out of the door of his office.

  'Turn out, everybody!' he shouted. 'Try to save the machines!'

  There was a general rush towards the blazing hangars. A cloud of earth with a blood-red core leapt up not fifty yards in front of Biggles, and he was flung violently to the ground. Gasping for breath in the choking fumes of the explosive, he picked himself up and tore on again.

  One glance, and he realised it was useless to try to save any of the A Flight machines, for the canvas hangar was a roaring sea of flame that cast an orange glow over the scene of destruction. B Flight hangars were also well alight, and a streak of flame was already licking across the roof of the shed where the C Flight machines were housed. The scene was an inferno of noise and smoke in which men moved like demons.

  Biggles, the perspiration pouring off his face, seized the tail-skid of his Camel and started to drag it backwards into the open. Algy, Harcourt, the flight-sergeant, and several mechanics came to his assistance, and the C Flight machines were soon well out on the tarmac. Invisible machine-guns were chattering in the darkness above, as the Boche gunners emptied their drums of ammunition into the scene of confusion. A mechanic, standing near Biggles, gave a little grunt of surprise, stared open-eyed at his flight-commander for a moment, and then dropped limply, like a garment falling from a coat-rack.

  'Two men here, quick!' Biggles snapped in a voice that commanded attention. 'Get him down to the medical officer,' he yelled, turning to see how the other flights were faring. A groan broke from his lips as he saw that in spite of their efforts neither of the other two flights had been able to save a single machine. The heat was so intense that it was impossible to get within a hundred yards of them. The bombers, their work finished, were now retiring.

  'Well!' observed Biggles to the others, pointing to a row of yawning craters on the aerodrome. 'I must say they've made a good job of it. They were the Friedrichs-hafens the colonel was talking about this afternoon.'

  Major Mullen nodded, tight-lipped.

  'As you say, they've made a job of it,' he replied. 'You'd better go and get some sleep. With only three machines left on the aerodrome, you look like being busy for the next few days!' he added dryly. Dawn was just breaking as Biggles, with Algy and Har-court behind him, taxied out on to the aerodrome ready to take off—no easy matter considering the bomb-torn state of the aerodrome. The sheds were still smoking, or rather the pile of charred debris which marked the spot where they had once stood.

  Biggles smiled grimly as he opened his throttle, for there seemed a fair chance that the number of serviceable machines remaining in the squadron might soon be reduced from three to two. For, in spite of the catastrophe, he had resolved to make the attempt to pick up the Professor—if the Professor was indeed at the rendezvous awaiting him. That accomplished, they would then set about finding the lair of the bombers that had wrought so much mischief. The three machines took off and headed in the direction of the Forest of Langaarte.

  A big formation of enemy scouts was making for the Line, but Biggles edged away into the sun and passed them unobserved. Presently the forest loomed up on the horizon, still half-concealed by layers of early morning mist. Biggles fixed his eyes on the big field expectantly.

  The task on hand was one which called for speed and accuracy. The landing would have to be made swiftly and faultlessly, for it would be unsafe to leave the Camel on the ground for more than a minute; there was no telling what eyes would watch his descent. The three machines were immediately above the field now, and the leader raised his hand in a warning signal to the others that he was going down.

  The roar of his engine died away as he throttled back, and the next moment the Camel was spinning viciously to the ground. Biggles pulled the machine out of its spin, snatched a swift glance below to get his bearings, then spun again.

  He spun to within five hundred feet of the ground before he came out, and then, with control-stick hard over, dropped like a stone in a vertical sideslip. He levelled out and ran smoothly to earth not more than fifty paces from the edge of the forest.

  'Not so bad!' he grunted, as he unfastened his safety-belt, stood up, then stared fixedly towards the still-smouldering fire in the far corner of the field. All was still. Not a soul was in sight. With a frown of disappointment, he turned casually to scan the side of the wood.

  The sight that met his eyes stunned him. It was so totally unexpected that his brain refused to grasp the image reflected upon it. His jaw dropped, and a frown lined his brow as he struggled to comprehend what was happening.

  Fifty yards away, snugly set in the wood and camouflaged overhead with artificial branches of unbelievable realism, were the open maws of three huge hangars. Just inside them were the indistinct outlines of a squadron of bombers. The mechanics clustered around them were staring in his direction in obvious amazement.

  And that was not the worst. Racing towards him, and already half-way between the wood and the Camel, was a l
ine of grey-clad German troops, an officer at their head, who, seeing that he was now observed, flung up his arm and blazed away with a revolver.

  A bullet ripping through the 'hump' of the Camel not two inches from where Biggles' hand rested, galvanised him into feverish activity. He dropped back into his seat with a gasp and shoved the throttle open. The Camel started forward at once.

  Straight ahead, a row of trees seemed to rear up to the sky; it was obviously impossible for the Camel to clear them. Biggles swung the Camel round in its own length and tore back down-wind across the field. He ducked instinctively as a volley rang out as he raced across the front of the Germans.

  The tail of the Camel had lifted and the wings were taking the weight when a scarecrow of a figure leapt from the hedge and flung itself across his path to intercept him. Automatically the pilot swerved to avoid it. There was a ghastly grinding, rending crash as the wheels were swept off and the undercarriage buckled under the oblique strain. The nose of the Camel bored its way into the ground, and then, in a whirl of flying propeller splinters, the tail whipped up and over in a complete somersault.

  As the Camel folded itself up about the cockpit, it seemed to Biggles as if the end of the world had come. For a moment he lay still among the debris, fighting to restore his numbed faculties, and then, with the full realisation of the catastrophe flooding his consciousness, he struggled like a madman to get free. A flying wire* had braced itself across his face, cutting his eye badly, but he felt no pain, and dropping to his knees burrowed like a rabbit under the top of the fuselage, which was now nearly flat on the ground. He just had time to get clear, fling himself sideways, and throw a protecting arm over his face as the petrol from the smashed tank reached the hot engine and exploded with a dull whoosh! Swaying from the shock, he snatched a glance over his shoulder. To his horror the Germans were not more than two hundred yards away, spreading out like a fan to intercept him.

  * Flying wires–particularly on biplane aircraft–help to hold the wings in position in the air. Landing wires take the weight of the wings when the aircraft is on the ground. See front cover for illustration.

  'Come on! What are you gaping at?' yelled a voice near at hand.

  Biggles swung round and stared in petrified amazement at the figure that confronted him. He had no time to take in the details, but in spite of the tattered jacket, tousled hair, and unkempt appearance, it was undoubtedly the Professor!

  'Henry!' gasped Biggles stupidly, for in the excitement and speed of events, he had completely forgotten the original object of his quest.

  'Come on, your poor prune!' cried Henry frantically. 'Run for it!' and he led the way by taking a running jump at the hedge, regardless of thorns and briars.

  Biggles followed blindly, still not quite knowing what he was doing, and found himself in a large pasture nearly as large as the field they had just left. He threw up his hands in dismay, for any attempt at concealment in such an open place was out of the question.

  'Back to the wood!' he cried hoarsely, but a groan burst from his lips as his eyes fell on the grey-coated uniforms between them and the only possible cover.

  He became conscious of a roaring noise in his ears, and glanced upwards to ascertain the cause. A ray of hope shot through his brain as he saw two Camels circling low overhead. He had forgotten them, but now he realised that they could hardly have failed to see the tragic end of his Camel.

  'Could they land? Was the field big enough?' was the thought that crowded all others from his mind. It was at once evident that they intended to try, for they were even now gliding in, wing to wing, props ticking over, not twenty feet over his head. 'Come on!' he yelled to Henry, and sprinted after them.

  The two Camels touched ground about a hundred yards away, and without waiting to finish their run, swung round to meet them. Panting and gasping for breath, Biggles flung himself at full length on the lower port wing of Algy's plane and gripped the leading edge firmly.

  He was far too spent to speak, and could only point upwards as a signal that he was ready to leave the ground. As in a dream, he heard the Bentley rotary engine begin its strident bellow. Bump, bump, bump, went the wheels on the uneven ground, and then the machine rose into the air.

  How long Biggles lay crouching in the icy slipstream near the fuselage he did not know, but it seemed like an eternity. He was too far back to see the ground over the leading edge of the plane, so it was impossible to see what was going on below. He stared ahead through the glittering white flash of the revolving propeller, wondering vaguely where they were, and whether Harcourt had succeeded in picking up the Professor.

  He turned his head slowly and risked a glance at Algy, who threateningly signalled to him to lie still, and then pointed to the left. Following the outstretched finger, Biggles saw the other Camel a few yards away with the Professor crouching on the wing.

  It was bitterly cold in the hundred-miles-an-hour blast of air, even in his flying kit, which he was, of course, still wearing. And he wondered whether the Professor in his tattered rags would be able to hang on long enough to reach the aerodrome.

  So anxious was he, and so wrapped up in watching his companion in misfortune, that the sudden stutter of a gun near at hand made him start nervously.

  'Jumping fish!' he groaned. 'Now we're in a mess!'

  There was another burst of fire from somewhere close at hand. The wing on which Biggles was lying vibrated suddenly, and a row of neat round holes appeared in the fabric near the tip. He half-raised himself and peered forward. Two miles away were the zigzag lines of the trenches. He screwed his head round to look at Algy, but Algy was also looking round over his shoulder.

  Biggles, following Algy's eyes, caught his breath as he saw a Fokker Triplane working itself into position for another attack. The nose of the Camel dropped a little as Algy dived for the Lines, but without shaking off his pursuer. To make matters worse, two more Fokkers were coming up behind.

  Biggles knew the situation was desperate, and sensed the feeling of helplessness Algy must be experiencing— to be shot at and yet be unable to return the attack for fear of throwing his passenger off his plane. Even a quick turn, Biggles reflected, was likely to fling him right off his precarious perch.

  The other Fokkers were coming in now, one of them swerving to attack Harcourt's Camel. Biggles ground his teeth in rage as the first Fokker stood on its nose and streamed down on their tail, its guns spraying a double stream of lead. Then he had an inspiration. Rising slowly to his feet, he clutched the centre section strut with his left hand, and with his right groped in the cockpit for the little niche where the Very pistol was usually kept.

  He grunted with satisfaction as his hand closed over the butt, and he drew the short, bulky weapon from its case. He cocked the hammer with his thumb and took quick aim at the pilot in the Fokker, whom he could see peering forward through his gunsights.

  Bang! The Boche pilot started violently as a glowing ball of red fire, leaving a thick trail of smoke in its wake, flamed between his wings. His head appeared over the side of the cockpit, looking up, down, and around for the source of such an unusual missile. Algy, grinning his approval of these tactics, quickly passed Biggles another cartridge. Bang! Another ball of fire, green this time, roared away astern.

  The Fokker pilot, who evidently did not approve of this method of warfare—which was not to be wondered at—waited for no more, but turned quickly towards the other Camel, and Biggles nearly choked as a ball of orange fire, changing slowly to blue, sailed over the tail of Harcourt's Camel like a Roman candle. The German saw it coming, and swerved just in time.

  Biggles knew what had happened. The Professor had seen his first shot, and, taking the cue, had followed suit with Harcourt's Very pistol. The three Germans were hesitating now, as if wondering how to cope with such an unusual state of affairs. Suddenly they turned and dived for home, and Biggles, peering out from under the wing to discover the reason, saw a formation of British S.E.5's approaching. The l
eader, catching sight of him, came nearer, and Biggles recognised the blue prop-boss of Wilkinson's machine—'Wilks' of 287 Squadron.

  The unusual spectacle of two Camels in formation, each with its pilot, as he thought, riding on the wing, evidently surprised the S.E.5 pilot, for he followed them back to the aerodrome, landing close behind them. Wilkinson's face was a picture as he sprang from his seat and hurried towards where Biggles and Henry were patting each other on the back.

  'What's going on?' he cried, in bewilderment. 'If you want to fly two at a time, why don't you go to a two-seater squadron and do the job properly? Haven't you got enough machines to go round?'

  'No!' was the reply. 'The Friedrichshafens came over last night and pretty well wiped us out. But you'd better get back, Wilks; you'll be wanted for escort duty!'

  'Escort duty! Why?'

  'We've rumbled where the bombers hang out! I'm going to ring up Wing right away, and if I know anything, they'll have every day-bomber within fifty miles on the job within the hour. And they'll need an escort. There won't be any forest left by dinner-time. Now I know why there wasn't any archie there!' he cried, in a flash of inspiration, turning to Algy. 'They were trying to kid us there was nothing to guard!

  'By the way, Henry,' he went on, 'how did you manage to light that fire with all those Huns about?'

  'Me light a fire?' cried the Professor, in amazement. 'What are you talking about? I didn't light any fire!'

  'But we saw one burning!' exclaimed Biggles.

  'That was the bombers' smudge-fire —wind-indicator, you poor hoot! I had only just that moment arrived at the spot, when I saw you ground-looping,' admitted Henry.

  'Well, I'm dashed!' gasped Biggles. 'When we went over last night and saw a fire burning, we were sure you were there. If the Huns hadn't been there and lit a fire, we shouldn't have gone over for you to-day, and you wouldn't be here now. Well, well, as I've said before, it's funny how things pan out at this game!'