by W E Johns
Like a single machine both pilots swept round in a steep climbing turn, and then tore back over the ground they had just covered, still unloading bombs. Then, still wing-tip to wing-tip, they turned their eyes towards the château and the solitary Camel now racing towards it from the opposite side.
Biggles, tense with excitement, saw the first Cooper bomb leave the rack, and fall short. The second dropped on the outbuildings and sent a cloud of debris soaring upwards. Then six bombs left the rack together, and his lips parted expectantly.
The next instant he was juggling with his control-stick as his Camel soared upwards like a rocket, as if thrust by a mighty invisible hand. His first impression was that his controls had jammed, and his second, as he realised that the Camel had only reacted to the effect of a mighty explosion, was that the Professor's machine must have been blown to atoms.
In the direction of the château a huge geyser of dense white and yellow smoke reached to the clouds, rolling and writhing like a colossal whirlpool from the force that had expelled it. Helpless, he could only watch. He saw the Professor's machine appear on the edge of the smoke, twisting and turning like an autumn leaf in a gale. Then it spun, levelled out, and spun again, obviously out of control. Two hundred feet above the ground it came out of the spin again, sideslipped steeply, missed a tree by inches, and then ran to a standstill in a long narrow field.
Biggles, with Algy in close attendance, raced for the spot, unable to understand what had happened, and undecided whether or not to risk a landing near the stricken machine. He had almost made up his mind to land when he saw the Professor raise himself up in his cockpit and wave. The machine remained motionless, the engine 'blipping' in sharp bursts. Then to Biggles' relief, it swung round, raced over the ground to the end of the field, and faced round into the wind ready to take off.
A line of grey-clad German troops appeared dimly through the mist, racing towards the field. Another line of them was surging up a narrow lane that led to the spot. Biggles turned the nose of his Camel towards the men in the lane, and Algy automatically turned his attention to the others. Glittering tracer bullets, starting from the noses of the Camels, cut white pencil lines through the grey atmosphere, and ended amongst the running German troops.
The Camel on the ground raced across the field and then soared unsteadily into the air. Biggles whirled round to follow it, and Algy brought up the rear. In Indian file the three machines dashed across the Lines.
'Are you all right?' yelled Biggles breathlessly, after they had landed.
The Professor blinked at him from red-rimmed eyes.
'Of course I'm all right!' he said.
'Why "of course"? What did you want to go fooling about in that field for?' queried Biggles.
'I should have crashed if I hadn't,' replied the Professor simply. 'I was blind —that smoke was worse than poison gas. It was only by the greatest effort that I managed to pull out in time to land. When I hit the dragon —or, rather, its bombs —I missed the main blast of the explosion; I had passed over it, I suppose, at the speed I was travelling. But I couldn't get clear of the smoke. It stung my eyes like fury, and then they just packed up so that I couldn't open them.'
'You must have got 'em full of dragon's blood,' grinned Biggles. 'Still, you've put him to sleep for good. Come on, St George, it's time we had some grub!'
Chapter 12
Biggles' Day Off
Eighteen thousand feet above the tangled maze of trenches that marked the greatest battlefield the world has ever known, Captain Bigglesworth, of 266 Squadron, throttled back to glide down to a lower altitude, for the early autumn morning air was chilly.
He turned slowly westward, searching each point of the compass as he turned, but as far as he could see the sky was empty. A frown settled on his face, for his nerves were straining under inactivity, and he longed for action to relieve the tension.
For a week he had scoured the sky, sometimes with his Flight, sometimes alone. But there was no enemy air activity in the sector—and he knew the reason, for a German prisoner had told the British authorities. Some of the German planes had been sent back to Germany with the task of harassing the British long-distance bomber squadrons of the Independent Air Force* who were daily raiding the Rhine towns, and others were concentrating south of the Somme, where the clouds of a great offensive were fast gathering.
* The bombing arm of the newly-formed Royal Air Force (RAF), whose task was to bomb targets on German territory. W. E. Johns flew with the IAF with 55 Squadron.
The atmosphere was exceptionally clear, for it was one of those rare days with everything sharply defined, as if seen through the reverse end of a telescope. In the middle distance was the coast of France, with the English Channel stretching away beyond to a long, dark-blue belt on the far horizon that he knew was England.
'Kent!' Unconsciously his lips formed the words, and, following his train of thought, Biggles wondered what his old godfather, the eccentric Dr Duvency, was doing, for he had neither seen nor heard of him since the day he enlisted.
'I wonder if he is still there, or if he has moved inland?' he mused, for the learned doctor's home was not far from Dover, and German raids on south-east England, by aeroplane and submarine, were by no means uncommon. 'One of these days I'll fly over and look the old chap up!'
'Why not to-day?' The thought gave him a mild shock, for when it came to hard facts, he knew that such a step was very irregular, and would be unpardonable if trouble resulted from his absence. But, after all, he could be back before dark, and no one would be likely to miss him. The squadron would think he had dropped in for lunch at another aerodrome.
Slowly the nose of his Camel plane swung round under the gentle pressure of his foot on the rudder-bar, until it was pointing directly at the dim shadow on the skyline. In twenty minutes he was over the French coast, standing out to sea, with the chalk cliffs of Kent shining whitely.
Away to his left, a leave-boat was racing from Calais to Dover, leaving a white, zig-zag trail to mark its course, for, like all ships in waters where enemy submarines were known to be lurking, it sought to baffle the hidden menace by frequent changes of course. The ocean, as far as he could see, was dotted with smaller craft, some obviously mine-sweepers, working in twos and threes as they dragged their nets unceasingly to and fro.
In the distance, a huge convoy of freighters was steaming up the English Channel, surrounded by a flotilla of protecting destroyers that sped through the water like greyhounds towards every suspicious object.
A great, dark-winged Handley-Page* night bomber, eight thousand feet below him, was making for Marqui-llies, on the French coast, guided by a 'ferry' pilot. From his superior height, it looked like a deformed water-spider skimming over the surface of the sea.
* Twin-engined biplane bomber HP100. Carried approximately 30001b of bombs.
The English coast rapidly became clearer, and he could see the fields, woods, hedges, and streams that lay beyond, dotted here and there with villages. He set his nose towards a small village not far from Walmer, where the doctor's house was situated amid a smiling countryside of hopfields and oasts. He glided down steeply, then zoomed over the roof of the old manor house with a roar. Half-rolling on the top of his zoom, he swept down again, turned, then side-slipped neatly into a long meadow that bordered the orchard.
As the Camel ran to a stop over the rough surface of the field, he pushed up his goggles and swung his legs over the side, waving cheerfully at an amazed labourer who had been trimming the hedge, and who now stood, with his shears open in the action of cutting a twig, a picture of comical surprise.
A maidservant came round a corner at the double, followed by the gardener, the gardener's boy, and a pack of terriers. A shout came from the direction of the garden, and next minute an elderly man in shirtsleeves, with a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other, burst through the hedge and joined the others streaming towards the stationary plane.
'Hallo, there! Hallo, there
!' he called as he ran, brandishing his tools. 'Hallo, there, young man! What's wrong, eh, what's wrong?'
'Nothing's wrong, sir,' replied Biggles, laughing at the old man's excitement. 'I've just slipped over to look you up, that's all.'
At the sound of his voice the doctor stopped dead, staring.
'Well, well, if it isn't young Biggles! Bless my soul, if it isn't! What brings you here, eh, what brings you here?'
'I've just dropped in to see how you are getting along, with a war on!' answered Biggles. 'I was doing a patrol over in France, and suddenly decided to slip across and see you.'
'You couldn't have come at a better moment!' declared the old man enthusiastically. 'You're the very man I want to see. The very man! Only yesterday I said to Bilkins, "if only young Master Bigglesworth was here, we'd soon end this war!" Didn't I, Bilkins?' he added, turning to the gardener for confirmation.
'You did, sir!' replied Bilkins dutifully.
'End the war!' cried Biggles, sliding down to the ground, 'how are you going to do that? I've been doing my best for some time, but as far as I can see I don't seem to have made much impression on it!' he grinned.
'I'll show you,' said the doctor quickly. 'Come with me, and I'll show you!' 'Still inventing things?' inquired Biggles, as they made their way towards the house.
'Inventing! I should think I am,' replied the doctor. 'A bomb!' he whispered. 'But not a word! If the Germans got an inkling of my self-expanding horizontal-action anti-submarine bomb, the place would be alive with spies!'
'What do the authorities say about it?' asked Biggles, with a straight face, although inwardly he was bubbling with suppressed mirth.
'Bah! What do they know about bombs? Nothing! Less than nothing! They say that my letter is receiving attention—and that's all it will get if I know anything about 'em! What they need is a demonstration, and what I need is a demonstrator. I am preparing to demonstrate it myself.
'I'm going to drop this bomb on something—a German submarine, if possible—if it's the last thing I ever do. And let me tell you that when this bomb goes off, it will make such a hole in the North Sea that the fish won't know whether they're coming or going. If it drops within a hundred yards of a U-boat*, the bits will be scattered from Heligoland to Harwich, you mark my words!'
* German submarine.
'But how are you going to drop it?' asked Biggles.
'Come in here, and I'll show you,' answered the old man. They had reached the end of the field, where a large wooden shed, with a corrugated iron roof, had been erected, and he took a key from his pocket, unlocked a massive padlock, and swung the door open. 'What do you think of that?' he cried triumphantly.
Biggles started violently as his eyes fell on an ancient Farman aeroplane standing in the shadows of the impoverished hangar.
'What on earth do you think you are going to do with that thing?' he asked slowly.
'Fly it, of course!' retorted the old man.
'Where the dickens did you find it?' Biggles asked.
'Find it, indeed! I built it!' the other exclaimed. 'Built it out of scrap I obtained for experimental purposes!'
'It looks like it!' said Biggles. 'You won't mind my mentioning it, but it doesn't look like a very safe conveyance to me!'
'It doesn't matter what it looks like. It's the performance that counts. I've increased the factors of safety by one hundred per cent. You see, I'm going to fly it myself.'
Biggles started as if he had been stung by a hornet.
'You're going to fly it?' he gasped incredulously. 'When did you learn to fly?'
'I didn't—I mean, I haven't,' admitted the doctor. 'But I have studied the subject sufficiently to try my hand. I think I should be quite safe in the air.'
'As long as you stop at thinking, all right,' replied Biggles. 'But you mustn't ever start that engine up! Where is the bomb?'
'Here, under the nacelle*,' replied the doctor, looking a trifle crestfallen. All you have to do is pull this handle'—he seized a metal lever that projected from the fuselage, near the cockpit—'and the bomb drops straight off and explodes at the slightest contact. It has an instantaneous fuse.'
* The crew section placed on or between the wings.
Biggles stepped back hastily.
'For goodness' sake, let go of that thing!' he said sharply. 'Have you fitted any safety devices?'
'Safety devices? What on earth do you want safety devices for? A bomb is an instrument of destruction, not preservation!'
'Yes, I know. But you can't beetle around with a horror like that just tagged on to your kite. The thing might come unstuck at any moment!'
'For a fighting pilot, you seem singularly apprehensive of danger!' snorted the doctor, nettled.
'I'm frightened to death of that thing, if that's what you mean!' admitted Biggles coldly. 'If ever I saw a death trap, that's it! When I commit suicide, I'm going to do it cleanly, and leave something for people to bury in a wooden coffin, not scatter bits of meat and hair all over the landscape for someone to collect in a sandbag!'
'Very well, if you won't fly it, I will!' cried the doctor angrily. 'I've confidence in my inventions, if you haven't. Stand aside!'
'What are you going to do?' cried Biggles, seeing the doctor was in earnest.
'Fly it, man! Fly it, and put you to shame!'
'I'm hanged if you do!' snapped Biggles. 'Why, you'd never get it off the ground! Here, you get out of the way and let me have a go! I'll fly it for you—that is, if it will hold together long enough,' he added, in an undertone. 'And for goodness' sake take your hand off that bomb-toggle! Now, where do you want the thing dropped?'
'In the sea, off Dover!' was the cool reply. 'I'll ring up the harbour-master and tell him to watch the explosion!'
'If it falls off before I get there, he'll know I'm about without you telling him!' observed Biggles. 'I wish I could get the confounded bomb on my Camel, but the bomb-racks aren't made to carry things like that!'
Together they pulled the machine out of its shed, and turned its nose into the slight breeze. Biggles juggled with the throttle, then hurried round to the propeller. To his utter and complete amazement, it started immediately, although the rattle of the low-powered Anzani engine was not calculated to inspire confidence. He climbed up into the pilot's seat and tested the controls anxiously, noting with further surprise that they seemed to function satisfactorily.
'Off you go!' cried the doctor impatiently. 'I'll ring up Dover and then follow in my car to watch the bang.'
'I see!' replied Biggles. 'We shall probably go off together, me and the bomb, when I open the throttle. You'd better stand well clear, then you'll be able to tell them at the inquest what happened!'
He opened the throttle slowly and taxied a few yards, mentally blaming the folly that had led him into such a hole. He had no confidence in the engine, less in the machine, and still less in the home-made bomb and its fittings. But it was too late to back out now.
'I'm crazy!' he told himself angrily. 'Stark, staring, raving barmy, and all to please a daft, nit-witted old idiot with a bee in his bonnet! Well, let's get it over!' he thought grimly, and shoved the throttle wide open.
He turned pale as the wheezing of the engine swelled to a hoarse, bellowing clatter, and the machine lumbered heavily across the short grass.
'She'll fall to bits before she leaves the ground,' was his swift mental note during the next few agonising seconds, as he eased the control-stick back. Then he breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief as the home-made aircraft rose sturdily into the air.
He circled slowly round the meadow, climbing for height, and, the immediate danger past, waved to the doctor and the little group of servants who were flourishing him good-bye on the lawn. Then he turned towards the sea, already visible in the near distance.
'I shall lose my commission over this business!' he muttered savagely. He crossed the coastline and stood out to sea —a precautionary measure which assured that if the bomb fell off its rack pre
maturely, it would fall in the water where it would do no harm —unless an unlucky ship happened to be in the way.
A naval flying-boat swerved from its course to take a closer look at the antiquated aircraft, the flying-boat pilot and observers making vulgar signs as it drew near, to indicate their opinion of the unusual spectacle. The flying-boat turned and dipped in mock salute as it continued its patrol, and Biggles swallowed hard with mortification, realising that it was impossible for him to overtake them to return the salute in his own fashion!
As he turned south, three Fairey seaplanes swept past him without taking the slightest notice, and the steadfastness of their purpose caused him to watch them closely. They were climbing fast. Lifting his gaze for a possible objective, Biggles ground his teeth with rage as he saw a line of white anti-aircraft gunfire bursts trailing across the sky, with a fleeting black speck at their head.
'A Hun raider!' he snarled, 'and here am I flying a dying cow! That's what comes of fooling about with lunatics. Serves me right. I'm flying Camels or nothing in future! Hallo —what's this coming?'
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 wartime small airships known as Blimps*, apparently steering an erratic course over an invisible switchback.
* A type of small non-rigid airship used for observation purposes—particularly naval operations.
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!'