For the first time since he had started that heart-bursting dive he looked back. The Rumpler was nowhere in sight, but an involuntary yell broke from his lips as his eyes fell on two Albatrosses, one minus its top-plane, spinning wildly downwards; whether as the result of a collision or because they had cracked up in the dive he neither knew or cared. The five remaining Albatrosses were already turning back towards their own lines, followed by a furious bombardment of archie.
Where was the Rumpler? He looked downwards. Ah! He was just in time to see it crash behind the British front-line trench. Tiny ant-like figures were already crawling towards it, some looking upwards, waving to him.
Biggles smiled. 'Given the boys a treat anyway,' he thought, as he pushed up his goggles and passed his hand wearily over his lace. A sound like a sob was drowned in the drone of the engine. `Well, that's that,' he said to himself; and turned his nose for home. The following morning, as the Sergeant-Major in charge of the burying party at Lagnicourt Cemetery entered the gate, his eye fell on a curious object that had been firmly planted on a new mound of earth, at the opposite end to the usual little white cross.
`What the devil's that thing, Corporal?' he said. 'It wasn't there yesterday, I'll swear.'
The Corporal took a few steps nearer.
`That's where they planted that R.F.C. wallah last week, Sergeant-Major,' he replied. '
Looks to me like a smashed aeroplane propeller.'
Àll right, let it alone. I expect some of his pals shoved it there. For-ward—ma—arch!'
MAHONEY, on his way to the sheds to take his Flight off for an early Ordinary Patrol, paused in his stride as his eye fell on Biggles leaning in an attitude of utter boredom against the doorpost of the officers' mess.
`Why so pensive, young aviator?' he smiled. 'Has Mr. Cox grabbed your pay to square up the overdraft?' he added, as he caught sight of an open letter in the other's hand.
`Worse than that; much, much worse,' replied Biggles. `Couldn't be worse, in fact. What do you think of this?' He held out the letter.
Ì haven't the time to read it, laddie. What's the trouble?'
Òh, it's from an elderly female relative of mine. She says her son—my cousin—is in the R.F. C. on his way to France. She's pulled the wires at the Air Board for the Pool to send him to 266, as she feels sure I can take care of him. She asks me to see that he changes his laundry regularly, doesn't drink, doesn't get mixed up with the French minxes, and a dozen other "doesn' ts." My gosh! it's a bit thick; what does she think this is—a prep. school?'
`What's he like?'
Ì don't know, it's year since I saw him; and if he's anything like the little horror he was then heaven help us—and him. His Christian names are Algernon Montgomery, and that'
s just what he looked like—a slice of warmed-up death wrapped in velvet and ribbons.'
`Sounds pretty ghastly. When's he coming?'
`Today, apparently. His name's on the notice-board. The old girl had the brass face to write to the C.O., and he's posted him to my Flight—in revenge, I expect.'
`Too bad,' replied Mahoney, sympathetically. 'Well, go and get the letter done, telling her how bravely he died, and forget about it. There comes the tender now—see you later.'
Biggles, left alone, watched the tender pull up and discharge two new pilots and their kit; he had no difficulty in recognizing
his new charge, who approached eagerly.
`You're Biggles—aren't you? I know you from the photo at home.'
The matured edition of the youth was even more unprepossessing than Biggles expected. His uniform was dirty, his hair long, his face, which wore a permanent expression of amused surprise, was a mass of freckles.
`My name's Captain Bigglesworth,' said the Flight-Commander coldly. 'You are posted to my Flight. Get your kit into your room, report to the Squadron office, and then come back here; I want to have a word with you.'
`Sorry, sir,' said Algernon apologetically; 'of course, I forgot.' A few minutes later he rejoined Biggles in the mess. 'What'll you have to drink?' invited Biggles.
`Have you any ginger ale?'
Ì shouldn't think so,' replied Biggles. 'We don't get much demand for it. Have you any ginger ale, Adams?' he asked the mess waiter. 'I'll have the usual.'
`Yes, sir, I think I've got one somewhere, if I can find it,' replied the waiter, looking at the newcomer curiously.
`Sit down and let's talk,' said Biggles, when the drinks had been served. 'How much flying have you done?'
`Fourteen hours on Avros and ten on Camels.'
`Ten hours, eh?' mused Biggles. 'Ten hours. So they're sending 'em out here with ten hours now. My gosh! Now listen,' he went on; 'I want you to forget those ten hours. This is where you'll learn to fly—they can't teach you at home. If you live a week you'll begin to know something about it. I don't want to discourage you, but most people who come out here live on an average twenty-four hours. If you survive a week you're fairly safe. I can't teach you much; nobody can; you'll find things out for yourself. First of all, never cross the line alone under 10,000 feet—not yet, anyway. Never go more than a couple of miles over unless you are with a formation. Never go down after a Hun. If you see a Hun looking like easy meat, make for home, and if that Hun fires a Very light, kick out your foot and slam the stick over as if somebody was already shooting at you. Act first and think afterwards, otherwise you may not have time to act. Never leave your formation on any account—you'll never get back into it if you do, unless it's your lucky day; the sky is full of Huns waiting to pile up their scores and it's people like you that make it possible. Keep your eyes peeled and never stop looking for one instant. Watch the sun and never fly straight for more than two minutes at a time if you can't see what's up in the sun. Turn suddenly as if you've seen something—and you may see something. Never mind archie—it never hits anything. Watch out for balloon cables if you have to come home under 5,00o. If a Hun gets on your tail, don't try to get away. Go to him. Try to bite him as if you were a mad dog; try to ram him—he'll get out of your way then. Never turn if you are meeting a Hun head-on; it isn't done. Don't shoot outside 200
feet—it's a waste of ammunition. Keep away from clouds, and, finally, keep away from balloons. It's suicide. If you want to commit suicide, do it here, because then someone else can have your bus. If you see anything you don't understand, let it alone; never let your curiosity get the better of you. If I wave my hand above my head—make for home. That means everbody for himself. That's all. Can you remember that?'
Ì think so.'
`Right. Then let's go and have a look at the line and I'll show you the landmarks. If I shake my wings it means a Hun—I may go for it. If I do, you stay upstairs and watch me. If anything goes wrong—go straight home. When in doubt—go home, that's the motto. Got that?'
`Yes, sir.'
They took off together and circled over the aerodrome, climbing steadily for height; when his altimeter showed 6,000 feet Biggles headed for the line. It was not an ideal day for observation. Great masses of detached cumulus cloud were sailing majestically eastward and through these Biggles threaded his way, the other Camel in close attendance. Sometimes through the clouds they could see the ground, and from time to time Biggles pointed out salient landmarks—a
chalk-pit—stream—or wood. Gradually the recognisable features became fewer until they were lost in a scene of appalling desolation, criss-crossed with a network of fine lines scarred by pools of stagnant water.
Biggles beckoned the other Camel nearer and jabbed downwards. Explanation was unnecessary. They were looking down at no-man's-land. Suddenly Biggles rocked his wings violently and pointed, and without further warning shot across the nose of the other Camel and dived steeply into a cloud. He pulled out underneath and looked around quickly, but of his companion there was no sign. He circled the cloud, climbing swiftly, and looked anxiously to right and left, choked back an expletive as his eye fell on what he sought. Far away, almost out of sig
ht in the enemy sky, were five straight-winged machines; hard on their heels was a lone machine with a straight top wing and lower wings set at a dihedral angle—the Camel.
`The crazy fool!' ground out Biggles, as he set off in pursuit; but even as he watched, the six machines disappeared into a cloud and were lost to view. 'I should say that's the last anyone will see of Algernon Montgomery,' muttered Biggles philosophically, as he climbed higher, scanning the sky in the direction taken by the machines, but the clouds closed up and hid the earth from view, leaving the lone Camel the sole occupant of the sky. 'Well, I might as well go home and write that letter to his mother, as Mahoney said,'
mused the pilot. 'Poor little devil! After all I told him, too. Well
!' He turned
south-west and headed for home, flying by the unfailing instinct some pilots seem to possess.
Major Mullen, MacLaren and Mahoney were standing on the tarmac when he landed. '
Where's the new man, Biggles?' said Major Mullen quickly.
`He's gone,' said Biggles slowly as he took off his helmet. 'I couldn't help it. I told the young fool to stick to me like glue. We were just over the line when I spotted the shadows of five Fokkers on the clouds; I gave him the tip and went into the cloud, expecting him to follow me. When I came out he wasn't there. I went back and was just in time to see him disappearing
into Hunland on the tails of the five Fokkers. I spent some time looking for him, but I couldn't find him. Could you believe that a—bah!
it's no use talking about it. I'm
going for a dr
Hark!' The hum of a rotary engine rapidly approaching sent all eyes quickly upwards.
`Here he comes,' said Biggles frostily. 'Leave this to me, please, sir. I've something to say to him.'
The Camel landed and taxied in. The pilot jumped out and, with a cheerful wave of greeting, joined Biggles on the tarmac. Ì've
`Never mind that,' cut in Biggles curtly. 'Where do you think you've been?'
Ì saw the Huns—I was aching to have a crack at them—so I went after them.'
`Didn't I tell you to stay with me?'
`Yes, but
`Never mind "but"; you do what you're told or I'll knock heck out of you. Who do you think you are—Billy Bishop or Micky Mannock, perhaps?' sneered Biggles.
`The Huns were bolting
`Bolting my foot; they hadn't even seen you. If they had you wouldn't be here now. Those green-and-white stripes belong to von Kirtner's circus. They're killers—every one of 'em. You poor boob.'
Ì got one of them.'
`You what?'
Ì shot one down. I don't think he even saw me, though. I got all tangled up in a cloud, and when I came out and looked up, his wheels were nearly on my head. I pulled my stick back and let drive right into the bottom of his cockpit. He went down. I saw the smoke against the clouds.'
Biggles subjected the speaker to a searching scrutiny. 'Where did you read that tale?' he asked slowly.
Ì didn't read it, sir,' said the new pilot, flushing. 'It was near a big queer-shaped wood. I think I must have been frightfully
lucky.'
`Lucky!' ejaculated Biggles sarcastically. 'Lucky! Ha, ha!
Lucky! You don't know how lucky you are. Now listen. If ever you leave me again I'll put you under close arrest as soon as your feet are on the ground. Whatever happens, you stick to me. I've other things to do besides write letters of condolence to your mother. All right, wash out for today.'
Biggles sought Major Mullen and the other Flight-Commander in the Squadron office. '
That kid got a Hun or else he's the biggest liar on earth.'
`The liar sounds most likely to me,' observed MacLaren. Òh, I don't know; it has been done,' broke in Major Mullen; `but it does seem a bit unlikely, I'll admit.'
The new pilot entered to make his report, and Biggles and MacLaren sauntered to the sheds. 'Wait a minute,' said Biggles suddenly. He swung himself into the cockpit of the Camel which had been flown by the new pilot. 'Well, he's used his guns anyway,' he said slowly, as he climbed out again. 'I'll take him on the dawn patrol with Healy in the morning. He's not safe alone.'
Biggles, leading the other Camels, high in the early morning sky, pursed his lips into a soundless whistle as his eyes fell on a charred wreck at the corner of Mossyface Wood.
`So he got him all right,' he muttered. 'The kid was right. Well, I'm dashed!'
A group of moving specks appeared in the distance. He watched them closely for a moment, then he rocked his wings and commenced a slow turn, pointing as he did so to the enemy machines which were coming rapidly towards them. He warmed his guns, stiffened a little in his seat, and glanced to left and right to make sure that the other two Camels were in place. He saw a flash of green-and-white on the sides of the enemy machines as they swung round for the attack, and he unconsciously half-glanced at the new pilot.
`You'll have the dog-fight you were aching for yesterday,' was his unspoken thought. The Fokkers, six of them, were slightly above, coming straight on. Biggles lifted his nose slightly, took the leader in his sights,
and waited. At 200 feet, still holding the Camel head-on to the other machines, he pressed his triggers. He saw the darting, jabbing flame of the other's guns, but did not swerve an inch. Metal spanged on metal near his face, the machine vibrated, and an unseen hand plucked at his sleeve. He clenched his teeth and held his fire. He had a swift impression of two wheels almost grazing his top plane as the first Fokker zoomed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Healy's tracer pouring into the Fokker at his right, and a trail of black smoke burst from the engine. Neither machine moved an inch. There was a crash which he could hear above the roar of his own engine as the Camel and the Fokker met head-on. A sheet of flame leapt
upwards.
`Healy's gone—that's five to two now—not so good.'
He did a lightning right-hand turn. Where was Algernon? There he was, still in position at his wing-tip. The Huns had also turned and were coming back at them.
`Bad show for a kid,' thought Biggles, and on the spur of the moment waved his left hand above his head. The pilot of the other Camel was looking at him, but made no move.
`The fool, why doesn't he go home?' Biggles muttered, as he took the nearest Fokker in his sights again and opened fire. The Hun turned and he turned behind it, and the next second all seven machines were in a complete circle. Out of the corner of his eye Biggles saw the other Camel on the opposite side of the circle on the tail of a Hun.
`Why doesn't he shoot?' Biggles cursed blindly.
,` pulled the stick back into his right side and shot into the circle, raking the Fokker that had opened fire on the other Camel. It zoomed suddenly, and as Biggles shot past the new pilot he waved his left arm.
He saw Algernon make a turn and dive for the line. A Fokker was on his tail instantly and Biggles raked it until it had to turn and face him. He half-rolled as a stream of lead zipped a strip of fabric from the centre section and went into a steep bank again to look at the situation.
He was alone, and there were still four Fokkers. For perhaps a minute each machine held its place in the circle, and then the Fokkers began to climb above him. Biggles knew that he was in an almost hopeless position, and he glanced around for a cloud to make a quick dash for cover, but from horizon to horizon the sky was an unbroken stretch of blue. The circle tightened as each machine strove to close it. The highest Fokker turned suddenly and dived on him, guns spitting two pencil lines of tracer. Biggles crouched a little lower in the cockpit. Two more of the Fokkers were turning on him now, and he knew that it was only a question of time before a bullet got him or his engine in a vital part.
Already the Camel was beginning to show signs of the conflict. 'Gosh! What's that?'
Biggles almost stalled as another Camel shot into the circle. It did not turn as the others, but rushed across the diameter, straight at a Fokker which jerked up in a wild zoom to avoid collision. The Camel flashed
round—not in the direction of the circle, but against it, and Biggles stared open-eyed with horror as the other Fokkers shot out at a tangent to avoid disaster.
`Great Scott! What's he doing?' he muttered as he flung his own machine on its side to pass the other Camel. He picked out a Fokker and blazed at it. Where were the others?
They seemed to be scattered all over the sky. The other Camel was circling above him. '
We'll get out of this while the going's good,' he muttered grimly, and waved his hand to the other pilot. Together they turned and dived for the line. Biggles landed first and leant against the side of his machine to await the new pilot. For a moment he looked at him without speaking.
`Listen, laddie,' he said, when the other had joined him. 'You mustn't do that sort of thing. You'll give me the willies. You acted like a madman.'
`Sorry, but you told me to go for 'em like a mad dog. I thought that's what I did.'
Biggles looked at the speaker earnestly. 'Yes,' he grinned: `that's just what you did, but why didn't you do some shooting! I
never saw your tracer once.'
Ì couldn't.'
`Couldn't?'
`No—my gun jammed.'
`When?'
Ìt jammed badly with a bulged cartridge in that first go, and I couldn't clear it.'
Biggles raised his hand to his forehead. 'Do you mean to say you came back into that hell of a dog-fight with a jammed gun?' he said slowly.
Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter (51) Page 5