`Yes. You said stick with you.'
Biggles held out his hand. 'You'll do, kid,' he said. 'And you can call me Biggles.'
THE summer sun was sinking in the western sky in a blaze of crimson glory as Biggles, with his flying kit thrown carelessly over his arm, walked slowly from the sheds towards the officers' mess. At the porch he paused in his stride to regard with wonderment the efforts of a freckle-faced youth, who, regardless of the heat, was feverishly digging up a small square patch of earth some thirty feet in front of the mess door.
`What the deuce are you doing, Algy?' he called cheerfully. `Making a private dugout for yourself?'
`No,' replied Algernon Montgomery, straightening his back with an obvious effort and wiping the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand. Ì'm making a garden. This dust-smitten hole wants brightening up.'
`You're what?' cried Biggles incredulously.
`Making a garden, I said,' responded Algy shortly, resuming his task.
`Good Lord! What are you going to sow, or whatever you call it?'
Ì've got some sunflowers,' replied Algy, nodding towards a newspaper package from which some wilted sickly green ends protruded.
`Sunflowers, eh?' said Biggles, curiously, advancing towards the scene of action. 'They ought to do well. But why not plant sonic bananas or pineapples, or something we could eat?'
'It isn't hot enough for bananas,' said Algy, between breaths. `They were all I could get, anyway.'
`Not hot enough?' answered Biggles. 'Holy mackerel! It feels hot enough to me to grow doughnuts.'
Algy dropped his spade and drew one of the seedlings gently from the package.
`Do you mean to tell me that you are going to stick that poor little thing in that pile of dust? I thought you said you were going to brighten things up,' said Biggles slowly.
`That'll be ten feet high presently,' said Algy confidently, scratching a hole in the earth and dropping the roots in.
`Ten feet! You mean to tell me that little squirt of a thing's got a ceiling of ten feet? Why, he's stalling already. Bah! You can't kid me. Straighten him up. You've got him a bit left wing low.'
`You push off, Biggles; I want to get these things in before dark,' cried Algy hotly. 'They'
ve got to have some water yet.'
`They look to me as if a double brandy would do them more good,' retorted Biggles as he turned towards the mess. 'So long, kid—see you later. You can lie up in the morning. I'll take Cowley and Tommy on the early show.'
Three hours later Biggles pushed his chair back from the card-table in the anteroom. '
Well, I'm up five francs,' he announced, ànd now I'm going to roost. I'll A voice from the doorway interrupted him. It was Algy. `Here, chaps,' he called excitedly. 'Come and look at this—quick, before it goes.'
`He wants us to go and watch his posies sprouting in the moonlight, I expect,' grinned Biggles at Mahoney and Mac-Laren, who were leaning back in their chairs. He turned towards the door, but as his eye fell on a window which had been flung wide open to admit as much air as possible, he stopped
abruptly. 'What the . . .?' he ejaculated, and sprang towards the door. The crash of falling chairs announced that the others were close behind him.
At the open doorway he stopped and looked up. A hundred feet above, a brilliant white light was sinking slowly earthwards, flooding the mess and the surrounding buildings with a dazzling radiance. A faint whistling sound, increasing in volume, became audible.
`Look out!' yelled Biggles and, covering twenty yards almost in a bound, dived headlong into a trench which surrounded a nearby Nissen hut. The whistle became a shrieking wail. 'Look where you're coming,' protested Biggles, as a dozen bodies thudded into the trench, one landing on the small of his back. `Where's ?' His voice was lost in a deafeni ng detonation; a
blinding sheet of flame leapt upwards.
Ìf they've knocked my drink over
' snarled Mahoney,
struggling to get out of the trench.
`Come back, you fool,' yelled Biggles, hanging on to his foot. `Here comes another—get down.'
Bang! Another terrific explosion shook the earth, and falling debris rattled on the tin roof beside them. The roar of an aeroengine almost on their heads, but swiftly receding, split the air.
Àll right, chaps, he's gone,' said Biggles, scrambling out of the trench. 'Don't step on my cigarette-case, anybody; I've dropped it somewhere. By thunder, he nearly caught us bending! To the deuce with these new parachute flares; they don't give you a chance.'
Ì hope he hasn't knocked our wine store sideways, like somebody did to 55 the other day,' grumbled Mahoney. 'Hello! The searchlights have got him. Just look at that stinking archie; I wouldn't be in that kite for something.'
All eyes were turned upwards to where a black crossed machine was twisting and turning in the beams of three searchlights which had fastened upon it. The air around was torn with darting, crimson jets of flame.
, 'He'll get away; they always do,' said MacLaren with deep disgust, making his way towards the mess.
`Well, I hope he does; he deserves to. I'd hate his job, observed Biggles philosophically.
`Where's Algy?'
Ì expect the kid's gone to see if his plantation's all right,' replied Mahoney. 'Well, good night, chaps—good night, Biggles.'
`Cheerio, laddie.'
Ten minutes later there was a knock on Biggles' door, and in reply to his invitation a wild-eyed, freckle-faced youth thrust his head inside. He seemed to be labouring under some great emotion.
`What—what was that?' he gasped.
Biggles grinned. 'Hannoverana—didn't you see it in the beam?' he replied. 'There's no harm done.'
`Where did that dirty dog come from, do you think?' choked Algy. Àerodrome 2g, I expect; they are the only Hannovers near here. Must have crossed the line at twenty thousand and glided down with his engine off,' replied Biggles.
`Where's Aerodrome 29?'
Òh, go to the map-room and find out; it's time you knew. There are some photos there, too. Push off. I'm tired and I'm on the early show.'
Algy stood for a moment breathing heavily, staring at his flight-commander, and then abruptly slammed the door.
Biggles scarcely seemed to have closed his eyes when he was awakened by the earsplitting roar of an engine. It was still dark. He grabbed his luminous watch and looked at the time—it was 3.3o. 'What the dickens—?' he croaked, springing out of bed. He reached the window just as the dim silhouette of a Camel passed overhead. He flung on a dressing-gown and raced along the sun-baked path to the sheds. 'Who's that just gone off?' he called to a tousle-headed ack-emma who was still staring upwards with a vacant grin on his face.
Àlger—sorry, sir—Mr.
`Never mind,' snapped Biggles, overlooking the breach of
respect. 'I know. Where's he gone—did he say?'
`No, sir, but I saw him marking up his map. He took eight Cooper bombs.'
`What did he mark on his map?' snapped Biggles. Àerodrome 29, sir.'
Biggles swung on his heel and tore back towards the huts. He shook and pummelled the life into Cowley and Thomas. 'Come on,' he said tersely; jump to it. Algy's gone off his rocker—he's shooting up 29 alone. Let's get away.'
Sidcots were hastily donned over pyjamas, and within five minutes three machines were in the air heading for the line. The sun was creeping up over the horizon when Biggles, at 5,000 feet, waved to the other two pilots and, leaning over the side of his cockpit, pointed downwards. Far below, a tiny moving speck was circling and banking over a line of hangars. A cloud of white smoke arose into the air. Tiny ant-like figures were running to and fro.
`The fool, the crazy lunatic!' gasped Biggles, as he pushed the stick forward and went roaring down with the others behind him.
At 50o feet a row of holes appeared like magic in his wing and he sideslipped violently. He levelled out and poured a stream of tracer at a group of figures clustered around
a machine-gun. A green machine was taking off cross-wind; he swung down behind it and raked it with a stream of lead. The gunner in the rear seat dropped limply and the machine crashed into the trees at the far end of the aerodrome. The air was full of the rattle of guns and an ominous flack! flack! flack! behind warned him that it was time to be leaving.
He looked around for Algy, and, spotting him still circling, zoomed across his nose, frantically waving his arm above his head.
Ìf he doesn't come now he can stay and get what he deserves,' muttered Biggles, as he shot over the edge of the aerodrome.
He looked behind. To his relief three Camels were on his tail, so, climbing swiftly for height, he headed back towards the lines.
Ì'll see him back home and then go straight on with the
morning show,' he mused a few minutes later as they raced across the lines in a flurry of archie. He landed and leaned against the side of the Camel while he waited for the others to come in. Another Camel touched its wheels gently on the aerodrome and finished its run not twenty yards away.
Algy sprang out of the cockpit and ran towards him. 'I got it---I got it!' he shouted exultantly as he ran.
'Who do you think you are?' snapped Biggles. 'Archimedes?' 'I got four hits out of eight,'
cried Algy joyously.
'You got nothing—I had a good look. You didn't touch a single hangar,' growled Biggles.
`Hangar—hangar—?' replied Algy stupidly. 'Who's talking ubout hangars?'
'I am; what else do you suppose?'
'Hangars, be dashed!' cried Algy. 'I mean their geraniums!' `Germaniums germaniums
? Am I going crazy? What
arc you talking about—germaniums?'
`Raniums—raniums N N ! Good Lord, did you
never hear of geraniums? They had a bed full of geraniums and calceolarias.'
'Calcium—calcium
' Biggles took a quick step backwards and whipped out his Very pistol. 'Here, stand back, you, or I'll shoot. You're daft.'
`Daft be dashed! I mean flowers—I've scattered their blinking geraniums all over the aerodrome.'
Biggles stared at him for a moment, his jaw sagging foolishly. 'Do you mean to tell me you've been to that hell-hole, and dragged me there, to bomb a perishing flower-bed?'
`Yes, and I've made a salad of their lettuce-patch,' added Algy triumphantly.
'But why? What have the lettuces done to you?'
`Done to me? Haven't you seen what that swine did to my sunflowers last night?'
Biggles swung round on his heel as enlightenment burst upon him. At the spot where Algy's flower-bed had been yawned a deep round hole.
THE summer sun blazed down in all its glory from a sky of cloudless blue. Biggles, his head resting on his hands, lay flat on his back in a patch of deep, sweet-scented grass in a quiet corner of the aerodrome, and stared lazily at a lark trilling gaily far above. The warmth, the drowsy hum of insects, and the smell of the clean earth were balm to his tired body. For since the disaster which had robbed his squadron of two thirds of its machines he had been doing three patrols a day. New Camels had now arrived, however, and at the commanding officer's suggestion he was taking things quietly for a few days. The war seemed far away. Even the mutter of guns along the Line had died down to an occasional fitful salvo. France was not such a bad place, after all, he decided, as he glanced at his watch, and then settled himself again in the grass, his eyes on the deepblue sky. A little frown puckered his brow as he heard the soft swish of footsteps approaching through the grass, but he did not move. The footsteps stopped close behind him.
`You taking up star-gazing?' said a voice. It was Algy's.
Ì should be if there were any to gaze at. You ought to know, at your age, that they only come out at night,' replied Biggles coldly.
`You'll be boss-eyed staring up that way,' warned Algy. 'Do you expect to see something, or are you just looking into the future?'
`That's it,' agreed Biggles.
`What's it?' asked Algy.
Ì'm looking into the future. I can tell you just what you'll see up there in exactly three and a half minutes time.'
`You're telling me!' sneered Algy. 'You mean a nice blue sky!'
Ànd something else,' replied Biggles seriously. 'I've been doing a bit of amateur astrology lately, and I'm getting pretty good at it. I can work things out by deduction. My middle name ought to have been Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes, you know, the famous detective!'
`Well, do your stuff,' invited Algy. `What are you deducing now?'
Biggles yawned, and said: 'In one minute you'll see a Rumpler plane come beetling along from the south-east at about ten thousand feet. Our people will archie him, but they won't hit him. When he gets over that clump of poplars away to the right he'll make one complete turn, and then streak for home, nose down, on a different course from the one he came by.'
`This sun has given you softening of the brain,' declared Algy. 'What makes you think that, anyway?'
Ì don't have to think—I know!' replied Biggles. I've got what is known as second sight. It's a gift that
`Come, come, Bigglesworth,' broke in another voice. 'You can't get away with that!'
Biggles raised himself on his elbow, and found himself looking into the smiling face of Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquarters.
`Sorry, sir!' he gasped, struggling to get to his feet, 'I thought Algy was by himself '
Àll right—lie still, don't let me disturb you. I was just looking around—Hark!'
A faint drone became audible high overhead, and three pairs of eyes turned upwards to a tiny black speck heading up from the south-east. Although small, it could be recognised as a German aeroplane, a Rumpler.
Whoof! Whooaf! Whoof!
Three little fleecy white clouds blossomed out some distance behind it as the British antiaircraft gunners took up the chase. Biggles glanced at the others out of the corner of his eye, and their expressions brought a quick twitch of amusement to the corners of his lips. His smile broadened as the Rumpler held on its way until it was almost exactly above the group of poplars to which he had referred. Then, very deliberately, it made a
complete circle and raced back, nose-down, towards the Lines on a different course.
`Not a bad forecast for an amateur!' observed Biggles calmly. `Pretty good!' admitted Algy reluctantly. 'Maybe you know why he's flying in that direction now?'
Ì do,' replied Biggles. 'It's a matter of simple deduction. He's going that way because if he followed his own course back he'd just about bump into Mahoney's flight coming in from patrol. He knows all about that, and as he doesn't fancy his chances with them he's steering wide of them.'
The enemy Rumpler was almost out of sight now, and the drone of its engine was gradually drowned by others rapidly approaching. Following the course by which the Rumpler pilot had crossed the Lines came three British Camels, straight towards the aerodrome.
Ì told you my middle name ought to have been Sherlock!' grinned Biggles.
`Good show, Bigglesworth!' said the Colonel. 'I must say that was very neat. Tell us how you knew all this.'
Òh, sir!' replied Biggles reprovingly. 'Fancy asking a conjurer to show you how he does his tricks! It isn't done.' `But I'm very interested,' protested the Colonel.
`So am I, to tell you the truth, sir!' Biggles replied. 'You know as much as I do now, but I figure it out this way. The average German hasn't very much imagination, and he works to a timetable, like a clock. I've been over here for the last two days at this time, and on both occasions that Rumpler has turned up and done exactly the same thing. Well, when I put my ear to the ground a little bird tells me that what a Hun does twice he'll do three times—and he'll keep on doing it until someone stops him. Maybe I shall have to stop him. If you ask me why he comes over here you've got me. I don't know. But I should say he comes over to look at something. He doesn't just come over on an ordinary reconnaissance. He's sent to look at something which he can see from that
position where he turned over the poplars. Having seen it, he beetles off home. I may be wrong, but even my gross intelligence tells me he doesn't come over here just for fun. I must confess I'm getting a bit curious. What Huns can see I
ought to be able to see.'
That's what I was thinking,' agreed the Colonel. 'The Huns seem to he seeing quite a lot of this sector, too, of late. A week ago an artillery brigade took up a position in the sunken road at Earles. They were well camouflaged and could not have been kern from above, yet they were shelled out of existence the same night. That wasn't guesswork. We had to have some guns somewhere, so a couple ofdays ago we brought up a heavy naval gun, and sank it in a gun-pit behind that strip of wood on the Amiens road. It was perfectly concealed against aerial observation, yet by twelve noon the Boche artillery were raking that particular area and blew it to pieces. That wasn't guesswork, cif her. Then some ammunition lorries parked behind the walls of the ruined farm at Bertaple—
the same thing happened to hem. Now you know what I mean when I say that the Boche has been looking pretty closely at this sector.'
'Someone's been busy, that's certain,' agreed Biggles.
Ì wish you'd have a look round,' the Colonel went on. Ì don't know what to tell you to look for—if I did, there would be no need for you to go. You'll have to put two and two together, and you're pretty good at that!'
'Don't make me blush in front of Algy, sir!' protested Biggles, grinning. `Right-ho; I'll beetle around right away and see if I can see what the gentleman in the Rumpler saw!'
Half an hour later, Biggles was in the air flying over exactly the same course as that taken by the Boche machine, and as he flew he subjected the ground below to a searching scrutiny. Reaching the spot where the Rumpler had turned, he redoubled his efforts, studying the landscape road by road and field by field. There was a singular lack of activity. Here and there he saw small camps where British battalions from the trenches were resting. He picked out a wrecked windmill, minus its arms, an overturned lorry, and a dispatch-rider tearing along a road in a cloud of dust. One or two small shell-torn villages came within his range of vision, and a farm-labourer harvesting his corn, piling the sheaves into shocks, regardless of the nearness of the firing-line. Shell-holes, both old and new, could be seen dotted about the landscape, but he could not see a single mark likely to be of interest to, or which might be taken as a signal for, the enemy. He saw the place, where the artillery brigade had been shelled, and he turned away, feeling depressed.
Biggles Pioneer Air Fighter (51) Page 6