Biggles of 266

by W E Johns

  Parker, deadly white, crossed the room slowly and touched him gently on the chin with his finger.

  “What’s the idea?” demanded Wilks, in amazement. “Think you’re playing tag?” He turned to Biggles. “Looks like we’ve come to a madhouse,” he observed.

  “Is it you?” said Parker, in an awed whisper.

  Wilks scratched his chin reflectively. “I thought it was,” he said. “It is me, Biggles, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely you and nobody else,” declared Biggles.

  “Come on, then, let’s go through to my room and have a wash and brush up.”

  Wilks led the way along the corridor and pushed open the door of his room, only to stagger back with an exclamation of alarm. “My hat!” he shouted. “We’ve been burgled! Some skunk’s pinched my kit!”

  Biggles and Algy looked over his shoulder. The room was in disorder. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents scattered over the floor. The lid of a uniform-case stood open, exposing an empty interior. The room looked like the bedroom of an hotel that had been hurriedly evacuated. Wilks continued to stare at it incredulously.

  “No,” said a small, nervous voice behind them, “it wasn’t burglars—it was me.”

  “You!” gasped Wilks. “What do you mean by throwing my things all over the floor? What have you done with my pyjamas, anyway? And where are my shirts, and—”

  “I’m afraid your things are at Douai!”

  “Douai!” Wilks staggered and sat down limply on the bed. “Douai?” he repeated foolishly. “What in the name of sweet glory would my clothes be doing at Douai? You’re crazy!”

  “I took them.”

  Wilks swayed and his eyes opened wide. “Do I understand you to say you’ve taken my clothes to Douai? Why Douai? Couldn’t you think of anywhere else? I mean, if you’d wanted a joke you could have thrown them about the mess, or even out on the aerodrome! But Douai—I suppose you really mean Douai?”

  Wilks looked from Biggles to Algy and back again to Biggles. “Can you hear what he says?” he choked. “Did you hear him say that he’d taken my kit to— Douai?”

  “When you were a prisoner,” explained Parker.

  Wilks closed his eyes and shook his head savagely. “I’m dreaming!” he muttered. “You didn’t by any chance see anybody dope that lemonade that I had in Amiens this afternoon, did you, Algy?”

  “No,” replied Algy. “I didn’t, but I don’t trust—”

  “But a Hun dropped a message to say that you were a prisoner and wanted your kit!” explained Parker. “Didn’t he, chaps?” he called loudly to the officers who were now crowding into the corridor.

  “But I haven’t been near the Lines!” protested Wilks. “Much less over them. Come here, Parker, and tell me just what happened.”

  As quickly and concisely as possible Parker narrated the events of the afternoon.

  “The skunks!” grated Wilks. “They must have got hold of my name somehow and planned some dirty trick. It’s just like them. This business isn’t finished yet—Hallo, what’s that?” He sprang to his feet as the roar of an aero-engine vibrated through the air.

  “That’s no S.E.!” he muttered, staring at the others.

  “By gosh, it isn’t!” cried Biggles. “It’s a Mercedes engine, or I’ve never heard one. Look out, chaps, it’s a Hun!” Without waiting for a reply, he darted towards the door.

  Sharp yells of alarm came from outside, and the staccato chatter of a machine-gun split the air.

  For a minute or two pandemonium reigned as people rushed hither and thither, some for shelter and others for weapons, but by the time they had reached them the danger had passed. A Pfalz Scout was disappearing into the distance, zig-zagging as if a demon was on its tail.

  A hundred yards away a large, dark round object was bounding across the aerodrome. A mechanic started towards it, but Wilks shouted him back.

  “Keep away from that, you fool!” he bellowed. “Stand back, everybody!” he went on quickly, throwing himself flat. Biggles and Algy lay beside him and watched the object suspiciously.

  “I’m taking no risks!” declared Wilks emphatically. “I wouldn’t trust a Hun an inch. It’s some jiggery-pokery, I’ll be bound. Keep down, everybody! That thing’ll go bang in a minute, but I’ll settle it!”

  He jumped up and sprinted towards the nearest machine-gun. Reaching it and taking careful aim he sent a stream of tracer bullets through the small, balloon-like object.

  It rolled over and jumped convulsively, but nothing else happened. He fired another burst.

  Again the object rolled over. A cheer broke from the spectators, in which Wilks joined.

  “I’ll make quite sure of it!” he cried, and emptied the remainder of a drum of ammunition into it. Rat-at-at-at-at—rata-rata-rata-rata! The object twitched and jerked as the hail of lead struck it.

  “All right, I think it’s safe now!” he went on, advancing slowly. Several of the watchers rose and followed him to where it lay, smoking at several jagged holes where the bullets had struck it. An aroma of singeing cloth floated across the aerodrome.

  A low, strangled cry came from Parker, but no one noticed it.

  “What the dickens is it?” muttered Wilks curiously. He stooped over the bundle and, with a sharp movement of his penknife, cut the cords that held it together.

  It burst open, disclosing what appeared to be a number of old pieces of rag. Wilks picked up one of them and held it in the air. It was a piece of blue silk, punctured with a hundred holes, some of which were still smouldering.

  “Why, it looks like a pyjama jacket, doesn’t it?” he said smiling. “It would be a joke if we’ve shot some poor chap’s pyjamas to rags. Yes, they’re pyjamas all right,” he went on slowly, turning the rag round and round. “By gosh, they’re my pyjamas!” His voice rose to a bellow of rage. He flung the tattered debris of the garment on the ground and stamped on it.

  “Wait a minute, here’s a note!” shouted Parker. He picked up a mangled piece of paper and smoothed it out on his knee. “It’s in English, too! Listen! ‘From Jagdstaffel Commander, Douai. Message not understood. No Captain Wilkinson at Douai. Have made enquiries at other units, but no explanation received. Thinking mistake has been made, kit is returned with compliments.’”

  “But how did he know the clothes were for me?” demanded Wilks.

  “Because I put a note in addressed to you,” replied Parker.

  Wilks looked down at the mutilated remains of his underwear, and then started. His gaze ran over the assembled S.E.5 pilots, a new suspicion dawning in his eyes.

  “By James, I’ve got it!” he exploded. “Young Algy Lacey rang me up and asked me if I liked humbugs. He said he knew where there were some! He was right —he did! And so do I—now. Where is he, by the way, and that skunk Biggles?” He glanced around swiftly.

  “They were here a moment ago,” ventured someone.

  “I saw them hurrying towards the road,” said another.

  There was a wild rush towards the main road that skirted the aerodrome. Far away a tender was racing down the long, white, poplar-lined highway, leaving a great cloud of dust in its wake.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE TURKEY

  BIGGLES stood by the ante-room window of the officers’ mess with a coffee cup in his hand and regarded the ever-threatening sky disconsolately.

  It was Christmas-time; winter had long since displaced with fogs and rains the white, piled clouds of summer, and perfect flying weather was now merely a memory of the past. Nor did the change of season oblige by providing anything more attractive or seasonable than dismal conditions. A good fall of snow would have brightened up both the landscape and the spirits of those who thought that snow and Yuletide ought always to go together.

  But the outlook from the officers’ mess of No. 266 Squadron was the very opposite of what the designers of Christmas cards imagine an appropriate setting for the season.

  “Well,” observed Biggles, as he loo
ked at it, “I think this is a pretty rotten war. Everything’s rotten. The weather’s rotten. This coffee’s rotten—to say nothing of it being half-cold. That record that Mahoney keeps playing on the gramophone is rotten. And our half-baked mess caterer is rotten—putrid in fact!”

  “Why, what’s the matter with him?” asked Wat Tyler, the recording officer, from the table, helping himself to more bacon.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and he tells me he hasn’t got a turkey for dinner.”

  “He can’t produce turkeys out of a hat. What do you think he is—a magician? How can —”

  “Oh, shut up, Wat. I don’t know how he can get a turkey. That’s his affair.”

  “You expect too much. You may not have realised it yet, but there’s a war on!”

  Biggles eyed the recording officer sarcastically.

  “Oh, there’s a war on, is there?” he said. “And you’d make that an excuse for not having a turkey for Christmas dinner? I say it’s all the more reason why we should have one. I’ll bet every squadron on each side of the Line has got turkey for dinner—except us!”

  “Well, you’re a bright boy,” returned Wat, “why don’t you go and get one, if it’s so easy?”

  “For two pins I’d do it!” snorted Biggles.

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  Biggles swung round on his heel. “Fiddlesticks, my grandmother!” he snapped. “Are you suggesting I couldn’t get a turkey if I tried?”

  “I am,” returned Wat. “I know for a fact that Martin has ransacked every roost, shop and warehouse for a radius of fifty miles, and there isn’t one to be had for love or money.”

  “Oh,” Biggles said. “Then in that case I shall have to see about getting one.”

  Algy caught his eye and frowned. “Don’t make rash promises,” he said warningly.

  “Well, when I do get one you’ll be one of the first to line up with your plate, I’ll be bound,” Biggles retorted. “Look here, if I get the bird, will you all line up very respectfully and ask for a portion—and will somebody do my dawn patrols for a week?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Yes, I will,” declared Mahoney.

  “Good! You can be getting a stock of combat reports ready,” declared Biggles, turning towards the door.

  “Where are you off to?” called Wat.

  “Turkey hunting,” replied Biggles shortly.

  “And where do you imagine you are going to find one?”

  “You don’t suppose I’m going to stand here and wait for one to come and give itself up, do you? And you don’t suppose I’m going to wander about this frost-bitten piece of landscape looking for one?”

  “But I tell you, you won’t find a turkey within miles!”

  “That’s all you know about it!” grunted Biggles, and turning, slammed the door.

  Now, at the beginning of that conversation Biggles had not the remotest idea of where he was going to start his quest for a turkey. But he had a vague recollection of seeing a large flock of turkeys below him on an occasion when he had been flying very low; and as he left the room to fulfil his rash promise he suddenly recalled where he had seen them.

  He was half-way to the sheds when he called to mind the actual spot, and realised with dismay that it was over the other side of the Lines. He paused in his stride and eyed the sky meditatively. The clouds were low, making reconnaissance-flying quite useless, but there were breaks through which a pilot who was willing to take chances might make his way to the “sunnyside”.

  Returning to the ground would be definitely dangerous, for if the pilot chose to come down through the clouds at a spot where they reached to the ground, a crash would be inevitable. But once in the air the clouds would present plenty of cover. It was, in fact, the sort of day on which an enthusiastic airman might penetrate a good distance into enemy territory without encountering opposition.

  He went on thoughtfully towards the sheds. The farm on which he had seen the turkeys, he remembered, was close to a village with a curiously shaped church tower. It was, to the best of his judgment, between thirty and forty miles over the Lines, and provided that the clouds were not absolutely solid in that region he felt confident of being able to find it again.

  But he had by no means made up his mind to go, for the project bristled with big risks. To fly so far over enemy country alone was not a trip to be lightly undertaken. And to land in enemy territory and leave the machine—as he would have to do—was little short of madness. Was it worth the risk?

  He decided it was not, and was about to return to the mess when he was hailed by Algy and Mahoney, who had followed him up.

  “Are you going turkey hunting in the atmosphere?” grinned Mahoney.

  The remark was sufficient to cause Biggles to change his mind there and then, for he could stand anything except ridicule. “Yes,” he said brightly. “They fly very high, you know—higher than you ever go. But I think I can manage to bag one.”

  “But you’re not seriously thinking of flying?” cried Algy, aghast. “It’s impossible on a day like this! Look how low the clouds are!”

  “You’ll see whether I am or not,” muttered Biggles. “Smyth, get my machine out.”

  “But it —” began the N.C.O..

  “Get it out—don’t argue. My guns loaded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tanks full?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get her out and start up.”

  “He’s as mad as a March hare,” declared Mahoney hopelessly, five minutes later, as Biggles’ Camel roared up into the moisture-laden sky.

  “He is!” agreed Algy. “But it’s time you knew him well enough to know that when he comes back he’ll have a turkey with him—if he comes back at all. I wish I knew which way he’d gone. If I did I’d follow him to see that he doesn’t get into mischief.”

  After climbing swiftly through a hole in the clouds Biggles came out above them at 5,000 feet, and after a swift but searching scrutiny of the sky turned his nose north-east. In all directions stretched a rolling sea of billowing mist that gleamed white in the wintry sun under a sky of blue.

  North, south, east, and west he glanced in turn; but, as he expected, not a machine of any sort was in sight, and he settled himself down to his long flight hopefully. The first difficulty, he thought, would be to find and identify the village or farm; the next would be to land in a suitable field near at hand without damaging the machine.

  He realised that his greatest chance of success lay in the fact that the place was so far over the Lines, well beyond the sphere of the German aircraft and the German infantry who were holding, or were in reserve for, the trenches. To have landed anywhere near them would have been suicidal.

  As it was, his objective was a remote hamlet where the only opposition he was likely to encounter on the ground was a farmer, or his men, although there was always a chance of running into stray German troops who were quartered or billeted well behind the Lines at rest camps or on the lines of communication.

  “Well, it’s no use making plans on a job like this,” he mused. “Let’s find the place and see what happens.”

  He glanced at his compass to make sure that he was on his course, and then at his watch, and noticed that he had been in the air for nearly twenty-five minutes.

  “Almost there,” he muttered, and began looking for a way down through the clouds. But in all directions they presented an unbroken surface, and rather than risk over-shooting his objective he throttled back and with his eyes on the altimeter began gliding down through them.

  He shivered involuntarily as the clammy mist closed about him and swirled around wings and fuselage like gale-blown smoke. Down—down—down; 3,000— 2,000—1,000, and still there was no sign of the ground.

  At 500 feet he was still in it, but it was getting thinner, and at 300 feet he emerged over a sombre, snow-covered landscape. The country was absolutely strange to him, so he raced along just below the clouds, looking to righ
t and left for a landmark that he could recognise.

  For about five minutes he flew on, becoming more and more anxious, and was beginning to think that he had made a big error of judgment when straight ahead he saw the dim outline of a far-spreading wood. He recognised it at once.

  “Dash it! I’ve come too far,” he muttered, and, turning the Camel in its own length he began racing back over his course. “There must be a following wind upstairs to take me as far over as this,” he mused, as the minutes passed, and still he could see no sign of the village he sought.

  He came upon it quite suddenly, and his heart gave a leap as his eyes fell upon the well-remembered farmhouse, with its rows of poultry houses. But where were the turkeys? Where was the flock of a hundred or more plump black birds that had fled so wildly at his approach on the last occasion? Then he understood.

  “Of course I” he told himself savagely. “What a fool I am! They’re all dead by now. Plucked and hanging up in the Berlin poulterers’ shops, I expect. Ha!”

  A sparkle came to his eyes as they fell on a great turkey cock, evidently the monarch of the flock, that had, no doubt, been kept as the leader of the next year’s brood. It was standing outside one of the houses, with its feathers puffed out, its head on one side, and an eye cocked upwards on the invader of its domain.

  “Don’t stretch your neck, old cock; you’ll have a closer view of me in a minute,” mumbled Biggles, as he took a quick glance around to get the lie of the land.

  The poultry coops were in a small paddock about a hundred yards from the farmhouse and its outbuildings, which, in turn, were nearly a quarter of a mile from the village. There were several fields near at hand in which an aeroplane might be landed with some risk, and as far as he could see, not a soul was in sight.

  So much was he able to take in at a glance. There was no wood, or any other form of cover, so concealment was out of the question. The raid would have to be made in the open and depend entirely upon speed for its success.

  “Well, it’s no use messing about,” he thought, and, cutting his engine, glided down into a long, narrow field adjoining the paddock. He had a nasty moment or two as the machine bumped over the snow-covered tussocks and molehills with which the pasture was plentifully besprinkled, but kicking on right rudder just before the Camel ran to a standstill he managed to swerve so that it stopped not far from the low hedge which divided the field from the paddock.