by W E Johns
“But that isn’t really why I came to see you. My people had an unexpected visit from two Wing officers the other day—awful nuisance, these people. I happened to run into Logan last night. You remember Logan, of General Headquarters? Well, he happened to mention that they were making a surprise inspection of your station some time today, so I thought I’d give you the tip.”
Major Mullen sprang to his feet.
“The dickens they are!” he cried. “Thanks very much, Benson. Dash them and their surprise visits. They think we have nothing else to do but sit and polish our machines all day, and sweep up the aerodrome. If everything isn’t as clean as a new pin the squadron gets a black mark. It isn’t the number of Huns one gets in this war,” he added bitterly. “G.H.Q. knows nothing about that!”
Major Benson nodded sympathetically. “Don’t I know it!” he said. “Well, I shall have to be getting back. No; I can’t stay to lunch. I’ve a lot to do. Thanks all the same.”
“I shall have to get busy myself to get things in order for this inspection,” replied Major Mullen. “Goodbye, Benson, and thanks awfully for giving me the tip! I hope we shall be seeing you again soon. I should like your fellows to get on well with mine.”
He lost no time in setting preparations on foot for the impending inspection.
Telephones rang, N.C.O.’s chased mechanics to various tasks, and all officers were ordered out of the mess to help clean their machines.
For two hours the aerodrome presented a scene of unparalleled activity, and by the end of that time everything was in apple-pie order. All ranks were then dismissed to their quarters, with orders to parade in twenty minutes, properly dressed, and in their best uniforms.
Biggles complained bitterly as he struggled with the fastenings of his collar. “Confound all brass-hats!” he snarled. “If I had my way—”
“All right! All right!” growled Algy. “Don’t keep on about it! It only makes it worse.”
With tightly laced boots and in well-brushed uniforms they took their places on the tarmac.
“Everybody will stand by until further orders!” called the C.O..
The officers took their places by their respective machines. The minutes rolled by. An hour passed slowly, and nothing happened. Two hours passed, and still there was no sign of the staff officers.
Biggles began to sag at the knees. “My hat!” he groaned. “I can’t stand much more of this! Aren’t we getting any lunch today, Mahoney?”
“The Old Man says no. The brass-hats might arrive at any moment, so we’re to carry on until they come.”
Slowly the afternoon wore on, but still there was no sign of the expected officers. Then, from a distance, came the drone of many aeroplanes flying in formation and the personnel of No. 266 Squadron stiffened expectantly.
“My word, they’re doing the job properly!” muttered Algy to Biggles.
“Don’t be a fool! Brass-hats don’t fly!” snapped Biggles. “Look! What’s this coming? What the—”
He broke off, staring unbelievingly towards the far edge of the aerodrome as nine Bristol Fighters, flying very low in a beautiful tight Vee formation, swept into sight.
Straight across the aerodrome they roared. When they were about half-way, and immediately in front of the sheds, they dipped in ironical salute. A message streamer fluttered to the ground from the leading machine. Then they disappeared from sight beyond the hangars, and the drone of their engines was lost in the distance.
An air-mechanic raced out, picked up the message, and carried it to the puzzled C.O..
Under the curious eyes of the entire squadron he opened it. There was an extraordinary expression on his face as he looked up and called: “Captain Mahoney and Captain Bigglesworth, please come here! What do you make of that?” he went on curtly as he passed a sheet of paper.
They read it together:
“It is requested that Captains Mahoney and Bigglesworth be asked how they like their eggs boiled. For and on behalf of the officers of No. 301 Squadron, (Signed) A. L. BENSON, Major.”
“What a put-over!” gasped Biggles, as understanding flashed to him.
“Come with me!” said the C.O. curtly, and led the way to the squadron office. “Now, gentlemen,” he went on as he closed the door behind them, “kindly have the goodness to explain what all this is about.”
Biggles acted as spokesman. Clearly and concisely he told the whole story, from Algy’s reprimand by Captain Bitmore up to the masquerade, and the admonition of that officer.
The Major heard him out in silence. “Well,” he said slowly, “there are two aspects to this situation. Major Benson has evidently discovered the plot, and he has taken the course that I, knowing him as an officer of the finest type, would expect. If he had reported the matter officially to headquarters I need hardly tell you that you would both have been court-martialled. As it is, he has taken an unofficial course to enable the squadron to get its own back. He has put it across us very neatly! At this moment every member of 301 Squadron is probably convulsed with mirth at our expense. We shall never hear the last of it. The joke has recoiled on us with a vengeance. What are we going—”
The door flung open, and Wat Tyler, the recording officer, dashed in. “Staff car just arrived, sir, with a full load of officers from General Headquarters!” he gasped.
Major Mullen sprang to his feet. “Get back to your stations!” he shouted, making for the door.
Biggles gurgled with glee as with Mahoney at his side they dashed back to the sheds.
“What a fluke! What an absolute hummer!” he chortled. “It’s a surprise inspection. Won’t 301 be pleased when they hear about it. They’ve done us the finest turn they could possibly do for us—if they’d spent a year trying to work it out. The laugh will be on our side, after all.”
An hour later the officers and mechanics of 266 Squadron were paraded in front of the sheds, and General Sir Martin Ashby, of the General Headquarters Staff, addressed them.
“It gives me great pleasure,” he began in his stentorian voice, “to see a squadron in the field that can carry itself with such spotless efficiency. I have visited many units in the course of my duties, but never has it been my lot to find one in which such praiseworthy zeal is so obviously displayed by all ranks.
“Your equipment is a credit to yourselves, your commanding officer, and the Service as a whole. I shall make it my business to see that the magnificent example you have set is made known to every other squadron in France. So gratified am I to find that a unit in this command can maintain itself as I have always claimed that a squadron can be maintained, in spite of active-service conditions, that I shall cause these observations to be published tonight in R.F.C. orders, so that all other units on the Western Front may be aware of the pattern you have set. Thank you!”
Major Mullen’s face wore a broad smile as he returned from seeing the officers on their way.
“What a slice of luck!” he laughed. “The squadron’s reputation is now higher than it has ever been before, and the General has just told me that all requests from us will in future receive his personal consideration. Applications for leave will receive priority.
“Yes, the laugh is certainly with us. What is more, I took the opportunity of mentioning Lacey’s little episode, and the General promised to put the matter right with Wing, which means that no further action will be taken in the matter, except that Captain Bitmore is likely to get a rap over the knuckles. In fact, everything seems to have panned out extremely well!”
[Back to Contents]
THE CHALLENGE
ONE DAY about the middle of June, during a brisk period of trench strafing, Biggles spotted a Boche two-seater making for home. It had evidently been over the British Lines, and was a good deal higher than he was, but there was a fair amount of cloud about and he thought there was a chance of stalking the enemy before he reached his aerodrome.
He at once gave chase, but, to his chagrin, the Boche —which turned out to be a Roland
two-seater fighter— although he had not seen his pursuer, actually glided down and landed at an aerodrome well behind the Lines, just as Biggles reached the spot.
In his mortification, Biggles looked about him for a means of making his displeasure known, and, remembering that he still had a twenty-pound bomb on his rack, he sailed down and let it go at the unconscious cause of his wrath. He saw at once that the bomb would miss its mark, which annoyed him still more, but, knowing quite well that his single-handed attack would most certainly stir up a hornets’ nest, he turned and made full-out for home.
He had not been back at Maranique for more than an hour when a dark-green Boche, who had evidently slipped over high up with engine cut off, hurtled down out of the clouds above the aerodrome. Everyone sprinted for cover, but the anticipated attack did not materialise. Instead, the Boche, which Biggles now saw was the same Roland two-seater that he had recently pursued, dropped a small packet with a streamer attached.
This, when picked up, was found to contain a letter, the gist of which was to the effect that Biggles’ bomb had hit the carefully constructed private “bomb-proof” wine store of a certain Lieutenant von Balchow, with disastrous results to its highly prized contents.
This, it was stated, was a knavish trick, and the officer responsible for dropping the bomb was invited to pay for the wine or meet the owner in single combat at an appointed spot at a certain time. Von Balchow was evidently a scion of an ancient family who believed in the duel as the “grand manner” of settling a personal dispute.
Biggles had no intention of paying for the wine—he could not have done so had he wished. But, as he said, he was by no means against having a “stab” at the noble Von Balchow at any old time and place he liked to name.
In this admirable project, however, he was shouted down by such old-timers as Mahoney and MacLaren, who saw in the carefully prepared missive a sinister plot inviting a young British officer to come and be killed.
“This sort of thing has happened before,” Mahoney told Biggles bitterly. “But the fellow who has gone out to meet the other chap has seldom come back. If you want to know the reason, I’ll tell you. The thing is simply a trap, and I very much doubt if you hit the wine-store.
“Even in the event of your meeting the other fellow —which is doubtful—the rest of the bunch will be ‘upstairs’, waiting to carve you up if you happen to knock Von Balchow down. These fellows know just how to word a letter likely to appeal to the sporting instincts of poor boobs—like you!”
Biggles was hard to convince, but he finally allowed himself to be dissuaded. The following morning he did his usual patrol, which passed off without incident, and then returned, bored and bad-tempered, to the sheds, where he sat on an empty oil-drum and brooded over the matter of the previous day.
“What do those lads think they’re trying to do!” he asked Mahoney, who had seated himself on a chock close by, as a large party of Oriental coolies arrived and began unloading and spreading what appeared to be the brickwork of a house that had got in the way of a big shell.
“They’re going to repair the road,” Mahoney told him.
“What are those birds, anyway?” asked Biggles curiously.
“Chinese, from French Indo-China, I think. The French are using a lot of Colonial troops, but most of them simply for fatigue work—road-making and so on —behind the Lines.”
“What do they feed them on? I can smell ‘em from here,” declared Biggles disgustedly.
“Onions, mostly, by the aroma.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake let’s get on the up-wind side of them!” suggested Biggles. “Look out!”
He flung himself flat, as did Mahoney and his mechanics, who were fully alive to the danger that had precipitated itself from the clouds with a screaming roar. It was the green Boche two-seater. The pilot pulled up in a steep zoom at the bottom of his dive and then tore off in the direction of the Lines. As he did so a small object, with a streamer attached, fell to the ground and bounced merrily over the aerodrome.
“It’s Von Balchow!” yelled Biggles. “Where’s my Camel? It’s never ready when I want it! All right, flight-sergeant, don’t start up. It isn’t worth it. He’s half-way home by now. That’s another message for little Jimmy, I’ll bet. What does he say?”
Mahoney took the message from the air-mechanic who had retrieved it, tore open the envelope, read the contents and then burst into a roar of laughter. “Read it yourself!” he said.
Biggles read the message, which was in English, and his face grew slowly scarlet as he did so. “The sausage-eating, square-headed son of an offal-merchant!” he grated. “He says he’s sorry I didn’t turn up, but he didn’t really expect me. Can he send me a packet of mustard to warm my feet? Warm my feet, eh? I’ll warm his hide for him with my Vickers. Get my kite out, flight-sergeant!”
“Don’t be a fool, Biggles !” cried Mahoney, becoming serious. “Don’t let him kid you into committing suicide.”
“You go and chew a bomb!” Biggles told him coldly. “This is my show! I’m going to get that cocky tripe-merchant before the day is out, or I’ll know the reason why. Let him bring his pals if he likes—the more the merrier. Mustard, eh?”
Mahoney shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll go and pack your kit,” he said sadly, as Biggles climbed into his cockpit.
“You can pack what the dickens you like, but you let my kit alone,” Biggles told him wrathfully, as he took off.
He did not see the Roland in the air, but he hardly expected to, so he made a bee-line for its aerodrome, the whereabouts of which he was, of course, aware, having chased the machine home the day before. He was evidently unexpected, for when he reached it the aerodrome was deserted; but a long row of Rolands on the tarmac suggested that the officers of the staffel were at home, so he announced his presence by zooming low over the mess, warming his guns as he did so, but disdaining to fire at the buildings or the machines.
Instantly the scene became a hive of activity. The tarmac buzzed with running figures, some of whom sprang into the seats of the machines while others spun the propellers. He picked out the green machine as he zoomed down the line, and from two thousand feet watched it taxi out ready to take off.
He knew that his best opportunity would come as the machine actually commenced its run across the aerodrome, but he refused to take any step that would enable Von Balchow’s friends to say that he had taken an unfair advantage.
So he circled, waiting, until the machine was in the air at his own altitude before he launched his first attack, although he was well aware that other machines were climbing rapidly to get above him.
The Roland, with its powerful Mercedes engine, was a fighter of some renown, a two-seater comparable with our own Bristol Fighter. Biggles knew its qualities, for knowledge of the performance of one’s adversary is the first rule of air fighting; so he was aware that his opponent would not be “easy meat”. Still he felt curiously confident of the upshot.
Whatever else happened, he was going to get Von Balchow, the man who had suggested that he had cold feet. Afterwards he would deal with the others as the necessity arose.
He saw Von Balchow’s gunner clamp a drum of ammunition on his mobile Parabellum gun, and the pilot swing round to bring the gun to bear in preference to using his own fixed Spandau gun; but he was not to be caught thus.
Keeping the swirling propeller of the green machine between him and the deadly Parabellum he went down in a fierce dive under the nose of the machine, zoomed up above and behind it, and before the gunner could swing his gun to bear fired a quick burst.
Then, while the gunner was tilting his gun upwards, he stood the Camel on its nose, went down in another dive, and came up under the other’s elevators. He held his fire until a collision seemed inevitable, and then pressed the lever of his gun. It was only a short burst, but it was fired at deadly range.
Pieces flew off the green fuselage, and as he twisted upwards into a half roll, Biggles noticed that the
enemy gunner was no longer standing up.
“That’s one of ‘em,” Biggles told himself. “I’ve given ‘em a bit out of their own copy-book.”
It was Richthofen, the ace of German air-fighters and the great master of attack, who laid down the maxim, “when attacking two-seaters, kill the gunner first.”
Von Balchow, with his rear gun out of action, was crippled, and he showed little anxiety to proceed with the combat. Indeed it may have been that he lost his nerve, for he committed the hopeless indiscretion of diving for his aerodrome.
Biggles was behind him in a flash, shooting the green machine to pieces from a range that grew closer and closer as he pressed the control-stick forward. He could hear bullets ripping through his own machine from the Rolands that had got above him, but he ignored them; the complete destruction of the green one was still uppermost in his mind.
Whether he actually killed the pilot or not he did not know, nor was he ever able to find out, although, in view of what occurred, it is probable that even if he was not killed by a bullet, Von Balchow must have been killed or badly injured in the crash. Hit or not, the German had sufficient strength left to try to flatten out for a landing; but either he misjudged his distance or was mentally paralysed by the hail of lead that swept through his machine, for his wheels touched the ground while he was still travelling at terrific speed with his engine full on.
The Roland shot high into the air, somersaulted, and then buried itself in the ground in the most appalling crash that Biggles had ever seen. The victory could not have been more complete, for he had shot down his man on his own aerodrome.
As he turned away he saw the German mechanics race towards the wreck; then he turned his eyes upwards. Prepared as he was for something bad, his pardonable exultation received a rude shock when he saw that the air was alive with black-crossed machines, the gunners of which were making the most of their opportunity. To stay and fight them all was out of the question.
He had achieved what he had set out to do, and was more than satisfied; all that remained was to get home safely. So down he went and began racing in the direction of the Lines with his wheels just off the ground.