Biggles - Pioneer Air Fighter, page 5
part #11 of Biggles Series
To an old hand like Biggles the invitation was too obvious, and even without his knowledge of the trap the action would have made him suspiciously alert. Unless he was the world’s worst observer, the man in the back seat of the black-crossed machine would not have failed to see him, in which case he should have lost no time in placing as great a distance as possible between himself and a dangerous adversary; for the first duty of a two-seater pilot was to do his job and get home, leaving the fighting to machines designed for the purpose. Yet there was an old and comparatively unmanoeuvrable machine deliberately asking for trouble.
‘Bah!’ sneered Biggles, peeved to think he had been taken for a fool. ‘Will you step into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly. Yes, you hound, I will, but it won’t be through the front door.’
He looked upwards above the Rumpler, but the sun was in his eyes, so he held on his way, still climbing, and had soon left the Roche machine far below and behind him.
At 15,000 feet Biggles started to head into enemy sky, placing himself between the sun and the Rumpler, now a speck in the far distance. His roving eyes suddenly focused on a spot high above the enemy plane.
‘So there you are,’ he muttered grimly. ‘How many? One—two—three’ —he shifted his gaze still higher— ‘four—five-six—seven. Seven, in two layers, eh? Ought to be enough for a solitary Camel. Well, we’ll see.’
He estimated the lowest Albatrosses to be at about his own height. The other four were a couple of thousand feet higher. With the disposition of the trap now apparent he proceeded in accordance with the line of action upon which he had decided. He had already placed himself ‘in the sun’, and in that position it was unlikely that he would be seen by any of the enemy pilots. He continued to climb until he was above the highest enemy formation, and then cautiously began to edge towards them, turning when they turned and keeping in a direct line with the sun.
He felt fairly certain that the crew of the Rumpler would ignore the possibility of danger from above on account of the escorting Albatrosses, and the pilots of the enemy scouts would have their eyes on the machine below. Upon these factors Biggles planned his attack. If he was able to approach unseen he would be able to make one lightning attack almost before the Huns were aware of his presence. If he was seen, his superior altitude should give him enough extra speed to reach the lines before he was caught.
He knew he would only have time for one burst at the Rumpler. If he missed there could be no question of staying for a second attempt, for the Albatrosses would be down on him like a pack of ravening wolves. The Rumpler was now flying almost directly over no-man’s-land, and Biggles edged nearer, every nerve quivering like the flying wires of his Camel.
The decoy, confident of its escort, was slowly turning towards the British lines, and this was the moment for which Biggles had been waiting, for the end of his dive would see him over his own lines—either intact or as a shattered wreck. His lips were set in a straight line under the terrific strain of the impending action as he swung inwards until the Albatrosses were immediately between him and the Rumpler, and then he pointed his nose downwards. ‘Come on, Batty, let’s go,’ he muttered huskily, and thrust the stick forward with both hands.
The top layer of Albatrosses seemed to float up towards him. Five hundred feet, one hundred feet, and still they had not seen him; he could see every detail of the machines and even the faces of the pilots. He went through the middle of them like a streak of lightning— down—down—down—he knew they were hard on his heels now, but he did not look back. They would have to pull out as he went through the second layer—or risk collision.
‘Come on, you swine,’ he rasped through set teeth, and went through the lower Albatrosses like a thunderbolt.
The Rumpler lay clear below; he could see the observer idly leaning over the side of the fuselage watching the ground. He took the machine in his sights, but held his fire, for he was still too far off for effective shooting. Down—down—down—a noise like a thousand devils shrieking in his ears, his head jammed tight against the head-rest under the frightful pressure.
At 200 feet he pressed his triggers, and his lips parted in a mirthless smile as he saw the tracers making a straight line through the centre of the Boche machine. The observer leapt round and then sank slowly on to the floor of the cockpit. The nose of the Rumpler jerked upwards, an almost certain sign that the pilot had been hit.
Biggles held his fire until the last fraction of a second, and only when collision seemed inevitable did he pull the stick back. His under-carriage seemed to graze the centre section of the Rumpler as he came out, and he bit his lips until the blood came as he waited for the rending crash that would tell him that his wings had folded up under the pressure of that frightful zoom. Before he had reached the top of it he had thrust the stick forward again and was zig-zagging across his own lines.
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 face. 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.’
‘All right, let it alone. I expect some of his pals shoved it there. For-ward—ma—arch!’
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THE BOOB
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.
‘I haven’t the time to read it, laddie. What’s the trouble?’
‘Oh, 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?’
‘I don’t know, it’s a 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?’
‘I 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 5,000. 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?’
‘I 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 sight 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. ‘I’ve—’
‘Never mind that,’ cut in Biggles curtly. ‘Where do you think you’ve been?’
‘I 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.’
‘I got one of them.’
‘You what?’
‘I 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.
‘I 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.
‘Oh, 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.
