Biggles: The Camels Are Coming Read online

  W.E.J.

  Chapter 1

  The White Fokker

  To the casual observer, the attitude of the little group of pilots clustered around the entrance of B Flight hangar was one of complete nonchalance. MacLaren, still wearing the tartans and glengarry of his regiment,* a captain's stars on his sleeve, squatted uncomfortably on an upturned chock. To a student of detail the steady spiral of smoke from the quickly-drawn cigarette, lighted before the last half was consumed, gave the lie to his bored expression. Quinan, his 'maternity'** tunic flapping open at the throat, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his slacks, leaning carelessly against the flimsy structure of the temporary hangar, gnawed the end of a dead match with slow deliberation. Swayne, bareheaded, the left shoulder of his tunic as black as ink with burnt castor oil, seated on an empty oil drum, was nervously plucking little tufts of wool from the tops of his sheepskin boots. Bigglesworth, popularly known as Biggles, a slight, fair-haired, good-looking lad still in his teens, but an acting Flight-Commander, was talking, not of wine or women as novelists would have us believe, but of a new fusee spring for a Vickers*** gun which would speed it up another hundred rounds a minute.

  * Officers transferring from the army to the air corps were allowed to retain their previous regiment's uniform.

  ** Tunic with a flap across the front which fastened at the side, not in the middle.

  *** Machine gun firing a continuous stream of bullets at one squeeze of the trigger.

  His deep-set hazel eyes were never still and held a glint of yellow fire that somehow seemed out of place in a pale face upon which the strain of war, and sight of sudden death, had already graven little lines. His hands, small and delicate as a girl's, fidgeted continually with the tunic fastening at his throat. He had killed a man not six hours before. He had killed six men during the past month — or was it a year? — he had forgotten. Time had become curiously telescoped lately. What did it matter, anyway? He knew he had to die some time and had long ago ceased to worry about it. His careless attitude suggested complete indifference, but the irritating little falsetto laugh which continually punctuated his tale betrayed the frayed condition of his nerves.

  From the dim depths of the hangar half a dozen tousled-headed ack-emmas* watched their officers furtively as they pretended to work on a war-scarred Camel. One habit all ranks had in common: every few seconds their eyes would study the western horizon long and anxiously. A visiting pilot would have known at once that the evening patrol was overdue. As a matter of fact, it should have been in ten minutes before.

  * Slang: Air Mechanics.

  'Here they come!' The words were sufficient to cause all further pretence to be abandoned; officers and men together were on their feet peering with hand-shaded eyes towards the setting sun whence came the rhythmic purr of rotary engines, still far away. Three specks became visible against the purple glow; a scarcely audible sigh was the only indication of the nervous tension that the appearance of the three machines had broken. The door of the Squadron office opened and Major Mullen, the C.O.,* came out. He would not have admitted that he too had shared the common anxiety, but he fell in line with the watchers on the tarmac to await the arrival of the overdue machines.

  The three Camels were barely half a mile away, at not more than a 1,000 feet, when a new note became audible above the steady roar of the engines. It was the shrill scream of wind-torn wings and wires. Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Three white puffs** of smoke appeared high above the now gliding Camels. Bang!— Whoof! Bang!— Whoof! — the archie battery at the far end of the aerodrome took up the story. Not a man of the waiting group moved, but every eye shifted to a gleaming speck which had detached itself from the dark-blue vault above. A white-painted Fokker D.VII*** was coming down like a meteor behind the rearmost Camel. There was a glittering streak of tracer. The Camel staggered for a moment and then plunged straight to earth. At the rattle of guns the other two Camels opened their engines and half-rolled convulsively. The leader, first out, was round like a streak at the Fokker, which, pulling out of its dive, had shot up to 3,000 feet in one tremendous zoom, turned, and was streaking for the line. The stricken Camel hit the ground just inside the aerodrome; a sheet of flame leapt skywards.

  * Commanding Officer.

  ** In general, British anti-aircraft fire gave off white smoke and German anti-aircraft fire gave off black smoke.

  *** Very efficient German single-seater biplane fighter with two forward firing guns.

  From first to last the whole incident had occupied perhaps three seconds, during which time none of the spell-bound spectators on the tarmac had either moved or spoken. The C.O. recovered himself first, and with a bitter curse raced towards the Lewis gun* mounted outside his office. Half-way he changed his mind and swung round towards the blazing Camel in the wake of the flying ambulance only to stop dead, throw up his hands with a despairing gesture, and turn again towards the hangar.

  * Light machine gun, used both on the ground and also often by the observer/gunner in two-seater aircraft.

  'Get out, you fool; where the hell do you think you are going— he's home by now,' he snapped at Biggles-worth, who was feverishly clambering, cap and goggles-less, into a Camel.

  As the two surviving Camels taxied in, a babble of voices broke loose. Mahoney, who had led the flight, leaned swaying for a moment against the fuselage of his machine. His lips moved, but no sound came; he seemed to be making a tremendous effort to pull himself together. His eyes roved round the aerodrome to identify the pilot of the other Camel. Manley, half-falling out of the cockpit of the other machine, hurried towards him. 'All right, old lad, take it easy, it wasn't your fault,' he said quickly. Mahoney's lips continued to move as he struggled to speak. 'It was Norman — poor little devil! First time over, too —the damn swine — he didn't give him a chance — not a b —' His voice rose to shrill crescendo.

  'Stop that!' cut in the C.O. quickly, and then more quietly, 'Steady, Mahoney.' For a moment the Flight-Commander and his Commanding Officer eyed each other grimly'. Mahoney's eyes fell first. Slowly he took off his sidcot* and threw it on the ground with studied deliberation. Cap and goggles followed, leaving that part of his face which they had protected like a white mask.

  * A thick, padded garment worn by aircrew.

  'Officers in the Orderly Room,** please,' said the C.O., turning on his heel. Mahoney lit a cigarette and followed the little group moving towards the Squadron office.

  ** A room or office used for day to day Squadron business.

  'Sit down, everybody,' began Major Mullen. 'A bad show. I blame no one. Anybody could have been caught the same way. It might have been me, or it might have been you, Mahoney. From some points of view it was a low-down trick; from others, well, it was a smart piece of work; anyway, the fellow was within his rights. He's done it before, farther north; I've heard about it. He did it three times at 197 Squadron, once as they were taking off. He'll try it again, and if he pulls it off again here it's our own funeral. We've had our lesson. We'll get him; we've got to get him. You know the unwritten law about having an officer shot down on his own aerodrome? We can't show our faces in another mess until we do get him. You know what Wing*** will say about this. That's all. Go and get a drink, Mahoney. I'll see Flight-Commanders here in half an hour.'

  *** The administrative headquarters. Each Wing commanded several squadrons. It was headed by a Lieutenant-Colonel.

  An hour later Major Mullen was running over the result of the conference. 'I think Mahoney's right,' he said. 'The Fokker probably came over the line at eighteen or twenty thousand with his engine off. He must have been watching you all the time, Mahoney. He knew that you were at the end of the patrol and hadn't enough juice left to go back after him. All right, then. Mahoney, you'll take the patrol in the morning; come back in the ordinary way when it's over. Bigglesworth, you'll take your Flight to the ceiling*. Hang around over Mossyface Wood until you see Mahoney coming back and then follow him home. Stay as high as you can and don't take your eyes off Mahoney's Flight for a moment. If the Fokker comes down, one of you should get him. If he doesn't show up, we'll keep it up until he does. It means long hours, but we can't help that. All clear? Good. Let's go and eat.'

  * Slang: as high as their power will allow.

  The following morning Mahoney was bringing his Flight back by way of Mossyface Wood as arranged. His altimeter registered 10,000 feet, Often he leaned back in his cockpit and studied the sky above him long and earnestly for a sign of Bigglesworth's Flight, but a film of cirrus cloud far above concealed everything beyond it. Against that cloud a machine would show up like a fly on a white ceiling; his roving eyes searched it, section by section, from horizon to horizon, but not a speck broke its pristine surface. At 6.30 he turned his nose for home according to plan, maintaining his height until he reached the line and only taking his eyes from aloft to see that Manley and Forrest in the other two Camels were in place. He crossed the line in the inevitable flurry of archie, and started a long glide towards the aerodrome. A cluster of black archie bursts far away to the north showed where some allied machines were moving; there was apparently nothing else in the sky, yet he felt uneasy. What was the other side of that cloud? He wished he could see. Every fibre of his war-tried airman's instinct reacted against that opaque curtain. He flew with his eyes ever turned upwards. Suddenly he caught his breath. For a fraction of a second a black spot had appeared against the cloud and disappeared again almost before he could fasten his eyes on it. Keeping his eyes on the spot he raised his left arm, shook his wings, opened up his engine, and warmed his guns with a short burst. What was going on up there? He was soon to know. A machine, whether friend or foe he could not tell, wrapped in a sheet of flame, hurtled downwards through the cloud into
oblivion, leaving a long plume of black smoke in its wake. Mahoney stiffened in his seat. Next came a Camel spinning wildly out of control. Then another Camel, streaking for home, followed by five Fokkers. Mahoney muttered a curse through his clenched teeth and swung round and up in a wide arc, knowing as he did so that he could never get up to the Fokkers in time to help the Camel, now crossing the line at a speed which threatened to take its wings off. A barrage of archie appeared between the Fokkers and the Camel, and the black-crossed machines, after a moment's hesitation, turned and dived for home. Mahoney raced after the solitary Camel, whose pilot, seeing him coming, throttled back to wait for him.

  They landed together and the C.O. ran out to meet them. Bigglesworth, the pilot of the lone Camel, was out first. 'I've lost Swayne and Maddison,' he said grimly, as the others joined him. 'I've lost Swayne and Maddison,' he repeated. 'I've lost Swayne and Maddison, can't you hear me?' he said yet again. 'What the hell are you looking at me like that for?'

  'Nobody's looking at you, Biggles,' broke in the C.O. 'Take it steady and tell us what happened.'

  Biggles groped for his cigarette case. 'We're boobs,' he muttered bitterly. 'Pilots, eh? We ought to be riding scooters in Kensington Gardens. What did we do? We did just what they damn well knew we'd do, and they were waiting for us, the whole bunch of 'em!' He passed his hand over his face wearily as his passion spent itself. He tossed his flying-coat on to the tarmac and went on quietly. 'I was up 20,000, or as near as I could get, waiting. So were they, but I didn't see 'em at first; must have been hiding in that damn soup. I saw Mahoney coming, heading for Mossy-face, and then I saw the White Fokker, by himself. He wasn't there for you, Mahoney, he was there to get me down. I didn't look up and that's a fact. I saw the Fokker going down and I fell for it. I thought he was cold meat and I went down after him. Where the others came from I don't know. They were into us just before we hit the cloud. The first thing I saw was the tracer, and poor Mad going down in flames next to me. I went after the white bird like a sack of bricks, but I lost him in the cloud. Swayne had gone, so I made for home, and I'm damn lucky to get here. That's all.'

  He turned and strode off towards the mess. Major Mullen watched him go without a word.

  'I'll have a word with you, Mahoney, and you, Mac,' he said, and together they entered the orderly room. 'We've got to do something about this,' he began briskly. 'We shall all be for Home Establishment* if it goes on. Bigglesworth's going to bits fast, but if he can get that Fokker it will restore his confidence. We've lost three machines in two days and we are going to lose more if we don't stop that white devil.'

  * Posted home to the UK for a non-combat role.

  Bigglesworth entered. 'Hullo, Biggles, sit down,' said the C.O. quietly. Biggles nodded.

  'I've been trying to work this out, sir,' he began, 'and this is my idea. First of all you'll notice that this Fokker doesn't go for the leaders. He always picks on one of the rear men in the formation; you saw how he got Norman. All right. Tomorrow we'll do the usual patrol of three. Mahoney or Mac can lead and I'll be in the formation. I'll pretend I'm scared of everything and sideslip away from every archie burst. Coming home I'll hang back and the others will go on ahead without me. That should bring him down. If he comes I'll be ready and we'll see who can shoot straightest and quickest. If he gets me— well— he gets me, but if he doesn't, I'll get him. He'll have height of me I know, and that's where he holds the cards. I've got an idea about that, too. Someone will have to take every available machine and wait upstairs to keep the others off if they try to butt in. Don't make a move unless they start coming down; let them make the first move, that should give you height of 'em. I'm having an extra tank put in my machine so that I'll have some spare juice when he'll reckon I've none left, in case I want to turn back.'

  The C.O. nodded: 'That sounds all right to me,' he said. 'I've only one thing to say, and that is, I'll take the party up topsides. You can rely on me to keep anybody busy who starts to interfere with your show. Good enough! We'll try it in the morning.'

  The pink hue of dawn had turned to turquoise when Mahoney turned for home at the end of the dawn patrol. One machine of his Flight was lagging back, and for the hundredth time he turned and waved for it to close up, smiling as he did so. Biggles had played the novice to perfection. Even now, a bracket of archie* sent him careering wide from the formation. Mahoney's roving eyes were never still; slowly and methodically they searched every section of air around, above, and below. Far above them a Rumpler** was making for home followed by a long line of white archie, but he made no attempt to pursue it. Far to the north-east a formation of 'Nines' was heading out into the blue; high above them he could just make out the escorting Bristols. He gazed upwards long and anxiously. He could see nothing, but he knew that somewhere in the blue void at least one formation of fighters was watching him that very moment. Biggles too was watching; he had pushed his goggles up to see better. Now and then he dived a little to gain speed so that the watchers above might think he was trying to keep in position. They were going home now; if the White Fokker was about today he would soon have to show up. The formation started to lose height slowly; Biggles warmed his gun every few minutes, but still kept up the pretence of bad flying.

  * A bracket is when shells burst on either side of a target.

  ** German two-seater biplane for observation and light bombing raids.

  They were well over the line now. The two other Camels had dropped to 5,000 feet, but he hung back slightly above them. Once he threw a loop to show his apparent relief at being safely back over his own side of the line. Dash it, why didn't the fellow come? The two other Camels were nearly a mile ahead when Biggles suddenly focussed his eyes upon a spot far above and held it. Was it, or was it not? Yes! Far above and behind him a tiny light flashed for an instant, and he knew it for the sun striking the planes* of a machine, whether friend or foe he could not tell. He kept his eyes glued to the spot. He could see the machine now, a tiny black speck rapidly growing larger. Biggles smiled grimly. 'Here comes the hawk, I'm the sparrow. Well, we'll see.' The machine was plainly visible now, a Fokker D.VII. There was no sign of archie, so he concluded that the Fokker had shut his engine off and had not yet been seen from the ground. Biggles opened his throttle wide and put his nose down slightly in order to get as much speed as possible without alarming the enemy above. The Fokker was coming down now with the speed of light; a cluster of archie far above it showed that the pilot had cast concealment to the winds. Biggles pushed his nose down and raced for home. Speed — speed — speed — that was all he wanted now to take him up behind the Fokker. How near dare he let him come? Could the Fokker hit him first burst? He had to chance it. At 200 feet a stream of tracer spurted from the Fokker's Spandaus.** Biggles moved the rudder-bar, and, as the bullets streamed between his planes pulled the stick back into his stomach. Half-rolling off the top of the loop and looking swiftly for his adversary, he caught his breath as the Fokker swept by a bare ten feet away. He had a vivid impression of the face of the man in the pilot's seat, looking at him. Biggles was on its tail in a flash. Through his sights he saw it still climbing. Rat-tat-tat—he cursed luridly as he hammered at the gun which had jammed at the critical moment. The Fokker had Immelmanned* and was coming back at him now, but Biggles was ready, and pulled his nose up to take it head-on. Vaguely, out of the corner of his eye he saw another Fokker whirling down in a cloud of smoke and other planes above. The White Fokker swerved and he followed it round.

  * The wings of an aircraft were also called its planes.

  ** German machine guns were often referred to as Spandaus, due to the fact that many were manufactured at Spandau, Germany.

  * This manoeuvre consists of a half roll off the top of a loop thereby quickly reversing the direction of flight. It was named after Max Immelmann, successful German fighter pilot 1914–1916 with seventeen victories who was the first to use this turn in combat.

  They were circling now, each machine in a vertical bank not a hundred feet apart, the Fokker slowly gaining height. Biggles thought swiftly, 'Ten more circles and he's above me and then it's goodbye.' There was one chance left, a desperate one. He knew that the second he pulled out of the circle the Fokker would be on his tail and get a shot at him. Whatever he did the Fokker would still be on his tail at the finish. If he rolled, the Fokker would roll too, and still be in the same position. If he spun, the Fokker would spin; there was no shaking off a man who knew his job, but if he shot out of the circle he might get a lead of three hundred feet, and if he could loop fast enough he might get the Fokker from the top of his loop as it passed underneath in his wake. If he was too quick they would collide; no matter, they would go to Kingdom Come together. A feeling of fierce exultation swept over him. 'Come on, you devil!' he cried, 'I'll take your lead,' and shot out of the circle. He shoved his stick forward savagely as something smashed through the root of the nearest centre-section strut,** and then he pulled it back in a swift zoom. A fleeting glance over his shoulder showed the Fokker three hundred feet behind. He pulled the stick right back into his stomach in a flick loop and his eyes sought the sights as he pressed his triggers. Blue sky—blue sky—the horizon—green fields — where was the Fokker? Ah! There he was, flying straight into his stream of tracer. He saw the pilot slump forward in his seat. He held the loop a moment longer and then flung the Camel over on to an even keel, looking swiftly for the Fokker as he did so. It was rocketting like a hard-hit pheasant. It stalled; its nose whipped over and with the engine racing it roared down in an almost vertical dive. Biggles saw the top plane fold back, and then he looked away feeling suddenly limp and very tired.