Biggles: The Camels Are Coming Read online

  ** Rigid supports between the wings and fuselage of a biplane or tri-plane.

  A mile away five straight-winged machines were making for the line, followed by four Camels; another Camel was trying to land in a ploughed field below. Even as he watched it the wheels touched and it somersaulted; a figure scrambled out and looked upwards, waving. Biggles side-slipped down into the next field and landed. Major Mullen, the pilot of the wrecked Camel, ran to meet him.

  'Good boy,' he cried, 'you brought it off.'

  Chapter 2

  The Packet

  'Two no-trumps.' Biggles, newly appointed to Captain's rank since his affair with the White Fokker, made the bid as if he held all the court cards in the pack.

  'Two diamonds,' offered Quinan, sitting on his left.

  Mahoney, Biggie's partner, looked across the table apologetically. 'No bid,' he said, wearily.

  'Hell's bells, don't you ever support your partner?' complained Biggles. 'You've sat there all the afternoon croaking "No bid" like a damned parrot. You ought to have a gramophone record made of it, and keep it with your scoring block.'

  'Who the devil are you grousing at?' fired up Mahoney. 'Any fool could sit and chirp no-trumps if they held the paper you do. If you could only play the cards you hold we'd get a rubber sometimes, instead of being a thousand points down.'

  'What sort of a game do you call this, anyway?' broke in Batson, the fourth player. 'Why don't you show each other your cards and have done with it?'

  Major Mullen entered the ante-room. 'I want you, Biggles, when you've played the hand. Stand by, everybody; it's clearing,' he continued, addressing the others in the room and referring to the steady drizzle which had washed out flying so far that day.

  Biggles looked at the hand which his partner had laid on the table with disgust. The knave to two diamonds was his best suit. 'Clearing, eh?' he said, grimly. 'So am I. Holy smoke, what a mitt.' He was two down on the bid. He rose. 'Tot it up,' he invited his opponents, 'I'll settle when I come back.'

  'No you don't, you settle now,' snapped Batson. 'Miller went West owing me seventy francs — you cough it up, Biggles.' Biggles reluctantly counted out some notes. 'Take it and I'll starve,' he grumbled. 'We'll finish this last rubber when I come back.' He followed Major Mullen to the Squadron office, where he found an officer awaiting them, whose red tabs showed that he came from a higher command.

  'Captain Bigglesworth — Colonel Raymond,' began the C.O. 'This is the officer I was telling you about, sir.'

  Biggles saluted and eyed the stranger curiously. The Colonel looked at him so long and earnestly that Biggles ran his mind swiftly over the events of the last few days, trying to recall some incident which might account for the senior officer's presence. 'Sit down, Bigglesworth,' said the Colonel at last, 'smoke if you like.' Biggles sat and lit a cigarette.

  'You are wondering why I've sent for you,' began the Colonel. 'I'll tell you. Frankly, I'm going to ask you to undertake a tough proposition.' Biggles stiffened in his chair.

  'First of all,' went on the Colonel, 'what I am going to tell you is secret. Not a word to anybody, and I mean that. Not one word. Now, this is the position. You know, of course, that we have — er—agents—operatives— call 'em what you like—over the line. They are usually taken over by aircraft; sometimes they drop by parachute and sometimes we land them, according to circumstances. Sometimes they come back; more often they do not. Sometimes the pilot who takes them over picks them up at a pre-arranged spot at a subsequent date. Sometimes— but never mind — that doesn't concern you.

  'A fortnight ago such an agent went over. He did not come back. We know, never mind how, that he obtained what he went to fetch, which was, to be quite frank, a packet of plans. An officer went to fetch him by arrangement, but the enemy had evidently watched our man and wired* the field. When the F.E. pilot—it was at night — got to the field it was a death trap. The officer was killed landing. The operative bolted, but was taken. We have since received information that he has been shot. Before he was taken he managed to conceal the plans, and we know where they are. We want those plans badly — urgently; in three days they will be useless.'

  * strung wires across the field at head height so that any aeroplane attempting to land will run into them and crash.

  'I see,' said Biggles slowly, 'and you want me to go and fetch them?'

  'If you will.'

  'May I ask roughly where they are?' said Biggles.

  'You may,' replied the Colonel; 'they are near Ariet.'

  'Ariet?' cried Biggles. 'Why 297 and 287 Squadrons are both nearer than we are; why not send them?'

  'For two reasons,' replied Colonel Raymond, '297 Squadron is equipped with D.H.9's** and a "nine" could not get down in the field. Obviously, if it were possible, we should send an F.E. over at night, but, unfortunately, a night landing is out of the question. Only a single-seater could hope to get in, and then only by clever flying. A single-seater might just get into the field, collect the plans, and get off again before the enemy arrived. We photographed the place at once, naturally. Here they are — take a look at them.' He tossed a packet of photographs casually to Biggles. 'The place is about two miles from where the disaster occurred, and the poor devil must have been taken somewhere near that spot.'

  ** De Havilland 9—a two-seater British bomber with one fixed forward-firing gun for the pilot plus a mobile gun for the rear gunner/observer.

  One glance showed Biggles that the Colonel had not underestimated the difficulty. 'From what height was this taken?' he asked, holding up a photograph on which was marked a small white cross.

  'Six thousand feet,' replied the Colonel. 'The white mark is the position of the packet. When our man knew the game was up he shoved the plans down a rabbit-hole at the foot of a tree in the corner of that field. His last act was to release a pigeon, pin-pointing the position. The bird could not, of course, carry the plans.'

  'Stout effort,' said Biggles approvingly. 'So the plans are in the corner of the field I land in. From this photo I should say that the field is about 150 yards long by 50 yards wide. I might just get in, but the wind would have to be right.'

  'It is right, now,' replied the Colonel, softly but pointedly.

  'Now?'

  'Now!'

  'What about 287 Squadron?' asked Biggles curiously. 'Don't think I am inquisitive, sir, but they've got S.E.5's and they are nearer than we are.'

  'If you must know,' returned the Colonel, 'we have already been to them. They have lost two officers in the attempt and we can't ask them for another. Neither of them reached the field; archie got one, and we can only suppose that enemy aircraft got the other. You will pass both crashes on the way.'

  'Thanks,' said Biggles grimly. 'I can find my way without them. It's about twenty miles over, isn't it?'

  'About that, yes.'

  'All right, sir,' said Biggles, 'I'll go, but I'd like to ask one thing.' He turned to Major Mullen. 'Do you mind if I ask for MacLaren or Mahoney to watch me from "upstairs"? If they could meet me on the way home it might help. I shall be low coming home—cold meat for any stray Hun that happens to be about?' He turned to Colonel Raymond. 'What would happen if I had to land with those plans on me?' he asked.

  'I expect the enemy would shoot you,*' returned the Colonel. 'In fact, I am sure they would.'

  * Members of the forces captured during the War were entitled to be held prisoner and honourably treated but anyone engaged in spying (which included transporting a spy) was shot by firing squad.

  'All right, sir,' said Biggles, 'as long as we understand. If my engine cuts out while I am over the other side those plans are going overboard before I hit the deck. I don't mind dying, but when I die, I'll die sitting down, like an officer and a gentleman—not standing with my back to a brick wall. If I come back, I shall have the plans with me—if they are still there.'

  'That's fair enough,' agreed Colonel Raymond.

  'May I take Mac and Mahoney with me to look after the ceiling?' he asked the C.O.

  'Any objection, sir?' asked Major Mullen.

  'None, as far as I am concerned,' replied the Colonel.

  'Good; then I'll be off,' said Biggles, rising. 'Going to wait for the plans, sir? I shall be back within the hour, or not at all.'

  'I'll wait,' said the Colonel gravely.

  Major Mullen accompanied Biggles to the door. 'Get those plans, Biggles,' he said, 'and the Squadron's name is on the top line. Fail — and it's mud. Good-bye and good luck.' A swift handshake and Biggles was on his way to the sheds.

  As he gave instructions for his Camel to be started up, he noticed that the sun was already sinking in the west; he could not expect more than an hour and a half of daylight. He turned towards the Mess*, a burst of song greeting him as he opened the door.

  * The place where the officers eat and relax together.

  'Mac! Mahoney! here a minute,' he called.

  'What's the matter now, you hot-air merchant?' growled Mahoney as they advanced to meet him. 'Can't you — ' Biggles cut him short.

  'Show on,' he said crisply. 'I'm going to Ariet—to fetch a packet.'

  'To Ariet?' said Mahoney incredulously.

  'You'll get a packet all right,' sneered MacLaren, 'but why go to Ariet for it?'

  'Never mind, I can't tell you,' said Biggles. 'Seriously, chaps, I'm going to land at Ariet. I shall go over high up, but I shall be damned low coming home, right on the carpet most of the way in all probability. Shan't have time to get any height. I'm going straight there and, I hope, straight back. You can help if you will by watching things up topsides. I've got to bring something back besides myself or I wouldn't ask you, and that's a fact. It's a long way over—twenty miles, and I expect every Hun in the sky will be looking for me as I come back. If they spot you they may not see me. That's all,' he concluded.

  'What the bl —' cut in Mahoney. Biggles cut him short.

  'I'm off now,' he announced, 'may I expect to see you shortly?'

  'Of course,' said Mahoney, 'I don't understand what it's all about and it seems a damn-fool business to me.' He glanced up and saw Colonel Raymond and Major Mullen walking towards the Mess. 'Blast these brass-hats*,' he growled. 'Why can't they stay at home on a dud day? Righto, laddie; see you presently.'

  * Slang: staff officers, (ie very senior officers), referring to the gold braid worn on their caps.

  Twenty minutes later, well over the line at 12,000 feet, Biggles scanned the sky anxiously. Far away to the right, 3,000 feet above him, a formation of 'Fours**' were heading towards the line after a raid; he hoped that they would prove an attractive lure for any prowling enemy aircraft.

  ** De Havilland 4s — British two-seater day bomber 1917–1920. W. E. Johns flew a DH4 with 55 Squadron.

  Ariet lay just ahead and below; Biggles put his nose down and dived, his eyes searching for his objective. Two miles west of Ariet, the Colonel had said! Good heavens, there seemed to be hundreds of oblong fields two miles west of Ariet. He looked at the photograph which he had pinned to his instrument board and compared it to the ground below. That must be the field, over there to the right. He spun to lose height more rapidly. Pulling out, he examined the field closely. An encampment seemed dangerously close —perhaps a mile away, not more. There was the field. He noticed two horses idling in a corner and looked anxiously at a row of poplars which stood like a row of soldiers at the far end. 'If I do get into that field I shall be mighty lucky to get out of it again,' he mused. Fortunately the wind—as the Colonel had said— was blowing in the right direction, otherwise it would be impossible.

  He was only a couple of hundred feet up now and he could see men running about the encampment; some were clustered in little crouching groups, and as he cut his engine off he heard the faint rattle of a machine gun. He winced as something crashed through the fuselage behind him. 'That's too close,' he muttered, and in the same breath, 'Well, here goes.'

  He did a swift S turn, then kicked out his left foot and brought the stick over in a steep side-slip. As he levelled out the tops of the trees brushed his undercarriage wheels and he fish-tailed* desperately to lose height.

  * A quick side-to-side movement of the rudder, used when landing to reduce speed by creating extra wind resistance.

  The poplars at the far end of the field appeared to race towards him; he held his breath as his wheels touched the ground in a tail-wheel landing. 'A molehill now, and I somersault,' he thought, cursing himself for coming in so fast. His tail dropped, the skid dragged, and he breathed again. Without waiting for the machine to finish its run he swung round towards the tree in the corner. That must be the one, he thought. Springing quickly from the cockpit he looked around — ah! there was the rabbit-hole. He was on his hands and knees in a second, arms thrust far down. Nothing!

  For a moment he remained stupefied with dismay. 'Must be another hole— or another tree,' he thought frantically, as he sprang to his feet. Realizing that he was on the verge of panicking, he steadied himself with an effort, and ran towards the next tree; his foot caught in an obstruction and he sprawled headlong, but he was on his feet again in an instant, instinctively glancing behind him to ascertain the cause of his fall. It was a rabbit-hole—there were a cluster of them all about him. Of course, there would be, he thought grimly, and thrust his hand into the nearest. Thank God! His fingers closed around a bulky object — he pulled it out — it was a thick packet of papers.

  He raced towards the Camel. Two hundred yards away a file of soldiers with an officer at their head were coming at the double. He tossed the packet into the cockpit, swung himself into his seat, and the next instant was racing, tail up, down the field to get into the wind. His heart sank as he surveyed the poplars; they seemed to reach upwards to the sky. 'Can't be done,' he said, bitterly. In one place there was a gap in the line where a tree had fallen; could he get between them? He thought not, but he would try.

  Already the grey-clad troops were scrambling through the hedge below the poplars. He opened the throttle and shoved the stick forward. The tail lifted. Hop —hop — thank goodness —she was off! He held his nose down for a moment longer and then zoomed at the middle of the gap. He flinched instinctively as a sharp crackling stabbed his ears and the machine shivered; whether it was gunshots or breaking wings, he didn't know.

  He was through, in the air, and he'd got the plans! He laughed with relief as he dodged and twisted to spoil the aim of the marksmen below. Dare he waste time trying to gain height? He thought not. He would never be able to get to a safe height —better to stick at two or three thousand feet just out of range of small arms from the ground, race for home, and trust to luck. With every nerve vibrating he looked up, around and below; most of the time he flew with his head thrown back, searching the sky above and in front of him, the direction from which danger would come. Not a machine was in sight. Half-way home he had climbed to 4,000 feet; tail up, he raced for the line, swerving from time to time when archie came too close to be comfortable. Fortunately the wind had died away; ten minutes now would see him safe over the line. Ten minutes! A lot could happen in the air in ten minutes. His eyes were never still; anxiously they roved the air for signs of enemy aircraft, or for Mahoney or MacLaren's Camels.

  Where was the packet? He groped about the floor of the cockpit, but couldn't find it. It must have got under his seat and drifted down the fuselage out of reach. Instinctively he glanced at the rev. counter. If he had to force-land now the enemy would find the packet. Would they! He felt for his Very* pistol and made sure that it was loaded. 'Provided I don't crash I can always set fire to her,' he reflected; 'the plans will burn with the rest.'

  * Short-barrelled pistol for firing coloured flares, used as a signal. Before the days of radio in aircraft different coloured flares were often used to pass messages.

  His eyes, still searching, suddenly stopped and focused on a spot ahead. His heart missed a beat and his lips curled in a mirthless smile. Across the sky, straight ahead, moving swiftly towards him, were a line of straight-winged aeroplanes. Fokkers! Six of them.

  He looked above the Fokkers for the expected Camels, but they were not there. 'All right,' muttered Biggles, 'I'll take the lot of you; come on, you devils.' For perhaps a minute they flew thus, the Camel, cut off by the Fokkers, still heading for the line, with the distance rapidly closing between them.