Biggles - Pioneer Air Fighter Read online

  ‘The M.O. says you’re not to fly today,’ protested the R.O..

  ‘Rot! What the deuce does he think I fly with, my teeth?’ asked Biggles sarcastically. ‘See you later.’

  Within ten minutes Biggles was in the air, heading into the blue roughly to the north-east of the aerodrome. An unusual amount of archie marked his progress and he noticed it with satisfaction, for it tended to confirm his suspicions.

  ‘What ho!’ he addressed the invisible gunner. ‘So you don’t want any Peeping Toms about today, eh? Want to discourage me.’

  The archie became really hot, and twice he had to circle to spoil the gunner’s aim. He kept a watchful eye on the ground below, but saw nothing unusual. He passed over an R.E.8 spotting for the artillery, manfully plodding its monotonous figure-of-eight 3,000 feet below, and nodded sympathetically. Presently he altered his course a little westerly and the archie faded away. ‘Don’t mind me going that way, eh? Well, let’s try the other way again,’ he muttered. Instantly the air was thick with black, oily bursts of smoke, and Biggles nodded understandingly. ‘So I’m getting warm, am I?’ he mused. ‘They might as well say so; what imaginations they’ve got.’

  Straight ahead of him, lying like a great dark green stain across the landscape, lay the forest of Duvigny. Keeping a watchful eye above for enemy aircraft, he looked at it closely, but there was no sign of anything unusual about its appearance.

  ‘I wonder if that’s it?’ he mused, deep in thought. ‘I could soon find out; it’s risky, but it’s the only way.’

  He knew what all old pilots knew, a trick the German pilots had learned early in the war, when vast numbers of Russian troops were concealed in the forests along the northGerman frontier; and that was, that if an enemy plane flew low enough, the troops, no matter how well hidden, would reveal their presence by shooting at it. Not even strict orders could prevent troops from firing at an enemy aeroplane within range. He pushed his stick forward and went roaring down at the forest. At 1,000 feet he started pulling out, but not before he had seen several hundred twinkling fireflies among the greenery. The fireflies were, of course, the flashes of rifles aimed at him. In one place a number of men had run out into a little clearing and started firing, but an officer had driven them back.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ muttered Biggles, thrilling with excitement. ‘I wonder how many of them there are.’

  Time and time again he dived low over different parts of the forest and each time the twinkling flashes betrayed the hidden troops. His wings were holed in many places, but he heeded them not. It would take a lucky shot from a rifle to bring him down.

  ‘My gosh!’ he muttered, as he pulled up at the far end of the forest, after his tenth dive. ‘The wood’s full of ‘em. There must be fifty thousand men lying in that timber, and it’s close to the line. They’re massing for a big attack. What did those orders say? July 21st? That’s tomorrow. They’ll attack this afternoon, or at latest tonight. I’d better be getting out of this. So that’s why they didn’t want any of our machines prowling about.’

  He made for the line, toying with the fine adjustment to get the very last rev. out of his engine. He could see the R.E.8 still tapping out its ‘G.G.’ (fire) signal to the gunners and marking the position of the falling shells, and the sight of it gave him an idea. The R.E.8 was fitted with wireless; he was not. If only he could get the pilot to send out a zone call on that wood, his work was done.3

  Biggles flew close to the R.E.8, signalling to attract attention. How could he tell them, that was the problem? He flew closer and gesticulated wildly, jabbing downwards towards the wood, and then tapping with his finger on an invisible key. The pilot and observer eyed him stupidly and Biggles shrugged his shoulders in despair. Then inspiration struck him. He knew the morse code, of course, for every pilot had to pass a test in it before going to France. He flew close beside the R. E.8, raised his arm above his head and, with some difficulty, sent a series of dots and dashes. He saw the observer nod understandingly and grab a notebook to take down the message. Biggles started his signal. Dash, dash, dot, dot—Z, dash, dash, dash—O, dash, dot—N, dot—E. He continued the performance until he had sent the words, ‘Zone Call, Wood,’ and then stabbed viciously at the wood with his forefinger. He saw the observer lean forward and have a quick, difficult conversation with the pilot, who nodded. The observer raised both thumbs in the air and bent over his buzzer. Biggles turned away to watch the result.

  Within a minute he saw the first shell explode in the centre of the wood. Another followed it, then another and another. In five minutes the place was an inferno of fire, smoke, flying timber and hurtling steel, and thousands of figures, clad in the field-grey of the German infantry, were swarming out into the open to escape the pulverizing bombardment. He could see the officers attempting to get the men into some sort of order, but there was no stemming that wild panic. They poured into the communication trenches, and others, unable to find cover, were flinging away their equipment and running for their lives.

  ‘Holy mackerel, what a sight!’ murmured Biggles. ‘What a pity the Colonel isn’t here to see it.’

  A Bristol Fighter appeared in the sky above him, heading for the scene of carnage. The observer was leaning over the side and the pilot’s arm was steadily moving up and down as he exposed plate after plate in his camera.

  ‘He’ll have to believe me when he sees those photographs, though,’ thought Biggles. ‘Well, I should think I’ve saved our chaps in the line a lot of trouble,’ he soliloquised, as he turned to congratulate the R.E.8 crew, but the machine was far away. Biggles’ Camel suddenly rocked violently and he realised the reason for the R. E.8’s swift departure. He was right in the line of fire of the artillery and the shells were passing near him. He put his nose down in a fright and sped towards home in the wake of the R. E.8.

  He landed on the aerodrome to find the escorting Camels had returned, and the pilots greeted him noisily.

  ‘Had a nice trip, chaps?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘No,’ growled Mahoney; ‘didn’t see a Hun the whole way out and home. These escorts bore me stiff. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Oh, having a little fun and games on my own.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘With the German Army,’ said Biggles lightly.

  [Back to Contents]

  * * *

  1 Bristol Fighters.

  2 Artillery Observation.

  3 A Zone Call was a special call from an aircraft to the artillery and was only used in very exceptional circumstances. When the zone call was tapped out by the wireless operator it was followed by the pin-point of the target. Military maps were divided into squares and smaller squares, each square numbered and lettered. By this means it was possible to name any spot on the map instantly. When a zone call was sent out, every weapon of every calibre within range, directed rapid fire on the spot, and this may ahve meant that hundreds of guns opened up at once on the same spot. The result can be better imagined than described. Obviously such treatment was terribly expensive, costing possibly £10,000 a minute while it lasted, and only exceptional circumstances, such as a long line of transport, or a large body of troops, warranted the call. There was a story in France of a new officer who, in desperation, sent out a zone call on a single archie battery that was worrying him. He was court-martialled and sent home.

  THE DECOY

  BIGGLES landed and taxied quickly up to the sheds. ‘Are Mr. Batson and Mr. Healy home yet?’ he asked the Flight Sergeant, as he climbed stiffly from the cockpit. ‘We got split up among the clouds near Ariet after a dog-fight with a bunch of Albatri.’

  ‘Mr Healy came in about five minutes ago, sir; he’s just gone along to the mess, but I haven’t seen anything of Mr. Batson,’ replied the N.C.O.

  Biggles lit a cigarette and eyed the eastern sky anxiously. He was annoyed that his flight had been broken up, although after a dog-fight it was no uncommon occurrence for machines to come home independently. He breathed a sigh of relief as the musical hum of a Bentley Rotary reached his ears, and started to walk slowly towards the mess, glancing from time to time over his shoulder at the now rapidly approaching Camel. Suddenly he paused in his stride and looked at the wind-stocking.

  ‘What’s the young fool doing, trying to land cross-wind?’ he growled, and turned round to watch the landing.

  The Camel had flattened out rather too high for a good landing, and dropped quickly as it lost flying speed. The machine bumped—bumped again as the wheels bounced, and then swung round in a wide semi-circle as it ran to a standstill not fifty yards away.

  Biggles opened his mouth to shout a caustic remark at the pilot, but his teeth suddenly closed with a snap, and the next instant he was running wildly towards the machine, followed by the Flight-Sergeant and several ack-emmas. He reached the Camel first, and, foot in the stirrup, swung himself up to the cockpit; one glance and he was astride the fuselage and unbuckling the safety-belt around the limp figure in the pilot’s seat.

  ‘Gently, Flight-Sergeant, gently,’ he said softly, as they lifted the stricken pilot from his seat and laid him carefully on the grass. Biggles caught his breath as he saw an ugly red stain on his hand that had supported the wounded pilot’s back. ‘How did they get you, kid?’ he choked, dropping on to his knees and bending close over the ashen face.

  ‘I —go t— the—bus —home—Biggles,’ whispered Batson eagerly.

  ‘Sure you did,’ nodded Biggles, forcing a smile. ‘What was it, laddie—archie?’

  The pilot looked at his Flight-Commander with wide-open eyes. ‘My own fault,’ he whispered faintly. ‘I went down—after Rumpler—with green—tail. Thought I’d—be—clever.’ He smiled wanly. ‘Albatrosses—waiting—upstairs. It was—trap. They got me—Biggles. I’m going—topsides.’

  ‘Not you,’ said Biggles firmly, waving away Batson’s mechanic, who was muttering incoherently.

  ‘It’s getting dark early; where are you—Biggles? I can’t see you,’ went on the wounded man, his hand groping blindly for the other pilot.

  ‘I’m here, old boy. I’m with you; don’t worry,’ crooned Biggles, like a mother to an ailing child.

  ‘Not worrying. Get that—Rumpler—for me—Biggles.’

  ‘I’ll get him, Batty; I’ll get the swine, never fear,’ replied Biggles, his lips trembling.

  For a minute there was silence, broken only by the sound of a man sobbing in the distance. The wounded pilot opened his eyes, already glazed by the film of death. ‘It’s getting—devilish—dark—Biggles,’ he whispered faintly, ‘dev—lish—da—ark.’

  The M.O. arrived at the double and lifted Biggles slowly, but firmly, to his feet. ‘Run along now, old man,’ he said kindly, after a swift glance at the man on the ground. ‘The boy’s gone.’

  For a moment longer Biggles stood looking down through a mist of tears at the face of the man who had been tied to him by such bonds of friendship as only war can tie.

  ‘I’ll get him for you, Batty,’ he said through his teeth, and turning, walked slowly towards the sheds.

  The Rumpler with the green tail was an old menace in the sky well known to Biggles. Of a slow, obsolescent type, it looked ‘easy meat’ to the beginner unaware of its sinister purpose, which was to act as a tempting bait to lure just such pilots beneath the waiting Spandau guns of the shark-like Albatrosses. Once, many months before, Biggles had nearly fallen into the trap. He was going down on to an old German two-seater when a premonition of danger made him glance back over his shoulder, and the sight that greeted his eyes sent him streaking for his own side of the line as if a host of devils were on his tail, as, indeed, they were.

  Such death-traps were fairly common, but they no longer deceived him for an instant. ‘Never go down after a Hun,’ was the warning dinned into the ears of every new arrival in France by those who knew the pitfalls that awaited the unwary—alas, how often in vain.

  So the old pilots, who had bought their experience, went on, and watched the younger ones come and go, unless, like Biggles, they were fortunate enough to escape, in which case the lesson was seldom forgotten.

  And now the green-tailed Rumpler had killed Batty, or had led him to his doom—at least, that was what it amounted to; so reasoned Biggles. That Batson had been deceived by the trap he did not for one moment believe. The lad—to use his own words—‘tried to be clever’, and in attempting to destroy the decoy had failed, where failure could have only tragic results; and this was the machine that Biggles had pledged himself to destroy.

  He had no delusions as to the dangers of the task he had undertaken. Batson’s disastrous effort was sufficient proof of that. First, he must find the decoy; that should not be difficult. Above it, biding their time, would be the school of Albatrosses, eyes glued downwards, waiting for the victim to walk into the trap.

  Biggles sat alone in a corner of ‘C’ Flight hangar and wrestled with the problem, unconscious of the anxious glances and whispered consultations of his mechanics. The death of Batson had shaken him badly, and he was sick, sick of the war, sick of flying, sick of life itself. What did it matter, anyway, he mused. His turn would come, sooner or later, that was certain. He didn’t attempt to deceive himself on that point. He made up his mind suddenly and called the Flight-Sergeant to him in tones that brooked no delay.

  ‘Let’s go and look at Mr. Batson’s machine,’ he said tersely.

  ‘I have examined it, sir,’ said the N.C.O. quickly. ‘It’s still O.K. Hardly touched; just one burst through the back of the fuselage, down through the pilot’s seat and through the floor.’

  ‘Good. I’ll take it,’ said Biggles coldly. ‘Come and give me a swing.’

  ‘But you’re not going to—not going—?’

  ‘Do what you’re told,’ snapped Biggles icily. ‘I’m flying that machine from now on—until—’ Biggles looked the Flight-Sergeant in the eyes— ‘until—well, you know—’ he concluded.

  The N.C.O. nodded. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said briskly.

  Five minutes later Biggles took off in the dead pilot’s Camel; the Flight-Sergeant and a silent group of ack-emmas watched his departure. ‘Mad as a ‘atter. Gawd ‘elp the ‘Un as gets in ‘is way today,’ observed a tousle-headed Cockney fitter.

  ‘Get back to your work,’ roared the Flight-Sergeant. ‘What are you all gaping at?’

  Major Mullen hurried along the tarmac. ‘Who’s just taken off in that machine, Flight-Sergeant?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Mr. Bigglesworth, sir.’

  The C.O. gazed after the rapidly-disappearing Camel sadly. ‘I see,’ he said slowly, and then again, ‘I see.’

  The finding of the green-tailed Rumpler proved a longer job than Biggles anticipated. At the end of a week he was still searching, still flying Batson’s machine, and every pilot within fifty miles knew of his quest. Major Mullen had protested; in fact, he had done everything except definitely order Biggles out of the machine; but, being a wise man and observing the high pressure under which his pilot was living, he refrained from giving an order that he knew would be broken. So Biggles continued his search unhindered.

  The Rumpler had become an obsession with him. For eight hours a day he hunted the sky between Lille and Cambrai for it, and at night, in his sleep, he shot it down in flames a hundred times. He had become morose, and hardly even spoke to Mac or Mahoney, the other Flight Commanders, who watched him anxiously and secretly helped him in his search. He was due for leave, but refused to accept it. He fought many battles and, although he hardly bothered to confirm his victories, his score mounted rapidly. His combat reports were brief and contained nothing but the barest facts.

  No man could stand such a pace for long. The M.O. knew it, but did nothing, although he hoped and prayed that the pilot might find his quarry before his nerves collapsed like a pack of cards.

  One morning Biggles had just refuelled after a two-hour patrol, and was warming up his engine again, when a D.H.9 landed, and the observer hurried towards the sheds. Dispassionately, Biggles saw him speak to the Flight-Sergeant and the N.C.O. point in his direction. The observer turned and crossed quickly to the Camel.

  ‘Are you Bigglesworth?’ he shouted above the noise of the engine.

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for that green-tailed Rumpler?’

  Biggles nodded again eagerly.

  ‘I saw it ten minutes ago, near Talcourt-le-Chateau.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Biggles briefly, and pushed the throttle open.

  He saw the Rumpler before he reached the lines; at least, he saw the wide circles of white archie bursts that followed its wandering course. The British archie was white, and German archie black, so he knew that the plane was a German and from its locality suspected it to be the Rumpler. A closer inspection showed him that his supposition was correct. It was just over its own side of the lines, at about 8, 000 feet, ostensibly engaged on artillery observation. Biggles edged away and studied the sky above it closely, but he could see nothing. He climbed steadily, keeping the Boche machine in sight, but making no attempt to approach it, and looked upwards again for the escorting Albatrosses which he knew were there; but he was still unable to discover them.

  ‘If I didn’t know for certain that they were there, I should say there wasn’t a Hun in the sky,’ he muttered, as he headed southeast, keeping parallel with the trenches. With his eye still on the Rumpler he could have named the very moment when the Boche observer spotted him, for the machine suddenly began to edge towards him as though unaware of his presence, and seemingly unconsciously making of itself an ideal subject for attack by a scout pilot.