Biggles In France Read online

  With vibrating lips producing the hum of a rotary engine, he ran round the room with his arms – which were evidently intended to be the planes of the machine – outstretched. He ‘landed’ neatly in an open space, and then ‘taxied’ realistically back to his seat.

  As the ‘engines’ backfired and then died away with a final swish-swoosh, there was a shout of laughter, in which Biggles was compelled to join.

  ‘Pretty good!’ he admitted. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Forbes, Clarence. Born 1894. Occupation, invent—’

  ‘All right. Cut out the rough stuff,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘You won’t mind my saying that it is my considered opinion that you are slightly off your rocker!’

  The other raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Slightly! My dear young sir,’ he protested, ‘you do me less than justice. Most people are firmly convinced that I am absolutely barmy. They call me the Mad Hatter.’

  ‘They’re probably right!’ admitted Biggles. ‘We shall probably think the same when we know you better. Did you say you were an inventor?’

  Forbes nodded.

  ‘Sh!’ he whispered, glancing around with mock furtiveness. ‘Spies may be listening. Presently I will show you some of the inventions I have produced in readiness for my debut in a service squadron.’

  Biggles started.

  ‘Don’t you start messing about with our machines!’ he said, frowning.

  Forbes looked pained.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing!’ he declared. ‘But wait until you have seen—’

  ‘Is Mr Forbes here, please?’ called a mess waiter from the door.

  Forbes looked round.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The C.O. wants to see you in the office, sir!’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ replied Forbes rising. Emitting an unbelievable volume of sound that could be recognized as a misfiring two-stroke motor-cycle, he steered himself to the door and disappeared.

  ‘Mad as a hatter! He said it, and, by James, he’s right!’ said Biggles. ‘If he goes on like that on the ground, just think what he must be like in the air! I should say the formation that gets the job of trailing him about the sky is in for a thin time.’

  The orderly appeared again.

  ‘Mr Bigglesworth, please, wanted on the telephone!’ he called.

  Biggles hurried from the room. Three minutes later he returned and resumed his seat. There was a curious expression on his face. He looked up, and his eyes caught those of Mahoney, the flight-commander.

  ‘Have you been awarded the V.C., or something?’ asked the flight-commander curiously.

  ‘No, but I shall deserve it by tonight, if I live to see it,’ muttered Biggles morosely.

  ‘Why, what’s doing?’

  ‘The C.O. says I’m to show Forbes the Line – this afternoon!’ The shout of laughter that went up could be heard on the far side of the aerodrome.

  Chapter 8:

  ORANGE FIRE!

  When Biggles went up to the shed after lunch he found Forbes already there awaiting his arrival. The new man, who had evidently been making some adjustments to his machine, for his hands were filthy, accosted him eagerly.

  ‘Come and have a look at my new device for keeping Huns off my tail,’ he invited. ‘You’ll be sorry for the Hun who gets behind me – and so will he!’

  ‘No, thanks! Personally, I prefer to stick to my Vickers guns to deal with Huns. And it isn’t my fault if they’re behind me,’ Biggles said meaningly. ‘In 266 Squadron, when we see Huns we go for them.’

  ‘I see,’ replied the other coolly, not in the least put out. ‘Then you don’t want to see—’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Biggles again. ‘I think I shall be able to manage with my guns, and I advise you to do the same.’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  ‘All you have to do this afternoon,’ went on Biggles, ‘is to keep your eye on me. Stick close, and try to pick up as many landmarks as you can. We’ll go as far as the Line and fly along it for a bit, but I don’t expect we shall actually go over. In any case, keep close to me whatever happens.’

  Forbes nodded.

  ‘I will,’ he said seriously.

  Five minutes later they were in the air, climbing in wide circles in the direction of the Front Line. From time to time Biggles tilted a wingfn1 and pointed to some outstanding landmark – a lake, a mine crater, a clump of shell-blasted tree trunks that had once been a wood, or a river, noting with satisfaction that the pilot he was escorting flew well, and what was more important, kept his place even in spite of the usual burst of archie that greeted them.

  For an hour or more they flew, following a definite course and climbing to a great height above the Lines.

  Biggles, who never lost an opportunity of picking up useful information, was trying to locate an enemy archie battery that had been annoying them persistently with remarkably accurate shooting, when he was startled by Forbes, who suddenly drew up level with him, and who, having attracted his attention, pointed.

  Biggles, following the outstretched finger, saw a small grey speck fleeting across the face of the sun. Mentally congratulating the beginner on his watchfulness and ‘spotting’ ability, Biggles turned his nose in the direction of the distant machine, at the same time subjecting the sky around to a searching scrutiny.

  Was it a trap? He did not know, but his eyes probed the atmosphere anxiously in order to try to find out. He had no wish to be caught in an awkward predicament with the responsibility of a new man on his hands. The two Camels were flying at fourteen thousand feet, while the other, which Biggles now saw was an Aviatikfn2 – a German plane – was a good two thousand feet above them, and making for home.

  He watched it for a moment or two undecided, then, concluding that pursuit was not worthwhile, he would have turned away, for they had already crossed the Lines.

  But this evidently did not suit Forbes, who protested violently with much hand-waving from his cockpit.

  Rightly or wrongly, Biggles always blamed himself for what followed, for he was the leader, and had he turned, Forbes would, or should, have followed him. But the new man’s enthusiasm spoilt Biggles’ better judgment, and after a good look around to make sure that the sky was clear, he held on after the Boche two-seater.

  Frankly, he did not expect to catch it, but it was good practice, and provided they did not go too far over the Line they could take no harm.

  It was unfortunate that Forbes, in his anxiety to overtake the enemy two-seater should ‘overshoot’ his leader at the very moment that Biggles’ engine began to give trouble. At first it was only a very faint knock, but it was sufficient to bring a frown to his face. The rev-counter was already falling back.

  It was now Biggles’ turn to try to catch Forbes, to signal to him that he could not go on. But his pupil’s eyes were fixed intently on the grey silhouette ahead, and not once did he look in his leader’s direction.

  Biggles fumed, but in vain. He was only twenty or thirty yards behind, but both machines were flying on full throttle, and he had no reserve of speed to overtake the other. The knocking in the engine grew steadily worse.

  ‘This is no use – I shall have to get back,’ he decided savagely. ‘Forbes will have to take his luck.’ He eased back the throttle to take the strain off the engine, and swung round in the direction of the Lines, now some miles away.

  Once he had turned, the distance between the two Camels increased at alarming speed, but he watched the other as long as he could, and it may have been due to that fact that he failed to notice what normally he would have seen.

  To his infinite relief, he saw Forbes turn and come racing after him. Satisfied, he looked down, and then saw with uneasiness, from the shell-smoke on the ground, that the wind had freshened. Still, he was not alarmed, for he had plenty of height to reach the Lines, even in a glide without his engine. Then he began his systematic searching of the sky.

  He did not lo
ok very long. Sweeping down the Lines, not more than a mile away, was a ragged formation of torpedo-shaped aeroplanes. There was no need to look twice – they were Albatroses; and that the enemy planes had seen him and were racing to cut him off was as clear as daylight.

  His heart grew cold as he watched them – not for himself, but for Forbes, who was still trailing along a couple of miles behind. Bitterly Biggles repented his folly in allowing himself to be persuaded so far over the Lines with an untried beginner.

  He toyed with his throttle to try to squeeze a few more revs out of the engine, but it grew worse instead of better.

  What should he do? To wait for Forbes in such circumstances was sheer suicide, and even if he did wait there was little he could do. He hoped and prayed that Forbes would see the danger and turn off at a tangent, in which case Forbes might just beat the Huns to the Lines, if they stopped to deal with him – Biggles – first.

  But either Forbes did not see or he was made of sterner stuff, for straight as an arrow he held his machine towards the approaching storm. As a last resort Biggles deliberately turned towards the Huns, thinking that perhaps Forbes, who would be watching him, would then be certain to see them; but it was no use. In fact, it only made matters worse, for Forbes merely turned to follow him straight into the lion’s mouth, so to speak.

  Biggles’ lips became a bloodless line.

  ‘Well, if he’s going to follow me whatever I do, I might as well make a dash for it!’ he thought. And, swinging round straight in the direction of the Lines, now about two miles away, he shoved the control-stick forward savagely.

  His engine revs had fallen practically to zero, so there was no question of staying to fight. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Forbes turn again to follow him, and in that order they raced for safety.

  First came Biggles, now down to about five thousand feet; then Forbes, still about half a mile behind; then came the Hun formation, a dozen or more of them, like a pack of hungry wolves.

  The Lines leapt up towards them, but the Huns, who by this time may have seen Biggles’ slowly revolving propeller, had no intention of letting such an easy prey escape.

  Standing nearly on their shark-like noses, tails cocked high in the air, the enemy planes thundered down, and the distance closed between them and their quarry.

  Biggles, flying with his head twisted round over his shoulder, saw that the Albatroses would catch Forbes first, as indeed they must, and he gritted his teeth in impotent fury at his own helplessness.

  They actually reached the Lines as the shooting began, and the rattle of the guns came faintly to his ears. He stared, with a curious tightening of the muscles of his face, as Forbes’ machine swerved as if it had been hit; but he recovered and swung round on the original course immediately behind him.

  Its nose went down into a steeper dive until it was no more than a hundred yards behind him. The Huns closed up.

  ‘Now they’ve got him!’ he thought, for the Camel was flying in a straight line with the whole pack behind it. ‘Why doesn’t the young fool turn, loop, half-roll, spin – anything rather than sit still and be shot like a sitting rabbit?’ He quivered. Never had he felt so utterly useless.

  ‘Perhaps the fellow’s waiting for me to do something,’ thought Biggles – ‘waiting for me to turn on the Huns and give him a lead! And I can’t do a blessed thing!’

  The knowledge that Forbes would think he – Biggles – was running away, leaving him to his fate, brought a scarlet flush to his cheeks. Forbes could not know that his engine had packed up.

  Well, there was nothing he could do so he braced himself for the worst. Instead, he saw the most amazing spectacle that it had ever been his lot to witness.

  As the Huns closed in to deliver the knock-out blow a streak of orange fire, followed by a cloud of smoke, spurted backwards from the Camel. What it was he did not know. At first he thought that Forbes’ machine was on fire, but as a second streamer of fire leapt backwards he saw that it was not so. Spellbound, he could only watch.

  At the appearance of the first fiery missile the Huns had swerved wildly, as indeed they had every reason to, and the thing actually passed between the planes of the leading Albatros. It also went very close to one of those in the rear.

  At the appearance of the second one there was general confusion as each pilot tried to avoid it. In the mêlée the wings of two of them became locked. For perhaps five seconds they clung together. Then they broke away, and shedding woodwork and fabric, plunged downwards, spinning.

  Biggles watched speechlessly, unable to understand what was happening, conscious only that two of the enemy machines had gone – a fact that filled him with intense exultation.

  Two more streamers of fire and smoke hurtled aft from Forbes’ machine; they went wide, but they served their purpose. The Albatroses had had enough. The enemy formation scattered as the machines pulled out in all directions, and although they hung about in the vicinity, presumably to watch the fire-spitting phenomenon, they gave up the pursuit.

  Biggles gave a heartfelt sigh of relief, hardly daring to believe that escape was now practically an accomplished fact. His brain became normal, and into his mind for the first time crept snatches of the conversation on the tarmac before they had begun the fight. What was it Forbes had said? ‘Come and see my device,’ and ‘You’ll be sorry for the Hun who gets on my tail!’

  That must have been the device he had seen working, but what on earth was it? It looked as if it might have been a glorified Veryfn3 pistol, attached to some part of the machine, trained to fire backwards and operated from the cockpit. But how the dickens did Forbes reload it? It was too big for a Very light, anyway.

  ‘Well, it’s a problem that will have to wait for an answer,’ Biggles decided. ‘It’s no use guessing!’

  The chief thing now was to get on the ground without cracking up, for his engine was too far gone for him to hope to get back to the aerodrome, so he looked about anxiously for a suitable place to set the machine down.

  He picked out a field, small, and by no means even surfaced, and was about to side-slip down towards it when he became aware that Forbes’ machine was acting in a very curious manner.

  The engine had been cut off, and it seemed to be slipping from left to right. Once it very nearly stalled, but the pilot caught it in the very nick of time.

  Biggles watched, with his heart in his mouth, only too well aware that something was wrong, as the Camel shot past him, steering a zigzag course for the same field in which he himself had proposed to land.

  He half-expected Forbes to make some signal as he passed, but he did not. With head erect, sitting bolt upright in the cockpit, Forbes seemed to be staring fixedly at something that lay directly ahead. In that direction the Camel flew straight towards the ground.

  Somehow Biggles knew just what was going to happen. Out of the corner of his eyes, as he slipped in over the hedge of the field, he saw the other machine half-flatten out, but too late. The wheels and undercarriage were swept off in a cloud of dust; the Camel bounced high into the air, and then drove nose first into the ground.

  Biggles landed, and without waiting for his machine to finish its run, he leapt out and sprawled headlong; but he was on his feet in an instant, running like a madman towards the crash. A little wisp of smoke was drifting sluggishly into the air from the engine, and he grew cold at the thought of what it portended.

  Fire! The smoke was petrol vapour, caused by petrol from the smashed tanks running over the hot cylinders of the engine. But the dreaded horror had not occurred when he reached the machine. The pilot was still strapped in his seat, in a crumpled position.

  Troops were running up from all directions, for they had come down in the middle of the support Lines. ‘Here! Quick!’ panted Biggles, as he strove to force aside a flying-wirefn4 that was holding the pilot in his seat.

  He knew that the danger of fire was by no means past; one dying spark from the magnetofn5, and the petrol-soaked wreckage wou
ld go up like gunpowder. He had seen it happen before.

  ‘Now then – all together – steady – that’s right – steady!’ he cried, as new hands came to the rescue and between them released the unconscious pilot and laid him on the grass.

  Forbes opened his eyes and Biggles’ hands ran questioningly over him, searching for what he hoped he would not find – the damp, sticky patch over a bullet that had found a billet.

  ‘Where did they get you, laddie?’ he asked, for he felt certain that Forbes had been hit.

  The wounded man blinked, and his eyes sought those of his leader.

  ‘Got me through both legs,’ he breathed. ‘That blood on my face is coming from my nose; I think I busted it on the stubs of my guns when I crashed.’

  Biggles nodded sympathetically, relieved to find that the damage was no worse. A party of R.A.M.C.fn6 men arrived at the double; iodine and field dressings were produced and first-aid applied.

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ Biggles said, when he saw the wounds were not serious. ‘You fainted from loss of blood, I expect.’

  Forbes nodded weakly.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I felt myself going – that was the rotten part of it. I knew I was going to crash. My legs wouldn’t work; I couldn’t keep ’em on the rudder-bar, so the kite was slipping about all over the place. They got me first burst, confound it!’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you push off when you saw that bunch,’ said Biggles, ‘and try to get home on your own, instead of trailing along after me? All the same, it was a stout effort. They’d have got me if you hadn’t done what you did.’

  ‘Rot! I wasn’t thinking about you, anyway!’ declared Forbes, with a whimsical smile.

  ‘No-o?’

  ‘No. I wanted to try out my apparatus, but the Huns were a bit too quick for me.’

  ‘What the dickens was it?’ Biggles demanded.

  ‘Rockets. You know the rockets they used to use for balloon-strafing?’

  ‘Of course!’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I’ve made a gadget to hold ’em on – backwards,’ Forbes explained. ‘When they go off, they shoot behind me. My idea was to surprise a Hun who got on my tail – give him something he wasn’t expecting.