Читать книгу Biggles, Pioneer Air Fighter - W E Johns - Страница 7

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Biggles looked up from his self-appointed task of filling a machine-gun belt as the distant hum of an aero-engine reached his ears; an S.E.5, flying low, was making for the aerodrome. The Flight-Commander watched it fixedly, a frown deepening between his eyes. He sprang to his feet, the loose rounds of ammunition falling in all directions.

“Stand by for a crash!” he snapped at the duty ambulance driver. “Grab a Pyrene, everybody,” he called; “that fellow’s hit; he’s going to crash!”

He caught his breath as the S.E. made a sickening flat turn, but breathed a sigh of relief as it flattened out and landed clumsily. The visiting pilot taxied to the tarmac and pushed up his goggles to disclose the pale but smiling face of Wilkinson, of 287 Squadron.

“You hit, Wilks?” called Biggles anxiously.

“No.”

Biggles grinned his relief and cast a quick, critical glance at the machine. The fabric of the wings was ripped in a dozen places; an interplane strut was shattered, and the tail-unit was as full of holes as the rose of a watering-can.

“Have you got a plague of rats or something over at your place?” he inquired, pointing at the holes. “You want to get some cats.”

“The rats that did that have red noses, and it’ll take more than cats to catch ’em,” said Wilkinson meaningly, climbing stiffly out of the cockpit.

“Red noses, did you say?” said Biggles, the smile fading from his face. “You mean——”

“The Richthofen crowd have moved down, that’s what I mean,” replied Wilkinson soberly. “I’ve lost Browne and Chadwicke, although I believe Browne managed to get down just over our side of the line. There must have been over twenty Huns in the bunch we ran into.”

“What were they flying?”

“Albatrosses. I counted sixteen crashes on the ground between Le Cateau and here, theirs and ours. There’s an R.E.8 on its nose between the lines. There’s a Camel and an Albatross piled up together in the Hun front-line trench. What are we going to do about it?”

“Pray for dud weather, and pray hard,” said Biggles grimly. “See any Camels on your way?”

Wilkinson nodded. “I saw three near Mossyface Wood.”

“That’d be Mac; he’s got Batty and a new man with him.”

“Well, they’ll have discovered there’s a war on by now,” observed Wilkinson. “Do you feel like making Fokker fodder of yourself, or what about running down to Clarmes for a drink and talk things over?”

“Suits me,” replied Biggles. “I’ve done two patrols today and I’m tired. Come on; I’ll ask the C.O. if we can have the tender.”

Half an hour later they pulled up in front of the Hôtel de Ville, in Clarmes. In the courtyard stood a magnificent touring car which an American staff officer had just vacated. Lost in admiration, Biggles took a step towards it.

“Thinking of buying it?” said a voice at his elbow.

Turning, Biggles beheld a captain of the American Flying Corps. “Why, are you thinking of selling it?” he asked evenly.

As he turned and joined Wilkinson at a table, the American seated himself near them. “You boys just going to the line?” he asked. “Because if you are I’ll give you a tip or two.”

Biggles eyed the speaker coldly. “Are you just going up?” he inquired.

“Sure,” replied the American. “I’m commanding the 299th Pursuit Squadron. We moved in today—we shall be going over tomorrow.”

“I see,” said Biggles slowly; “then I’ll give you a tip. Don’t cross the line under fifteen thousand.”

The American flushed. “I wasn’t asking you for advice,” he snapped; “we can take care of ourselves.”

Biggles finished his drink and left the room.

“That baby fancies himself a bit,” observed the American to Wilkinson. “When he’s heard a gun or two go off he won’t be so anxious to hand out advice. Who is he?”

“His name’s Bigglesworth,” said Wilkinson civilly. “Officially, he’s only shot down twelve Huns and five balloons, but to my certain knowledge he’s got several more.”

“That kid? Say, don’t try that on me, brother. You’ve got a dozen Huns, too, I expect,” jibed the American.

“Eighteen, to be precise,” said Wilkinson, casually tapping a cigarette.

The American paused with his drink halfway to his lips. He set the glass back on the table. “Say, do you mean that?” he asked incredulously.

Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.

“What did he mean when he said not to cross the line under fifteen thousand?” asked the American curiously.

“I think he was going to tell you that the Richthofen circus had just moved in opposite,” explained Wilkinson.

“I’ve heard of that lot,” admitted the American. “Who are they?”

Wilkinson looked at him in surprise. “They are a big bunch of star pilots each with a string of victories to his credit. They hunt together, and are led by Manfred Richthofen, whose score stands at about seventy. With him he’s got his brother, Lothar—with about thirty victories. There’s Gussmann and Wolff and Weiss, all old hands at the game. There’s Karjust, who has only one arm, but shoots better than most men with two. Then there’s Lowenhardt, Reinhard, Udet and—but what does it matter? A man who hasn’t been over the line before meeting that bunch, has about as much chance as a rabbit in a wild-beast show,” he concluded.

“You trying to put the wind up me?”

“No. I’m just telling you why Biggles said don’t cross under 15,000 feet. You may then have a chance to dive home, if you meet ’em. That’s all. Well, cheerio; see you later perhaps.”

“It’s a thundering shame,” raved Biggles, as they drove back to the aerodrome. “Some of these Americans are the best stuff in the world. One or two of ’em have been out here for months with our own squadrons and the French Lafayette and Cigognes Escadrilles. Now their brass-hats have pulled ’em out and rolled ’em into their own Pursuit Squadrons. Do they put them in charge because they know the game? Do they? No! They hand ’em over to some poor boob who has done ten hours’ solo in Texas or somewhere, but has got a command because his sister’s in the Follies; and they’ve got to follow where he leads ’em. Bah! It makes me sick. You heard that poor prune just now? He’ll go beetling over at five thousand just to show he knows more about it than we do. Well, he’ll be pushing up the Flanders poppies by this time tomorrow night unless a miracle happens. He’ll take his boys with him, that’s the curse of it. Not one of ’em’ll ever get back—you watch it,” he concluded, bitterly.

“We can’t let ’em do that,” protested Wilkinson.

“What can we do?”

“I was just thinking.”

“I’ve got it,” cried Biggles. “Let them be the bait to bring the Huns down. With your S.E.s and our Camels together we’ll knock the spots off that Hun circus. How many S.E.s can you raise?”

“Eight or nine.”

“Right. You ask your C.O. and let me know tonight. I’ll ask Major Mullen for all the Camels we can get in the air. That should even things up a bit; we’ll be strong enough to take on anything the Huns can send against us. I’ll meet you over Mossyface at six. How’s that?”

“Suits me. I hope it’s a fine day,” yawned Wilkinson.

The show turned out to be a bigger one than Biggles anticipated. Major Mullen had decided to lead the entire Squadron himself, not so much on account of the possibility of the American Squadron being massacred, as because he realised the necessity of massing his machines to meet the new menace.

Thus it came about that the morning following his conversation with Wilkinson found Biggles leading his Flight behind the C.O. On his right was “A” Flight, led by Mahoney, and on his left “B” Flight, with MacLaren at their head. Each Flight comprised three machines, and these, with Major Mullen’s red-cowled Camel, made ten in all. Major Sharp, commanding the S.E.5 Squadron, had followed Major Mullen’s example, and from time to time Biggles looked upwards and backwards to where a formation of nine tiny dots, 6,000 feet above them, showed where the S.Es were watching and waiting. A concerted plan of action had been decided upon, and Biggles impatiently awaited its consummation.

Where were the Americans? He asked himself the question for the tenth time; they were a long time showing up. Where was the Boche circus? Sooner or later there was bound to be a clash, and Biggles thrilled at the thought of the coming dog-fight.

It was a glorious day; not a cloud broke the serenity of the summer sky. Biggles kept his eyes downwards, knowing that the S.E.s would prevent molestation from above. Suddenly, a row of minute moving objects caught his eye, and he stared in amazement. Then he swore. A formation of nine Spads was crossing the line far below. “The fools; the unutterable lunatics!” he growled. “They can’t be an inch higher than four thousand. They must think they own the sky, and they haven’t even seen us yet. Oh, well, they’ll wake up presently, or I’m no judge.”

The Spad Squadron was heading out straight into enemy sky, and Biggles watched them with amused curiosity, uncertain as to whether to admire their nerve or curse their stupidity. “They must think it’s easy,” he commented grimly, as his lynx-eyed leader altered his course slightly to follow the Americans.

Where were the Huns? He held his hand, at arm’s length, over the sun, and extending his fingers squinted through the slits between them. He could see nothing, but the glare was terrific and might have concealed a hundred machines.

“They’re there, I’ll bet my boots,” muttered the Flight-Commander; “they are just letting those poor boobs wade right into the custard. How they must be laughing!”

Suddenly he stiffened in his seat. The Major was rocking his wings—pointing. Biggles followed the outstretched finger and caught his breath. Six brightly painted machines were going down in an almost vertical dive behind the Spads. Albatrosses! He lifted his hand high above his head, and then, in accordance with the plan, pushed the stick forward and, with Batson and Healy on either side, tore down diagonally to cut off the enemy planes. He knew that most of the Hun circus was still above, somewhere, waiting for the right moment to come down. How long would they wait before coming down, thus bringing the rest of the Camels and S.E.s down into the mix-up with them? Not long, he hoped, or he might find his hands full, for he could not count upon the inexperienced Spad pilots for help.

The Spad Squadron had not altered its course, and Biggles’ lip curled as he realised that even now they had not seen the storm brewing above them. Ah, they knew now! The Albatrosses were shooting, and the Spads swerved violently, like a school of minnows at the sudden presence of a pike. In a moment formation was lost as they scattered in all directions. Biggles sucked in his breath quickly as a Spad burst into flames and dropped like a stone. He was among them now; a red-bellied machine appeared through his sights and he pressed his triggers viciously, cursing a Spad that nearly collided with him.

A green Albatross came at him head-on, and, as he charged it, another with a blue-and-white checked fuselage sent a stream of tracer through his top plane. The green machine swerved and he flung the Camel round behind it; but the checked machine had followed him and he had to pull up in a wild zoom to escape the hail of lead it spat at him.

“Strewth!” grunted Biggles, as his windscreen flew to pieces. “This is getting too hot. My gosh! what a mess!”

A Spad and an Albatross, locked together, careered earthwards in a flat spin. A Camel, spinning viciously, whirled past him, and another Albatross, wrapped in a sheet of flame, flashed past his nose, the doomed pilot leaping into space even as it passed.

Biggles snatched a swift glance upwards. A swarm of Albatrosses were dropping like vultures out of the sky into the fight; he had a fleeting glimpse of other machines far above and then he turned again to the work on hand. Where were the Spads? Ah, there was one, on the tail of an Albatross. He tore after it, but the Spad pilot saw him and waved him away. Biggles grinned. “Go to it, laddie,” he yelled exultantly, but a frown swept the grin from his face as a jazzed machine darted in behind the Spad and poured in a murderous stream of lead. Biggles shot down on the tail of the Hun. The Spad pilot saw his danger and twisted sideways to escape, but an invisible cord seemed to hold the Albatross to the tail of the American machine. Biggles took the jazzed machine in his sights and raked it from end to end in a long deadly burst. There was no question of missing at that range; the enemy pilot slumped forward in his seat and the machine went to pieces in the air.

The Spad suddenly stood up on its tail and sent two white pencils of tracer across Biggles’ nose at something he could not see. A Hun, upside down, went past him so closely that he instinctively flinched.

“Holy smoke!” muttered Biggles. “He saved me that time; that evens things up.”

His lips closed in a straight line; a bunch of six Albatrosses were coming at him together. Biggles fired one shot, and went as cold as ice as his gun jammed. Bullets were smashing through his machine when a cloud of S.E.s appeared between him and the Hun, and he breathed again.

“Lord, what a dog-fight,” he said again, as he looked around to see what was happening. Most of the enemy planes were in full retreat, pursued by the S.E.s. Two Camels and two Albatrosses were still circling some distance away and four more Camels were rallying above him. Biggles saw the lone Spad flying close to him. Seven or eight crashed machines were on the ground, two blazing furiously, but whether they were Spads or Camels he couldn’t tell.

He pushed up his goggles and beckoned to the Spad pilot, whom he now recognized as his acquaintance of the previous day, to come closer.

The American waved gaily, and together they started after the Camels, led by Major Mullen’s red cowling, now heading for the line.

Biggles landed with the Spad still beside him; he mopped the burnt castor-oil off his face and walked across to meet the pilot. The American held out his hand. “I just dropped in to shake hands,” he said. “Now I must be getting back to our field to see how many of the outfit got home. I’d like to know you better; maybe you’ll give me a tip or two.”

“I can’t tell you much after what you’ve seen today,” laughed Biggles, turning to wave to an S.E.5, which had swung low over them and then proceeded on its way.

“Who’s that?” asked the American.

“That’s Wilks, the big stiff you saw with me yesterday,” replied Biggles. “He’s a good scout. He’ll be at the Hôtel de Ville tonight for certain; so shall I. Do you feel like coming along to tear a chop or two?”

“Sure,” agreed the Spad pilot enthusiastically.