Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles
series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for
entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official
storyline.
Biggles was
seated comfortably in front of the fire in the anteroom, reading a week-old
edition of the Gazette, when the low
hum of an approaching aeroplane made him frown and look up. “Do you hear that?”
he asked the other occupant of the room, Algy Lacey.
“Sounds like an
SE,” was the reply.
“An SE that’s
going to crash, if I know anything about it,” retorted Biggles grimly, dropping
the newspaper as he dashed to the window and looked out.
Sure enough, an
SE was just coming in to land, the loose fabric of one wing trailing forlornly,
the propeller stopped, and the entire plane itself so full of holes that
Biggles wondered what sort of miracle had allowed the plane to stay in the air
for so long.
Algy had already
dashed out of the anteroom and was standing by to watch the landing. “He’s
going to crash,” he predicted, as Biggles came up to join him.
“Grab a Pyrene.”
The aeroplane
flopped like a dying fish as its pilot made a last attempt to regain control of
it. Biggles watched with worried eyes as the plane’s engine coughed twice, and
then cut out. The impact it made as it hit the ground was no less than he’d
expected, but he winced, nonetheless.
A hush fell over
the assembled pilots and NCOs as the plane settled to the ground, and then a
figure emerged from the wreckage in a flying leap that narrowly missed the wing
of a Camel. The helmet was removed to disclose the pale but smiling face of
Wilkinson, of 287 Squadron. “Hullo, chaps. Sorry about the mess.”
Biggles grinned
his relief as he moved forward to greet the other pilot. “Hullo, Wilks! Are you
hurt?”
“Scratch on my
arm, that’s all.”Wilks moved stiffly to a standing position, and ruefully surveyed
what was left of his machine.
“What did you do
to your machine?” asked Biggles, banteringly. “Fly it into a tree or something?”
“Huns,” replied Wilks, with such
vehemence that the smile slipped from Biggles’ face. “I don’t know if you’ve
heard, the Von Kurtmann crowd have moved down and they’re hunting in groups of
eight or so planes, picking off lone machines returning from dogfights and that
sort of thing. That’s what happened to me, in fact,” he added, eyeing what was
left of his SE. “It’s a good thing today’s a cloudy day, otherwise I might not
be here to tell the tale. I barely got away from them as it is.”
“What are we
going to do about it?”
“Do?” said Wilks.
“Stay away from them and pray hard that you don’t run into them when you’re
alone, that’s all you can do.”
“But surely we
could try massing some of our planes…”
“No use,” said
Wilks dismissively, waving a hand. “25 tried it the other day, massing their
machines with 280, sixteen machines in all, and they sent a lone plane out as a
decoy. The Huns simply didn’t show. They’re cunning little beggars, and they’re
no fools either.”
“Well, perhaps we
could set up some kind of system where observers from the Line can radio us
when they spot the machines and…”
“You’d never make
it up there in time to intercept them,” broke in Algy, sensibly. “By the time
you’d got there, they’d be back home already.” An interested gleam came into
his eyes. “What if we were to fly over and lay some eggs? That should give them
something to think about.”
“They’re too far
over the Line for that to work,” argued Wilks. “I still say the best thing to
do is to leave ‘em alone.”
“We can’t just
sit by and twiddle our thumbs while they pick off our pilots one by one!” protested
Biggles.
“Don’t I know it,”
muttered Wilks. “I’ve lost Collins and Hadley so far, and our whole squadron
has lost six machines this week alone, although two of the pilots managed to
make it down. At this rate, we won’t have enough planes to fly one patrol a day
soon. But what do you think we can do about it?”
“I don’t know,”
admitted Biggles, “but it’s my experience that anything I can fire a machine
gun at is something that can be dealt with, one way or another. Give me a day
or two to think about it. I’ll let you know if I come up with any schemes.”
&&&
Biggles had just
finished his first drink after supper and was hailing the mess waiter for a
second when Mahoney approached him. “I say, Biggles. Cowley’s had to report
sick and the MO says he can’t fly tomorrow. Mullen wants me to take Algy with
me on the dawn patrol.”
“As long as you
can wake him up, he’s all yours,” replied Biggles blandly.
“Must it be a dawn patrol?” groaned Algy.
“I can’t remember the last time I got a decent night’s sleep.”
“Well, Cowley
will be back in a week, and you can work it out amongst yourselves. Question
is, will you do it?”
“Oh, all right. I
don’t suppose I have a choice, really, in any case. I’ll tell my batman to wake
me at dawn. And if I’m going to be up early chasing all the little pigeons, I
might as well get some sleep now.”
&&&
Biggles was
seated on a chock in the corner of one of the hangers, filling a gun belt with
ammunition, when the drone of a fast approaching engine jerked his eyes
skyward. He relaxed when he recognized the machine as Mahoney’s. “That’ll be
the dawn patrol getting back,” he murmured to himself, and was just turning
back to the task at hand, when sudden shouting made him look up again.
Mahoney had
climbed out of the cockpit and was speaking urgently to an NCO, who was shaking
his head in reply. Abruptly, Mahoney turned on his heel and all but ran to the
squadron office.
Biggles, his curiosity
getting the better of him, abandoned the gun belt he was filling and strolled
over to the NCO, who was looking bewilderedly after Mahoney’s retreating back. “What’s
the matter, Flight Sergeant? What did he say?”
“Just asked if
Mr. Lacey was back yet, sir.”
Biggles felt a
cold hand close over his heart. “And is he?”
“No, sir. Not
yet.”
Biggles spun on
his heel and raced after Mahoney.
&&&
Biggles burst
through the door of the office just as Mahoney was asking the RO if there had
been any word of Algy.
“No,” said Wat. “I
haven’t heard from him. But what’s the big idea, anyway? It’s not unusual for
pilots to come home by themselves after a dogfight. Perhaps he’d had engine
trouble and had to land somewhere.”
“You don’t
understand,” said Mahoney, earnestly. “The Von Kurtmann crowd have been out
hunting. We saw about six crashes on our way out, some of them still smoking.
If Algy’s out on his own, he won’t stand a chance against them.”
“Where did you
see him last?” demanded Biggles.
“We ran into some
Huns over Mossyface Wood, and then I lost track of him,” said Mahoney. “After
the dogfight, I circled around a bit and tried to find him, but I didn’t see
him. I thought he might have come home already.”
“Did you say
Mossyface Wood?” asked Wat, in a strangely strained tone of voice.
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I don’t
want to worry you, but I got a signal just now saying that one of our observers
had spotted the Von Kurtmann crowd heading in that direction,” admitted Wat.
“WHAT?” Before he
even had time to think about it, Biggles was running for his machine, shouting
at the ack emmas to get him airborne.
&&&
Landmarks rushed
by in a blur, and by the time Biggles came to himself, he was almost at
Mossyface Wood. One quick glance showed him an empty sky, for which he was both
relieved and disappointed. There was always the chance that the Huns had come
and gone without any conquering, but it was also possible that they had already
shot down Algy’s Camel.
Another Camel
flew up alongside him, and for an instant his heart leapt with wild hope, only
to sink again as he recognized Mahoney in the pilot’s seat. Mahoney was flying
Cowley’s machine; his own was probably in the process of being repaired and
refueled.
Biggles took the
Camel down as low as he dared, skimming the treetops as he snatched quick
glances at the ground. As far as he could see, there were no signs of a recent
crash, but he knew that that meant nothing; the trees were thick enough at some
points to conceal an aircraft beneath, and he daren’t go lower to check.
He rose to join
Mahoney, who was circling above him, obviously searching the sky for signs of
Algy or the Huns. Biggles met the other pilot’s eye and shook his head. Mahoney
shook his own head in reply.
Algy was nowhere
to be found.
&&&
Biggles flew recklessly
on into Hunland. His eyes, never still, scanned the horizon, and from time to
time, he turned suddenly and squinted through his fingers into the sun. In the
other plane, Mahoney was making frantic signs to him that he was going too far,
but Biggles was in no mood to care about such trifles.
Where was Algy?
He glanced down at the ground for the hundredth time, dreading the thought that
he might see the smoking remains of what had once been a Camel. He realized
that there was a faint possibility that Algy might have simply run into difficulties
and was even now on his way home, but in his heart of hearts he felt that that
was not the case.
Biggles circled
slowly, and, glancing down, realized for the first time that he was much
further behind the Lines than he had thought. The realization came as something
of a shock, and for a second he simply stared at the landscape below, unable
and unwilling to believe his eyes.
Finally, with a
sinking heart, he made up his mind. “Five more minutes,” he muttered to
himself. “If I haven’t found him by then, there won’t be much left to find
anyway.”
&&&
The five minutes
ticked by, and despite all Biggles’ efforts, he could not find any sign of Algy.
Reluctantly, he waved to Mahoney, and the two of them turned back toward the
Line.
Biggles’ mind was
so focused on Algy that he almost didn’t notice when the bullet slammed into
the side of his windshield, but thankfully his instincts kicked in even through
his preoccupation. Even before the shattered glass had completely finished
falling from the edges of the bullet hole, Biggles’ foot had shot out and
kicked the stick over, sending the Camel over in a wild roll as he looked over
his shoulder for the source of the assault.
Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw Mahoney perform a similar maneuver and skid wildly into a
cloud.
Biggles took
precious seconds to right the Camel from the spin it was threatening to fall
into, and when he looked up again he was shocked to find the sky swarming with
black-crossed machines. “Where the dickens did they come from?” he muttered
savagely to himself, for not less than a minute ago he would have sworn that
the sky had been completely clear.
But there was no
time to worry about such trivial matters. Biggles pulled his Camel into the sun,
and his heart leapt as he saw that the Huns appeared to be surrounding a plane.
A plane with red,
white, and blue markings.
He could not see
what type of aircraft it was, but it was Algy, he was sure of it.
It had to be.
&&&
Biggles, now in
line with the sun, frowned as he surveyed the situation below him. He circled
slowly, seeking to find an opening. His lips set in a mirthless smile, and
then, he attacked.
There were three
Huns directly between him and the British plane, and he came down on the tail
of the first one like an avenging angel, guns shooting double streams of
merciless tracer into the machine. The Hun’s nose jerked up, and long
experience told him that he had hit the pilot. He felt a stab of savage exultation,
which was quickly replaced by horror as the other two machines spun round to
face him.
Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw another Camel pull up alongside him, fending off the attack
of the leading Hun. The second Hun swerved to avoid hitting its companion, and
then came back for Biggles, but Biggles had anticipated the move and was
waiting for him.
The Hun was
heading towards him, and Biggles could see the German pilot’s goggled face
behind the windshield, lips set in a cold, hard line. For a split second their
eyes met and Biggles realized that the other pilot meant to ram him, but he
refused to move an inch. “Come get me, you hound,” he grated through set teeth.
“If I’m going down, at least you’re going with me.”
&&&
Biggles braced
himself for the impact, but it never came, for out of nowhere Mahoney’s Camel
came down behind the Hun, guns spitting twin streams of deadly tracer. The Hun
machine burst into flame, and Biggles had to turn away to avoid the intense
heat. “Phew!” he muttered to himself. “What a mess!” He waved his thanks at
Mahoney, but the other plane had already turned away and did not see him.
Biggles pulled
his Camel to even keel, and then got a shock as he caught sight of the British
machine that he had assumed was Algy’s, for the machine was not a Camel at all,
but an SE. Biggles’ shoulders sagged in disappointment, even as he realized
that it would not have made the slightest difference to his actions had he
known beforehand, but his worry for Algy
further intensified even as he turned to attack a Hun that was coming down on
the hapless tail of the SE. However, before he had time to fire a single shot,
a Camel zipped past his nose and charged at his target, guns blazing furiously.
“By gosh,”
Biggles muttered to himself. “Mahoney’s in a rage. I wonder what’s happened.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Camel continue on its wild path,
smashing its way between two black-crossed planes that hurriedly parted to let
it pass.
Biggles frowned.
Wild angry flying wasn’t like Mahoney. In fact, it was more like something—
Whang! A bullet
slammed into his left wing, and suddenly Biggles found himself fighting to keep
the Camel steady as it bucked like a wild horse underneath him. “I’ve been
shot!” was the thought that hammered through his mind as he snatched a quick
glance downwards for a place to land. He was at a comfortable height, enough to
see him safely to his own side of the Line. 287 Squadron was the closest
aerodrome, and although he loathed to leave the dogfight and was not looking
forward to the jeers of the SE pilots, he knew that he did not have much choice
in the matter.
He was
uncomfortably aware that he was providing a sitting target for any Hun that
chose to come after him, for in his current condition he could not return fire
if attacked.
Biggles twisted
in his seat, and his heart sank as he saw a Hun break away from the dogfight
and follow him, firing a continuous stream of lead at him. It was only a matter
of time now before either he or his machine was shot in a vital place.
If only he could
reach his own side of the Line first…
&&&
The Hun stuck to
the tail of Biggles’ Camel as if it glued to it. Biggles did his best to spoil
the other pilot’s aim, sideslipping wildly and never keeping on the same course
for more than a second at a time, but he knew that he was only postponing the
inevitable.
Biggles cast a
desperate glance back, and was astonished to see that several Sopwith Pups had
now joined in the dogfight far above. “Where the dickens did they come from?”
he muttered to himself, both peeved and perplexed by the sudden appearance of
the British planes.
Biggles held on
grimly, hoping one of the Pups would see his plight and come to his rescue, but
he was losing height fast, and if rescue did not come soon, it would not be
needed.
He was wondering
if he would even be able to reach 287 after all, when, with all the
unexpectedness and impact of a lightning bolt, a Camel came down on the tail of
the Hun, and in one stroke the hunter became the hunted as the black-crossed
machine swung round violently to face the Camel’s spitting guns.
With relief,
Biggles guided his Camel over the Line and instinctively glanced back.
He was just in
time to see the Hun lunge at the Camel, much like a wrestler lunging at an
opponent. Biggles winced, waiting for the Camel to dodge, but to his horror,
the Camel remained fixed in place as if held by invisible strings and the Hun
sliced cleanly through the British machine’s left wing.
The Camel
instantly fell into a spin, even as the Hun itself burst into flame, the result
of a lucky last bullet fired by the now plummeting Camel.
Biggles was only
a few hundred feet from the ground now, but rather than attend to his own
machine, he wasted precious seconds staring in horror as the spinning Camel made
a sickening nosedive into a hedge and spun over and over for a distance of
several yards, finally coming to rest, upside-down, on the outskirts of 287
squadron.
&&&
What Biggles did
to bring his Camel down could not be called landing; rather, he more or less
fell out of the sky and dropped onto the ground. Even before the machine had
come to a complete halt, he had vaulted out of the cockpit and was running
towards the other Camel.
A group of pilots
and ack-emmas were setting out from 287 Squadron, and Biggles beckoned them on
wildly. “Come on!” he shouted, although it was obvious that they had seen the
fallen Camel and were doing their best to reach it.
Biggles reached
the Camel first. An arm waved feebly from under the debris, and Biggles dived
forward and caught hold of it. With the help of several mechanics and pilots,
he eased the pilot out from under the plane.
“ALGY!!” he
cried, as one of the ack-emmas eased the flying goggles off of the pilot’s
head.
“All right,”
mumbled Algy, shaking his head to clear it. “No need to shout.”
The MO was on the
scene almost immediately, and somehow Biggles managed to refrain from asking
questions until the officer had attended to a sprained wrist and declared Algy
to be “battered, but he’ll live”.
“What happened to
you?” demanded Mahoney, who had by now arrived on the scene.
“I ran into the Von
Kurtmann crowd on my way back from the dogfight, and I couldn’t shake them,”
explained Algy, sitting up and accepting the flask that the MO passed to him. “I
kept flying in circles, and then I saw a squadron of Pups ahead and I thought
it might be a good idea to lead the Huns to the Pups. It would have worked too,
if you two clowns hadn’t come butting in,” he added indignantly.
“Clowns?”
repeated Biggles. “Well, I like that! There’s gratitude for you.”
“Never mind,”
said Algy, with a grin. “Let’s get along to the Mess. I owe you a drink, at
least.”
THE END
Did just want to say thanks for all the writing. Its very good.
ReplyDeleteGlad you like it! Thanks :)
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