Chapter 15

‘How often do you run into shows as big as that?’ Biggles asked Mahoney, at lunch.

‘Oh, once in a while! Not every day, thank goodness!’ replied Mahoney. ‘Why?’

‘I was just wondering.’ Biggles ruminated a minute or two. ‘You know, laddie, we do a lot of sneering at the Huns, and say they’ve no imagination.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, I’m not so sure about it, that’s all.’

‘What! You turning pro–Hun, or something?’

‘But it seems to me they’re using their brains more than we are.’

‘How?’

‘We just fly and fight, and that’s all we think about.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, in the first place, the Huns mostly stay over their own side of the Lines, knowing that we’ll go over to them. How often do you see a big formation of Hun scouts over this side? Mighty seldom. That isn’t just luck. That’s a clever policy laid down by the German higher authority.

‘Then there’s this grouping of their hot–stuff pilots into “circuses”. And the way that bunch arrived this morning wasn’t a fluke—you can bet your life on that. It was all very neatly arranged. Can’t you see the idea? The old R.E.8 was the meat; three Huns go down after it just when they knew we were about due back, and that we were certain to follow them—go down after them. It pans out just as they expected, and off they go, taking us slap under the big mob who were sitting up topsides waiting for us. Although I say it as shouldn’t, it was a bit of luck I happened to look back. As it turned out, the Hun plan went off at half–cock, but it might not have done. That’s why I say these tripehound merchants are flying with their heads.’

‘Well, I can’t stop ’em, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I never suggested you could, did I? But there’s nothing to prevent us exercising our grey matter a bit, is there?’

‘You’re right, kid,’ joined in Maclaren, another flight–commander, who had overheard the conversation. ‘You’re absolutely dead right!’

‘I think I am,’ replied Biggles frankly. ‘War–flying is too new for strategy to be laid down in the text–books; we’ve got to work it out for ourselves.’

‘What’s all this?’ asked Major Mullen, who had entered the room and caught the last part of the conversation.

Briefly, Maclaren gave him the gist of the conversation. The C.O. nodded as he listened, then he looked at Biggles.

‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.

‘Well, sir, it seems to me we might have a word with the other scout squadrons about it, and work out a scheme. At present we all do our shows independently, so to speak, but if we could work out a plot together—an ambush, if you like, like the Huns did this morning—we might give the tripe merchants over the way something to think about. If we did happen to catch them properly it would have the effect of making them chary about tackling odd machines for a bit. They’d always be worried for fear they were heading into a trap.’

‘That sounds like common–sense to me,’ agreed the C.O. ‘All right, Bigglesworth, you work out the plot and submit it to me, and I’ll see what can be done about it. But we shall have to keep it to ourselves. If Wing heard about it they’d probably knock it on the head, on the ground that such methods were irregular, although perhaps I shouldn’t say that.’

‘We all know it, sir, without you saying it, anyway!’ grinned Biggles.

After dinner he sat down with a pencil and paper to work out his ‘plot’, and before he went to bed he had the scheme cut and dried. It was fairly simple, as he explained to the others in the morning, and based upon the methodical habits of the enemy, and the assumption that the other scout squadrons would co–operate.

‘From my own personal observation,’ he explained, ‘the Huns—by which I mean the big circuses, particularly the Richthofen crowd which is stationed at Douai—do two big shows a day. Sometimes, when things are lively, they do three. They always do a big evening show, one that finishes about sunset, just before they pack up for the night. Very well. It gets dark now about half–past six. That means that the Huns must leave the ground on their last show between four and four–thirty. Now, if they have a dog–fight they don’t all go home together, but do the same as we do—trickle home independently, in twos and threes. They did that this morning. I saw them. Now, I reckon that the last place they’d expect big trouble would be on the way home, near their own aerodrome, and that’s where I propose to spring the surprise packet.

‘To carry out my idea with maximum safety, it would need three squadrons—four would be even better. This is the way of it: at four o’clock one squadron pushes along to some prearranged sector of the Line, and makes itself a nuisance—shooting up the Hun trenches, or anything to make itself conspicuous. The Hun artillery observers will see this, of course, and are almost certain to ring up the Richthofen headquarters to say there is a lot of aerial activity on their bit of Front. It stands to reason that the circus will at once make for that spot; give them their due they don’t shirk a roughhouse. Right–ho. The squadron that is kicking up the fuss keeps its eyes peeled for the Huns. It’ll pretend not to see them until they’re fairly close. Then they scatter, making towards home. The Huns are almost bound to split up to chase them, and our fellows can please themselves whether or not they stay and fight. But they must remember that their job is to split up the Huns.

‘As soon as this business is well under way, the other two—or three—squadrons will take off, climb to the limit of their height, and head over the Lines on a course that’ll bring them round by Douai. Get the idea? The Huns will think the show’s over and come drifting home in small parties, without keeping very careful watch. We shall be there to meet them, and we shall have height of them. Huns on the ground may see us, but they won’t be able to warn the fellows in the air. In that way, if the scheme works out as I’ve planned it, we shall catch these pretty birds bending when they’re least expecting it. That’s all. If the worst comes to the worst we should be no worse off than we are on an ordinary show, when we always seem to be outnumbered. At the best, we shall give the Huns a shock they’ll remember for some time. What do you think about it, sir?’

‘I certainly think there is a good deal to be said for it,’ agreed the major. ‘I’ll speak to the other squadrons. Perhaps your old squadron would oblige by kicking up the fuss with their Bristols. Then, if 287, with their S.E.s, and 231, and ourselves, get behind the Huns we shall at least be sure of meeting them on even terms, even if they do happen to keep in one formation. All right; leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do.’

It took nearly a week of conferences to bring the scheme to a stage where it was ready to be tried out, but at last, burning with impatience and excitement, Biggles made his way to the sheds with the others for the big show.

Watches had been carefully synchronized on the instrument boards of all pilots taking part, and every possible precaution taken to prevent a miscarriage of plans. Major Paynter, of Biggles’ old squadron, had agreed to send every Bristol he could raise into the air, to make itself as obnoxious as possible at a given spot, at the arranged time.

The others were to rendezvous over Maranique in ‘layer’ formation (machines flying in tiers) at four–thirty—No. 266 Squadron at ten thousand feet, 231 Squadron at thirteen thousand feet, and 287 Squadron at sixteen thousand feet. Major Mullen was leading the whole show on a roundabout course that would bring them behind the enemy, assuming, of course, that the enemy circus would concentrate in the area where the Bristols were to lure them.

Three–quarters of an hour later, Major Mullen swung round in a wide circle that brought them actually within sight of Douai, the headquarters of the most famous fighting scouts in the German Imperial Air Service. Biggles never forgot the scene. The sun was low in the west, sinking in a crimson glow. A slight mist was rising, softening the hard outlines of roads, woods, hedges, and fields below, as though seen through a piece of lilac–tinted gauze. To the east, the earth was already bathed in deep purple and indigo shadows.

No enemy aircraft were in sight, not even on the ground, as they turned slowly over the peaceful scene to seek the enemy in the glowing mists of the west. They had not long to wait.

Biggles saw two Triplanes, flying close together, slowly materialize in the mist, like goldfish swimming in a pale milky liquid. The enemy pilots were gliding down, probably with their eyes on the aerodrome, and it is doubtful if they even saw the full force of British machines that had assembled to overwhelm them. Biggles felt almost sorry for them as Major Mullen shook his wings, as a signal, and the nine Pups roared down on the unsuspecting Triplanes.

It was impossible to say which machine actually scored most hits. One Triplane broke up instantly. The other jerked upwards as if the pilot had been mortally wounded, turned slowly over on to its back, plunged downwards in a vicious spin with its engine full on and bored into the ground two miles below.

The Pups resumed formation and returned to their original height and course. Another Triplane emerged from the mist, but something evidently caught the pilot’s eye—perhaps the sun flashing on a wing—and he looked upwards. He acted with the speed of light and flung his machine into a spin to seek safety on the ground. The Pups did not follow, for the Triplane was far below them and they would not risk getting too low so far over the Line.

A few minutes later a straggling party of seven machines appeared, followed at a distance by five more. It was obvious from the loose formation in which they were flying that they considered themselves quite secure so near their nest. They, too, must have been looking at the ground, and Biggles was amazed at the casual manner in which they continued flying straight on with death literally raining on them from the sky.

He picked out his man and poured in a long burst of bullets before the pilot had time to realize his peril. A cloud of smoke, quickly followed by flame, burst from the Triplane’s engine. Biggles zoomed upwards and looked back. The seven machines had disappeared. Two long pillars of smoke marked the going of at least two of them.

How many had actually fallen he was unable to tell. Away to the left the other five Triplanes were milling around in a circle, hotly pursued by the second squadron of Pups, whilst the S.E.s were sitting slightly above, waiting to pounce on any enemy machine that tried to leave the combat.

It was the last real surprise of the day, not counting a lonely straggler that they picked up near the Lines and which they had sent down under a tornado of lead. Biggles quite definitely felt sorry for that pilot. Two or three more machines had appeared while the main combat was in progress, but the dog–fight had lost height, and they saw it at once, so were able to escape by spinning down.

The engagement really resolved itself into the sort of show that Biggles had anticipated. The enemy had been caught napping, and many of them had paid the penalty. The three squadrons of British machines reached the Line at dusk, without a single casualty and almost unscathed. One machine only, an S.E.5 of 287b Squadron, had to break formation near the Lines with a piece of archie shrapnel in its engine. Except for that, the Pups and S.E.s returned home in a formation as perfect as when they started.

Congratulations flew fast and furious when Major Mullen’s squadron landed, for it had unquestionably been one of the most successful ‘shows’ ever undertaken by the squadron. A quick comparison of notes revealed that seven Triplanes had been destroyed for certain, either having been seen to crash or fall in flames. How many others had been damaged, or enemy pilots wounded, they had, of course, no means of knowing.

But the most successful part of the issue was that not a single British machine had been lost. Major Mullen thanked Biggles personally and congratulated him on his initiative, in the Squadron Office, in front of the other pilots.

‘Well, I’m glad it has turned out as I hoped it would, sir. We’ve given the Huns something to talk about in mess tonight. Maybe they won’t be quite so chirpy in future!’ observed Biggles modestly.

The party was about to break up when Watt Tyler, the Recording Officer, hurried into the room waving a strip of paper above his head; his eyes were shining as he laid it on the C.O.’s desk.

Major Mullen read the signal, and a grim smile spread over his face. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to tell you that we shall be able to give the Huns something else to think about before long; the squadron is to be equipped with the long–secret superscout at last. Our Pups are to be replaced by Sopwith Camels¹.’

A moment’s silence greeted this important announcement.

It was broken by Biggles. ‘Fine!’ he said. ‘Now we’ll show the Huns what’s what!’