'But a Hun dropped a message to say that you were a prisoner and wanted your kit!'

explained Parker. 'Didn't he, chaps?' he called loudly to the officers who were now crowding into the corridor.

'But I haven't been near the Lines!' protested Wilks. 'Much less over them. Come here, Parker and tell me just what happened?

As quickly and concisely as possible Parker narrated the events of the afternoon.

'The skunks!' grated Wilks. 'They must have got hold of my name somehow and planned some dirty trick. It's just like them. This business isn't finished yet - Hallo, what's that?'

He sprang to his feet as the roar of an aero-engine vibrated through the air.

'That's no S.E.!' he muttered, staring at the others.

'By gosh, it isn't!' cried Biggles. 'It's a Mercedes engine, or I've never heard one. Look out, chaps, it's a Hun!' Without waiting for a reply, he darted towards the door. Sharp yells of alarm came from outside, and the staccato chatter of a machine-gun split the air.

For a minute or two pandemonium reigned as people rushed hither and thither, some for shelter and others for weapons, but by the time they had reached them the danger had pa.s.sed. A Pfalz Scout was disappearing into the distance, zig-zagging as if a demon was on its tail.

A hundred yards away a large, dark round object was bounding across the aerodrome. A mechanic started towards it, but Wilks shouted him back.

'Keep away from that, you fool!' he bellowed. 'Stand back, everybody!' he went on quickly, throwing himself flat. Biggles and Algy lay beside him and watched the object suspiciously 'I'm taking no risks!' declared Wilks emphatically. 'I wouldn't trust a Hun an inch. It's some jiggerypokery, I'll be bound. Keep down, everybody! That thing'll go bang in a minute, but I'll settle it!'

He jumped up and sprinted towards the nearest machine-gun, reaching it safely and, taking careful aim, sent a stream of tracer bullets through the small, balloon-like object.

It rolled over slowly, but did not explode. He fired another burst.

Again the object rolled over and jumped convulsively, but nothing else happened. A cheer broke from the spectators, in which Wilks joined.

'I'll make quite sure of it!' he cried, and emptied the remainder of a drum of ammunition into it. Ratat-at-at-at rata-rata-rata-rata! The object twitched and jerked as the hail of lead struck it.

'All right, I think it's safe now!' he went on, advancing slowly. Several of the watchers rose and followed him to where it lay, smoking at several jagged holes where the bullets had struck it. An aroma of singeing cloth floated across the aerodrome.

A low, strangled cry came from Parker, but no one noticed it.

'What the d.i.c.kens is it?' muttered Wilks curiously. He stooped over the bundle and, with a sharp movement of his penknife, cut the cords that held it together.

It burst open, disclosing what appeared to be a number of old pieces of rag. Wilks picked up one of them and held it in the air. It was a piece of blue silk, punctured with a hundred holes, some of which were still smouldering.

'Why, it looks like a pyjama jacket, doesn't it?' he said, smiling. It would be a joke if we'

ve shot some poor chap's pyjamas to rags. Yes, they're pyjamas all right: he went on slowly, turning the rag round and round.

'By gosh, they're my pyjamas!' His voice rose to a bellow of rage. He flung the tattered debris of the garment on the ground and stamped on it.

'Wait a minute, here's a note!' shouted Parker. He picked up a mangled piece of paper and smoothed it out on his knee. 'It's in English, too! Listen! "From Jagdstaffel Commander, Douai. Message not understood. No Captain Wilkinson at Douai. Have made inquiries at other units, but no explanation received. Thinking mistake has been made, kit is returned with compliments.

" That is all!'

'But how did he know the clothes were for me?' demanded Wilks.

'Because I put a note in addressed to you,' replied Parker.

Wilks looked down at the mutilated remains of his underwear, and then started. His gaze ran over the a.s.sembled S.E.5 pilots, a new suspicion dawning in his eyes.

'By James, I've got it!' he exploded. 'Young Algy Lacey rang me up and asked me ill liked humbugs: he went on quickly, 'and then he said he knew where there were some!

He was right - he did! And so do I - now. Where is he, by the way, and that skunk Biggles?' He glanced around swiftly.

'They were here a moment ago: ventured someone.

'I saw them hurrying towards the road,' said another.

There was a wild rush towards the main road that skirted the aerodrome. Far away a tender was racing down the long, white, poplar-lined highway, leaving a great cloud of dust in its wake.

22.

'HE SHOT HIM TO BITS!'.

Algy Lacey ran into the officers' mess of Squadron No. 266, R.EC., and cast a swift, cautious glance around the room.

'Biggles is on the way here. He's in a blazing white-hot fury!' he said quickly. 'Let him get it off his chest ahem!' He broke off and reached for the bell as Biggles, the subject of his warning, kicked the door open and glared at the speaker from the threshold.

Biggles' face was dead white; his lips were pressed into a thin, straight line; his nostrils quivered. His eyes, half-closed, glinted as they swept over the a.s.sembled officers.

'You're a nice lot of poor skates,' he observed, in a half-choked voice. It's time some of us got down to a little war, instead of playing fool games like a lot of kids!'

All right pour yourself out some tea, and get it off your chest,' suggested Maclaren calmly. He had seen the symptoms before.

'Biggles glared at him belligerently. He seemed to have difficulty in finding his voice.

'Where's Wilson?' asked Mahoney.

'Wilson's dead!' replied Biggles shortly. Wilson was an officer who had recently transferred to Squadron No. 266 from a two-seater squadron.

'How did it happen?'

'I don't know. I saw him going down in flames, but I didn't know whether it was Wilson or Lacey until I got back. Wilson was bound to get it sooner or later, the way he flew. He acted as if the sky was his own!

'Well, don't let it worry you!' muttered Mahoney. 'That's not worrying me. It was only - '

Biggles broke off, buried his face in his hands, and was silent for some seconds. n.o.body spoke. Mahoney caught Algy's eye, and grimaced. Algy shrugged his shoulders. Biggles drew a deep breath, and looked up.

'Sorry, blokes,' he said slowly, 'but I'm a bit het up! Any tea left in that pot?'

Mahoney pushed the teapot towards him.

'You remember young Parker, of Wilks' squadron?' went on Biggles.

'Yes. Nice lad! I always had an idea he'd do well. Got two or three Huns already, hasn't he?'

'He had! replied Biggles. 'They don't count now They got him - this afternoon -murdered him!'

'What are you talking about?' Mahoney said tersely.

Biggles made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

let me tell you! he said. 'Listen here, chaps! I did the evening show today with Algy and Wilson. We worked round the Harnes, Annoeulin, Don area. Just before we got to Annoeulin I saw some S.E.s ahead -four of 'em! Presently I saw it was Wilks and his Flight; so we linked up.

'There was nothing doing for a long time, and I thought it was going to be a wash-out, when a great mob of Huns suddenly blew along from the direction of Seclin. We ought not to have taken them on. There were too many of 'em - but that's by the way.

'They were a new lot to me - Albatross D.5's, orange with black stripes - it was a "circus"

I've never seen before. Wilks turned towards them, and I followed, and then I don't quite know what happened? Biggles paused and puckered his forehead.

'They were a pretty rotten lot, or none of us would have got back,' he went on. 'They flew badly, and shot all over the place. Two of 'em flew straight into each other. They struck me as being a new mob that had just come up from a flying school as a complete unit - except the three leaders, who, of course, would be old hands. They wore green streamers - at least, one of 'em did - the only one I saw. Did you notice anything, Algy?'

I saw one with red streamers'

I didn't. No matter. Towards the finish, I saw Parker going down with a dead propellor-looked to me as if it had been shot off. Still, he was gliding comfortably enough, and was bound to land over the German side, when this Hun with the green streamers comes along, spots him, and goes down after him.

'There was no need for him to do it; Parker was going down a prisoner, anyhow. I'll give Parker full marks; he put up a jolly good show, although he couldn't do anything else but go down. He kept his eye on Green Streamers, and side-slipped from side to side so that he couldn't be hit.

'No man worth a hang would shoot a fellow who was helpless and bound to be taken prisoner whatever else happened. It isn't done. But Green Streamers - whether because he was sore because he couldn't hit him, or whether it was because he wanted a flamer to make his claim good, I don't know - shot at Parker all the way down. Even then he couldn't hit him, and Parker managed to make a landing of sorts in a Stubblefield.

'I had to take my eyes off him then, because a couple more were at me, but I happened to look down again just as Parker was climbing out of his machine, waving to let us know he was all right. Green Streamers, the skunk, went right down at him, and - and - '

Biggles lips quivered, and the hand that held the teacup trembled.

'He shot him' he went on, after a short pause. 'Shot him to bits, in cold blood! I saw the tracer bullets kick up the ground around him. Parker just grabbed at his chest, then pitched forward on to his face. I went at Green Streamers like a bull at a gate, but some of the others got in my way, and I couldn't reach him. Then I lost him altogether, and didn't see him again.

'The Huns all made off, heading towards Seclin. I was so mad that I followed them to see where they lived, and, as I expected, they went down at Seclin, where the old Richthofen crowd used to be.

I went down low on my way back, and saw Parker lying just as he had fallen, with a lot of German troops standing about. He was dead. There's no doubt of that, or they'd have moved him.'

'The pigs!' growled Mahoney. 'What does Wilks say about it?'

I don't know. I haven't seen him to speak to. Huns have done the same thing once or twice before, and they always make the same excuse - say they thought the fellow was trying to set light to his machine. That doesn't go with me. Parker was, as I say, a prisoner, anyway. And I shouldn't shoot a Hun who was down over our side for trying to do what I should do myself, and - '

Biggles broke off as the door was flung open, and Wilkinson, followed by half a dozen pilots of his squadron, entered. They were still in their flying-suits, and had evidently come over by tender. Wilks' face was chalky white, and his eyes blazed. He came to a halt just inside the room, and pointed at Biggles.

'You saw it, didn't you, Biggles?' he snapped in a tense voice.

Biggles nodded.

'There you are, chaps!' went on Wilks, over his shoulder. He turned to Biggles again and jerked his thumb behind him. 'They wouldn't believe me -said not even a Hun would do a thing like that!'

'Well, what about it?' asked Maclaren.

Wilks flung his cap across the room viciously.

'This!' he said bitterly. 'I'm going to get that Hun with the green decorations on his struts!

If someone else happens to be flying that machine, it will be his unlucky day!'

'Never mind Green Streamers,' put in Biggles. 'I'll bet he's told the rest of his crowd about it by this time, and they'll be laughing like hyenas. I say, let us mop up the whole lot of 'em, good and proper! We can't have people like this about the place!'

'Good idea! But how?' asked Mahoney.

Biggles thought deeply for a moment.

I'll tell you,' he replied. 'Sit down, you chaps,' he added to the newcomers. 'There was a time when people over here who flew behaved like gentlemen. But there has lately been a tendency towards the methods of the original Huns, and I say it is up to us to put the blighters where they belong.

'Let us keep our department of this confounded war clean, or life won't be worth living.

'For a start, we'll deal with this orange-and-black lot of tigers. But don't forget this - it's no use our going on as we have been working. If we do, our patrols will meet this crowd and get the worst of it. They've taken to flying together, while we go on flying in bits and pieces, in twos and threes. That's no use - it won't get us anywhere.

'If everyone is willing, let us get together and make a clean job of it. I should say there are thirty machines in that new Hun group - three "staffels". It's no earthly use three of us taking on that crowd, but if we put up all our machines together - say two complete squadrons, eighteen machines or thereabouts - it will be a different proposition.'

'What's the debate?'

Major Mullen, the C.O., with Major Benson, of Squadron No. 301 entered the mess and looked around curiously.

Briefly, Biggles told him of the affair of the afternoon, and the drastic steps he was going to suggest to him in order to make their displeasure known to the orange staffels.

'But if you start cruising about, eighteen strong, you don't suppose you will ever get near the Huns, do you?' asked Major Mullen. 'Small patrols are their meat.'

'I've thought of that, sir,' replied Biggles. 'We shall have to use cunning, that's all. The Hun hasn't much imagination, but he is a very methodical bloke, and it is on that score that I propose to get him going. Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I shall go over and shoot up Seclin.'

Alone?'

If necessary, or with two other officers, if they'll come. I don't want anybody detailed for the job; I'd ask for volunteers?

I'll come,' put in Algy quickly, and Mahoney put up his hand.

Several other officers stepped forward.

'That's enough,' declared Biggles. 'You can't all come. Now, this is my idea. Tomorrow morning three of us will shoot the spots off Seclin aerodrome. The next morning, at exactly the same time, we'll do it again. After the second show, it will occur to the Hun that these dawn shows are going to be a regular inst.i.tution, and they'll decide to do something about it.

On the third morning we shall go over as usual, and the Hun, unless I am very much mistaken, will be up top-sides bright and early, waiting for us. As it happens, we shall not be alone. The three machines will fly low, as usual, but six more Camels will be at, say, six thousand.

'The Huns may see them; in fact, I hope they do, because they'll think it is the escort, and not bother to look any further. They won't see nine S.E.'s up at twelve thousand, waiting for the show to begin before they come down. They won't hear them because they'll be in the air, and the noise of their own engines will settle that.

'So, when the show begins, there will be eighteen of us on the spot, and the Hun will find he is up to the neck in the gravy. That is how I hope we shall wipe these blighters and their perishing aerodrome off the map. Anybody else got any ideas?'