'He says he's sorry I didn't turn up, but he didn't really expect me; can he send me a packet of mustard to warm my feet? Warm my feet, eh? I'll warm his hog's-hide for him with my Vickers. Get my kite out, flight-sergeant!'

'Don't be a fool, Biggles!' cried Mahoney, becoming serious. 'Don't let him kid you into committing suicide!

'You go and chew a bomb!' Biggles told him coldly. 'This is my show! I'm going to get that mackerel-faced merchant before the day is out, or I'll know the reason why. Let him bring his pals if he likes - the more the merrier. Mustard, eh?'

Mahoney shrugged his shoulders.

'I'll go and pack your kit: he sneered, as Biggles climbed into his c.o.c.kpit.

'You can pack what the d.i.c.kens you like, but you let my kit alone,' Biggles told him wrathfully, as he took off.

He did not see Roland in the air, but he hardly expected to, so he made a bee-line for its aerodrome, of the whereabouts of which he was, of course, aware, having chased the Hun home the day before. He was evidently unexpected, for when he reached it the aerodrome was deserted, but a long row of Rolands on the tarmac suggested that the officers of the staffel were at home, so he announced his presence by zooming low over the mess, warming his guns as he did so, but disdaining to fire at the buildings or machines.

Instantly the scene became a hive of activity. The tarmac buzzed with running figures, some of whom sprang into the seats of the machines, while others spun the propellers.

He picked out the green machine as he zoomed down the line, and from two thousand feet watched it taxi out ready to take off.

He knew that his best opportunity would come as the machine actually commenced its run across the aerodrome, but he refused to take any step that would enable Von Balchow's friends to say that he had taken an unfair advantage.

So he circled, waiting, until the machine was in the air at his own alt.i.tude before he launched his first attack, although he was well aware that other machines were climbing rapidly to get above him.

The Roland, with its powerful Mercedes engine, was a fighter of some renown, a two-seater comparable with our own Bristol fighter.* Biggles knew its qualities, for knowledge of the performance of one's adversary is the first rule of air fighting, so he was aware that his opponent would not be 'easy meat'. Still he felt curiously confident of the upshot.

Whatever else happened, he was going to get Von Salchow, the man who had suggested that he had cold feet! Afterwards he would deal with the others when the necessity arose.

He saw Von Balchow's gunner clamp a drum of ammunition on his mobile Parabellum**

gun, and the pilot swing round to bring the gun to bear in Two-seater biplane fighter with remarkable manoeuvrability, in service 1917 onwards. It had one fixed Vickers gun for the pilot and one or two mobile Lewis guns for the observer/gunner.

** A mobile gun for the rear gunner usually mounted on a U-shaped oil to allow rapid movement with a wide arc of fire.

preference to using his own fixed Spandau* gun; but he was not to be caught thus.

Keeping the swirling propeller of the - green machine between him and the deadly Parabellum, he went down in a fierce dive under the nose of the machine, zoomed up above and behind it, and before the gunner could swing his gun to bear, he fired a quick burst.

Then, while the gunner was tilting his gun upwards, he stood the Camel on its nose, went down in another dive, and came up under the other's elevators. He held his fire until a collision seemed inevitable, and then pressed the lever of his gun. It was only a short burst, but it was fired at deadly range.

Pieces flew off the green fuselage, and as he twisted upwards into a half roll Biggles noticed that the enemy gunner was no longer standing up.

'That's one of them!' he thought coolly. 'I've given them a bit out of their own copy-book'

It was Richthofen**, the ace of German air-fighters and the great master of attack, who laid down the famous maxim 'when attacking two-seaters, kill the gunner first.'

Von Balchow, with his rear gun out of action, was crippled, and he showed little anxiety to proceed with the combat. Indeed, it may have been that he * German machine guns were often called Spandaus, due to the fact that they were manufactured at Spandau in Germany.

** Manfred Von Richthofen 'the Red Baron' - German ace who shot down a total of 80 Allied aircraft. Killed in April 1918.

lost his nerve, for he committed the hopeless indiscretion of diving for his own aerodrome.

Biggles was behind him in a flash, shooting the green planes and struts* to pieces from a range that grew closer and closer as he pressed the control-stick forward. He could hear bullets ripping through his own machine, from the Rolands that had got above him, but he ignored them; the complete destruction of the green one was still uppermost in his mind.

Whether he actually killed the pilot or not he did not know, nor was he ever able to find out, although, in view of what occurred, it is probable that even if he was not killed by a bullet, Von Balchow must have been killed or badly injured in the crash.

Whether he was. .h.i.t or not, the German had sufficient strength left to try to flatten out for a landing; but either he misjudged his distance or was mentally paralysed by the hail of lead that swept through his machine, for his wheels touched the ground while he was still travelling at terrific speed with his engine full on.

The Roland shot high into the air, somersaulted, and then buried itself in the ground in the most appalling crash that Biggles had ever seen. The victory could not have been more complete, for he had shot down his man on his own aerodrome!

he turned away he saw the German mechanics * 'Planes' refers to the wings of an aircraft, as well as referring to the whole structure. A biplane had four planes, two each side. Struts are the rigid supports between the fuselage and the wings of biplanes or triplanes.

race towards the wreck; then he turned his eyes upwards. Prepared as he was for something bad, his pardonable exultation received a rude shock when he saw that the air was alive with black-crossed machines, the gunners of which were making the most of their opportunity. To stay and fight them all was outside the question.

He had achieved what he had set out to do, and was more than satisfied; all that remained was to get home safely. So down he went and began racing in the direction of the Lines with his wheels just off the ground.

The pilots of the other machines were on his tail instantly, but their gunners, being unable to fire forward, could do nothing. Moreover, they had to act warily, for to overtake their mark meant diving into the ground. Nevertheless, Biggles did not remain on the same course for more than a few seconds at a time, but swerved from side to side, leaping over the obstructions like a steeplechaser.

More than one officer came home in the same way during the Great War; in fact, it was a recognised course of procedure in desperate circ.u.mstances, although in the case of a single-seater it had this disadvantage - the pilot had to accept the enemy's fire, without being able to return it.

Yet, although it went against the grain to run away, to stay and fight against such hopeless odds could only have one ending. Biggles knew it, and, forcing down the temptation to turn, he held on his way, twisting and turning like a snipe. More than one bullet hit the machine, yet no serious damage was done.

He shot across the back area enemy trenches, a mark for hundreds of rifles, yet he had done too much trench-strafing to be seriously concerned about them. All the same, he breathed a sigh of relief as he tore across the British lines to safety.

Then, as he sat back, limp from reaction, but satisfied that he had nothing more to fear, a sh.e.l.l, fired from a field gun, burst with a crash that nearly shattered his eardrums, and almost turned the Camel over. The engine kept going, but a cloud of smoke and hot oil spurted back over the windscreen from the engine, and he knew it had been damaged.

The revolution counter* began to swing back, and although he hung on long enough to get within sight of the aerodrome, he was finally forced to land, much to his disgust, in a convenient field about half a mile away.

The Camel finished its run about twenty yards from the hedge which bordered the road at that spot, and near where some Tommies** were working on an object which, as he climbed the gate, revealed itself to be a German tank - evidently one that had been captured or abandoned in the recent retreat.

He sat on the gate, watching it for a moment or two while he removed his goggles and flying-coat, for the day was hot.

* Used for counting revolutions per minute of the engine. ** Slang: British soldiers of the rank of Private.

'Have any of you fellows got any water in your water-bottles?' he asked. 'My word, I am dry!'

'Yes, sir - here you are!' cried several of them willingly.

He accepted the first water-bottle, and smacked his lips with satisfaction after drinking a long draught.

'That's better!' he declared.

He watched the mechanics for a few minutes, for he was in no great hurry to return to the aerodrome, and after the recent brisk affair in the air he found it singularly pleasant to be sitting beside a country road. He decided that he would ask the first pa.s.ser-by to leave word at the aerodrome as to where he was and how he was situated; the air-mechanics would then fetch the machine.

'What are you doing?' he asked the corporal who seemed to be in charge of the party, which he noticed was composed of Royal Engineers.

'The Huns left it behind in the retreat last week, sir,' replied the corporal. 'We were sent to fetch it back to the depot for examination, but she broke down, so we are trying to put her right.'

Biggles eyed the steel vehicle, with its ponderous caterpillar wheels, curiously.

'My word, I'd hate to be shut up in that thing!' he murmured.

'Oh, it's not so bad, sir. You come and look!' suggested the corporal. 'She stinks a bit of oil, but that's all!'

Biggles climbed off the gate and crawled through the small steel trap that opened in the rear end of the tank.

'By James, I should think she does stink!' he muttered. 'And it's hotter than hot!'

'You soon get used to that!' laughed the corporal.

'I suppose this is the wheel where the driver sits!' went on Biggles, climbing awkwardly into the small seat behind the wheel, and peering through the letter-box' slit that permitted a restricted view straight ahead.

'That's it, sir,' agreed the corporal. 'Excuse me a minute: he went on as one of the men called something from outside.

Biggles nodded, and thumbed the controls gingerly.

'Well, I'd sooner have my own c.o.c.kpit!' he mused, putting his foot on a pedal in the floor and depressing it absent-mindedly.

Instantly there was a loud explosion, and the machine jumped forward with a jolt that caused him to strike his head violently on an iron object behind him. At the same moment the door slammed to with a metallic clang.

4.

'STAND CLEAR - I'M COMING!'

It was sheer instinct that made him clutch at the wheel and swing it round just as the front of the vehicle was about to take a tree head-on, but he managed to clear it and get back on to the road, down which he proceeded to charge at a speed that he thought utterly impossible for such a weight.

'Hi, corporal,' he shouted, 'come and stop the confounded thing! I can't!'

There was no reply, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw, to his horror, that the machine was empty.

'Great Scott! I'm sunk!' he muttered, white-faced.

Fortunately, the road was straight. But even so, it was only with difficulty that he was able to keep the tank on it, for the steel wheel vibrated horribly, and the steering-gear seemed to do strange things on its own. He eyed a distant bend in the road apprehen- sively.

'That's where I pile her up!' he thought. 'I shall never be able to make that turn. What a fool I was to get into this contraption!'

At that moment his eye fell on a throttle at his left side, and, forgetting that nearly all German controls worked in the opposite direction to our own, he, as he thought, pulled it back.

Immediately the machine bounded forward with renewed impetus, and the noise, which had been terrible enough before, became almost unbearable.

The bend in the road lurched sickeningly towards him, and, as he had prophesied, he failed to make it. He clutched at the side of the tank as it struck the bank and buried itself in the hedge. But he had forgotten the peculiar properties of this particular type of vehicle. Regarded as obstructions, the bank, ditch, and hedge were so trivial that the machine did not appear to notice them.

There was a whirring, slithering scream as the caterpillar wheels got a grip on the bank, and then, with a lurch like a sinking ship, it was over. The lurch flung him out of his seat, but he was back again at once, looking frantically for what lay ahead. A groan of despair broke from his lips when he saw that he was on his own aerodrome, heading straight for the sheds.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the throttle, but could not move it, for it had slipped into the catch provided for it, and which prevented it from jarring loose with the vibration. But, naturally, he was unaware of this.

'Picture of an airman arriving home!' he muttered despairingly, as he tried to swerve clear of the hangars. look out! Stand clear! I'm coming!' he bellowed, but his words were lost in the din.

But the air-mechanics who were on duty needed no warning. They rushed out of the hangars, and, after one glance at the terrifying apparition hurtling towards them, they bolted in all directions.

Biggles saw that a Camel plane - Mahoney's -stood directly in his path. He hung on to the wheel, but it was no use. The tank, which had seemed willing enough to turn when he was on the road, now refused to answer the controls in the slightest degree. The tank took the unlucky Camel in its stride, and Mahoney's pet machine disappeared in a cloud of flying fabric and splinters. Beyond it loomed the mouth of a hangar. Mahoney rushed out of it, took one look at the mangled remains of his machine, and appeared to go mad.

'Look out, you fool - I can't stop!' screamed Biggles through the letter-box opening.

Whether Mahoney heard or not, Biggles did not know; but the flight-commander leapt for his life at the last moment, just as the tank roared past him and plunged into the entrance of the hangar. Where a bank and a hedge had failed to have any effect, it was not to be expected that a mere flimsy canvas hangar could stop it, and Biggles burst out of the far side like an express coming out of a tunnel, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The hangar looked as if a tornado had struck it.

An air-mechanic, who was having a quiet doze at the back of it, had the narrowest escape of his life. He woke abruptly, and sat up wonderingly as the din reached his ears, and then leapt like a frog as he saw death burst out through the structure behind him.

The tank's caterpillar wheels missed him by inches, and Biggles afterwards told him that he must have broken the world's record for the standing jump.

A party of men were under instruction in the concrete machine-gun pit a little further on. They heard the noise, but, mistaking it for a low-flying formation of planes, they did not immediately look round. They did so, however, as the steel monster plunged into it, and how they managed to escape being crushed to pulp was always a mystery to Biggles.

The concrete pit was a tougher proposition than the tank had before encountered, and the tank gave its best. With a loud hiss of escaping steam, it gave one final convulsive lurch and then lay silent.

Biggles picked himself up from amongst the controls, and felt himself gingerly to see if any bones were broken. A noise of shouting came from outside, so he crawled to the door and tried to unfasten it, but it refused to budge.

A strong smell of petrol reached his nostrils, and in something like a panic he hurled himself against the door, just as it was opened from the outside.

Blinking like an owl, with oil and perspiration running down his face, he sat up and looked about him stupidly.

Facing him was the C.O. Near him was Mahoney, and, close behind, most of the officers of the squadron, who had rushed up from the mess when they heard the crash. Biggles afterwards swore that it was the expressions on their faces that brought about his undoing. No one, he claimed, could look upon such comical amazement and keep a straight face.

Mahoney's face, in particular, appeared to be frozen into a stare of stunned incredulity.

Whether it was that, or whether it was simply nervous reaction from shock, Biggles himself was unable to say, but the fact remains that he started to laugh. He got up and staggered to the corrugated iron wheel of his late conveyance and laughed until he sobbed weakly.

'These kites are too heavy on the controls!' he gurgled.

'So you think it's funny?' said a voice.

It held such a quality of icy bitterness that Biggles' laugh broke off short, and, looking up, he found himself staring into the frosty eyes of a senior officer, whose red tabs and red-rimmed cap betokened General Headquarters. Behind him stood a brigade-major and two aides-de-camp with an imposing array of red and gold on their uniforms. Close behind stood a Staff car, with a small Union Jack fixed to the radiator cap.

Biggles' mirth subsided as swiftly as a burst tyre, and he sprang erect, for the expression on the face of the general spelt trouble.

The general lifted a monocle to his eye and regarded him 'like a piece of bad cheese,' as Biggles afterwards put it.

'What is the name of this - er - officer?' he asked Major Mullen, with a cutting emphasis on the word officer that made Biggles blush.

'Bigglesworth, sir: I - ' began Biggles, but the general cut him off. 'Silence!' he snapped in a voice that had been known to make senior officers tremble. 'Save your explanations for the court. You are under arrest!

'Please come with me, Major Mullen: he went on, turning to the C.O. 'I should like a word with you: The C.O. cast one look at the culprit, in which reproach and pity were blended, and followed the general towards the squadron office.

Biggles' fellow-officers crowded round him in an excited, chattering group. Some thought the business a huge joke, and fired congratulations at him. Others, with visions of trouble ahead for Biggles, told him what a frightful a.s.s he was, and wanted to know what made him do it. And one was frankly furious. That was Mahoney, whose machine had been smashed by the runaway tank.

* Everybody was talking at once, and Biggles, thoroughly fed-up with the episode by this time, clapped his hands over his ears and endeavoured to push his way out of the crowd.