'Did it on purpose! It was an absolute fluke!' snapped Wilks. 'Why, you never even saw him, and he was coming down on you like a sack of bricks.'

'Coming down on me?' Biggles queried.

'That's what I said. He was after you, and he'd got you stone cold. He was up in the sun, and you never even saw him. I spotted him, though, and came down to save your useless hide. He happened to look back and see me, and it put him off his stroke. If I hadn't been there he would have cut you in halves, and you wouldn't have known what had hit you.'

If that's so, then I can only say that I am very much obliged to you,' observed Biggles casually. 'Don't get the idea that I need a nurse, though.' Is that all you have to say?'

'What else do you expect? Do you want me to burst into tears?'

'No; but as we were both in at the death, I don't think you can rightly claim that Hun.

'Can't I?' exploded Biggles. 'You'll jolly well see whether I can or not! If you go hanging about where I am in order to watch me perform, that's no business of mine. Really, I ought to make a charge for giving you instruction in Hun-getting. No, Wilks, if you've got a grouse, you run away and play by yourself. Have you got any more Huns by the way?'

'No, but I should if you hadn't barged in.'

Oh, don't let's go over it all again!' protested Biggles.

Wilks glared.

All right,' he said. 'But you keep out of my way!' And with that parting shot he strode back to his machine.

Biggles watched him go with quiet amus.e.m.e.nt, and then turned to see his machine refulled, after which he went down to the mess for a rest and an early lunch.

10.

BIGGLES' BOMBSh.e.l.l!.

Biggles' third victory that day was a straightforward duel which was won fairly and squarely by superb flying and shooting, and only then after one of the longest and most hair-raising combats that had fallen to his experience.

The victim was the pilot of a Fokker Triplane*, who was cruising about, apparently looking for trouble in the same manner as the Camel pilot. They spotted each other at the same moment, and turned towards one another, so there was no question of pursuit.

The German seemed to be as anxious for the combat as Biggles, and the opening spars were sufficient to warn Biggles that he had caught a tartar. Not that he minded. If a Hun was a better man than he was, then he - Biggles - would have to pay the penalty. That was a maxim that long ago he had laid down, and at first it rather looked as if this might prove to be the very man.

To describe the combat in detail, move and * German fighter with three wings on each side of the fuselage, with two forward-firing guns.

counter-move, would be like cataloguing the moves in a game of chess, and boring accordingly, but it must be mentioned that by the end of a quarter of an hour neither had gained an advantage or given the other a reasonable opportunity for a shot, although a lot of ammunition had been expended.

Biggles' early impetuosity received a check when he got a burst from the other's gun through his fuselage, one shot razing the back of his helmet. After that he settled himself down to cold, calculating fighting.

The opening stages of the duel took place immediately over the Lines, but as it progressed the two machines drifted with the prevailing wind further and further into enemy territory, and this was the only point that caused Biggles any real concern, for it was a very definite disadvantage. The Triplane could outclimb him, but he could turn faster and dive more steeply, for the Fokker's well-known structural weakness prevented it from diving very fast, except at the risk of losing its wings.

Banking, climbing, and zooming, they fought on, the rest of the world forgotten. Both had opportunities to break away, but both refused to take them, preferring to see the thing through to the end. Several times the machines pa.s.sed so close that the pilots could see each other's faces.

The German, Biggles saw, was a clean-shaven young fellow of about his own age. He wore goggles but no flying helmet, and his long flaxen hair quivered in the rush of the slipstream.

Biggles' ammunition was running low, and he knew that at any moment it might run right out. Then the end came - suddenly.

Both pilots found themselves facing each other at a distance of not more than a hundred feet. Both started shooting, the tracer bullets making a glittering streak between them.

Biggles knew that collision was inevitable unless the German turned, for he himself had no intention of turning; nor did he expect the other to give way. He had already braced himself for the crash when suddenly the Triplane lunged downwards and pa.s.sed underneath him.

He was round in a flash, expecting it to come up behind him. But it did not. It was going down in an erratic glide towards the ground with the engine cut off. That the machine was in difficulties was clear, and presently, as he went down behind it, Biggles saw the reason. An elevator hinge of the German plane had been cut clean through, and the elevator itself was wobbling, as though it were likely to fall off at any moment.

Biggles did not use his guns again, although a finishing shot would have been a simple matter. Instead, he watched the pilot make a gallant attempt to land in a field that was much too small, and crash into the hedge on the far side. The unlucky pilot extricated himself quickly, apparently unhurt, and, looking upwards, waved cheerfully to his conqueror.

After an answering wave, Biggles returned once more to Maranique to report the affair in order that confirmation could be obtained by a reconnaissance machine before the Germans had time to remove the crashed plane. And he wanted to have new belts of ammunition put in his guns.

On the tarmac he was greeted by Mahoney, who informed him that Wilks had had no more luck.

'Then he's still one ahead of me,' observed Biggles. I shall have to try to even things up!'

If you can get another, you'll be O.K.; Wilks won't get any more today.'

'How's that?' Biggles asked.

'He took on a Hun over Mossyface Wood, and the gunner nearly got him first burst. A bullet grazed his arm and took the tip off the middle finger of his left hand. The doctor has packed him off to hospital to have his finger dressed. Believe me, Wilks is as sore as a bear!'

'So I should think! I call that tough,' replied Biggles, with real sympathy. 'Smyth,' he went on, turning towards the flight-sergeant, 'get some patches put over these holes, and have a good look round, will you?' He pointed to the bullet holes in his fuselage. 'And have her ready as soon as you can. Ring up the mess and let me know when she's finished.'

'Very good, sir!'

The work of repairing the damaged machine took longer than Biggles expected. Thirty bullets had gone through it, and one had nicked the control-stick, necessitating a replacement.

And so it was well on in the afternoon before Biggles was in the air again, in a final attempt tlevel up' with Wilks, and, if possible, beat him.

It is a curious fact that no two air combats are fought in quite the same way, and Biggles'

fourth and final affair of this surprising day was no exception to the rule. It may have been his most unusual conquest; certainly it was the most spectacular from his point of view!

When he took off on this last flight he had already put in six hours' flying that day, which was more than enough for any man. He was desperately tired, but his keenness to add another to his score and thus take the gilt off Squadron No. 287's ginger-bread -as he put it - urged him on.

He scoured the sky in all directions for more than two hours, but not a single hostile aircraft did he see. He didn't know that nearly all the enemy squadrons normally stationed in that sector of the Line had been moved further south in readiness for a big attack that was due to be launched the following morning! All he knew was that the sky, for some reason or other, was completely deserted.

He hung on until it was nearly dark, by which time he had only two or three minutes'

supply of petrol left; then he was compelled to return home empty-handed.

As a matter of fact, he did not reach Maranique. He finished the patrol far to the north of his usual haunts, and rather than risk a forced landing by running out of petrol he dropped in at the first aerodrome he reached, in order to pick up sufficient fuel to see him home.

But such was the hospitality of the R.F.C. pilots, among whom he found himself, that he stayed on, and finally allowed himself to be persuaded to dine with them.

Having made this decision he went, as a matter of duty, to the telephone, and rang up his own squadron office to let them know that he was safely down.

'You'd better stay where you are for the night,' Tyler told him from the other end of the telephone. 'You'd be crazy to try flying back in the dark. Or, if you like, I'll send a tender* for you. By the way, did you get another Hun?'

'No, worse luck!' replied Biggles ruefully.

'Pity! Wilks has just rung up. He says that he and a whole crowd of them are corning over here from Squadron No. 287 tonight - so we know what to expect!'

Is he?' observed Biggles, thinking hard. 'Oh, well, it can't be helped! Send a tender over, about ten, will you, Tyler, and I'll come home to bed.'

I will. Cheerio!'

It was nearly half-past ten that night when Biggles finally reached home. He found the mess choc-abloc with officers, for Wilks and his S.E.5 pilots, * Vehicle generally used for moving supplies.

knowing that he was coming back, had deliberately delayed their departure until he returned.

His entry was heralded by a derisive cheer from the S.E. pilots and yells of protest from the Camel pilots.

'What's all the noise about?' asked Biggles, as he threw himself into an easy chair. 'Has somebody in your crowd found a shilling, Wilks, and got all excited about it?'

'No!' Wilks told him. 'We are just feeling a bit on our toes. Don't pretend you don't know why. Tough luck, laddie!'

'What are you tough-lucking me for?' asked Biggles, with well-feigned astonishment.

'Because we've shown you that S.E.'s are the real Hun-getters!' retorted Wilks.

'How do you make that out?'

I've proved it by getting four Huns to your three - in spite of the fact that two of yours should really have been mine!' claimed Wilks.

'So that's what you're all crowing about!'

It's enough, isn't it?' Wilks retorted.

'Just because you've got four miserable Huns?' laughed Biggles.

'That's more than you could do, anyway?'

'Where did you get that idea?'

'Tyler admitted it. He told us long after it was dark that you'd rang up to say you'd got no more.'

'Tyler always was a bit behind the times,' Biggles observed, yawning. 'Anyway, that was at half-past eight. At half-past nine I shot down a night-raiding Gotha* over Amiens!

It's a mistake to count your chickens before they're hatched!' he concluded, amid a mighty roar of laughter from the a.s.sembled Camel pilots.

* German twin-engined biplane bomber with a crew of three which carried a maximum of fourteen bombs, weighing a total of 1100 lbs.

THE CAMERA.

Biggles landed, taxied in, and sat for a moment or two in the c.o.c.kpit of his Camel plane in front of the hangars of No. 266 Squadron. Then he yawned, switched off, and climbed stiffly to the ground.

Is she flying all right, sir?' asked Smyth, his flight-sergeant, running up.

'She's inclined to be a bit left wing low - nothing very much, but you might have a look at her.'

'Very good, sir,' replied the N.C.O., feeling the slack flying wires disapprovingly. 'She wasn't like this when you took off, sir.'

Of course she wasn't! You don't suppose I've just been footling about between here and the Lines, do you?'

'No, sir; but you must have chucked her about a bit to get her into this state.'

Biggles yawned again, for he had been flying very high and was tired; but he did not think it worthwhile to describe a little affair he had had with a German Rumpler plane near Lille. 'Perhaps you're right,' he admitted, and strolled slowly towards the officers'

mess.

A hum of conversation came from the ante-room as he opened the door.

'What's all the noise about?' he asked, as he sank down into a chair.

'Mac was just talking about narrow escapes: replied Mahoney.

'Narrow escapes? What are they?' he asked curiously.

'Why, don't you have any?' inquired Algy Lacey, who had joined the squadron not long before.

It depends what you call "narrow",' Biggles replied.

Oh, hallo, Bigglesworth! There you are!' said the C.O., from the door. 'Come outside a minute, will you? Major Raymond, from Wing Headquarters, wants a word with you,' he went on as the door closed behind them.

Biggles saluted and then shook hands with the Wing officer.

I've got a job for you, my boy,' smiled the major. Biggles grinned.

I was hoping you'd just called to ask how I was,' he murmured.

I've no time for pleasure trips,' laughed the major. 'But seriously, this is really something in your line, although to be quite fair, I've put the same proposition to two or three other officers whom I can trust, in the hope that someone will succeed if the others fail.'

Is Wilks - Wilkinson, I mean - one of them?' asked Biggles.

'Yes, and with an S.E.5 he might stand a better chance of success than you do in a Camel: Biggles stiffened.

I see: he said shortly. 'What is - '

I'm coming to that now,' broke in the major. 'By the way, what do you think of this?'

He pa.s.sed an enlarged photograph.

Biggles took it and stared at it with real interest, for it was the most perfect example of air photography he had ever seen. Although it must have been taken from a great height, every road, trench, tree and building stood out as clearly as if it had been taken from a thousand feet or less.

'By jingo, that's a smasher!' he muttered. 'Is it one of ours?'