'Here we are,' resumed Algy, glancing at the map that had been purposely left on the table. I'll stroll back to the mess if it's all the same to you. Let me know if I can be of any help.'

'I will - thanks.'

Algy left the room, closing the door behind him, and pa.s.sed the window as if he was returning to the mess. But as soon as he was out of sight he doubled back and peeped in.

Lakers was bending over the map, studying it carefully. He made a note or calculation on the margin, folded the map, and then looked at the sky. For a little while he regarded it thoughtfully, and then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he put the map in his pocket, picked up his flying kit, and left the room.

Algy watched him walk straight to his machine. The engine started, and the Spitfire began to taxi slowly into position for a take-off.

Algy waited for no more. He rushed into the wash-house, tore a towel from its peg, then darted back into the open waving it above his head. High up in the sky he could just make out Biggles's Spitfire, circling as it awaited the signal.

'By gosh, he was right!' muttered Algy, as Lakers took off and headed towards the south.

The topmost Spitfire at once banked round to follow it.

'Is that Lakers taking off?' said a voice at his elbow. Algy spun round on his heel and saw that it was Bertie who had spoken.

'Yes,' he answered quickly.

'Bad show about his brother.'

'Whose brother?'

'Lakers's brother, of course.'

Algy puckered his forehead in an effort to understand. Lakers's brother?' he repeated foolishly.

Bertie stared at him through his monocle. 'What's the matter with you?' he inquired. 'I simply said it was a bad show about his brother being killed. He told me about it while you and Biggles were out of the room.'

Algy staggered. 'What did he tell you?' he gasped.

'He said that his brother, Frank Lakers, had just been killed. They were both in the same squadron. That's his brother's cigarette case he's got; he borrowed it from him the very day before he went west - that's how he came to tell me about it. The odd thing was, he would have been with his brother, and probably gone west at the same time, but for the fact that he'd lent his machine to another fellow just before the show. He got it pretty badly shot about, too, but came off with nothing worse than a bullet through the leg. The machine hasn't been repaired yet - hi! What's wrong with you?'

But Algy wasn't listening. Understanding of the whole situation flooded his brain like a spotlight, and he ran like a madman towards his machine, praying that he might be in time to prevent a tragedy.

Biggles, sitting in his c.o.c.kpit ten thousand feet above the aerodrome, stiffened suddenly when he saw Algy's signal, and his jaw set grimly as he picked out the Spitfire just leaving the aerodrome.

So he's making a bolt for it, is he?' he mused. 'I'm afraid he's got a shock coming to him.'

He swung round, following the same course as the lower Spitfire, which was now climbing towards the south.

But a haze was forming under the atmospheric pressure of the advancing storm, and the lower machine was no more than an indistinct grey shadow. Biggles, suddenly aware that he might lose his man after all, pushed the joystick forward and raced down in pursuit.

The drone of his engine became a shrill wail as the whirling airscrew bit into the air. The distance between the two machines closed rapidly.

At five thousand feet Biggles flattened out, only a few hundred feet above and behind his quarry, which was still heading towards the south. He could see the pilot's head clearly; he appeared to be looking at the ground, first over one side of his machine and then over the other. Not once did he look behind him, and Biggles smiled grimly as he went nearer, intending to cut the Spitfire off and force it to return. If Lakers refused - well, it was going to be just too bad.

At that moment Lakers looked back over his shoulder.

For one fleeting instant Biggles stared into his face, and then moved like lightning, for the Spitfire had spun round, its nose tilted upwards, and sent a stream of bullets glittering past Biggles's wing-tip.

Biggles kicked out his right foot and flung the control-stick over in a frantic turn. The attack was unexpected, but he did not lose his head. Nor did he take his eyes off Lakers for a moment. As quick as thought he brought his machine back on its course, and took the other Spitfire in his sights.

At that moment Lakers was within an ace of death; but Biggles did not fire. As his hand touched the b.u.t.ton for the fatal burst his head jerked up as something flashed across his sights between him and his target. It was a Messerschmitt. From its fuselage a streamer of orange flame swirled aft.

For the next three seconds events moved more swiftly than they can be described; they moved as quickly as Biggles's brain could act and adjust itself to a new set of conditions, conditions that completely revolutionized his preconceived ideas. After the first shock of seeing the Messerschmitt he looked up in the direction whence it had come, and saw five more machines of the same type pouring down in a ragged formation.

He realized instantly that Lakers had not fired at him, as he had at first supposed, but at the leader of the n.a.z.i planes, and had got him, by brilliant shooting, at the first burst.

Lakers had shot down a Hun!

It meant that something was wrong somewhere, but there was no time to work it out now. Where was Lakers ? He found him, actually in front of him, nose tilted upwards, taking the *diving Huns head-on.

Biggles roared up alongside, and his lips parted in a smile as he saw something else.

Roaring down behind the enemy machines, at a speed that threatened to take its wings off, was another Spitfire.

For perhaps two seconds the machines held their relative positions - the two lower Spitfires side by side, facing the five diving Huns, and the other Spitfire coming down like an arrow behind them. Then, in a flash, the whole thing collapsed into a whirling dogfight, a milling vortex, as the Messerschmitts pulled out of their dive; that is, all except the last one, which continued its dive straight into the ground. The odds were now three against four. Biggles smiled grimly.

It is almost impossible to recall the actual moves made in an aerial dogfight; the whole thing resolves itself into a series of disjointed impressions. Biggles took one of the dark machines in his sights, fired and swerved as he heard bullets. .h.i.tting his own machine. He felt, rather than saw, the wheels of another machine whi7z past his head, but whether friend or foe he did not know. A Messerschmitt, with a Spitfire apparently tied to its tail by an invisible cord, tore across his nose. Another Spitfire was going down in a steep side-slip with white vapour streaming from its engine. Another Messerschmitt floated into his sights; he fired again, and saw it jerk upwards, an almost certain sign that the pilot had been hit. There was no time to watch it; instead, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a swift glance over his shoulder for danger, but the air was clear. Turning, he was just in time to see two Messerschmitts vanishing into the haze. Below, two ghastly bonfires, towards which people were running, poured clouds of smoke into the air. Near them was a Spitfire, c.o.c.ked up on its nose; some troops were already helping the pilot from his seat. Another Spitfire was circling low down; it climbed to meet him, and he confirmed, as he already suspected, that it was Algy's machine.

So it's Lakers on the ground,' he reflected. 'And Lakers had fought against the Huns.' He couldn't understand it. Not a little worried, he headed back to the aerodrome.

Landing, he ran to the Squadron Office. 'Have you had any phone messages?' he asked Toddy tersely.

'Were you in that mix-up just now over the Downs?' 'Yes, it was me and Algy - and Lakers; you know, the fellow who dropped in to lunch. He's down. Is he hurt?' 'No. Shaken a bit, that's all.'

'Has he gone to hospital?'

'No, he's on his way back here in a car.'

Biggles went outside and met Algy, who had just got out of his machine.

Algy was pale. 'Is he all right?' he asked anxiously. If you mean Lakers - yes.'

Thank G.o.d! My word, Biggles, you nearly b.o.o.bed that time!'

So it seems. But what do you know about it?'

'It's Lakers's brother - I mean, this fellow is the brother of the chap you knew.'

'Brother!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Biggles.

'Yes, I'll tell you all about it -'

'Shut up - here he comes. Don't, for the love of Mike, say anything about this spy business.'

Lakers jumped out of the car that had pulled up on the road and hurried towards them.

Say, I guess I've got to thank you for helping me to get that Hun,' he cried.

'Don't thank me,' replied Biggles. Thank your lucky star. By the way, what made you push off as you did, without waiting for me to come back?'

Lakers jerked his thumb towards the darkening sky. I thought I'd better try to get home before the storm broke.'

'You pinched a map out of the map-room,' Algy accused him.

'Yes, I know I did,' replied Lakers frankly. I thought I'd better borrow it to make sure of finding my way home. I intended bringing it back tomorrow - it would have been an excuse to come and see you again. By the way, did I hear you say something just now about a spy? I thought I just caught the word.'.

'Yes, you did,' replied Biggles. 'But it was only a rumour.'

CHAPTER.

THE RECORD BREAKERS.

To some people the business of shooting down a hostile aeroplane may seem a comparatively simple matter. A fellow accustomed to potting at rabbits, knowing that the modem fighting aircraft is fitted with multiple machine-guns capable of spitting bullets at the rate of one hundred and fifty rounds a second, may be pardoned for wondering how a pilot ever misses his mark. In actual fact, to sit in a vehicle travelling at something over three hundred miles an hour, and hit a target travelling at the same speed in another direction, is one of the most difficult things in the world. In the First Great War there were plenty of pilots who fired thousands of rounds of ammunition without hitting anything more tangible than the atmosphere; consequently, a gasp of amazement went up when it was learned that a certain Captain Trollope had set up a record by shooting down six enemy planes in one day - a record which, while it was equalled, remained unbroken until the end of the war.

These facts were, of course, well known to the officers of Biggles's Squadron, who, being professionally interested, often discussed the prospects of a new record being set up.

Now it happened that during a spell of bad weather this very subject was being debated when Squadron Leader Wilkinson, of 701 Squadron, with eight Hurricanes behind him, landed on Biggles's aerodrome. They had, it transpired, attempted a patrol, but ice-forming conditions, rapidly getting worse, had made a landing advisable if not imperative. So they had come down at the nearest aerodrome, and announced their intention of waiting for the weather to improve. Gathered around the fire, the original debate was resumed, and naturally the Hurricane pilots joined in the conversation.

Squadron Leader Wilkinson, better known as Wilks, took the view that, although six victories in one day was a tall order, it was surprising that the figure had net been doubled, now that the number of machines in the sky nearly every day far exceeded anything that had happened in the last war.

Algy was inclined to think that a pilot would have to be more than lucky to break the record. One could not, he a.s.serted, take on a formation of seven or eight Huns, and not only survive the combat, but bring every one of them down.

Lord Bertie Lissie raised another point - an important one. It would, he declared, be necessary to bring all the machines down on land, otherwise confirmation of the victories would not be possible. It was not necessary for him to qualify this statement by saying that many combats took place over the sea, particularly the Channel, as this was well known to them all. Even then, he continued, as machines usually flew in formation, it would be difficult for a pilot to prove that he, and not someone else, had fired the actual shots that had brought down any particular aircraft.

And so the discussion went on; and the upshot of it was (naturally, perhaps, in the circ.u.mstances) that before evening the affair had taken on a personal note, the pilots of each squadron a.s.serting that if the record was to be broken, it would be by one of their fellows. Wilks, in particular, was convinced that a Hurricane would do the trick. Biggles'

s reply was to the effect that the Hurricane pilots flattered themselves ; if the record was broken it would be by a Spitfire.

This was, of course, only friendly rivalry, each pilot supporting his own squadron, as he was bound to, and the type of machine which he himself flew. There the matter ended when the party broke up, and no one expected that anything more would be heard of it.

But before the stars had completely faded from the sky the following morning Ginger made an unceremonious entry into his Commanding Officer's room and informed him in a voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion that Squadron Leader Wilkinson had just shot down three machines in quick succession - two Messerschmitts and one Heinkel - and was even then in the air looking for more.

Biggles received this startling news with incredulity and chagrin.

'Holy mackerel!' he muttered as he tore off his pyjamas. 'We can't let Wilks get away with this. If he knocks down any more machines today his Hurricane-mongers will crow so loud that we shall all get the earache. What's Algy doing?'

'He's waiting for you.'

Five minutes later Biggles burst into the mess, where half a dozen pilots who were taking their time over bacon and eggs.

'Come on, get into the air!' he raved. 'Do you want that Hurricane crowd to get every Hun in the sky?'

Wilks has just got another!' It was Algy Lacey who spoke. Biggles started as if he had been stung. 'Another! Stiffen the crows! Who said so?'

'Toddy has just got it over the phone from Wing.'

'The d.i.c.kens! This won't do. That's four he's got, and it's only eight o'clock. Ring up the sheds, Ginger, and tell them to get my machine ready - I'm on my way. See you later.'

He left the room abruptly.

His Spitfire was ticking over by the time he reached it. Without a word he tore into the air and headed straight for the coast, climbing at a steep angle for all the height he could get; but when he got there - to use the old tag - the cupboard was bare. To left and right the sky was empty except where, far to the south, a trail of ' flak ' smoke marked the course of a British machine near the French coast. Circling, he pushed on to the Channel, searching for something on which to relieve his pent-up anxiety. But in vain. For an hour he flew up and down, but the only machines he saw were a Spitfire in the distance - probably one of his own squadron - and a lonely Blenheim, spotting for the coast batteries. The wind freshened, bringing with it heavy ma.s.ses of cloud. But it made no difference; not a German machine was to be seen; not a raider, not even a reconnaissance aircraft.

Another hour pa.s.sed, and by the end of it he was fuming with impatience. Still he hung on, hoping, but eventually had to turn back to the aerodrome in order to refuel, for his tanks were getting low. A big cloud lay ahead, and disdaining to go round it, he plunged straight through. As he emerged on the far side he nearly collided with a big, dark-painted machine, blotched all over with typical German camouflage. He recognized it instantly for one of the new Domiers.

The pilot of the German machine swerved as violently as did Biggles in order to avoid collision; pushing his nose down, he streaked for the cloud from which the Spitfire had appeared, and which promised a safe hiding-place.

In his anxiety that it should not escape Biggles threw caution to the winds, and without a glance round for possible danger he roared down behind the Dornier, raking it with long bursts of fire. On the very edge of the cloud the enemy machine jerked upwards spasmodically, which told him that the pilot had been hit. It fell over on to one wing, went into a spin, and plunged earthward. Biggles watched it suspiciously, for he knew that it might be a trick to deceive him. But it was no trick. The wounded German pilot managed to get out of the spin near the ground and did his best to land; but he was out of luck, and the aircraft with the swastika insignia piled itself up, a splintered wreck, on the edge of a wood.

Only then did Biggles look up, to see, with a shock, that a second machine, a Hurricane, was flying beside him. The pilot was gesticulating wildly, but Biggles had no time to wonder what this was all about, for his fuel supply was now dangerously low; so he put his nose down and raced back to the aerodrome, which he reached just as the airscrew gave a final kick and stopped.

He was beckoning to Flight Sergeant Smyth when he saw to his surprise that the Hurricane had followed him and was now landing not far away. But he paid little attention to it. Climbing out of his Spitfire, he walked quickly towards the mess, intending to s.n.a.t.c.h a cup of coffee while his machine was being refuelled, and it was only as he pa.s.sed close to the Hurricane that he recognized the pilot. It was Squadron Leader Wilkinson.

Wilks's first words made Biggles pull up in astonishment. 'What's the big idea?'

demanded the Hurricane pilot angrily. 'That was my Hun.'

'Your Hun? What are you talking about?' retorted Biggles. I'd been stalking him for twenty minutes, and had just got within range when you barged in.'

'What the deuce has that got to do with me?' inquired Biggles indignantly. 'I don't care two hoots if you'd been stalking him for twenty years. I got him, and I'm now going to get confirmation.'

'In another ten seconds I should have got that Hun,' protested Wilks furiously.

Then you were just ten seconds too late,' returned Biggles calmly. 'You shouldn't waste so much time.'

'You wouldn't have got him if it hadn't been for me. He was watching my machine and didn't even see you. You didn't give him a chance for a shot.'

'You're dead right,' agreed Biggles warmly; 'I took thundering good care not to. What do you take me for - a perishing target?'

'I reckon we ought to go fifty-fifty in the claim,' insisted Wilks.

Fifty-fifty my foot,' snorted Biggles. Since when did you get the idea that the Huns are sending up machines for your especial benefit? Birds wearing swastikas on their tails are as much my meat as yours. If you don't like it, find yourself another playground. Better still, go and drop a note on a Boche aerodrome and ask them to send some more machines over. I got that Domier and I'm not sharing it with anyone. If you choose to spend twenty minutes messing about trying to get close enough to a Hun to have a pot at him, that's your affair. Cheerio!' With a wave of his hand Biggles pa.s.sed on towards the Squadron Office.

When he returned a few minutes later the Hurricane had gone, and he grinned at the Flight Sergeant, who had overheard the conversation.

I'm afraid that was a bit tough on Squadron Leader Wilkinson,' he remarked. 'But when this game gets so that you are expected to sit back and let someone else have the first pop I'm through with it. Are my tanks filled?'

Yes, sir.'

'Do you happen to know if there is an alert on in London?' 'I don't think so, sir. Jerry seems to be taking a day off to get his breath.'