The Wager

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

“Five francs,” said Wilks, of 287 squadron, slapping some money on the table for dramatic effect.

“Oh, come on,” protested Biggles. “You can’t be serious!”

“If you’re frightened…” began Wilks, letting the end of the sentence hang in the air.

“I’m not frightened,” replied Biggles. “I’m merely pointing out the unfairness of the bet. If that Hun doesn’t shoot me down—and I’m not for one minute believing that he will—I’ll owe you five francs. If the Hun does shoot me down, you’ll owe me five francs, but as I won’t be able to collect it, I don’t see that it’s going to do me any good.”

“What’s going on?” inquired Algy Lacey, strolling into the mess and sliding into the empty chair beside Biggles. “What’s this money doing here?”

“Biggles and I were just discussing a wager,” explained Wilks.

“Don’t bring me into this!” growled Biggles. “You started it!”

“I did not! You were the one who—”

“All right, never mind who started it,” cut in Algy hurriedly, seeing that the conversation was going nowhere. “What’s the bet?”

“Wilks was telling me about that blue-nosed Hun that’s been buzzing up and down the sky making a nuisance of itself, and I told him not to go near it because that particular fish is suicide,” said Biggles. “It’s got an escort of at least five or six Huns waiting upstairs to swoop down on the first poor fool who tries to attack it.”

“We can’t very well do nothing while it comes over and lays its eggs every morning,” growled Wilks. “Besides, it’s not as difficult as you’re making it out to be. It’s a much heavier machine—you’d be able to run rings around it.”

“If you’re so sure of yourself, why don’t you try it?” queried Algy, signaling for a drink.

“Can’t,” said Wilks, lifting his arm and peeling back the sleeve. A white bandage covered his forearm. “Sprained my arm coming down this morning. MO says I can’t fly for at least a week.”

“Isn’t that just too convenient?” cried Biggles indignantly. “It’s the perfect excuse for staying out of the sky, isn’t it?”

“Come on, Biggles, are you taking the bet or not?” demanded Wilks. “If you’re too scared to do it, I’ll give it a go when my arm’s better and show you just how it’s done. You Camel merchants couldn’t shoot a target two inches in front of your faces, anyway.”

“Is that so?” snapped Biggles, draining his drink and slamming the empty glass back down on the table. “Fine. I’ll go up tomorrow and have a word with this blue-nosed Hun. Get your spectacles ready—it’s time someone taught you what real flying looks like.”

&&&

Algy barged into Biggles’ room without knocking, threw himself on the bed, and demanded, “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Do you particularly want to die?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to knock?”

“What are you going to do?”

Biggles straightened his bedclothes with irritating calmness. “What am I going to do about what?” he asked casually, as if he had no idea what Algy was talking about.

“You know what!”

“All right, all right; you needn’t jump down my throat. Anyway, there really is nothing for it, is there? I’m going to have to take that blue-nosed Hun on now that I’ve told Wilks I will.”

“Fiddlesticks to Wilks!” declared Algy heatedly. “Why can’t you ever think twice before making these suicidal bets?”

“It’s not suicidal unless I die doing it.”

“Are you saying you won’t die?” inquired Algy with heavy sarcasm.

“Oh, shut up, Algy. You know as well as I do if I don’t go through with this we’ll have the 287 crowd on our backs until the end of the war.”

Algy heaved a heavy sigh. “Those sharks waiting upstairs will kill you before you get within an inch of that blue-nosed Hun. Won’t you at least take a few of the boys to watch your back?”

“I can’t do that! What if Mullen finds out? You heard what he said this morning.”

A week earlier, an unfortunate bet involving balloons had resulted in the death of two pilots from a neighboring squadron. The news had reached the ears of General Tishlace, who had promptly issued orders that all such wagers were to be strictly banned in the future.

“Well, why didn’t you think of that before you made the bet with Wilks?” demanded Algy. “Anyway, Mullen doesn’t have to know. We can just ask Mac and Mahoney—”

“No,” declared Biggles. “I’m doing this, and I’m doing this on my own. That’s final.”

&&&

Biggles stood by the sheds and watched the dawn patrol take off before making his way to his own Camel.

“Bit unusual for you to be up so early when you’re not on dawn patrol,” commented an accusing voice behind him.

Biggles did not bother to turn around. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said blandly.

“You’re going after the Hun, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to do with you?” retorted Biggles.

“Oh, I like that,” muttered Algy. “Anyway, I’m coming with you.”

At that, Biggles did turn around. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I already told them to get my Camel out.”

“You are going to stay here. That’s an order.”

Algy snorted. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Court-martial me? You’ll have to come back alive to do that.”

“What part of ‘I’m doing this on my own’ don’t you understand?” demanded Biggles, exasperated.

“What part of ‘I’m coming with you’ don’t you understand?” countered Algy.

“Why can’t you just do what you’re told?”

Algy swung himself into his Camel and grinned down at Biggles. “Tell you what,” he said. “You go do whatever it is you want to do, and I’ll go and see Wilks at 287. If we happen to be going in the same direction, well, there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”

Biggles gritted his teeth. He had no time to argue; if he wanted to catch the blue-nosed Hun, he would have to leave now. “Fine,” he said shortly, clambering into the cockpit of his own Camel. “But you stay out of my way.”

However, as he started the engines, he had to admit to himself that he was glad Algy was coming along.

&&&

They were over the lines in a matter of minutes. Biggles, carefully keeping in line with the sun, scanned the sky for his target and was more than a little astonished to find that it was not where he had expected it to be.

He checked his watch. Had the Hun already laid its eggs and left? No, it was much too early for that. Judging from its behavior over the past few days, it should just now be maneuvering itself into position.

So where was the blue-nosed machine?

A sudden movement to his right caught his eye, and he stared, open-mouthed, as realization gradually set in. It was the blue-nosed Hun, all right, but instead of heading for the British side of the lines it was streaking for home like a fox with a pack of dogs on its tail.

A quick glance to his left revealed the reason for the black-crossed machine’s hurried retreat: a formation of half a dozen Bristols were just crossing the line, on a course that would have enabled them to run headlong into the Hun had it stayed in its usual position.

Biggles cursed under his breath, annoyed that the Bristols had chased off his prey. “Of all the times to come interfering—”

He circled the sky half-heartedly after the Bristols had gone, but there was no sign of the plane that he had come to fight. Another five minutes convinced him that the blue-nosed machine did not intend to return.

Waving a hand to Algy, he headed for home and landed, fuming at what had just happened. He did not even wait for Algy to come in to land as he strolled off in the general direction of the squadron office.

Just as he was passing the door of the office, Toddy stuck his head out. “Good, you’re back,” he said. “You’re wanted on the phone.”

“What for?” growled Biggles, entering the office and snatching up the instrument. “Hullo?”

“Is that you, Biggles?” came back Wilks’ cheerful voice. “Get cold feet or something?”

“I did not get cold feet!” retorted Biggles shortly. “The Bristols came and chased the Hun off, as you very well know.”

“I would have gone after it, myself,” jeered Wilks. “But still, you Camel merchants will take any excuse to avoid combat, won’t you?”

Too furious for words, Biggles slammed the phone back into its cradle and stormed out of the squadron office.

&&&

Biggles spent all his spare time over the next couple of days scouring the skies for his blue-nosed opponent. He tried to go up at odd times and at short notice to avoid being followed by Algy, but somehow whenever he crossed the lines Algy always contrived to appear at his elbow like an annoying shadow.

Major Mullen had to know what was going on, but he must have deliberately turned a blind eye to the wager, knowing full well that any order he gave for Biggles to stop what he was doing would only be broken. For the same reason, he said nothing about Algy’s abrupt departures.

Long hours in the air and lack of sleep made Biggles short-tempered, and whenever he was not in the air he could be seen brooding in a corner of the mess. The other pilots knew better than to approach him when he was in such a mood, all except for Algy, who despite being snapped at on several occasions refused to lose his cheerful demeanor.

The afternoon of the third day after the Bristols had chased off the blue-nosed Hun saw Biggles making a cross-wind landing on the aerodrome, jumping out of his Camel with casual abandon, and stalking off towards the mess without waiting for Algy to land.

Instead, it was Mac and Mahoney who cornered Algy just as he was clambering out of the cockpit of his Camel.

“Where’s Biggles?” was Algy’s first question, as soon as his feet were on the ground.

Mahoney snorted. “I’ll give you one guess.”

“Never mind about that now,” broke in Mac, putting out a hand to stop Algy, who was starting to make for the mess. “We need you to talk to Biggles. He can’t stand the pace of this much longer without having a breakdown.”

Algy laughed briefly. “Talk to him? What do you think I’ve been doing? Egging him on?  I have talked to him, over and over again, trying to get him to see sense. He simply won’t listen. You know what he’s like when he gets like this.”

“Maybe we should have Wilks call the whole thing off,” suggested Mahoney.

“No,” said Algy. “That won’t work. Biggles’ll smell a rat, and if he finds out we’ve been meddling in his affairs the balloon will really go up. Anyway, you know as well as I do that Wilks and his crowd will crow over us for all eternity if we make him call off this wager. We’ll never be able to show our faces in a mess again unless Biggles gets that Hun.”

“So what do we do?” asked Mac.

“Well,” said Algy. “I might have an idea…”

&&&

Biggles was annoyed and surprised the next morning to find an empty space where his Camel should have been. He called the Flight Sergeant over with a grim expression on his face. “Flight,” he said curtly. “Didn’t I give orders for my machine to be ready and waiting for me at dawn?”

“Yes, sir,” was the quick reply. “But your machine’s being repaired, you see.”

“Repaired?” echoed Biggles. “For what? It was all right when I got back yesterday.”

The Flight Sergeant gave him a steely look that bordered on the insubordinate. “There was a gaping big hole in one of the wings, sir,” was his mild reply. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything about it when you came in.”

“I didn’t see any hole in the wing when I got back!” protested Biggles. “In fact, there couldn’t have been one—I didn’t run into any Huns on that last trip back.”

“Well, it’s there now, sir, and I can’t possibly let you fly it in its current condition.”

Biggles eyed the rapidly brightening sky overhead and heaved an exasperated sigh. “All right,” he said. “Get Mr. Lacey’s machine out, will you?”

The NCO opened his mouth to say something, took a good look at Biggles’ face, and closed it again. “Yes, sir.”

Ten minutes later, Biggles, in Algy’s Camel, was heading for the lines. It was a cloudy morning, not ideal for observation. It was also cold, and he huddled deeper into his flying jacket as he drew nearer to the spot where the blue-nosed Hun used to frequent.

It only took a quick glance to reveal that his target was not there. Biggles made a noise of disgust. “Got scared off once and now it’s keeping away,” he grumbled to himself. “Just my luck. Oh, well.”

He half-heartedly circled the general area before disappointedly heading for home.

Having landed, he taxied up to the sheds and jumped out. “There you are, Flight,” he said cheerfully. “Brought her back in one piece. Did Mr. Lacey say anything?”

“No, sir, but he went up in your machine not ten minutes ago. Seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, too.”

Biggles paused in the act of extracting a cigarette from his cigarette case. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No, sir, but I heard the Radio Officer tell him something about a blue nosed Hun near Mossyface Wood, if that helps.”

The blood in Biggles’ veins seemed to freeze over. “A blue nosed Hun near Mossyface Wood?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

Biggles turned back to Algy’s Camel and swung himself into the cockpit.

&&&

There were clear signs of combat even before he had reached Mossyface Wood. A stray Fokker fired at him as he sped past, and he could see another in front of him, nose down, streaking for home.

His questing eyes caught sight of a machine spinning out of control, spurting smoke as it spiraled towards the ground, but whether it was a British machine or not, he had no way of telling.

Where was the blue-nosed Hun? And, more importantly, where was Algy? It seemed inevitable that Algy would go after the Hun if he had been there, yet there was no sign of either of them.

He soon found one of them.

Or rather, it found him. A torrent of tracer splattered into his machine from above, and he looked up just in time to witness the horror of the blue-nosed Hun hurtling towards him, so close that he could practically touch the grim features of the pilot in the cockpit.

A collision seemed inescapable, but somehow the miracle occurred. The Hun flashed past, almost taking off the wing of the Camel as it continued its fall.

Biggles started a sigh of relief, but it caught in his throat as the Hun whipped back with lightning speed, not unlike a puppet on an invisible string, coming to rest on the tail of the Camel.

Two deathly streams of tracer cut through the air, and Biggles banked desperately, trying to get away from the machine behind him, but all his efforts proved to be futile, for the Hun simply copied every move that he made and stayed on his tail as if stuck there.

Biggles swung his Camel around in an Immelmann turn, and that was when he saw it.

A Camel, trailing streamers, coming in at the blue-nosed Hun.

&&&

The pilot of the blue-nosed Hun seemed to sense the danger; even as Algy bore down on him, the German plane swung round on its own length and fired a quick burst of tracer at its attacker.

Algy’s Camel skidded wildly to one side as he fought to avoid the deadly hail of lead. Biggles winced as the Camel lurched drunkenly, teetering on the edge of falling into a spin. Biggles’ fingers tightened on the controls of his own Camel in helpless desperation, but there was nothing he could do except watch as Algy’s Camel tumbled over and over on itself. He snatched a quick look at the ground. “He should be able to make it,” he muttered to himself anxiously.

In all the excitement, he had all but forgotten about the blue-nosed Hun, and with a sudden start, he abruptly remembered it and raised his head to look for it, feeling surprise when he realized that the sky around him appeared to be empty.

Something thudded into his Camel from behind. Biggles’ lips thinned into an almost invisible line and anger blazed through him. “So that’s the game, is it?” he snapped. “Let’s see how you like this, then!”

He swung the Camel around in a sweeping turn to meet the Hun on his tail, but he misjudged the distance between them, and halfway through the turn he heard a deafening crash to his right, and when he turned to ascertain the reason he found that his right wing had crumpled in on itself.

&&&

For a minute it was as though time had frozen. The mangled Camel was held in space as if by invisible wires and for a brief instant Biggles actually entertained the hope that he would be able to continue on with the dogfight, but his hopes were dashed almost instantly as the spell broke and his engine spluttered.

The ground seemed impossibly far away as he snatched a glance downwards.

Bullets thudded once more into his machine, and he snarled in annoyance, glaring up at the blue-nosed Hun which had followed him down. Either the other pilot had not noticed the Camel’s crumpled wing, or he was so determined to shoot down the British machine that he had thrown all decency to the winds; Biggles had no time to care which. The controls were growing sluggish in his hands, and it was all he could do to keep the machine on even keel.

Something flashed past his left, and he turned to look, just in time to see a bullet take a neat section out of his other wing. The Camel lurched like a live thing. Biggles was pressed back against his seat, fighting furiously to regain control of the machine.

The blue-nosed Hun, evidently satisfied with its work, turned its attention towards another British machine in the sky, but there it made its fatal mistake, for it gave Biggles a chance to drag the stick back into his stomach, and swing the dying Camel up in a desperate swoop.

The wind screamed in his ears, and there was a high-pitched whine of protest from the Camel as Biggles forced it onwards, but there was only one thought on Biggles’ mind, and he paid no attention to anything else except closing in on his former opponent.

He had only time for one quick burst before the Camel literally fell out of his hands. He had the satisfaction of seeing smoke curl out from the tail of the blue-nosed machine, and then his world was a horrible spinning nightmare of color for several minutes, until there came a deafening crash.

He heard voices, but they were too far away for him to hear what they were saying. He groped blindly at the straps, trying to get himself free of the machine, but then something hit him on the head and everything went black.

&&&

Biggles opened his eyes to find himself staring up into the anxious faces of Algy and Wilks. “What happened?” he asked groggily, attempting to sit up. Everything swam before his eyes for a split second, and he hurriedly assumed his original position.

“You’d better lie still,” advised Algy. “You took a nasty knock to the head coming down.”

“I think I’ve managed to work that out for myself, thanks,” retorted Biggles, putting a hand to his head.

Algy looked hurt. “All right,” he said. “There’s no need to bite my head off.”

“You stole my machine, you hound! And you’d have stolen my Hun as well, if I hadn’t stopped you!”

Algy glared down at him. “As I recall, you stole my machine before I stole yours,” he retorted. “And I wasn’t trying to steal your Hun; I was merely trying to make sure that you got out of the dogfight in one piece.”

“Rot!” snapped Biggles. “I was doing all right until you barged in.”

“Speaking of which,” said Wilks. “You owe me five francs.”

“No, I don’t! It’s the other way around. You owe me five francs. He put a bullet through my wing—”

“Yes, but you already had a broken wing, so that doesn’t count as him shooting you down—”

“If I had my way, you should be paying me twenty francs for putting on such a good show for you and your crowd,” declared Biggles. “None of you lot know what real flying looks like.”

“I do know it doesn’t usually involve breaking one’s own wing on someone else’s machine,” jeered Wilks.

“That,” said Biggles, in a dignified tone, “was a demonstration for your benefit. I managed to shoot him down even though I had a broken wing—”

“You wouldn’t even have had a broken wing if you—”

“Now you listen to me, Wilks,” began Biggles hotly.

“Sorry,” broke in Algy. “Is this going to go on much longer? It’s just that they’re serving lunch in the mess, and I’m feeling rather peckish.”

“You couldn’t shoot down a Hun if it was two yards in front of your face!” snapped Biggles, ignoring Algy’s appeal.

“At least I’ve still got a machine to fly! Yours is a charred wreck!”

Algy sighed.

THE END