Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade Page 10

  ‘Smart lad.’

  Air Commodore Raymond nodded. ‘He came straight to us with the story. That was last night.’

  ‘How long since he left Amiens?’

  ‘Nearly three weeks.’

  ‘Anything can have happened in that time.’

  The Air Commodore shrugged his shoulders. ‘It would be foolish to dispute that; but, on the other hand, there is a good chance that Bregard may still be there, with the plans still in his possession, in which case it is up to us to try to make contact with him.’

  ‘But even assuming that somebody got through to him, how would he know that the person was genuine and not a German agent?’

  ‘Because, fortunately, there was a kind of password in use between Renée, Price, and Bregard, when they were all in the house, a method which they used among themselves when danger threatened. They had to devise some such signal because German troops were often in the shop. Apart from that, the man we sent could soon establish his bona fides by mentioning Corporal Price and details of his stay there.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I understand. What was this password?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was the first line or two of a popular French song.’ With a ridiculous expression on his face the Air Commodore began to sing: Parlez moi d’amour,

  Redites-moi des choses tendres...

  Biggles stared at the astonishing spectacle of an Air Commodore crooning. His mouth twitched in a smile of frank incredulity.

  ‘For the love of Mike!’ he breathed. ‘This war gets funnier and funnier.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my singing?’ demanded the Air Commodore stiffly.

  ‘Nothing — nothing, sir. I was just wondering what the airmen would think if they could see you lilting that little lullaby.’

  ‘Don’t you know the song?’

  ‘Speak to me of love,’ translated Biggles, his lips curling in a sneer. ‘What gave you the idea that I cluttered up my brain with that sort of stuff?’

  ‘It’s a nice song.’

  Biggles grinned. ‘I’ll sing it to the next Nazi pilot I meet — to a machine-gun accompaniment.’

  ‘Come, come, Biggles,’ protested the Air Commodore, ‘you need only learn the first two lines - that will be as much as you’ll need.’

  ‘As much as I need?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t suppose I’m telling you this story just to pass the time, do you? Come on, Bigglesworth — will you go?’

  ‘Why pick on me, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Because you speak German and French. Also you can fly an aeroplane. There’s no other way of getting in and out of France!’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘I see,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I just fly over, raising my hat to any Messerschmitts I meet on the way, land on a German aerodrome, and stroll up the boule-vard singing, “Speak to me of love—”.’

  ‘I’m not pretending it’s easy.’

  ‘I should jolly well think you aren’t!’

  ‘I can let you have a German uniform.’

  Biggles’s lips curled. ‘Not on your life. When I stop a bullet it will be in my own trousers.’

  ‘As you like — it was only a suggestion,’ returned the Air Commodore drily. ‘Obviously, you will have to go over at night and land in a field outside the town. I’ve marked one or two on this map that might be suitable. In any case, you ought to know the country round Amiens pretty well from the number of times you’ve flown over it. But there, it isn’t for me to suggest how you go about the job. Will you have a shot at it?’

  ‘You know perfectly well that I can’t say no,’ answered Biggles quietly. ‘When do you want me to go?’

  ‘Immediately — tonight. Every day that passes lessens our chances of getting the plans. The weather conditions should be ideal. There will be a moon early on — it will set at about eleven; which means that it will be light enough for you to find your selected field. Then, when it is dark, there will be less likelihood of your machine being seen while it is on the ground.’

  ‘All right, sir. I’ll see what I can do,’ promised Biggles.

  The Air Commodore, his mission achieved, did not linger. ‘I’ll be along first thing in the morning to collect the plans,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘You ought to be back by daybreak.’

  ‘If I’m not,’ said Biggles slowly, ‘it would be a waste of time for you to wait here for me.’

  After the purr of the Air Commodore’s car had died away he took from a drawer his own map of northern France and, with great care, plotted a course to a certain field, a field that he knew well, for he had once made a forced landing on it. Making a note on a scrap of paper, he then went out to look at the weather. The sky was clear, but the sun was going down in a misty glow. For a moment or two he regarded it reflectively, and then rang the bell for Toddy.

  ‘I’m going to practise a little night-flying tonight,’ he announced evenly. ‘I may be away for some time, so don’t worry on my account.’

  Toddy eyed him suspiciously. ‘What time will you be leaving the ground, sir?’

  ‘About ten o’clock.’

  ‘Can you give me any idea what time you’ll be back?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Toddy looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, sir, I thought I’d better know, in case the Wing Commander rang up, wanting you for something.’

  ‘If he does, tell him I hope to be back not later than dawn,’ said Biggles, and walked towards the ante-room whence came the sound of singing.

  Toddy gazed thoughtfully at the swing door after it had closed. He looked up the road where the Air Commodore’s car had disappeared. Then, with a far-away look in his eyes, he went into the C.O.’s office. He noticed the map, still lying on the desk, and studied it intently. A thin pencil line could not be overlooked.

  ‘Ah—huh,’ he murmured softly.

  It was shortly after ten when Biggles left the ante-room. He went first to his quarters, where he put on a light raincoat of civilian pattern; then, collecting his flying kit on the way, he walked on to the camouflaged shelter that housed his Spitfire. Had he been less wrapped up in his thoughts, which were concentrated on the enterprise before him, he might have noticed that as he left the ante-room there was a sudden cessation of conversation. Had he turned, he might have observed a number of furtive figures watching him from the darkened mess.

  ‘There he goes,’ whispered Toddy to Algy Lacey.

  Biggles walked on. Flight Sergeant Smyth was standing by his machine when he reached it.

  ‘Everything all right, Flight Sergeant?’ asked Biggles curtly.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve lightened her as much as I can. The tanks are only half full. She should glide a long way for every thousand feet of height.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll get off.’

  In five minutes Biggles was in the air, climbing steeply, flying on a course slightly east of south. By the time he reached the coast, which he crossed near Hastings, he was at twenty thousand feet, and still climbing. Not a light showed anywhere, but in the wan glow of the dying moon he could easily. make out the Channel. Far away to the east occasional flashes brightened the sky, like summer lightning, and showed where machines of the Bomber Command were battering the enemy gun emplacements on the Cap Gris Nez. A few minutes later the French coast came into sight, a vast, sombre shadow that merged into a vague horizon. He could just make out the river Somme of tragic memory, with Abbeville trying to hide well inside the estuary.

  He was at twenty-five thousand feet now, breathing oxygen, and while still some distance from the coast he cut his engine, and began a long glide, holding the aircraft at a speed only just above stalling point. He watched the sky around him for searchlights, or the flashes of anti-aircraft shells, which would tell him that his presence had been discovered; but none came, and he glided on like a shadow through the sky, following the river which sprawled like a grey thread across the darkened landscape. Still there was no flak. Sinking gradually lower, he crept on, the faint glow o
f the dials on his instrument-board casting an eerie reflection on his face. Amiens, his objective, appeared ahead.

  He left the river now and, picking up a poplar-lined road, followed it for a little way before beginning a slow circle over the bleak, hedgeless panorama which is peculiar to northern France. His hand moved to the ignition switch, and the droning airscrew stopped abruptly. Then, with the air hissing gently over his wings, he steepened his glide, nosing towards a large field just north of the town. His face was expressionless; there was nothing on it to indicate the tremendous consequences that depended on the next few minutes. Automatically he lowered his undercarriage. Still watching the ground, he flattened out suddenly; the Spitfire’s flaps dragged at the air; the wheels bumped, bumped again; the machine lurched a little and came slowly to rest.

  In an instant Biggles was sitting on the edge of the cockpit, listening, eyes probing the darkness around him. He did not move. Nothing moved. There was no sound. Minutes passed, and still he sat there, every nerve taut, eyes staring, and ears alert for the first warning of danger. For a quarter of an hour he sat thus, as rigid as a graven image. Then he jumped to the ground and walked round the machine in widening circles to check the distance at which it could be seen. Satisfied, he returned to it and, lifting the tail unit, carried it round so that the nose was pointing to the longest run the field could provide.

  This done, he strode towards the vague silhouette of a line of poplars which he knew marked the road. No one was in sight, so without any attempt at concealment he set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the town.

  He encountered a pedestrian and a cyclist. The pedestrian wished him good night in German, and he answered in the same language. The cyclist spoke in French, and he replied with a gruff bon soir. Apart from this he had a brief period of anxiety when a lorry overtook him. He knew it contained German soldiers long before it reached him, from the songs they were singing. It rumbled past him without stopping — not that there was any reason why it should — and shortly afterwards he reached the town. It was, of course, in darkness, and deserted, but this did not surprise him, and still without any attempt to hide he headed for the Rue Ste Marie.

  Knowing the town well, he was taking a short cut through a back street when, without warning, a man stepped out of the shadows, and speaking peremptorily in German, demanded his pass.

  Taken by surprise, for a moment Biggles did not understand. ‘Pass?’ he echoed, his hand, unseen in the darkness, dropping into the side pocket of his coat.

  ‘Curfew is at ten o’clock,’ replied the German brusquely. ‘You know that — or do you?’ He took a step forward, peering.

  Biggles, of course, had no pass. He knew nothing of a curfew, although he realized now that he should have been prepared for such a regulation. The deserted streets were explained. His eyes made a swift reconnaissance of them, but as far as he could see he and his interrogator were alone.

  ‘Oh, yes, the pass,’ he said lightly, and withdrew his hand from his pocket.

  The butt of his heavy service automatic crashed down on the German’s head, and the man flopped to the ground like a suit of clothes from a hook.

  Biggles was bending over him in a flash. His hands closed over the fallen man’s collar, and he dragged the limp body into the side entrance of what he took to be a garage. Then he walked on quickly, regretting the incident, but feeling that he had had no alternative but to act as he had done. Without a pass arrest would have been certain.

  Aware now of a danger for which he had made no provision, he proceeded with more caution, listening at the corner of every street before he turned into it, until at last the church of Ste Marie loomed above him.

  He went straight to the doorway of number one. It was a little shop, and the word ‘Tabac’ on a sign projecting over the pavement confirmed that it was the house he sought. The shop was, of course, closed for the night. He knocked on the door.

  A rectangle of reflected light appeared as the door was opened, but it was half blocked out by a massive figure.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked a surly voice, in German.

  Biggles saw at a glance that the man was a German solider. This, too, was a contingency for which he was not prepared; but he did not lose his head.

  He asked, in French, if Mademoiselle Renée was in, adding that he was a relation.

  The German turned and walked back along the passage, shouting something that Biggles could not catch. A moment later an inside door was opened, and he saw a girl emerge. As she walked towards him he began crooning, softly.

  ‘Parlez moi d’amour..’

  He saw her hesitate, and then come on quickly. ‘Yes, what is it?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘You are Mademoiselle Renée?’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur.’

  Biggles felt that it was no use beating about the bush. There was no time for that.

  ‘Close the door a little,’ he whispered. Then, as she complied, he went on quickly. ‘I am a friend a friend of Corporal Price – you understand? Price got back to England; it was he who told me of the tune. I wish to see Marcel Bregard, if he is still here.’

  The girl clutched at her breast as though to steady the beating of her heart.

  ‘You are – English?’ she breathed.

  ‘Yes. I have come at great risk to fetch the plans, if Marcel is still anxious to dispose of them. Is he still here?’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  Come in and shut that door; there’s a draught!’ shouted a harsh voice in German from inside.

  ‘I have four Boche soldiers billeted on me,’ whispered Renée tersely. Marcel is having supper with them. I can’t speak to him now. You had better come in.’

  She backed into the passage and Biggles followed, imagining that the conversation would be continued there. The last thing he wanted was to find himself in the room with four German soldiers. True, he wore a rainproof over his uniform, but even so it was not much protection.

  Inside the passage Renée caught him by the arm. ‘It is impossible for me to speak to Marcel while the soldiers are there. We shall have to wait until I can get him alone —’

  Biggles started as a door was flung open, flooding the passage with light. On the threshold of the room appeared a man, untidy, unshaven, a man who leaned heavily on two sticks.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘Who’s your friend, Renée? Why don’t you bring him in?’

  Behind the man, who he guessed was Marcel, Biggles could see the German troops lounging round the supper table.

  ‘It’s my cousin,’ answered Renée loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘Cousin? I didn’t know you had one,’ flashed back the Frenchman, and Biggles knew from his tone of voice that he was jealous. But it was neither the time nor place for explanations.

  ‘I happened to be passing, so I just called to see how Renée was getting on, that’s all,’ said Biggles evenly, wondering how he could convey his real message to the man, for to do so with the Germans so near would be to invite disaster. ‘I’m not staying,’ he added.

  Renée looked nervously at Marcel, at the Germans, and then back at Biggles. It was clear that she did not know how to deal with the situation, fraught as it was with peril.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ shouted one of the Germans. ‘What’s all that whispering about?’

  Renée went swiftly towards the outside door, pulling Biggles with her. ‘Wait outside,’ she breathed urgently. ‘Wait under the bedroom window until I can speak with Marcel.’

  Feeling that things were going badly, Biggles had no choice but to comply. He dare not risk compromising Renée or Marcel. As the door closed behind him he heard voices muttering on the inside. Standing on the step, he looked quickly up and down the unlighted street, and then slipped into a nearby alley, where he stood, his body pressed against the wall, listening. His brain raced as he tried to decide on a course of action, and after a few moments’ reflection he saw got he could no
t do better than remain where he was. Go out into the street without a pass he dare not.

  The moon had long since disappeared for the night. He noticed that the stars had vanished, too, and presently a thin mizzle of rain did nothing to add to his comfort. He was not surprised, though, for he had been aware for some time of an increasing humidity in the air.

  Around him the town lay silent, like a city of the dead. Time seemed to stand still, and only his luminous wrist-watch told him the passing of the hours. Midnight came, and found him sick with anxiety and suspense.

  Once he had to cower back in the alley as a patrol marched through the street. In the stillness the heavy tramp of marching feet made enough noise for a hundred men, but there were only six. Out of the gloom they came, six vague phantoms, and into the gloom they disappeared. The footsteps echoed eerily in the silent street as they faded in the distance.

  Biggles began to fidget as doubts assailed him. Was it any use waiting? Suppose his machine had been discovered in the field? He had been a long time — much longer than he expected to be. Ought he to.... He stiffened as a faint noise reached his ears. It sounded like the squeak of a window being opened.

  He stepped out into the street, humming softly the tune of the password song.

  The warning came from above, and he broke off abruptly. Looking up he could just make out a pale disk which he knew was a human face.

  ‘Attention!’ came a voice, and a small, compact packet thudded at his feet.

  He snatched it up and put it in his inside pocket. When he looked up the face had gone.