Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade Read online

  ‘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 God! My word, Biggles, you nearly boobed 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!’ ejaculated 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.’

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  CHAPTER 11

  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 asserted, 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 circumstances) that before evening the affair had taken on a personal note, the pilots of each squadron asserting 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 hoarse 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 dickens! 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 masses 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 passed, 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 Dorniers.

  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 snatch a cup of coffee while his machine was being refuelled, and it was only as he passed 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 Dornier 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 passed 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.’

  As he flew once more in the direction of the Channel Biggles derived some comfort from the fact that Wilks had added nothing to his score. It was disappointing, though, that none of his own Spitfires — some of them had been back for petrol — had managed to score a victory.

  Reaching the coast he began a repetition of his earlier patrol, seeking a machine of any sort that wore the black cross. But not one could he find. He even went as far as the French coast, receiving a good plastering from enemy anti-aircraft gunners for his pains; then, realizing that even if he did shoot down an enemy machine it would be out of sight of watchers along the cliffs of Dover, he turned his nose towards home. The ceaseless watching was beginning to tire him; not for a moment can a fighting pilot allow his eyes to rest. A moment’s lack of vigilance is often paid for dearly.

  Another two hours passed slowly, and Biggles began to edge towards the aerodrome, for again his tanks were running low. He made a last survey of the Channel, and was about to glide away when a fleeting shadow fell across his machine. The swift jerk of his head, and the spasmodic movements of hand and foot on joystick and rudder-bar were practically simultaneous with the roar of his guns. A Heinkel, fifty feet above and in front of him, burst into flames and dropped like a stone.

  The whole thing had happened in a split second, and was a good example of the amazing co-ordination of brain and muscle that can be developed by the expert air fighter. There was no time for actual thought. From the moment the shadow had fallen across the Spitfire, Biggles’s movements, separate in themselves, had followed each other in such quick succession that they appeared to be only one. First he had looked to see what had thrown the shadow; observing the Heinkel, his hands and feet had aligned his machine, and he had fired. He had hit his target at the first burst, and knew he would never make a better shot in his life.

  He did not actually see the burning machine crash, for the instant he knew that his shots had taken effect he looked round to see if the machine was alone or one of a formation.

  To his utter astonishment he saw a Hurricane tear down towards him, pull up in a steep climbing turn, and then come roaring back. As it passed him the pilot shook a clenched fist, and Biggles recognized Wilks’s machine.

  ‘Jehoshaphat! I believe I’ve done it again,’ he muttered with a worried frown, and then burst out laughing as the funny side struck him.

  As he cruised back to the aerodrome he tried to work out what must have happened. The Heinkel, he reasoned, must have been diving for home with Wilks in pursuit, in which case it was unlikely that the German pilot had even seen him. He would probably be looking back over his shoulder at the pursuing machine. By a bit of bad luck for himself the German had chosen a course that took him between Biggles and the sun, with the result that his machine had thrown a shadow across the Spitfire.

  As he landed Biggles was not surprised to see the Hurricane come in behind him and taxi to within a few yards of where he had stopped. Wilks, pale with anger, leapt down.

  ‘All right — all right, keep calm,’ Biggles cried as he approached. ‘You don’t suppose I pinched your Hun on purpose?’

  ‘On purpose! Why, it was an absolute fluke,’ rasped Wilks. ‘You never even saw him, and he was coming down after you like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘Coming down on me?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘He certainly was. He was after you, and he’d got you stone cold. He was sitting up in the sun and you never even saw him. I spotted him, though, and roared down to save your skin. But he was an old hand, and took a look back over his shoulder; he spotted me on his tail and it put him off his stroke. If I hadn’t been there he would have got you — you wouldn’t have known what had hit you.’

  ‘If that’s the case then I can only say that I’m very much obliged to you,’ returned Biggles calmly.

  ‘I
s that all you have to say?’

  ‘What do you want me to do — 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 see whether I can or not. The combat happened in full view of the coast observers — there must be a thousand people ready to swear that a Spitfire did the trick. Of course, if you’re going to hang about to watch me do my stuff, that’s no business of mine. No, Wilks, if you don’t like it you can run away and play by yourself. By the way, have you got any more Huns?’

  ‘No, but I’d have had two more if you hadn’t butted in.’

  ‘For the love of Mike don’t let’s go over all that again,’ protested Biggles, looking pained.

  Wilks glared. ‘All right,’ he grated, ‘but you keep out of my way.’ With that parting shot he strode back to his machine.

  Biggles watched him go with a sympathetic smile on his face. Leaving his Spitfire to be refuelled, he hurried down to the mess for an early lunch.

  His third victory that day was a straightforward duel which was won fairly and squarely by superb flying and accurate shooting, and only then after one of the longest and most difficult combats in all his experience. The victim was a Messerschmitt 109; the pilot was cruising about, apparently looking for trouble in much the same manner as Biggles.

  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 conflict as Biggles, and the opening moves were sufficient to warn Biggles that he had caught a tartar. Not that he minded. If the Hun were a better man than he — well, it would be just too bad. The possibility was always on the boards.