Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade Page 2

  Both pilots gazed expectantly as the piece of dirty sacking that hung over the front edge of the shelter was lifted slowly and Lord Bertie entered. He considered the two men in front of him with frank disfavour before moving nearer, picking his way carefully across the muddy floor.

  ‘What-ho,’ he greeted at last, with just enough suspicion of a lisp to make Tex’s lips curl.

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Sorry to butt in and all that,’ murmured Bertie apologetically, ‘but is this B Flight?’

  ‘I guess it is,’ returned Tex briefly.

  ‘I guessed it was, too,’ replied Bertie, smiling wanly. ‘Are you fellers waitin’ for something?’

  ‘Just waiting for the war to start, that’s all,’ observed Ferocity, in a voice loaded with bitter sarcasm.

  ‘Ah! Then I have arrived at the right moment – absolutely the right moment,’ murmured Bertie. ‘I’ve just been posted to this jolly old squadron, and the C.O. has asked me to take over B Flight.’

  ‘Is that so?’ drawled Tex, eyeing his Flight Commander with a fresh interest.

  ‘That, as you say, is so; absolutely so,’ declared Bertie. ‘By the way, my name’s Lissie.’

  A slow smile spread over Tex’s face.

  ‘Forgive me for being inquisitive, but does that in some way strike you as – er – humorous?’ Bertie’s tone was mild, but there was a curious gleam in his eye.

  Tex noted it and changed his mind about what he was going to say.

  ‘It’s a funny war,’ he compromised.

  ‘So far – so far,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Do you fellers happen to know anything about war flying?’

  ‘Plenty,’ drawled Tex.

  ‘By Jove, that’s fine! Where did you do your scrappin’?’

  ‘Read about it in books – lapped it up since I was a kid.’

  Bertie looked disappointed. ‘It isn’t quite the same thing, you know,’ he said sadly. ‘Perhaps it would be a good thing if we had a little practice. B Flight has been detailed for an escort job.’ Bertie glanced at his wrist watch. ‘We leave the ground in five minutes. See you later. Cheer-oh.’ He nodded, and still picking his way, moved towards the exit.

  ‘By the way, which of you is O’Hara?’ he inquired from the doorway.

  Tex stood up. ‘Me, I guess.’

  ‘I guessed it, too,’ said Bertie softly, and the sack dropped back into place.

  Tex stared at it fixedly. ‘Stiffen the crows,’ he muttered brokenly. ‘Lissie, eh?’ He turned to Ferocity. ‘Where did England get the idea that she could win this war?’

  ‘Ask Lissie,’ suggested Ferocity, grinning.

  ‘Lissie! Suffering coyotes! That dumb-bell.’

  Ferocity shook his head. ‘ You can’t always tell, mate,’ he said cautiously. ‘A little dude like that once slammed me a wallop on the boko that put me to sleep for ten minutes.’

  ‘No fooling—what for?’

  ‘I barged into him by accident.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him that?’

  ‘He didn’t give me time,’ admitted Ferocity ruefully.

  ‘Okay. Well, let’s get going,’ suggested Tex. ‘I’m anxious to see what Lissie does when a bunch of slugs hits his crate.’

  ‘It ought to be funny,’ grinned Ferocity.

  Tex tossed his cigar aside. ‘Yeah, I reckon so,’ he smiled.

  Five minutes later, in full flying kit and parachute harness, they reported to their new Flight Commander, who, similarly dressed, was standing beside his Spitfire. His face was expressionless and his manner one of slightly bored indifference.

  ‘Now this is the idea,’ he said. ‘One of our chappies, in a Blenheim, is taking photos at Calais. He went over high, up, and will probably dive on the objective; after getting his snaps he will run for home. We’re going to meet him in case he needs help. Get the scheme?’

  Ferocity nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ murmured Tex. ‘What happens if we run into a bunch of Huns?’

  Bertie looked mildly surprised at the question. ‘What happens?’ He wrinkled his forehead in a puzzled frown. ‘Surely only one thing can happen. Why, what did you think might happen?’

  Tex flushed slightly. ‘I thought you might – come home.’

  Bertie nodded understandingly. ‘I see. Oh, no – absolutely no. Only the best men of each side will go home. As far as we’re concerned, nobody goes home until I lead the way – unless, of course, I’m on the grass or in the drink. Is that quite clear?’

  ‘I guess so,’ nodded Tex.

  Bertie eyed him dispassionately.

  ‘For your sake I hope you’ve guessed right,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get away.’

  The three pilots climbed into their seats. The three engines thundered, and the three airscrews, as constant in their position as if they belonged to one machine, flashed across the turf. At a thousand feet above the boundary of the aerodrome the leading machine turned slowly, with its up-tilted nose pointing towards the south. The others followed. The Channel came into view, an expanse of grey water, with the dim outline of the French coast beyond, an outline that grew harder as the Spitfires bored their way towards it.

  Long before they reached it their discovery by the enemy was announced by the arrival of several brisk salvoes of ‘archie’1. Tex looked at Ferocity, who was flying on his left, and then back at their leader, still holding on his course regardless of the swirling bursts of black smoke that came ever closer to them.

  ‘The poor guy must be blind as well as dumb,’ Tex told himself hopelessly, for Bertie appeared to look neither to one side nor the other; apparently he was unconscious of what was going on around him. And when, a moment later, a group of six bursts mushroomed out a short distance in front of the leading Spitfire, and the machine roared straight through them without altering its course, Tex knew that his worst fears were realized.

  ‘The poor sap isn’t only dumb; he’s crazy,’ he thought moodily, wondering how long it would be before they were shot down.

  So engrossed was he in this disturbing reverie that he made the blunder usual in such cases. It would not be true to say that he forgot where he was; there was no chance of him doing that; but he forgot to maintain the vigilance which such conditions demand.

  As usual, this resulted in a second blunder. He looked across at Ferocity, smiling what he imagined to be a smile of consolation and encouragement. His eyes were off his leader for perhaps two seconds. When he looked back the Spitfire that had been leading was no longer there.

  At first he refused to believe it. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that his brain was incapable of accepting the evidence which his eyes revealed. For an indisputable fact, it took him a long time to grasp it — at least three seconds, during which time he had travelled a considerable distance. At last, the fact having penetrated, he looked across at Ferocity to see what he was going to do. At least, that was his idea. But Ferocity wasn’t there, either.

  ‘Say, what is this?’ he muttered angrily.

  The answer came with a suddenness that took his breath away; took his breath away so quickly that his lips went dry. For a moment he thought his wing was torn out by the roots, for that was what the sound was like, and he gasped his relief when he saw it was still there.

  ‘Something must have hit it,’ he thought. And then, and not until then, did it occur to him to look up to see if there was anything there to account for the phenomenon.

  There was. In fact, there were so many things that he was shocked into a sort of paralysis. The sky was full of aeroplanes. Just how many there were he did not know, for he didn’t stop to count them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a vaguely familiar silhouette streaking towards his tail, a silhouette which he had been taught was peculiar to an aeroplane of German design called a Messerschmitt.

  Simultaneous with this knowledge there came again the horrid tearing sound, and something struck the heel of his boot so viciously that the impulse was communicated to the rudder-bar, wit
h the result that, having no time to bank, the machine skidded so wildly that it made him feel physically sick. The sensation of facing one direction while travelling in another at something over three hundred miles an hour wasn’t pleasant.

  As soon as the centrifugal force which had pinned him to the side of the machine relaxed, he lost no time in doing things, He did everything he could think of — and several things he didn’t think of. He pulled the joystick back and fired his guns. At least, the guns went off, and it may have been the vibration of them, to which he was accustomed, that restored his sense of balance.

  Training taught him that he ought to find his leader, and he was about to take steps to put this matter right when a dark grey shape loomed alongside and caused him to swerve nervously. But he kept his eyes on it, and saw, with an emotion of thankfulness that was almost overwhelming, that it was the very man he was looking for — his leader.

  Breathing deeply in his relief, he looked at the Flight Commander’s face curiously.

  There seemed to be something strange about it. Then he saw what it was. He was not wearing goggles, but in the expressionless face something gleamed brightly. Tex saw that it was an eyeglass.

  ‘The fellow must be balmy,’ he told himself unbelievingly.

  Bertie did not look at him again. He bored on ahead and took his place at the head of the formation, for in some strange way Ferocity had appeared on the left. His flying seemed rather wild.

  Tex had just settled down in his seat when the Flight Commander disappeared again.

  But this time he saw him go. He just caught sight of his tail as the machine tilted down steeply and roared earthward. Sheer habit made him thrust his joy-stick forward, and a fierce exultation swept through him as the Spitfire howled defiance to the atmosphere and anything else that was about.

  As it happened, there were several other things about. Amongst them were a number of Messerschmitt 109’s and a Blenheim, a Blenheim that swerved from side to side as it dodged to avoid the fire that was being directed on it from several angles.

  Tex knew exactly what to do. He had read about this sort of thing in books, and been told about it at the training school. The trouble was, he couldn’t remember it. The sight of tracer streaming from his leader’s guns gave him an inkling of it, however, and he plunged into the mêlée with his guns snarling and growling. Such was his frantic haste to fire that his first burst nearly hit the tail of the Blenheim. Then he picked out a machine carrying a black cross, and he brought his sights to bear. But before he could fire the machine had disappeared, and an instant later his Spitfire shuddered as something like a whiplash struck it.

  The sound roused him to a sort of frenzy. He forgot his books. He forgot his training. He forgot everything in one overwhelming desire to see who was hitting him, and he swung round in such a tight turn that he almost collided with his pursuer. Its underside passed so close to his head that he could distinctly see mud on it.

  He looked again for the Blenheim, and managing to pick it out, he raced after it, only to swerve as a stream of bullets poured from it in his direction.

  ‘What does that fool gunner think he’s doing?’ he muttered disgustedly. ‘Can’t he tell a Spitfire from a Messer —’

  He ducked as a mass of flame roared down past him. He did not see where it came from. He did not see where it went. He caught a reek of burning as he swept through the trail of it, and then his attention was drawn to no fewer than five machines that were all turning in a tight circle not far away. The first one was a Messerschmitt. Close behind it was Ferocity in his Spitfire; behind, in line, were three more Messerschmitts At least three of the machines were shooting.

  For the first time the picture was clear cut, and Tex was able to think coherently; he almost smiled as he trimmed his nose to the third machine and roared down with his guns blazing.

  He saw the first of the three Messerschmitts steepen its dive until it was going down vertically, and the third machine – the one he was shooting at – break out of the dogfight.

  He was after it in a flash.

  How far he would have followed it had not Bertie cut across his nose and glared at him, mouthing furiously, is a matter for conjecture; but in obedience to the Flight Commander’s angry signals he abandoned his quarry and headed back towards the Blenheim, now a mere speck in the distance.

  The two Spitfires, flying side by side, soon caught up with it, and took up position behind it, in which formation they were joined by Ferocity. They flew close together, so close that Tex was able to make out bullet holes in both the other Spitfires, and he was horrified to see how badly they had been shot about.

  ‘They’ve sure been through the mill,’ he told himself, wondering what had become of the Messerschmitts.

  The Blenheim tilted its nose down and raced back over the white cliffs of Dover to safety. The Spitfires followed it until they were well over England, where they left it, Bertie leading his flight back to the squadron aerodrome. The machines landed together and taxied to their quarters, where mechanics awaited them.

  Tex switched off, jumped down, and walked across to where Ferocity was also descending.

  ‘Say! Those Messers have sure made a colander of your kite,’ he grinned.

  Ferocity eyed him sarcastically. ‘Did you say my kite?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then take a look at your own.’

  Tex swung round and stared incredulously at the shot-torn fuselage of his machine. ‘Say, what d’you know about that?’ he breathed.

  ‘And take a look at Lissie’s,’ murmured Ferocity.

  Tex stared again. ‘Holy mackerel! How did he get it in that mess?’

  Ferocity raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you mean to say you don’t know?’

  ‘How should I?’

  ‘You ought to. Twice you had a Messerschmitt on your tail and Lissie shot it off. He got two in flames.’

  ‘Did he get that one that nearly fell on me?’

  ‘He certainly did. He was just about in time, too, I reckon.’ The arrival of the Flight Commander, with his eyeglass still in place, interrupted the dialogue. He considered his two subordinates steadily.

  ‘I say, you fellers, that wasn’t bad, not bad at all,’ he said almost warmly.

  Ferocity smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Tex frowned. ‘Could we have done anything else?’ he inquired.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Bertie unhesitatingly. ‘Absolutely. It’s always a good thing to look where you’re going, and to shoot at the chappies of the other side when there are any about.’

  Tex blinked. ‘What do you mean — fellers of the other side?’

  ‘That’s right. You nearly shot my tail off — twice. Try to remember it next time. Good fun, war flying, isn’t it?’

  Tex smiled. ‘You’re telling me.’

  Bertie’s face thawed. ‘Yes, I’m telling you. But let’s get along and make out our reports. It’s an awful bore, but it must be done.’

  In the Squadron Office Bertie took off his flying kit, and then, under his ‘wings’, the others saw the ribbons of the D.F.C. and A.F.C..

  ‘Just imagine that,’ whispered Tex to Ferocity. ‘A little runt like that with a couple of gongs2.’

  ‘And they take some getting nowadays.’

  ‘I guess if I stay in this outfit long enough I shall learn a thing or two,’ conceded Tex.

  ‘How we win our wars, for instance,’ grinned Ferocity.

  [Back to Contents]

  * * *

  1 Archie: Anti-aircraft gunfire.

  2 Gongs: service slang for medals.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE COMING OF CARRINGTON

  WITH his second-in-command, Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacy (Senior Flight Lieutenant on the station), at his elbow, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth sat at his desk working on the establishment of the squadron under his command.

  ‘In the matter of officers we’re not doing so badly,’ he observed. ‘You will, of course, take over A F
light. You can have Ginger. I’ll fly with you myself whenever possible to fill the gap until another officer arrives. Lissie will take B Flight, with Ferris and O’Hara. I think I heard them return just now from that escort job, so I’ll have a word with them presently. We shall have to leave C Flight for the time being.’

  Algy picked up a posting slip. ‘You might put Carrington in my flight, when he arrives. That would give us two complete flights, and I could keep an eye on him until we see how he shapes. He’s due now.’

  ‘Judging from the particulars, we have of him, he’s likely be a difficult fellow to handle.’

  ‘As long as he doesn’t arrive with the idea of running the squadron I don’t mind,’ murmured Algy. He glanced at the clock. ‘You might start him in the right place by rapping his knuckles for reporting late.’

  ‘He’s not late yet.’

  ‘He will be in another minute, and if he comes by air, as I imagine he will, the muck up topsides will probably delay him. The weather’s getting worse. Hullo! What’s going on?’

  He hurried to the window as the roof vibrated with the roar of a low-flying aircraft.

  Biggles joined him.

  The vague shape of a Spitfire could just be seen through the rain, side-slipping so steeply that nothing short of a miracle could prevent it from hitting the ground, wing first. The miracle happened. Algy clutched at Biggles’s arm as the machine banked vertically ten feet above the turf and came to rest, nose to wind, on the tarmac.

  Biggles flushed and made for the door. ‘I don’t care who he is, but I’m not having that sort of thing here,’ he snapped.

  ‘I wouldn’t be in a hurry,’ advised Algy. ‘It might be Carrington.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ agreed Biggles, taking a cigarette from his case and tapping it on the lid. ‘Here he comes.’

  A small, hatless, leather-clad figure had detached itself from the machine, and was walking briskly towards the office. His flying jacket was too large, and flapped against thigh boots that were out of proportion to the wearer’s size.