Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade Page 4

  His orders were that he was to fly his Spitfire down to the new squadron as soon as weather permitted, and this had for some days been in accord with his humour; but in the circumstances he felt that the sooner he shook the dust — or rather, the mud — of such an ungrateful squadron off his boots, the better, regardless of meteorological conditions.

  He would, he decided, proceed forthwith to Rawlham, Kent, and report to the Squadron Leader with the curious name. His machine was wheeled out and the engine started.

  Angus, clapping an old regimental glengarry on the back of his head, as was his habit, tore across the aerodrome into the air, where he found conditions worse than he expected. Still, by flying low he expected no difficulty in finding his way, so he struck off to the south, intending to pick up his landmarks after crossing the Thames.

  Before ten minutes had passed he was regretting his hasty decision to start, for visibility became so bad that he had to admit to himself that he had no idea of his position. Once he found a road that he thought he knew, only to overshoot it, and presently found himself racing over a bleak country-side that he could not remember seeing before.

  However, more by luck than judgment he found the Thames, and sped on more hopefully.

  For half an hour he tore round searching for some landmark that would give him his bearings, growing more and more angry at his own folly. Once he nearly collided with a row of poplars, and on another occasion almost took the roof off a cottage. It was the dark silhouette of a church tower flashing past his wing-tip that decided him to run no further risks, but to come down and make inquiries about his position on the ground.

  ‘Losh, I’ve had enough of this,’ he grunted, as he throttled back and side-slipped down into a pasture. It was a praiseworthy effort to land in extremely difficult conditions, and would have succeeded but for an unlooked-for circumstance.

  Just as the machine was finishing its run a dark object appeared in the gloom ahead, an object which, at the last moment, he recognized for an animal of the bovine species.

  Having no desire to collide with an unoffending cow — more for his own sake than that of the animal — he kicked out his foot and swerved violently. There was a shuddering jar as the undercarriage twisted under the excess strain, and the machine slid to a standstill flat on the bottom of its fuselage, like a toboggan at the end of its run.

  ‘Nae sae quid,’ he muttered savagely, looking round for the cause of the accident, and noting with surprise that the animal had not altered its position. This struck him as odd, and he gazed at it curiously, wondering what it was doing, for it was certainly moving.

  Then he saw that it was tearing up clods of earth with its front teeth, occasionally kneeling to thrust at the ground with a pair of vicious-looking horns.

  An unpleasant sinking feeling caught him in the pit of the stomach as he stared, now in alarm, at the ferocious-looking beast, which, at that moment, as if to confirm his suspicions gave vent to a savage bellow. He felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the creature for a bull — and it was evidently not one of the passive variety, either.

  Now Angus had many accomplishments, but bull-fighting was not among them, so he looked round in a panic for some haven of retreat; but all he could see was the enveloping misty rain. What lay outside his range of vision, and how far away he was from the nearest hedge, he had no idea. He remembered once reading in a book that the sound of the human voice will often quell the most savage beast, and it struck him that the moment was opportune to test the truth of this assertion. Never did an experiment fail more dismally. Hardly had he opened his lips when the bull, with a resentful bellow, charged.

  The cockpit of an aeroplane is designed to stand many stresses and strains, but not the head-on charge of an infuriated bull. Angus was well aware of it. He knew only too well that the fabric that covered his fuselage could no more withstand the onslaught of the bull’s horns than an egg can deflect the point of an automatic drill. Just what the result would be he did not wait to see, for as the bull loomed up like an express train on one side of the machine he evacuated it on the other.

  It must, be admitted that Angus, in spite of his big athletic frame, disliked physical exertion. In particular he disliked running, a thing not uncommon amongst men who normally judge their speed in miles per minute rather than miles per hour. But on this occasion he covered the ground so fast that the turf seemed to fly under his feet. Where he was going he did not know, nor did he pause to speculate; his one idea at that moment was to put the greatest distance between himself and the bull in the shortest possible time.

  The direction he chose might have been worse. On the other hand, it might have been better. Had he gone a little more to the right he would have found it necessary to run a good quarter of a mile before he reached the hedge that bounded the field. As it was, he ran only a hundred yards before coming to the boundary, which at that point took the form of a barn with a shallow but extremely slimy pond by the side of it. Such was his speed, however, that he saw only the barn, and, the first indication he had of the presence of the pond was a clutching sensation round the ankles. This at once arrested the progress of the lower part of his body without affecting the upper part. The result was inevitable. He hurtled forward like a diver taking a header from a spring board.

  He came up in a panic, striking out madly, thinking that he was deep water; but finding that he could stand — for the water was not more than three feet deep — he staggered to his feet and floundered to the far side. Having reached it he looked round for the bull, taking the opportunity of unwinding from his neck a festoon of water-weed. The animal was nowhere in sight, so after pondering the scene, gloomily for a moment or two while he recovered his breath, he made his way past the barn to what was obviously the farm-house. Standing amid a depressed-looking company of pigs and fowls he knocked on the door.

  It was opened almost at once, somewhat to his suprise, by a very pretty girl of about eighteen, who eyed him with astonishment. When he made his predicament known he was invited inside and introduced to her mother, who was busy with a saucepan at a big old-fashioned range.

  Within a short time he was sitting in front of the fire, draped in an old overcoat, watching his uniform being dried and dipping pieces of bread into a bowl of soup. He felt some qualms about his machine, but he did not feel inclined to investigate, for he hesitated to lay himself open to ridicule by telling his hostesses the details of his encounter with the bovine fury in the meadow.

  How long he would have remained in the chair is a matter for conjecture, for the fire was warm and he felt disinclined to stir, but a knock on the door announced the arrival of what was to furnish the second half of his adventure that day. Had he been more observant he might have noted that the girl blushed slightly; but he was looking towards the door, so it was with distinct astonishment and dour disapproval that he observed the entrance of a dark, dapper, and undeniably good-looking pilot officer in Royal Air Force uniform.

  The pilot officer, who was very young, stopped dead when he saw Angus; his brow grew dark with suspicion and he shot an inquiring glance at the girl, who hastened to explain the circumstances. It soon transpired that he was a French Canadian, and the girl’s fiancé; the explanation mollified him, but it was clear that he was by no means happy at finding another airman in what he regarded as his own particular retreat. Indeed, he made this so apparent that Angus felt embarrassed.

  However, they entered into conversation, although this was not as easy as it should have been, for the Canadian spoke better French than English, while Angus knew no French, and his English was not only impregnated with a Highland brogue, but was punctuated with words not found in the Oxford Dictionary. Still, Angus learned that his new acquaintance was named Armand, a name which, at his unit, had been naturalized first to Almond, and then to ‘Nutty’.

  It appeared that he, too, was in a rather difficult position. Three days previously, while waiting to be posted to a service squadron,
he had, without permission, left the depot in a borrowed aircraft on an unofficial visit to his fiancée. While enjoying her hospitality he had been caught by the bad weather. When the time had come for him to leave, flying was absolutely out of the question, so he had done the only thing he could do in the circumstances; he had rung up the depot and informed the irate Officer in charge that he had been compelled to make a forced landing, but would return as soon as possible. But when the weather did not improve he had been ordered back anyway. So, leaving his aircraft — a communication squadron Tiger-Moth — where he had landed it, which was in a field rather larger than the one Angus had chosen, he had started back to the depot by road. But finding the weather slightly better and likely to clear before nightfall, he had now returned to fetch the machine.

  Angus, in turn, related how he had become lost in the rain, and had landed with disastrous results to his undercarriage. He was, he stated, on his way to 666 Squadron at Rawlham.

  The Canadian crossed to the window to regard the weather, which was now certainly improving but was by no means settled.

  ‘I will fly you to the squadron,’ he declared.

  Angus started. Like many pilots he had a curious antipathy to being flown by a stranger, and he said as much. But as the afternoon wore on, and Nutty’s frown grew deeper, he began to understand the position. The Canadian, who was evidently of a jealous disposition, was loath to leave him there with his girl; yet he, Nutty, was expected back at the depot, and further delay might get him into more trouble than he was already in.

  So, rather than cause any friction between the lovers, Angus began seriously to contemplate Nutty’s suggestion.

  The weather was still dull, with low clouds scudding across the sky at a height of only two or three hundred feet; but it had stopped raining, and light patches in the clouds showed where the sun was trying to break through. In any case, Angus knew that he would soon have to let the squadron know where he was or they would be sending out search-parties to look for him, for his departure from the north would have been signalled. So, rather against his better judgment, he accepted Nutty’s invitation. He thanked his hostesses for their hospitality, resumed his uniform, and accompanied his companion to a rather delapidated Tiger-Moth that stood dripping moisture in the corner of a long field.

  When his eyes fell on the machine he instantly regretted his decision, but there was no going back. More than ever did he regret leaving the comfortable fireside when his pilot, who handled the joystick like a pump-handle, took off with a stone-cold engine in a steep climbing turn. A minute later the machine was swallowed up in the murk. The period immediately following was a nightmare that Angus could never afterwards recall without a shudder, for Nutty, quite lightheartedly, seemed to make a point of taking every possible risk that presented itself. It became more and more obvious that he was either a novice of little experience, or else he had become overconfident from long practice — Angus wasn’t sure which. However, he managed to get up through the clouds, when he at once set off on a course that Angus felt certain would never take them to Rawlham.

  ‘Hi! You’re going too far east!’ he shouted in the pilot’s ear. Nutty shrugged his shoulders expressively. ‘Who flies — me or you?’ he roared.

  Angus’s lips set in a straight line. ‘This isna’ going to be funny,’ he told himself bitterly. ‘The fool will unload me on the wrong side of the Channel if I don’t watch him.’ He could see Nutty’s lips moving, as if he were singing to himself.

  Angus’s lips also moved — but he was not singing.

  ‘Hi!’ he shouted again presently. ‘D’ye ken whaur you’re going?’

  The Canadian looked both hurt and surprised. ‘Rawlham, you said, mon ami.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re going the wrong way. You’re getting too far south.’ Angus pointed desperately towards the north.

  ‘Non... non, non,’ argued Nutty emphatically.

  Angus’s expression became grim. He felt like hitting the man on the head, but as there was no dual-control joystick in his cockpit there was nothing he could do except sit still and fume, deploring the folly that had led him into such a plight.

  Meanwhile Nutty started to explore the sky in all directions, until not even Angus had the remotest idea of their position. But the Canadian evidently had some secret method of navigation, for he suddenly throttled back and, turning with a smile, pointed downwards.

  ‘Rawlham!’ he called cheerfully.

  Angus stared unbelievingly, for he felt convinced that they were not within twenty miles of the place.

  Nutty, without any more ado, jammed the joystick forward and roared earthward.

  Angus turned white and clutched at the sides of the cockpit, prepared for the worst.

  There was no altimeter in his cockpit, and it looked as if the pilot was going straight into the ground. To his infinite relief, not to say astonishment, the machine levelled out at about two hundred feet over an aerodrome. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, for he was prepared to land anywhere, and be thankful for the opportunity.

  It was nearly dark when the machine touched its wheels on the wet turf near the edge of the aerodrome. In fact, they were rather too near it, for the Moth finished its run with its nose in a ditch and its tail cocked high in the air.

  Angus got out of the machine almost as quickly as he had left his Spitfire when the bull had charged it; but as soon as he was clear he surveyed the crash dispassionately. He was still gazing at it when his attention was suddenly attracted by the curious antics of his companion. With a loud cry of horror he had leapt to the ground and was fumbling with a revolver. For a moment Angus did not understand, and his first impression was that the unhappy pilot was going to shoot himself in a fit of remorse for having crashed his machine. But then he saw that he was mistaken.

  ‘Losh, mon, what ails ye ?’ he inquired coldly.

  ‘Voilà!’ Nutty pointed, and following the outstretched finger, Angus turned stiff with shock. Dimly through the darkening mist, not fifty yards away, stood an aeroplane. It did not need a black cross on the side of its fuselage to establish its identity. The machine, beyond all doubt and question, was a Heinkel.

  Angus turned to his companion in white-hot fury. ‘You fush-faced fool,’ he snarled. I said ye were off your course. You’ve landed us in France. These are Germans.’

  Nutty paid no attention. With praiseworthy alacrity he was performing the last rites over his machine. He raised the revolver, and at point-blank range sent a shot into the petrol-tank. A tongue of flame sprang out, and within a minute the machine was a blazing inferno.

  Then, side by side, they ran for their lives. There were shouts behind them, but they did not stop. They ran until they reached a wood, into which they plunged, gasping for breath, and then paused to consider the position. It was just about as unpleasant as it could be. The place was dripping with moisture and it was bitterly cold. Angus’s teeth were already chattering, for his uniform had been by no means dry when he had put it on at the farm-house. There was nothing they could do about it, so they pressed on into the heart of the wood, where they crouched until it was pitch dark, hardly speaking a word.

  Angus was still livid with rage. His companion apologized profusely, and declared in a hollow voice that he was ‘desolated’. Finally, moved by a common impulse, they returned to the edge of the wood and found themselves in a narrow lane.

  Suddenly Nutty started. He clutched Angus by the arm. ‘The Heinkel,’ he muttered. We will capture it. I will yet fly you to Rawlham!’

  Angus uttered a low, hoarse laugh. ‘Ye will, ha? Not on your life. Ye’re not flying me anywhere.’

  Nevertheless, there seemed to be something in Nutty’s idea, and he regarded him with a new respect. He had no intention of letting him fly him to Rawlham — or anywhere else for that matter; but if they could manage to get hold of the machine they might yet escape. He might even reach the squadron that night.

  ‘Come on, we may as well try it,’ he ann
ounced presently.

  They set off in the direction of the aerodrome. It was nervy work, and more than once they had to crouch shivering in the bottom of a ditch or in soaking undergrowth, while unseen pedestrians passed them in the darkness.

  With the stealth of Red Indians on the warpath they crept towards their objective. In his heart Angus felt certain that by this time the machine would have been put in a hangar, from which it would be impossible to extract it without attracting attention. If that were so, then it would be the end of things.

  As they slowly neared the spot where they had last seen the German aircraft, a low murmur of voices reached them from the direction of Nutty’s crashed Moth, and once Angus thought he heard a laugh. The crash, it seemed, was amusing. He consoled himself with the thought that had the position been reversed he himself might have laughed; as it was, he did not try to raise a smile.

  Hoping all the officers of the German squadron had collected round the crash, they made a wide detour to avoid it, and presently came upon the Heinkel almost in the same position as they had last seen it. What was more important, not a soul was in sight.

  Now that the moment for action bad arrived, Angus felt curiously calm; his companion, on the other hand, was fairly panting with excitement.

  ‘You stay here while I get in the cockpit and start up.’

  ‘Not on your life,’ declared Angus warmly. ‘If anyone is going to fly that machine it’s me.’

  Nutty was inclined to argue, but Angus showed his teeth and clenched his fists. This had the desired result. He was about to climb into the machine when from somewhere near at hand appeared a mongrel terrier, bristling and growling in his throat. A voice spoke. At the same time a head appeared above the edge of the cockpit.

  There was no doubt about it. A man was sitting in the machine. As the awful truth burst upon him a groan broke from Nutty’s lips.