Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade Read online

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ put in Biggles quickly. ‘I’ll see that he knows how you got your machine down without breaking it.’ He caught the Flight Sergeant’s eye and shook his head slightly. He had seen the shadow of death too often not to recognize it when he saw it. He bent lower. What happened, Graves?’ he asked gently.

  A puzzled look clouded the dying pilot’s eyes. ‘I don’t understand it — sir,’ he breathed. ‘It must have been — an accident. He — got me. Am I going — topsides?’

  ‘Not you,’ declared Biggles firmly. ‘What don’t you understand? What was an accident?’

  ‘It was a — Hurricane, sir. He was — on my — tail.’

  Biggles started. ‘You can’t mean that!’

  ‘I saw him — shoot. I wasn’t — ready —’

  Biggles’s face was now dead white. He went down on both knees. ‘Are you absolutely sure of this?’

  ‘There couldn’t be — any mistake — sir.’

  ‘Was it one of your own machines?’

  ‘No, sir. I saw his — number.’ The wounded man’s voice was now so low that it was hard to catch.

  ‘What was the number ? Try to tell me.’

  ‘K-4 — on cowling. Why is it — getting dark — so early?’ The voice rambled on incoherently.

  The Medical Officer and two stretcher bearers arrived at the double. The doctor moved Biggles firmly aside. ‘All right, leave this to me,’ he ordered.

  Biggles stood up. For a moment he stood looking down at the pale face. Then, biting his lip, he turned away and walked slowly to the Hurricane. A glance showed where the bullets had struck the machine just behind the cockpit. He turned to Algy who, with several other officers, had followed him.

  ‘Did you hear what that boy said?’ he inquired in a hard voice.

  Algy nodded. ‘You mean — about a Hurricane shooting him down?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t believe it though. I can’t believe that any pilot would do a thing like that — even a Nazi. If it happened as Graves described, then it must have been an accident.’

  ‘It was no accident.’ Ginger spoke.

  Biggles swung round to face him. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘That same skunk took a shot at me.’

  Biggles stared incredulously. ‘Are you certain?’

  Ginger shrugged his shoulders. ‘I felt bullets hitting my machine, looked round, and saw a Hurricane on my tail. There wasn’t another machine inside effective range at the time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report this at once?’ Biggles’s voice was crisp.

  ‘To tell you the truth, sir. I forgot about it, although no doubt I should have remembered it later on. Things happened so fast in the dogfight that it went out of my mind.’

  ‘Could you recognize the machine if you saw it again?’

  ‘Easily. I saw the squadron identification marks on the engine cowling.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘K-4.’

  The last vestige of blood drained from Biggles’s face. His eyes glittered frostily. ‘Did you hear Graves mention that number?’

  ‘I didn’t hear Graves mention anything — I’d gone to fetch the M.O.’

  Biggles looked slowly round the stern faces about him. ‘You heard that, gentlemen? The same sort of mistake couldn’t have happened twice in a few minutes. A Hun must have been flying that machine.’

  ‘Or a Fifth-Columnist,’ suggested Tug Carrington.

  ‘Same thing,’ murmured Tex O’Hara, who had just arrived.

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said grimly. ‘I shall have to report this to Headquarters — but —’ He glanced at his watch and then at the sky. ‘There’s a chance that K-4 went on with the bombers that got through, in which case it will come back with them. That Hurricane must be one of the machines we lost in France when we were there. In that case I imagine it would come over with the bombers, and pretend to be harassing them, so that watchers on the coast wouldn’t suspect anything, We’ve got to find this rat. I’ll take responsibility for what happens. No one will shoot unless I fail. If for any reason I have to fall out, Flight Commanders will carry on; but whatever happens we’ve got to get that machine — if not now, then tomorrow, or the next day. All right! Let’s get in the air.’

  There was a general rush for the machines.

  Once in the air Biggles headed south, for he knew that it was no use chasing the machines that had got through the fighter zone; his only chance now was to intercept them near the Channel on the way home. Looking round he saw that the wind and mounting sun had between them cleared the sky somewhat, but there was still a fair amount of loose cumulus about and, far overhead, a thin layer of feathery cirrus.

  By the time he had reached the sea his altimeter needle was on the twenty-thousand mark, and he began a methodical patrol of the coastline, watching the sky to the north, the direction from which the returning raiders must come.There was, he realized, a chance that they would go home by another route, but he felt that as they had already been badly mauled, they would take the shortest way to safety as soon as they had dropped their bombs.

  For ten minutes he maintained the patrol, and was just beginning to fear that his quest would fail, when above, and to the north-west, he saw a scattered group of machines heading southward. They were mere specks, and against the background of cirrus they looked like flies crawling across a white ceiling. Disregarding his squadron, knowing that it would follow anyway, he swung round in a steep climbing turn, his oxygen apparatus in action, pursuing a line of flight that would intercept the unknown aircraft. Studying their silhouettes as they became more distinct, he presently made them out to be four Dornier 17 twin-engine bombers, a Junkers 86, and a Heinkel 112 single-seater fighter.

  The Hurricane was not with them. However, he had no intention of allowing the machines to escape if he could prevent it, so he settled down to the pursuit. He knew that the enemy pilots had seen him from the way they altered course in an attempt to evade combat; but the Spitfire was faster, and Biggles’s lips became a thin, bloodless line as the distance between them shortened.

  He had nearly drawn within range when a Hurricane suddenly appeared on the scene, close behind the raiders; where it came from he did not see, for his eyes were on the enemy machines, but his muscles tightened as they lighted on the new-comer, which began weaving about behind the bombers as if it were attacking them.

  A cold smile, bitter as arctic sunshine, settled on Biggles’s face as he watched, for the pretence was almost childish and would not have deceived any airman of experience.

  The Hurricane pilot was playing his part well enough, but the bombers were letting him down by completely ignoring him, whereas, had the Hurricane been what it pretended to be, the gunners would have been in action; moreover, there were times when the Hurricane and the Heinkel were close together, yet the German fighter made no attempt to drive off the British machine. Looking down, Biggles saw that they were still a few miles inside the coast-line. Some scattered archie bursts appeared near the raiders, but faded out quickly as the Spitfire closed in.

  Biggles ignored the bombers — he felt that he could safely leave them to the others. In any case he had no interest in them. He concentrated entirely on the Hurricane, which, to his intense satisfaction, apparently confident of its immunity, now came towards him. He watched it closely, with cold, dispassionate eyes, trying to make out the number on its nose. He could see that there was a number, a white squadron identification symbol, but the machine, by constantly changing its course, made it hard to read.

  ‘Let’s see if two can play at fox,’ murmured Biggles softly to himself, and then began to turn away as if he intended to attack the bombers. But his eyes did not leave the Hurricane for an instant. No sooner had he turned than it swept across his rear, and he knew that his ruse was successful. ‘So I’m to be the next victim, am I?’ he grated. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  Slowly he turned still further towards the bo
mbers, and then showed his teeth in a mirthless smile as the Hurricane pilot dropped his nose and tore down on his tail. ‘Not so fast,’ he grunted, and whirled like a flash of light.

  The Hurricane, unready for so sudden a move, sheered away, but not before Biggles had seen distinctly the markings on its engine cowling. They seemed to blaze like a neon sign, and his lips parted as they murmured ‘K-4’.

  It was all he wanted to know. With a swift, savage movement of his arm he thrust the joystick forward for speed, and then shot up steeply in a climbing turn that brought him alongside his objective. As his nose came round, bringing his guns in line, he could see the face in the other cockpit staring at him. A suspicion that something was wrong may have occurred to the Hurricane pilot, for the face suddenly disappeared and the machine started to bank away.

  Calmly, but very deliberately, Biggles brought his guns to bear, and fired one of the longest bursts he had ever fired in his life. For a full eight seconds he held it, held it while his eight guns poured out their stream of bullets, raking the Hurricane from end to end. He could see pieces being ripped off the machine under that fearful storm of lead, and the sight filled him with a satisfaction unusual in such circumstances.

  He had no doubt what the result would be. Nor was he mistaken. The machine fell away on its port wing; the nose swung down and it went into a tight spin. He followed it down to make sure. But there was no sham. The Hurricane continued its spin, to crash finally on open country behind the Downs. As it struck the ground it went to pieces in a shower of debris.

  Not until then did the dreadful truth of what he had done really come home to him. He felt suddenly sick in his stomach. What if he had made a mistake? What if —?

  The suspense was more than he could bear. Side-slipping steeply to lose height more quickly, he went lower, and flattened out over the short turf near the crash. The moment his machine had come to a stop he jumped down and began running towards the wreckage, trying to reach it before a number of soldiers who were converging on the spot. He did so, and raising his arm, ordered the troops back.

  ‘All right, you fellows, keep clear!’ he cried loudly. ‘There may be danger here.... I don’t mean you,’ he added quickly, as he noticed an officer, an infantry captain, among them.

  ‘Poor fellow,’ murmured the officer brokenly as he joined Biggles. ‘It’s one of our boys.’

  ‘It’s certainly one of our machines,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘You might have a look to see who was flying it.’

  ‘But I don’t understand what you mean —’

  ‘Take a look – then perhaps you will.’

  Biggles heard the captain catch his breath sharply. Great heavens,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘it’s a Jerry – at least, he’s in Jerry uniform.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ he sneered. ‘He got one of our lads this morning, so he’s got what was coming to him – if that’s any comfort to you. You’d better get your fellows away and keep this to yourself. I imagine there’ll be a Court of Inquiry, so you might let me have your name. Your evidence will be wanted. Meanwhile I’ll leave this for you to look after.’

  Deep in thought Biggles walked slowly back to his machine.

  ‘So this is war!’ he brooded.

  Overhead, seven Spitfires were circling, waiting.

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  CHAPTER 7

  CUTHBERT COMES — AND GOES

  ONE of the strangest but most characteristic features of war flying is the manner in which comedy and tragedy so often go hand in hand. Overnight, a practical joke may set a pilots’ mess rocking with mirth; by dawn, the perpetrator of it may have gone for a long spell in hospital — if not for ever. But the joke will persist to perpetuate his memory, and those who tell it, and those who hear it, will laugh and laugh again, honest, spontaneous laughter — for tears must find no place in the eyes of those who hunt the skies. They know that Old Man Death stands near their elbow, but it does not worry them. They never allude to it except in fun, for this is the only philosophy for a war pilot. Thus was it at 666 (Fighter) Squadron, now generally known throughout the Fighter Command as Biggles’s Squadron.

  The weather remained indifferent, but the Spitfires were in the air most of the day, the pilots snatching short rests as opportunity occurred, perhaps while their machines were being refuelled. At such times they usually foregathered in the ante-room, lounging, probably with refreshment in their hands or at their elbows. Such a party was now in progress. Algy Lacey, in charge of A Flight, was there, with Ginger Hebblethwaite, his right-hand pilot. Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie, monocle in eye, reclined on a settee, nibbling an egg sandwich. Near him, against the mantelpiece, a glass of barley water on the shelf, Tug Carrington balanced himself on his toes while he regarded with undisguised disfavour a glass of beer that was being handed by a mess waiter to Tex O’Hara, who had just come in. He was still in flying kit, but the upper part was thrown open to display a scarlet and black striped football shirt — a garment for which he ppeared to have a strong attachment.

  Using his left hand to emphasize his remarks (the right being occupied with refreshment) he was describing a combat in which he had just been engaged.

  ‘He turned, and I turned,’ he continued. ‘And there he was, stone cold in my sights. I pressed the button’ — his forehead wrinkled in a grimace of disgust — ‘and nothing happened. My guns had packed up. Say! What do you know about that? Well, it wasn’t their fault,’ he resumed. ‘There wasn’t anything in ‘em. First time in my life, I guess, that I’ve run out of slugs without knowing it. It was nearly the last. Luckily for me the Hun had had enough, and beat it like a bat out of a chimney. He’s probably still wondering why I didn’t go after him Well, I’ve got to hand it to him — that guy certainly could fly. Mebbe—’

  He broke off, and all eyes turned to the swing doors as they were pushed open and a stranger entered. A single thin ring en his sleeves proclaimed him to be a Pilot Officer, and those present who knew that a reserve officer had been posted to the unit assumed the new-comer to be he. Naturally they regarded him with interest, and — it must be admitted — without enthusiasm, for he was little more than a youth, but unusually fat, with a round, ruddy-complexioned face from which peered two small twinkling eyes. His hair was long and lank, and knew no parting.

  He did not enter the ante-room as one would expect a new offrcer to enter — that is, with a certain amount of respect. There was nothing in the slightest degree respectful about his manner. What he did was to fling the doors wide and, holding them open with outstretched arms, cry in a shrill voice, ‘Any more for Marble Arch?’ He then emitted a series of sounds that formed an excellent imitation of a train starting, punctuated with the usual slamming of doors.

  The rumble of the departing train died away as the stranger advanced across the room and seated himself at a card table. But the performance was not finished, as the startled spectators were to discover.

  ‘Two to Waterloo!’ he cried sharply.

  He followed this instantly by bringing down his elbow smartly on the table, at the same time letting his fist fall forward so that his knuckles also struck the wood. The noise produced, which can only be described as ‘clonk-clonk, clonk-clonk’, was precisely the sound made in a railway booking-office by the instrument used for punching the date on a ticket.

  Having completed these items from his repertoire, the newcomer sat back with a smile and awaited the applause he evidently expected. There was, in fact, a general titter, for the imitations had been well executed.

  Tug, whose nerves were a bit on edge, did not join in, however. He was tired, and the sudden disturbance irritated him. He merely stared at the round, laughing face with faint surprise and dour disapproval.

  ‘What do you think you are — a railway station?’ he asked coldly.

  The other nodded. ‘I’m not always a railway, though. Sometimes I’m an aeroplane.’

  ‘Is that so?’ put in Tex slow
ly.

  Another titter ran round the room and the stranger rose.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘sometimes I’m a Spitfire.’

  ‘A Spitfire!’ gasped Bertie, dropping his monocle in his agitation.

  The other nodded. ‘I can do any sort of aeroplane I like, with any number of engines, but I like the Spitfire best. Watch me.’

  Forthwith he gave a brilliant sound-imitation of a Spitfire being started up. With vibrating lips producing the roar of the engine, he ran round the room with his arms — which were evidently intended to be the planes of the machine — outstretched. He ‘landed’ neatly in an open space, and then taxied realistically back to his seat.

  As the ‘engine’ backfired and then died away with a final swish-swoosh there was a shout of laughter in which everybody joined.

  ‘Pretty good,’ admitted Algy Lacey. ‘By the way, what’s your name?’

  ‘Mooney — Cuthbert Mooney — but don’t blame me for that. Year of birth, 1921. Educated, Harrow. Occupation, inventor. Religion—’

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ interrupted Algy. ‘You won’t mind my saying that it is my considered opinion that you are slightly off your rocker?’

  Cuthbert raised his eyebrows. ‘Only slightly? My dear sir, you do me less than justice. My father is firmly convinced, and never fails to tell me, that I am absolutely balmy. At school they called me Looney Mooney.’

  ‘They were probably right,’ nodded Algy. ‘We shall no doubt think the same when we know you better. Did I hear you say that you were an inventor?’

  Cuthbert laid a finger on his lips. ‘Ssh!’ he breathed, glancing round furtively. ‘Spies may be listening. Presently I will show you some of the inventions I have produced in readiness for my debut in a service squadron.’

  Algy started. ‘Don’t you go messing about with our machines,’ he said, frowning.

  Cuthbert looked pained. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,’ he declared. ‘But wait till you see some of my —’