Satisfied that he had upheld the traditions of 666 Squadron, he leapt lightly to the ground, and with a_
smile on his face advanced towards the members of the Hurricane squadron.
One stood a little apart from the others, and, observing his expression, Ginger's face lost something of its gaiety and acquired a faint look of anxiety.
The isolated officer, who Ginger now saw wore on his arm the rings of a Flight Lieutenant, took a pace towards him. `Who are you?' he barked, in such a peremptory voice that
Ginger jumped. The greeting was unusual, to say the least. `Why - er - I'm Hebblethwaite of 666,' replied Ginger. `Say "sir" when you speak to me! I am in command here during the temporary absence of Squadron Leader Wilkinson.' `Sorry, sir,' replied Ginger, abashed and astonished. `What do you mean by acting like a madman over my aerodrome ?'
Ginger blinked and looked helplessly at the other officers. `Not like a madman, sir, I hope.'
`Don't argue with me! I say your flying is outrageous - a wanton risk of government property.'
`But I —'
Silence ! Consider yourself under open arrest. Report your name and unit to the Duty Officer and then return instantly to your own squadron. I shall refer the matter to Wing Headquarters. You will hear further from your C.O.'
Ginger stiffened and swallowed hard.
`Very good, sir,' he muttered between clenched teeth.
He saluted briskly, reported to the Squadron office, and then returned to the tarmac.
Several officers regarded him sympathetically. One of them winked and inclined his head.
Ginger halted near him. 'What's the name of that Dismal Desmond ?' he asked softly. '
What's biting him, anyway? Has he had a shock of some sort, or is it just plain nasty-mindedness?'
reckon he was just born like it,' murmured the ,other. `They must have fed him on crabapples when he was a kid. Watch out, though - he's acting C.O.'
`What's his name ?'
`Bitmore.'
`Then he's bit a bit more than he can chew this time,' punned Ginger viciously. 'How many Huns has he got?' `None that I know of.'
`Then how did he get those rings on his sleeve?'
'Chasing pupils round the tarmac at a flying training school.'
`Well, this isn't one and he isn't chasing me,' snapped Ginger. 'My crowd'll show him where he steps off if he's going to try this sort of stuff. Give your blokes my con-dolences. Cheerio.'
`Cheer-oh, laddie.'
Ginger climbed into his machine, took off, and raced back to Rawlham. He parked his Spitfire in its usual place and marched stiffly towards the Squadron Office. On the way he met a party of officers, including Algy Lacey, his Flight Commander, and Lord Bertie Lissie, in charge of B Flight.
`Stand aside,' he requested curtly as they moved to intercept him. 'I'm under arrest.'
Algy stopped dead. 'You're what?' he gasped.
Ùnder arrest'
Àrrest my foot! What's the game?'
`No game - it's a fact. I dropped in on 701 Squadron this morning, the Hurricane crowd over at Dewton, and gave them the once-over before I landed. When I got down, a cross-grained skunk named Bitmore, who, apparently, is acting C.O., ticked me off properly and put me under open arrest.'
`Your show must have given: him a rush of blood to the brain.'
`Looks that way. Anyhow, he's reporting me to Wing.'
Algy frowned and looked at Bertie. 'The fellow must be a scallywag,' he muttered. 'What are we going to do about it? We can't have blighters like this throwing their weight about; life won't be worth living. Think of what the poor chaps in his own squadron must go through. Quite apart from Ginger, I think we ought to do something for them.'
Bertie fingered his wisp of moustache. 'Absolutely,' he declared. 'Absolutely.'
Ì tell you what,' went on Algy, and drawing Bertie to one side he whispered in his ear.
Then he turned again to Ginger.
Àll right, laddie,' he said, 'you'd better go and report to Toddy. You've had orders, and if you don't obey them it'll only make things worse.'
Ginger departed in the direction of the Squadron Office, while Algy and Bertie walked quickly back towards their quarters.
Some time later two Spitfires appeared over the boundary of the Hurricane aerodrome at Dewton; and to the officers lounging in front of the mess it was at once apparent that neither of the pilots was adept in the art of flying. Twice they circled the aerodrome, making flat turns and generally committing those faults that turn the hair of an instructor prematurely grey. Twice they attempted to land. The first time they undershot, and opening up their engines at the last moment, narrowly escaped disaster as they staggered across the front of the sheds.
The second time they overshot hopelessly and, skimming the trees on the far side of the aerodrome, skidded round to a down-wind landing. The spectators wiped the perspiration from their faces, while the ambulance raced round trying to judge the exact spot on which the crash would occur.
The first of the two machines made its third attempt to get in, and a cry of horror arose as the Spitfire drifted along on a course dead in line with the wind-stocking pole. At the last moment the pilot appeared to see it, swerved, missed it by an inch, and flopped down in a landing that would have disgraced a first-soloist. The second machine followed, grazing the mess roof. Together they taxied an erratic course to the hangars.
Two pilots, clad in brand new flying kit and crash-helmets, climbed out of the machines and walked towards the little crowd of officers and airmen who had gathered for the fun.
Slightly in front of them Flight Lieutenant Bitmore stood waiting. He was obviously in his element. Anger and disgust were predominant on his face.
Come here,' he snarled.
Obediently the two officers altered their course towards him.
What sort of an exhibition do you call that?' greeted Bit-more, his lips curling in a sneer.
`Do you call yourselves pilots ?' He appeared to choke for a moment, and then went on: '
You're not fit to pilot a perambulator down a promenade, either of you. A steam-roller driver would have put up a better show. I've never seen such an exhibition of supreme inability in my life. You make me —'
His voice trailed away to a silence that could be felt as the nearer of the two recipients of his invective slowly unfastened his flying kit, disclosing the uniform of an Air Commodore. The other had followed his example, and stood arrayed as a Wing Commander.
The Air Commodore eyed the Flight Lieutenant speculatively. 'Have you quite finished?
' he inquired in a voice that made the spectators shiver. 'Because, if you have, I will begin. What is your name?'
Bitmore, sir.'
`Bitmore ? Ha, I might have known it. I've heard of yip Who is in command at this station?'
There was a titter from the assembled officers, but it faded swiftly as the Air Commodore's eyes flashed on them.
Ì – I am, sir, temporarily,' stammered Bitmore.
`You! You tell me that you are in command of this squadron! How dare you take it upon yourself to criticize my flying. How long have you been in command?'
Well, sir —'
The Air Commodore thrust his chin forward. 'Don't "well" me – answer my question.'
`Two days, sir.'
Àha! Two days, eh? And you think that qualifies you to criticize officers who have learnt their flying in the field? called here for petrol, and this is the reception I get.'
Ì'm sorry, sir.'
`You will be – yes, you will be, I promise you. Get my tanks filled up and have both these machines craned. Come along, jump to it. We've no time to waste.'
Bitmore, pale and trembling, lost no time in obeying the order; and the airmen needed no urging. They set about the machines, and in ten minutes the two Spitfires were refuelled.
Half an hour later they looked as if they had only just left the workshops of the makers, but not until they were completely
satisfied did the Air Commodore and his aide-de-camp climb into their seats.
Ì shall bear your name in mind,' was the Air Commodore's parting shot at Bitmore, as he taxied out and took of
A quarter of an hour later both machines landed at Rawl-ham. The two pilots leapt to the ground and, to the great surprise of Flight Sergeant Smyth, ran round the back of the hangars to the officers' quarters. It struck the Flight Sergeant, from their actions as they ran, that they were both in pain.
They were; but not until they were in Algy's room and had discarded their borrowed raiment did the pseudo senior officers give way to their feelings. Algy lay on his bed and sobbed helplessly. Bertie, with the Wing Commander's tunic on the floor at his feet, sat on the bed with his face buried in his hands, making a peculiar gurgling noise.
`Poor blighter,' said Algy at last, wiping his face with a towel. 'He'll never be able to live that down as long as he lives. Right in front of the whole blinking squadron, too. Still, it served him right. He asked for it.'
By Jove ! If ever he finds out won't there be a lovely stink –if you see what I mean,'
chuckled Bertie, polishing his monocle.
But nothing happened, and by the next evening the incident was half forgotten.
Two days later a middle-aged officer, with a double row of medal ribbons on his breast, landed in a Hurricane at Rawl-ham and briskly towards the Squadron Office.
Biggles, who was working at his desk, looked up as the visitor entered. Instantly his face broke into a smile of welcome, and he sprang to "AS feet.
`Why, if it isn't Wilks!' he cried delightedly. You've got yourself back in harness again I see. Well, this is a surprise. What brings you here? Where are you stationed?'
Squadron Leader Wilkinson, D.S.O., shook hands warmly. Ì've just been given a new squadron – 701 – Hurricanes,' he announced. We're at Dewton, just over the way, so I hope we shall be seeing something of each other. I've been on a few days' leave – had to leave the squadron in charge of Bit-more, my senior Flight Lieutenant. I've got a fine lot of chaps so I hope we shall do Well.'
`Good – I hope you will. All the same, I reckon my Spitfires will get more than your Hurricanes.'
Squadron Leader Wilkinson, better known in the Service as `Wilks', laughed. ' Yes, it looks as if we're going to have our old Camels versus S.E.5's competitions again. But that isn't why I came to see you. A couple of days ago my squadron had a visit from two Air Ministry officers, an Air Commodore and a Wing Commander - awful nuisance, these people. When I came back I made some inquiries about it, and ran into Air Vice-Marshal Logan. He happened to mention to me that he was going to make a surprise inspection of your station some time today, so I thought I'd give you the tip.'
Biggles sprang to his feet. ' The dickens he is!' he cried. ' Thanks very much, Was. Dash these people and their surprise visits. They seem to think we've nothing else to do but sit and polish our machines.'
Wilks nodded sympathetically. ' Well, I shall have to be getting back - no, I can't stay to lunch. I'm very busy at the moment - thanks all the same.'
Ì shall have to get busy myself to put things in order for this inspection,' replied Biggles seriously. ' Cheer-oh, old boy, and thanks for giving me the tip. I hope we shall be seeing you again soon.'
' You certainly will,' answered Wilks, with a curious expression on his face.
Biggles lost no time in setting preparations on foot for the impending inspection.
Telephones rang, N.C.O.s chased airmen to various tasks, and all officers were ordered out of the mess to help clean their machines.
For two hours the aerodrome presented a scene of unparalleled activity, and by the end of that time everything was in apple-pie order. All ranks were then dismissed to their quarters with orders to parade in twenty minutes, properly dressed for inspection in their best uniforms.
`Stand by until further orders,' announced Biggles after he had carried out a thorough inspection of everything and everyone on the station.
An hour passed slowly, and nothing happened. Two hours passed, and still there was no sign of the Air Vice-Marshal.
Biggles began to fidget. 'This is a bit thick,' he muttered irritably. 'It must be after lunch time - we don't look like getting any. If I dismiss everybody you can bet your life that will be the moment the Air Vice-Marshal will arrive.' He was speaking to his Flight Commanders.
Slowly the afternoon wore on, but still there was no sign of the expected officer. Then, from a distance, came the drone of many aeroplanes flying in formation, and the personnel of the waiting squadron stiffened expectantly.
A puzzled expression came over Biggies's face. `What's all this?' he murmured wonderingly. 'If this is the Air Vice-Marshal, then he's —' He broke off, staring at the far side of the aerodrome as nine Hurricanes, flying low and in a beautiful tight vee formation, swept into sight.
Straight across the aerodrome they roared. When they were -about half-way, and immediately in front of the officers' mess, they dipped in ironical salute. A message bag fluttered to the ground from the leading machine. Then they disappeared from sight beyond the hangars, and the drone of their engines faded in the distance.
A sergeant ran Out, picked up the message, and carried it to Biggles. Under the curious eyes of the entire squadron he 'opened it. An extraordinary expression came over his face as he read the letter.
`Flight Commanders will report to my office immediately,' be mapped and, turning on his heels, walked on ahead.
Over his desk he faced them grimly. ' What do you make of that?' he inquired curtly, as he passed a sheet of paper.
The Flight Commanders read it together.
Ìt is requested that Flight Lieutenant Lacey and Lissie be asked how they like their eggs boiled.
`For and on behalf of the officers of Number 701 (Fighter) Squadron.
(Signed)
À. R. WILKINSON.
Squadron Leader.'
'My gosh,' gasped Algy. `What a put-over.'
`Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain what all this is about,' requested Biggles softly.
Algy acted as spokesman. Clearly and concisely he told the whole story, from Ginger's reprimand by Flight Lieutenant Bitmore up to the masquerade, and the admonition of that officer in front of the unit.
Biggles heard him out in silence.
Well,' he said slowly, there are two aspects of this affair. Wilks had evidently discovered the plot, and has taken this course to get his own back – the course that I, knowing him to be an offrcer of the finest type, would expect him to take. If he had reported the matter officially I need hardly tell you that you would have been court-martialled. As it is, he has taken an unofficial course. He has put it across us very neatly. At this moment every officer of 701 is probably convulsed with mirth at our expense. Every squadron in the service will know about it, and we shall never hear the last of it. What are we going to do
—'
He stopped abruptly as the door was flung open and Toddy dashed in.
Staff car just arrived, sir, with a load of officers from the Air Ministry,' he gasped. 'I think the Air Chief Marshal is with them.'
Biggles sprang to his feet. Get back to your stations,' he shouted, making for the door.
The Flight Commanders dashed back to their places.
`What a whizzer,' chortled Algy. 'It's a surprise inspection. Won't 701 be sick when they hear about it? The laugh's going to be on our side after all.'
Àbsolutely – yes, absolutely,' Murmured Bertie.
An hour later the offrcers and airmen of 666 Squadron were paraded, and addressed by the Air Chief Marshal.
Ìt gives me great pleasure,' he declared, to see a squadron in the field that can carry itself with such spotless effrciency. I have visited many units recently, but never have I seen one in which such praiseworthy zeal is so obviously displayed by all ranks. Your equipment is a credit to yourselves, your commanding officer, and the service. I shall make it my business to see
that the magnificent example you have set is made known to every other squadron by a special Air Ministry Weekly Order. Thank you.'
Biggles's face wore a broad smile as he returned from seeing the staff officers on their way.
À pretty slice of luck,' he laughed. 'The Air Marshal was So pleased that he asked me if there was any particular request I wished to make. I told aim that we should like to come off reserve and go on to first-line duties. He assures me that he'll attend to it right away.
As a matter of detail, I took the opportunity of mentioning Ginger's arrest to him, and he has promised to put things right with Wing.'
Bertie screwed his Monocle into his eye. `By Jove! That's Wonderful. Jolly sporting of him – if you see what I mean?'
CHAPTER 6
SO THIS IS WAR!
SQUADRON LEADER BIGGLESWORTH, in full flying kit, -stood outside his Squadron Office, his eyes on the rolling cloud-scape overhead, his ears alert to catch the first ring of the telephone, the signal that would send his squadron into the air. Toddy, the Station Adjutant, was sitting beside it. He was smoking a cigarette, quick, jerkily, often tapping it with his forefinger although there was no ash to shake off.
Outside, spaced at regular intervals, stood ten Spitfires, the pilots of each of the three flights grouped together, talking with apparent unconcern, but obviously waiting for something to happen. From time to time one would glance in the direction of the Squadron Office. An airman would have known at once that they were on vigilance duty, ready to take wing at a moment's notice.
The Boche are a bit later than usual this morning,' observed Doc.' Lorton, a war-scarred veteran of many campaigns who had just arrived to take over the duties of Station Medical Officer.
Biggles nodded. 'Probably waiting to see what the weather is going to do. If it thickens up worse than it is I expect they'll break into small units instead of coming over in big formations. I —'
The telephone jangled shrilly. Toddy snatched up the instrument. For a few seconds he listened; then, replacing the receiver, he turned to Biggles.
Strong enemy sub-units of bombers, escorted by fighters, approaching the South Foreland,' he rapped out. `Height, twenty-two thousand; course, north-west.'
24 Spitfire Parade Page 6