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 bombers, 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.
Àll 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.'
Ìt'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.
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 fore
gathered 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 appeared 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, Àny 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 rtems 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 stir-prise 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.'
Ìs that so?' put in Tex slowly.
Another titter ran round the room and the stranger rose.
Yes,' he said, sometimes I'm a Spitfire.
À 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 èngine' 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 --'
Àll 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 —'
Ìs Mr Mooney here, please?' called a mess waiter from the door.
Cuthbert looked round. 'Yes, what is it?'
`The C.O. wants to see you in the offrce, sir.'
Ì'm on my way,' replied Cuthbert, rising. Emitting an unbelievable volume of sound that could be recognized as a two-stroke motor-cycle, he steered himself to the door and disappeared.
`Looney Mooney,' murmured Algy. Ìf he goes on like that on the ground, think what he must be like in the air. I should say that the Flight Commander who gets the job of trailing him around the sky is in for a thin time. Why, Bertie, he makes you seem almost sane!'
The orderly appeared again. Flight Lieutenant Lacey, please, wanted on the telephone,'
he called.
Algy hurried from the room. Three minutes later he returned and resumed his seat.
There was a curious expression on his face. He looked up and caught Bertie's eyes.
`Have you been awarded the V.C. or something?' inquired Bertie.
`No, but I shall deserve it by tonight - if I live to see it,' muttered Algy morosely.
`Why, what's doing?'
`Cuthbert has been posted to my flight, and the wants me to show him the coast - this afternoon.'
The shout of laughter that went up could be heard on the far side of the aerodrome.
When Algy went to the flight hangar after lunch he found the new member of his flight waiting for him. Cuthbert had evidently been making some adjustments to his machine, for his hands were filthy.
`Come and have a look at my new device for keeping Huns off my tail,' he invited. 'You'
ll be sorry for the Hun who gets behind me - and so will he.'
`No, thanks. Personally, I prefer to see that a Hun doesn't get behind me. In this squadron, when we see Huns we go for them - we don't turn our tails to them.'
Ì see,' murmured Cuthbert, unabashed. Then you don't want to look —'
`No, thanks,' said Algy again. 'I think I shall be able to manage with my guns.'
`Just as you like.'
Àll I want you to do this afternoon,' went on Algy, ìs to keep your eyes on me. Stick close, and try to pick up as many landmarks as you can. We're going to fly along the coast, but I don't expect we shall go far over the water, if at all. In any case, keep close to me whatever happens.'
Cuthbert nodded. Ì will,' he said seriously.
Five minutes later the two Spitfires were in the air, climbing in wid
e circles in the direction of the coast. From time to time Algy tilted a wing and indicated some outstanding landmark - a river, a wood, or a road, noting with satisfaction that the pilot he was escorting flew well and kept in his place.
For an hour or more they flew on, following the coast, and then began the return journey.
Algy, who never lost an opportunity of picking up some useful information, edged farther over the Channel, trying to locate the big guns that he knew had been installed along the French coast, which he could see easily. In this occupation he was startled by Cuthbert, who suddenly drew level with him and, having attracted his attention, pointed.
Algy, following the direction, saw a number of tiny specks far above them in the blue.
Mentally congratulating the beginner on his watchfulness and `spotting' ability, he turned away, at the same time subjecting the sky around to a searching scrutiny. What was going on? He did not know, but he felt that something was happening, and his eyes probed the atmosphere in order to find out what it was. He had no wish to be caught in an awkward predicament with a new man on his hands. Still watching the sky, he saw a Junkers 88, several thousand feet above him and making for home. He kept his eyes on it for a moment or two, feeling that as the enemy aircraft was so near home pursuit was not worth while.
But this evidently did not suit Cuthbert, who banked steeply, and set off on the trail of the enemy aircraft.
Rightly or wrongly, Algy always blamed himself for what followed, for he was the leader, and should at once have turned for home, in which case Cuthbert would no doubt have followed him. But Cuthbert's enthusiasm spoilt his better judgment, and after a quick look round to make sure that the sky was clear behind them, he held on after the enemy machine. Frankly he did not suppose that they would catch it, but it was good practice, and provided they did not go too far out over the Channel there was no particular danger.
24 Spitfire Parade Page 8