Then suddenly to his surprise he saw the Messerschmitts start to swerve away. This, at such a juncture, was a most unexpected move, but knowing that it would not have occurred without good reason, he looked around for it. Nor was he long discovering it.
Coming down at an angle, across the front of the German planes, was a formation of nine Spitfires.
At first he could hardly believe his eyes, for he could not imagine what they were doing so far over the Channel, but there was no possibility of mistake.
The Spitfires did not pursue the Messerschmitts, but turned towards him, and, as they drew near, his eyes grew round with wonder when he recognized them for his own squadron.
'The fools,' he breathed, with a catch in his voice. The silly fools, coming over here in broad daylight.' Then he laughed.
The Spitfires fell into place behind him, and he led them back to the aerodrome.
Air Commodore Raymond was waiting. His face beamed when Biggles handed him the plans.
Thanks. Did everything go off all right?' he asked. Biggles raised his eyebrows. 'Of course — why not?' 'Well — I thought there might be difficulties.'
'Nothing to speak of,' returned Biggles, walking to meet the pilots running towards him.
He addressed them sternly.
What do you lunatics think you're playing at, wandering about Hun-infested sky at this hour of the morning?'
'We were just waiting for you,' returned Algy, unabashed. 'We guessed you'd be along, and thought maybe you'd need a little help.'
Biggles frowned. How did you know where I'd gone?' 'Ask Sherlock,' grinned Algy, pointing at Toddy. 'He's the man who found the map you plotted your course on.'
-CHAPTER 9
THE COWARD
THE normal duties of Number 666 Squadron consisted of intercepting enemy daylight raiders, and it may have been largely due to Biggles's leadership that no casualties occurred before they did; but by late autumn the strain of long hours at the tremendous altitude at which battles were fought was beginning to tell. Nutty Armand went to hospital with a bullet through his foot, and Tex O'Hara, to his disgust, was kept on the around, by the M.O.'s orders, with a wrenched shoulder sustained in collision with a tree while trying to bring his Spitfire down after its lateral controls had been shot away.
Added to this, three airmen had been injured by bomb splinters when a deliberate dive-bombing attack had been made on the aerodrome during the absence of the machines.
The fact that this attack had been repeated on two subsequent occasions suggested that the enemy had located the aerodrome. On the other hand, Cuthbert had returned from hospital, and to bring the squadron up to strength came Henry Harcourt.
Henry was, in appearance, a weedy youth with a thin, pale face and thoughtful grey eyes.
His hair was fair and, apparently lacking the strength to support itself, usually hung like a flat wad over his forehead. But his manner was confident, and he had a habit of nodding his head to emphasize his words – which he appeared to choose with great care.
'Oratory, as it was understood by the Athenians, is a lost art,' he declared sadly in the mess on his first evening, when, after a staggering burst of eloquence, his leg had been pulled by Tug Carrington. 'Read Plutarch,' he adjured his hearers earnestly, and you will see where a man can get with no weapon other than his tongue.'
'Try putting your tongue out at a Hun and see where it will get you,' sneered Tug. 'I'll go on saying my piece in this war with a bunch of guns – if it's all the same to you.'
Henry regarded him with compassion. 'As you will,' he said piously.
The following morning Toddy entered Biggles's office and informed him that Henry wished to speak to him.
'If this budding Cicero fondly imagines that we've nothing else to do here but talk, I shall have to disillusion him,' answered Biggles coldly. 'All right, bring him in.'
Henry entered, smiling. Good morning, sir; may I take the liberty of saying how extremely gratifying it is to find you in—'
'All right. You've found me – what about it?' broke in Biggles. Ìf you've something to say – say it. I'm busy.'
Henry was not in the least put out – except that he looked at Biggles rather pityingly.
'What I have to say, sir, is this,' he continued evenly. 'In making a cursory perambulation of the station this morning I observed –'
'You mean you saw something? What was it?'
'A small structure obviously provided exclusively for quadrupeds of the porcine genus —'
'In short, you saw a pigsty. What about it?'
'It occurred to me, sir, that on an aerodrome like this there must be a certain number of fragments, unconsumed portions of rations —'
Ìf you mean scraps, yes, there are plenty. Go ahead.'
'Well, sir, if we acquired a pig, a little pig, and put him in the sty, we could dispose of our garbage and at the same time cause the little pig to develop —'
Biggles nodded. Yes, that's an idea. But who's going to look after it?'
'I will, with pleasure,' declared Henry promptly. 'I have a way with animals,' he added modestly.
'Is that so?' said Biggles, looking hard at him.
Yes, indeed, sir. I will undertake to maintain —'
'You won't overlook that there is a certain amount of flying to be done?'
Certainly not, sir.'
'All right. You have my permission to buy a pig, chargeable to mess funds.'
Thank you, sir.' Henry withdrew, beaming.
Biggles thought no more about the affair until, that night, while the officers were in the ante-room waiting for dinner to be served, strange sounds were heard coming from the direction of the sty, which was situated at the back of the farm-house, the building that had been converted into officers' quarters.
'What on earth is that?' he asked, looking startled.
Before anyone could answer Henry came in. He looked dishevelled, but pleased with himself.
'I've got the little bounder, sir,' he announced to Biggles. 'Bounder?'
You know, sir, the porker.'
'He's got what?' asked Algy in astonishment.
'A pig,' returned Biggles shortly.
'No, not really?' murmured Bertie Lissie, sitting up and taking notice. 'I say, what fun.
Which pig is it?'
Henry frowned. Which pig? Any pig.'
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'He wanted one,' he explained.
'I'll bring my goldfish along,' sneered Tug.
'And my little rabbit, look you,' scoffed Taffy.
Say, what is this, a menagerie?' demanded Tex plaintively. Ain't there enough hogs in the sky, without —'
Henry flushed. 'I don't think it's in the best of taste to hold up to ridicule a dumb animal.'
'Dumb?' queried Tex.
Yes – it can't talk.'
Yeah, I'd already got that figgered out,' said Tex slowly. Well, therefore it's dumb.'
'I still don't get it. Do some of your English pigs talk?' Of course not.'
Then what's so remarkable about this one being dumb?' There's nothing remarkable about it.'
Then why make a song about it? It sounds to me like it was just an ordinary hog.'
Henry admitted, reluctantly, that this was correct.
'It's all right,' put in Biggles ; he's going to look after it.'
He was at breakfast the following morning when a loud cry of anger arose from the back of the mess. He recognized Henry's voice. A moment later it was followed by a yell of laughter, which so excited his curiosity that he left the table and went round to see what was going on. He found the squadron officers grouped round the sty, and as they made way for him he beheld a spectacle that brought a smile to his face.
It was the pig, a small white pig. On each side of its little round flanks had been painted the red, white, and blue ring markings such as are carried by service aircraft. Its tail, too, had been adorned with three stripes of red, white, and blue. That these decorations in no way
inconvenienced the animal was obvious from the way it stood in the middle of its breakfast, eating with gusto.
'It's a shame!' cried Henry hotly.
Why, what's wrong?' protested Ginger. 'After all, Annie —'
Biggles started. 'Annie 9'
'That's her name, sir,' returned Ginger, pointing at the animal. 'As I was saying, she was bought out of mess funds; we can't afford to lose her. If she escaped now anyone will know where she belongs.'
'I shall wash it off,' declared Henry firmly.
Ìf the dirty little beast wallows in her grub perhaps it'll wear off,' suggested Tug dispassionately.
Ìf not, she'll have to grow out of it,' rejoined Biggles. Then, with a change of tone, he went on crisply, 'All right. No more fooling. We leave the ground in ten minutes. I shall be leading the squadron this morning.' He turned to Henry. You'll fly with A Flight. If we engage, keep as close to me as you can.'
'Very good, sir,' said Henry meekly.
During the flight that followed, a large enemy formation was encountered, but with the aid of the Hurricanes of 701 Squadron it was broken up. Five of the enemy machines were shot down, two falling to Biggles's guns, which, Algy thought, should have satisfied him. But there was a hard expression on his face as he got out of his machine. There was, too, an unusual restraint among the officers as they made their way slowly to the mess, talking in low tones.
'Harcourt, I want a word with you,' Biggles told Henry, who, looking rather pale, was standing a little apart from the others. 'Come into the office.'
Henry followed him through the door.
As soon as they were inside Biggles turned mildly accusing eyes on the new pilot's face.
'In the mix-up this morning, Harcourt, it seemed to me that you – shall we say – did not quite pull your weight? I noticed you on the outskirts of the dogfight. Of course, in a show of that sort it's hard to see just what is happening, and I may have been wrong. It was your first big show?'
Yes, sir.' Henry seemed to speak with difficulty.
'All right. In that case we'll say no more about it.' Biggles rested a fatherly hand on Henry's shoulder. 'If you feel – er – that you're not quite up to it, tell me. It's better that way. There's no hurry – think it over. That's all.'
Henry, who was biting his lip, saluted and went out. *toddy came in with a bustle that seemed unnecessary. You heard what I told that boy?' said piggies quietly. 'Yes, sir.'
Biggles drew a deep breath. 'I may be wrong; indeed, I hope I am; but I'm afraid he has only just realized the sort of job he has taken on. We shall see.'
Looking through the window he saw the officers standing in little groups, talking with unusual earnestness. He recognized the signs, and knew only too well what they were talking about. He went over to them.
Don't let him suspect you noticed anything,' he said meaningly. 'It was his first show, remember. He may find his feet presently – they do sometimes.'
'If he'd had his family wiped out, like I —' began Tug. Biggles cut him short. 'All right, Carrington, that's enough.
Not everyone is made of the same stuff, you know. Where is Harcourt now?'
'I saw him go across to his quarters,' said Ginger.
Biggles stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'It might be a good thing if you went and had a word with him,' he suggested. 'Be careful. In the end he'll have to work the thing out for himself, but at this moment a little encouragement may help. Criticism would be fatal.'
Ginger nodded, and following Henry to his room, found him lying face downwards on his bed.
'What's the matter - tired?' began Ginger cheerfully.
Henry turned a pale face towards him. The rims of his eyes were red. 'You know it isn't that,' he said dully. 'I funked it - you needn't tell me.'
Ginger laughed loudly. Rot!'
Henry shook his head. 'You can't deceive me. I can't even deceive myself,' he muttered bitterly. 'When those guns started I was - afraid.'
'Of course you were. So was I. So were we all,' declared Ginger. We just kid ourselves that we're not. Who wouldn't be? You'll be all right when you've done one or two more shows. Come on, snap out of it. Let's go and call on Annie.'
Henry got up and followed Ginger round to the sty.
Ginger watched him curiously, and with compassion, as he went into the sty and, sitting on the edge of the feeding trough, tweaked the piglet's ear, a demonstration of affection which the animal appeared to appreciate, for it rested its nose on his knee, grunting contentedly. It seemed that Henry had, as he had claimed, a way with animals.
'A good pair,' breathed a voice in Ginger's ear.
Turning, he found himself face to face with Tug, who was watching the scene with frank disgust.
'Never be in a hurry to judge people,' murmured Ginger sagely, as he took Tug by the arm and led him away.
The following morning, as Biggles went out to take the squadron in the air, he noticed that one machine was missing. Who's absent?' he asked Toddy tersely.
'Harcourt, sir.'
Where is he?'
'He's reported sick.' 'Sick? With what?'
Toddy coughed. 'Toothache, he says.'
Biggles bit his lip. 'He may or may not have got toothache, but I'll warrant he's got a heartache,' he said. 'Poor devil!'
What shall I do, sir - post him back to the depot?'
Biggles gazed across the aerodrome. 'I wouldn't be in a hurry,' he advised. Let's wait until we hear what the doctor has to say. I believe in giving these lads every chance. We old bands are tough, but in my early days I remember being very, very frightened. Give him a chance.'
Very good, sir.'
Biggles got into his machine and the eight Spitfires roared into the air to patrol their allotted zone.
It was a perfect flying day, without a cloud in the sky, the kind of day when, from above, the earth seems to smile; the kind of day, as Biggles knew, that the enemy, taking advantage of the high visibility, would be likely to come over in force. Nor was he mistaken. He had just levelled out at twenty-two thousand feet when a radio signal from Headquarters, Fighter Command, warned him that a big formation of heavy bombers, accompanied by dive bombers and a, fighter escort, was approaching the Thames Estuary.
A few minutes later he could see the sparks of the archie barrage flashing round a long cluster of tiny specks, looking from the distance for all the world like midges in a summer sky. Judging that they were about the same height as himself, he altered his course slightly and sped on to intercept them.
To the watcher on the ground one dogfight is much like-another, the successive moves following each other with almost monotonous regularity. But to the airman, who sees the thing from close range, there is always something, only a trifling incident perhaps, to make one combat different froni another.
Biggles was studying the enemy's dispositions, seeking the weakest spot against which to launch his attack, when the Messerschmitts guarding the bombers' nearest flank turned towards him, obviously intending to keep him at a distance. Without so much as a glance behind to see if the others were following, for he knew they would, he held straight on, watching the distance closely, knowing from experience the range at which the Messerschmitt pilots would probably open fire with their cannon. A split second before such a range was reached he dived suddenly, holding his own fire until he could hope to use his eight machine-guns with good effect. At the end the opposing machines seemed to leap towards each ,other, and in another moment the sky was the scene of a whirling melee.
Biggles's face set in hard lines, for he realized perfectly well that he had taken on rather more than prudence justified - not that prudence takes much part in a dogfight. There were at least twenty Messerschmitts, and others were leaving the bombers to increase the odds against his own eight machines. Between quick bursts of shooting he scanned the sky anxi.ously for reinforcements, hoping that Wilks's Hurricanes, which should be in the district, might show up. But there was no sign of them. And all the while he was
working his way through the Messerschmitts to get at the bombers; the later had maintained their positions as they forged on towards their objective, which he had no doubt was London.
To describe in detail the battle that now ensued would necessarily involve much repetition. Words, too, would lag behind the speed of the action.
From such a cloud of machines it was not easy to single one out for individual attack, but seeing a Messerschmitt firing at him Biggles accepted the challenge. For a full minute the two machines spun dizzily round each other; then the Messerschmitt burst into flames. He saw another machine of the same type going down minus a wing, but who shot it down he did not know. A swift survey of the atmosphere revealed five Spitfires. Two had gone. But the Messerschmitts were not so numerous as they had been.
The fight went on. It was the most bitterly contested in all Biggles's experience, machines of both sides hurtling round and round at frenzied speed, sometimes missing each other by inches, neither side giving way. He narrowly escaped collision with a man dangling on the end of a parachute. Who he was, or to which side he belonged, he did not know. He had no time to look. It was dodge and dodge again. Shooting was of the wildest snapshot description. Every now and then an incident, without beginning and without end, like a short length of news-reel on a screen, photographed itself vividly on his brain. He saw Ferocity Ferris with guns belching not ten feet from a Messerschmitt cockpit.. . . Angus Mackail, easily recognized by his Glengarry, looping in the wake of another enemy machine, as if tied to it. . . . Taffy Hughes, spinning on a wing-tip as he handled his guns like a hose pipe, drawing his fire across something outside Biggles's view . . . Bertie Lissie, pulling his machine up in a fantastic stalling turn to avoid a plunging Spitfire. . . and so it went on.
Snatching an opportunity, Biggles looked about him to see what had happened to the bombers. They were still going on in perfect formation. Fighting his way through the milling machines, he raced after them. A shadow made him flinch, but an instant later he saw it was another Spitfire - Algy's. He went on, diving for more speed, knowing that at all costs he must stop the bombers.
24 Spitfire Parade Page 11