24 Spitfire Parade

by Captain W E Johns

  Five minutes later Biggles burst into the mess, where half a dozen pilots who were taking their time over bacon and eggs.

  'Come on, get into the air!' he raved. 'Do you want that Hurricane crowd to get every Hun in the sky?'

  Wilks has just got another!' It was Algy Lacey who spoke. Biggles started as if he had been stung. 'Another! Stiffen the crows! Who said so?'

  'Toddy has just got it over the phone from Wing.'

  'The dickens! This won't do. That's four he's got, and it's only eight o'clock. Ring up the sheds, Ginger, and tell them to get my machine ready — I'm on my way. See you later.'

  He left the room abruptly.

  His Spitfire was ticking over by the time he reached it. Without a word he tore into the air and headed straight for the coast, climbing at a steep angle for all the height he could get; but when he got there - to use the old tag - the cupboard was bare. To left and right the sky was empty except where, far to the south, a trail of ' flak ' smoke marked the course of a British machine near the French coast. Circling, he pushed on to the Channel, searching for something on which to relieve his pent-up anxiety. But in vain. For an hour he flew up and down, but the only machines he saw were a Spitfire in the distance -

  probably one of his own squadron - and a lonely Blenheim, spotting for the coast batteries. The wind freshened, bringing with it heavy masses of cloud. But it made no difference; not a German machine was to be seen; not a raider, not even a reconnaissance aircraft.

  Another hour passed, and by the end of it he was fuming with impatience. Still he hung on, hoping, but eventually had to turn back to the aerodrome in order to refuel, for his tanks were getting low. A big cloud lay ahead, and disdaining to go round it, he plunged straight through. As he emerged on the far side he nearly collided with a big, dark-painted machine, blotched all over with typical German camouflage. He recognized it instantly for one of the new Domiers.

  The pilot of the German machine swerved as violently as did Biggles in order to avoid collision; pushing his nose down, he streaked for the cloud from which the Spitfire had appeared, and which promised a safe hiding-place.

  In his anxiety that it should not escape Biggles threw caution to the winds, and without a glance round for possible danger he roared down behind the Dornier, raking it with long bursts of fire. On the very edge of the cloud the enemy machine jerked upwards spasmodically, which told him that the pilot had been hit. It fell over on to one wing, went into a

  spin, and plunged earthward. Biggles watched it suspiciously, for he knew that it might be a trick to deceive him. But it was no trick. The wounded German pilot managed to get out of the spin near the ground and did his best to land; but he was out of luck, and the aircraft with the swastika insignia piled itself up, a splintered wreck, on the edge of a wood.

  Only then did Biggles look up, to see, with a shock, that a second machine, a Hurricane, was flying beside him. The pilot was gesticulating wildly, but Biggles had no time to wonder what this was all about, for his fuel supply was now dangerously low; so he put his nose down and raced back to the aerodrome, which he reached just as the airscrew gave a final kick and stopped.

  He was beckoning to Flight Sergeant Smyth when he saw to his surprise that the Hurricane had followed him and was now landing not far away. But he paid little attention to it. Climbing out of his Spitfire, he walked quickly towards the mess, intending to snatch a cup of coffee while his machine was being refuelled, and it was only as he passed close to the Hurricane that he recognized the pilot. It was Squadron Leader Wilkinson.

  Wilks's first words made Biggles pull up in astonishment. 'What's the big idea?'

  demanded the Hurricane pilot angrily. 'That was my Hun.'

  'Your Hun? What are you talking about?' retorted Biggles. Ì'd been stalking him for twenty minutes, and had just got within range when you barged in.'

  'What the deuce has that got to do with me?' inquired Biggles indignantly. 'I don't care two hoots if you'd been stalking him for twenty years. I got him, and I'm now going to get confirmation.'

  'In another ten seconds I should have got that Hun,' protested Wilks furiously.

  Then you were just ten seconds too late,' returned Biggles calmly. 'You shouldn't waste so much time.'

  'You wouldn't have got him if it hadn't been for me. He was watching my machine and didn't even see you. You didn't give him a chance for a shot.'

  'You're dead right,' agreed Biggles warmly; 'I took thundering good care not to. What do you take me for — a perishing target?'

  'I reckon we ought to go fifty-fifty in the claim,' insisted Wilks.

  Fifty-fifty my foot,' snorted Biggles. Since when did you get the idea that the Huns are sending up machines for your especial benefit? Birds wearing swastikas on their tails are as much my meat as yours. If you don't like it, find yourself another playground. Better still, go and drop a note on a Boche aerodrome and ask them to send some more machines over. I got that Domier and I'm not sharing it with anyone. If you choose to spend twenty minutes messing about trying to get close enough to a Hun to have a pot at him, that's your affair. Cheerio!' With a wave of his hand Biggles passed on towards the Squadron Office.

  When he returned a few minutes later the Hurricane had gone, and he grinned at the Flight Sergeant, who had overheard the conversation.

  I'm afraid that was a bit tough on Squadron Leader Wilkinson,' he remarked. 'But when this game gets so that you are expected to sit back and let someone else have the first pop I'm through with it. Are my tanks filled?'

  Yes, sir.'

  `Do you happen to know if there is an alert on in London?' 'I don't think so, sir. Jerry seems to be taking a day off to get his breath.'

  As he flew once more in the direction of the Channel Biggles derived some comfort from the fact that Wilks had added nothing to his score. It was disappointing, though, that none of his own Spitfires — some of them had been back for petrol — had managed to score a victory.

  Reaching the coast he began a repetition of his earlier patrol, seeking a machine of any sort that wore the black cross. But not one could he find. He even went as far as the French coast, receiving a good plastering from enemy antiaircraft gunners for his pains; then, realizing that even if he did shoot down an enemy machine it would be out of sight of watchers along the cliffs of Dover, he turned his nose towards home. The ceaseless watching was beginning to tire him; not for a moment can a fighting pilot allow his eyes to rest. A moment's lack of vigilance is often paid for dearly.

  Another two hours passed slowly, and Biggles began to edge towards the aerodrome, for again his tanks were running low. He made a last survey of the Channel, and was about to glide away when a fleeting shadow fell across his machine. The swift jerk of his head, and the spasmodic movements of hand and foot on joystick and rudder-bar were practically simultaneous with the roar of his guns. A Heinkel, fifty feet above and in front of him, burst into flames and dropped like a stone.

  The whole thing had happened in a split second, and was a good example of the amazing co-ordination of brain and muscle that can be developed by the expert air fighter. There was no time for actual thought. From the moment the shadow had fallen across the Spitfire, Biggles's movements, separate in themselves, had followed each other in such quick succession that they appeared to be only one. First he had looked to see what had thrown the shadow; observing the Heinkel, his hands and feet had aligned his machine, and he had fired. He had hit his target at the first burst, and knew he would never make a better shot in his life.

  He did not actually see the burning machine crash, for the instant he knew that his shots had taken effect he looked round to see if the machine was alone or one of a formation.

  To his utter astonishment he saw a Hurricane tear down towards him, pull up in a steep climbing turn, and then come roaring back. As it passed him the pilot shook a clenched fist, and Biggles recognized Wilks's machine.

  Jehoshaphat! I believe I've done it again,' he muttered with a w
orried frown, and then burst out laughing as the funny side struck him.

  As he cruised back to the aerodrome he tried to work out what must have happened. The Heinkel, he reasoned, must have been diving for home with Wilks in pursuit, in which case it was unlikely that the German pilot had even seen him. He would probably be looking back over his shoulder at the pursuing machine. By a bit of bad luck for himself the German had chosen a course that took him between Biggles and the sun, with the result that his machine had thrown a shadow across the Spitfire.

  As he landed Biggles was not surprised to see the Hurricane come in behind him and taxi to within a few yards of where he had stopped. Wilks, pale with anger, leapt down.

  'All right - all right keep calm,' Biggles cried as he approached. 'You don't suppose I pinched your Hun on purpose?'

  'On purpose! Why, it was an absolute fluke,' rasped Wilks. 'You never even saw him, and he was coming down after you like a ton of bricks.'

  'Coming down on me?' queried Biggles.

  'He certainly was. He was after you, and he'd got you stone cold. He was sitting up in the sun and you never even saw him. I spotted him, though, and roared down to save your skin. But he was an old hand, and took a look back over his shoulder; he spotted me on his tail and it put him off his stroke. If I hadn't been there he would have got you - you wouldn't have known what had hit you.'

  Ìf that's the case then I can only say that I'm very much obliged to you,' returned Biggles calmly.

  'Is that all you have to say?'

  'What do you want me to do - burst into tears?'

  `No, but as we were both in at the death I don't think you can rightly claim that Hun.'

  Can't I!' exploded Biggles. You'll see whether I can or not. The combat happened in full view of the coast observers - there must be a thousand people ready to swear that a Spitfire did the trick. Of course, if you're going to hang about to watch me do my stuff, that's no business of mine. No, Wilks, if you don't like it you can run away and play by yourself. By the way, have you got any more Huns?'

  `No, but I'd have had two more if you hadn't butted in.'

  For the love of Mike don't let's go over all that Again,' protested Biggles, looking pained.

  Wilks glared. 'All right,' he grated, 'but you keep out of my way.' With that parting shot he strode back to his machine.

  Biggles watched him go with a sympathetic smile on his face. Leaving his Spitfire to be refuelled, he hurried down to the mess for an early lunch.

  His third victory that day was a straightforward duel which was won fairly and squarely by superb flying and accurate shooting, and only then after one of the longest and most difficult combats in all his experience. The victim was a Messerschmitt 109; the pilot was cruising about, apparently looking for trouble in much the same manner as Biggles.

  They spotted each other at the same moment, and turned towards one another, so there was no question of pursuit. The

  German seemed to be as anxious for the conflict as Biggles, and the opening moves were sufficient to warn Biggles that he had caught a tartar. Not that he minded. If the Hun were a better man than he — well, it would be just too bad. The possibility was always on the boards.

  To describe the combat in detail, move and counter-move, would be like cataloguing the moves in a game of chess, and as intricate; but by the end of a quarter of an hour neither had gained an advantage or given the other a reasonable opportunity for a coup de grace, although a lot of ammunition had been expended.

  Biggles's early impetuosity received a check when a burst of fire from his opponent went through the fuselage just behind his head, one shot actually grazing his helmet. After that he settled down to cold, calculated fighting. The opening stages took place well inside the British coast-line, but as it progressed the two machines drifted with the prevailing wind first to the Channel and then nearer to enemy territory — much to Biggles's concern. However, he could do nothing about it. Banking, diving, and zooming, the two machines fought on, the rest of the world forgotten. Both pilots had opportunities to break away, but both refused to take them, preferring to see the thing through to the bitter end. More than once the machines passed so close that the pilots could see each other's faces. The German, Biggles saw, was a clean-shaven fellow of about his own age, with long flaxen hair. He wore no helmet.

  Biggles's ammunition was running low, and he knew that at any moment it might give out, when suddenly came the end. The pilots found themselves facing each other at a distance of not more than a hundred yards. Both started shooting, the tracer bullets making a glittering streak between them. Biggles knew that collision was inevitable unless the

  German turned, for he himself had no intention of turning; not only would this be a sign of weakness, but it would be breaking one of the first rules of air combat. For this reason he did not expect the other to give way, either. He had actually braced himself for the crash when, at the last moment, the German lost his nerve and dived, passing underneath the Spitfire.

  Biggles was round in a flash, expecting the Messerschmitt to come up behind him. But it did not. It was going down in an erratic glide towards the sea with stationary airscrew.

  That the pilot was in difficulties was clear, and as Biggles tore down behind him he saw the reason. One of the German's elevators had been shot away; the whole tail unit looked as though it might collapse at any moment.

  Biggles did not use his guns again, although a finishing shot now would have been a simple matter. Instead, he watched the pilot pancake on the water. After that he waited only long enough to make sure that boats were going out to pick him up, and then headed for home to report the affair and put in a claim for the victory. He also wanted a fresh supply of ammunition.

  He was greeted on the aerodrome by Algy, who informed him that Wilks had not improved his score.

  'Then he's still one ahead of me,' remarked Biggles. 'I've still got time to even things up.'

  'If you can get another you'll be quits,' Algy told him. Wilks won't get any more today.'

  'Why not?'

  'He took on a Hun near Folkestone and the gunner nearly got him first burst. A bullet grazed his arm and the doctor has forbidden him to fly again today. His arm is in a sling, and he's as sore as a bear.'

  'That's tough luck,' replied Biggles with genuine sympathy..

  He turned to the Flight Sergeant who had come up. 'Get some patches put over these holes.' He pointed to the bullet holes in the fuselage. 'Have her ready as soon as you can.

  Ring up the mess and let me know when she's finished.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  The work of repairing the damaged machine took longer than Biggles expected. Thirty bullets had gone through it; one had nicked a cable, necessitating a replacement. So it was late in the afternoon before he was in the air again in a final attempt to level with Wilks and, if possible, beat him. He had already put in six hours' flying that day, which was enough for any pilot. He was desperately tired, but his anxiety to even up the score urged him on.

  But it seemed as if he was to be out of luck, for although he scoured the sky in all directions for more than two hours not a single hostile aircraft could he find. For some reason or other the sky was completely deserted. Bored and fed up, he hung on until it was nearly dark, and in the end had to turn towards home without having fired a shot. As a matter of fact, he did not reach home. He finished his patrol some way from the aerodrome, and rather than risk a forced landing by running out of petrol, he dropped in at the first aerodrome he reached in order to pick some up. It turned out to be a night -

  fighter squadron, and such was the hospitality of the pilots amongst whom he found himself that he stayed on, and finally allowed himself to be persuaded to stay to dinner.

  Having made this decision, he went, as a matter of duty, to the telephone, and rang up his own squadron to let them know that he was safe.

  You'd better stay where you are for the night, sir,' Toddy told him from the other end. It's getti
ng pretty thick here, and it would be dangerous to try to get back in the dark. I'll send transport for you. By the way, did you get another Hun?

  Biggles admitted reluctantly that he had drawn blank. 'That's a pity,' commiserated Toddy.

  'Why — any particular reason?'

  'Yes. Wilks has just rung up. The whole crowd of them are coming over tonight —

  presumably to crow about their score.'

  'Is that so?' replied Biggles slowly. 'Oh, well, it can't be helped. Send a car for me about ten o'clock.'

  'O.K., sir.'

  As a matter of fact, it was nearly half past ten when Biggles got back to the aerodrome.

  He was still in full flying kit. He found the mess chock-a-block with officers, for Wilks and his Hurricane pilots, knowing that he was coming back, had deliberately delayed their departure until he returned. His entry was heralded by a derisive yell from the Hurricane pilots, and a chorus of protest from the Spitfire pilots.

  What's all the noise about?' inquired Biggles evenly, as he dropped into a chair. Why all the excitement, Wilks ?'

  'We're feeling a bit on our toes — and don't pretend you don't know why. Tough luck, you old son of a gun.'

  What are you tough-lucking me for?' demanded Biggles with simulated astonishment. '

  You, with your arm in a sling.'

  'Because you've now got to admit that Hurricanes are the real Hun-getters,' declared Wilks.

  Biggles frowned. Whatever gave you that idea?'

  'I reckon we've proved it by getting four Huns to your three, in a straight contest.'

  Biggles pretended to look enlightened. Oh, so that's what you're all crowing about?'

  'It's something to crow about, isn't it? Come on, Biggles, you're whacked, and you know it. Stop bluffing.'

  'Bluff? Me bluff?' Biggles looked pained. 'My dear chap, we don't do that sort of thing —

  not in this squadron. But who told you that I'd only got three Huns?'

  The first suspicion that Biggles was holding something up his sleeve was reflected in Wilks's face. His smile faded.