by W E Johns
Then the spell was broken. A car pulled up outside, noisily. There came a sound of voices. Then the door was flung open and into the room strode a heavily built young man who carried the slim ring of a pilot officer on his sleeve, and a broad smile on his face. He was followed by another officer whose badges of rank denoted a squadron leader.
Daby stopped playing.
Biggles regarded the pilot officer with an expression which, had the newcomer been less taken up with himself, might have warned him that his noisy entry was unwelcome.
“Where do you suppose you are—at home?” inquired Biggles coldly.
The youth laughed. “That’s a good one,” he acknowledged. “I’ve come over to see Baby.”
“And who may that be?” inquired Biggles.
The youth jerked a thumb in the direction of the pianist. “We called him Baby at the Depot,” he explained.
Biggles took a cigarette from his case. “I’m not concerned with what you called him at the Depot, but Pilot Officer Daby happens to have been posted to this squadron, so, in my hearing, at any rate, you’ll remember his name. Do you understand?”
The youth flushed, but before he could reply, his companion stepped forward. “Here, go easy Biggles,” he protested.
“Easy nothing, Wilks,” returned Biggles curtly. “This is my station, and I like visitors to remember it. Who is this fellow who behaves in a strange mess as though he owns it?”
“Taggart. He joined my crowd today. Why?”
“I don’t like his manners, that’s all.”
Squadron Leader Wilkinson, known to his friends as Wilks, of number 187 (Hurricane) Squadron, bridled. “Well, I chose him in preference to the man who came to you,” he said shortly.
“Meaning Daby?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“They came to Wing Headquarters together. I was there. Naturally, I took the best man.”
“What gave you the idea you’ve got the best man?”
“Well, look at him.”
Biggles looked. “What I see doesn’t impress me particularly,” he said quietly. “I fancy you have made a mistake this time, Wilks.”
“I’m willing to bet my man knocks down more enemy aircraft than yours during the next month,” offered Wilks.
“I am not a betting man,” answered Biggles simply. “I wouldn’t bet on that if I was,” he added.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think it’s a nice thing to bet on.”
“My chaps will laugh when I tell them that.”
“No doubt. Most of them have a low sense of humour.”
“So you won’t take me on?”
Biggles drew at his cigarette. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said slowly. “If Taggart gets more Huns than Daby within a month from today I’ll stand you dinner at any place you like to name. How’s that?”
“Done! You can start saving up right away.”
“Okay. Now, if that’s all you have to say, push off, because I’m tired.”
Wilks laughed and made for the door. “I’ll keep you posted as to the number of Huns Taggart gets.”
Biggles nodded. “You may not need a fountain pen to do that. So long.”
As the door closed behind the visitors Biggles turned to Daby with an encouraging smile. “You heard that? It means you’ve got to get cracking my lad, or this little interlude will spoil my bank account.”
“But I—”
“Don’t let’s talk about it now,” protested Biggles. “Go on playing.”
Three days later Biggles sat on a chock near the workshop and watched the evolutions of a Spitfire on the far side of the aerodrome with a critical eye. To a civilian the performance would soon have become boring, for the Spitfire did no more than dive, zoom, turn, and then dive again. At the bottom of each dive the vicious snarling of multiple machine guns could be heard.
Biggles glanced aside as Algy Lacey walked past on his way to his machine.
“He’s flying well, that boy,” remarked Algy.
“He’s still a trifle slow on left hand turns, but he’ll get over that,” replied Biggles.
Presently the Spitfire departed from its usual routine. Instead of zooming it turned low and glided in to a neat landing. An airman who had been watching ran across the airfield and presently returned carrying an empty petrol can. By the time he had handed it to Biggles, Daby had parked his machine and was walking towards him.
“How many?” he asked as he came up.
“Not so good,” returned Biggles. “Only seven.” He recounted the bullet holes in the can to make sure. “You got ten yesterday. How many rounds did you fire?”
“Ten bursts of about ten rounds each.”
Biggles nodded. “Not too bad. I’ve seen worse. A petrol can is a small mark. If you can hit that you can hit anything.” He glanced up to where a Hurricane was skimming in to a clever, cross-wind landing. “That’s Squadron Leader Wilkinson,” he observed. “He seems to be in a hurry. Never let me see you make a landing like that. There’s no sense in taking risks when there’s no reason for them. What does he want, I wonder?”
The Hurricane taxied up, and the pilot beckoned without getting out of his machine.
“Hello, Wilks, what’s the news?” inquired Biggles.
“I thought you might like to know that Taggart got his first Messerschmitt this morning, over Calais.”
“That’s fine.”
“When’s Daby going to start scoring?”
“When I let him loose.”
“What, hasn’t he been over the Channel yet?”
“Not yet. He wasn’t quite ready.”
“Taggart’s going over twice a day. I call that pretty good.”
Biggles shook his head. “I call it silly. I don’t send my lambs to slaughter.”
Wilks frowned. “Neither do I,” he protested. “But I can’t keep the young blighter in. He’s as keen as mustard. The trouble with you is, Biggles, you’re getting nervous.”
Biggles ignored the last remark. “How did Taggart get his Hun?”
“Stalked him.”
“Where were you?”
“Hanging around.”
“He knew that?”
“Yes, but I give you my word I didn’t help him.”
“You needn’t tell me that, Wilks,” said Biggles quietly. “I know you’ll play the game. All the same, that lad of yours was getting some confidence from knowing you were handy.”
“He can take care of himself,” asserted Wilks, turning away.
Biggles nodded. “I hope you’re right. See you later.”
With a roar the Hurricane swept into the air. Biggles watched it for a moment, then turned to his pupil. “How much flying time have you logged since you came here?”
“About eighteen hours.”
“All target practice?”
“Mostly. I’ve done a fair bit with the camera-gun, too, practising on our own machines, and some Hurricanes, as you suggested.”
“Any hits?”
“Yes, several.”
“Good. I’ll have a look at your shots sometime. Well, it’s a fine day. Let’s have a dekko at the Channel and see what’s about. You stick close to my tail.”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Side by side the two Spitfires took off, and climbing steeply headed out over the drab grey belt of water that had halted Hitler’s army. As they neared the coast of France, black, oily globules of smoke began to blossom around them; but Biggles did not alter his course, hoping by his disregard to convey to his pupil his contempt of anti-aircraft batteries.
Turning west, for a mile or two the machines flew on, Biggles searching the air for other aircraft. For a little while the sky appeared to be deserted; but then something caught his eye and he turned towards it.
Far away, over the French coast, what appeared to be a cloud of midges turned and twisted against the blue dome of the sky. It was, he
knew, a dogfight in progress, and he hastened towards it; but long before he reached the spot the combat had been broken off, and all that remained were odd machines fading into the horizon. Glancing behind to confirm that Daby was still with him, he stiffened, suddenly. He was alone.
He was round in a flash, craning his neck to see what had become of his companion.
Then his practised eye picked him out, well below, and apparently racing nose down for the English coast. He started after him, but did not overtake him because he turned to watch another dogfight in the distance, between some Hurricanes and Messerschmitt 109’s. He saw one of the Messerschmitts fall into the sea; then the fight broke up, so he went on home.
Daby was standing by his machine when he landed. Jumping down Biggles walked over to him. “What’s the idea?” he asked curtly.
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Daby.
“Why did you beat it for home as soon as I headed for that scramble?”
A pink flush appeared on Daby’s cheeks. “Do you think I ran away?”
“ It looked mighty like it, didn’t it?”
Daby drew a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose it did.” And with that he turned away and strode towards the mess.
Biggles watched him go, and then turned to where some airmen were examining Daby’s machine. He heard one of them say: “Strewth! What a wallop. He nearly had it.”
“What’s a wallop?” inquired Biggles, going nearer.
“This hole, sir,” replied the airman. “Flak, I reckon. He was lucky the machine didn’t catch fire. The floor’s fair swimmin’ with petrol.”
Biggles looked, and started as his eyes fell on a big jagged hole just aft of the cockpit.
Then he turned and ran after Daby. “I’ve just seen why you made for home,” he said apologetically. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I hate making excuses, sir,” returned Daby stiffly.
“Well, at least you had a good one,” said Biggles grimly as they walked on to the squadron office.
A message lay on Biggles’ desk. He read it, and there was a curious expression on his face as he turned to Daby. “I’ve a signal here from Squadron Leader Wilkinson,” he told him. “Taggart has just got another Hun. It must have been the one I saw go down as I was coming home. Don’t let that worry you, though, your turn will come.”
By the end of a fortnight Taggart had increased his score to three enemy aircraft shot down, and his name was being mentioned as a pilot of promise. On the other hand, Daby, far from scoring a victory, had not yet fired a shot at a hostile machine. He had been over France several times with the squadron on routine sweeps, but it so happened that no enemy aircraft had been encountered. Apart from that, he had spent so much time at camera-gun work that Biggles had more than once been ragged by members of the Hurricane squadron about his backward pupil.
After the last occasion on which this happened Biggles took Daby by the arm. “Listen, laddie,” he said quietly, “you’ll soon have to be doing something about it.”
Daby nodded. “I’m afraid I’m letting you down,” he said miserably.
“I’m not worried about that,” Biggles told him quickly. “These fellows in 187 Squadron don’t understand. They’re some of the best chaps in the world, but the only thing that counts with them is an ability to shoot down enemy aircraft. Of course, when you get down to brass tacks, they’re right. That’s what we’re all here for. You ought to be all right over the other side alone, now, but suppose we go together this afternoon to see what we can find?”
“But you’ve just done a patrol, sir,” protested Daby. “I don’t see why you should give up your free time to help me.”
“Never mind about that,” returned Biggles. “We’ll go off after lunch.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Daby. “I’ll go and have a look at my machine.”
Five minutes later Biggles glanced up from his desk as a Spitfire took off and headed south. He sprang to his feet. “Algy!” he cried, to Algy Lacey, who was there. “Is that a K on the nose of that machine?”
“It is,” confirmed Algy.
“Then it must be Daby going off on his own,” rasped Biggles, and made for the door.
“What are you going to do?” asked Algy.
“I’m going after him,” rapped out Biggles. “I know the mood he’s in. He’ll know the mood I’m in, too, when I get him on the ground—pushing off by himself without orders.”
“I’ll come with you,” decided Algy.
In a few minutes the two Spitfires were in the air, flying in the direction taken by the lone machine. Not until they were over the French coast did Biggles see it, still a long way ahead and still heading deeper into France.
Biggles’ face set in hard lines, for already they were in an area to be avoided except by very strong patrols. But he held on his course, determined to see the business through. He did not have to go far.
Suddenly, ahead, out of the blue a big formation of Messerschmitt 109’s streamed down behind the lone Spitfire.
Biggles knew there was nothing he could do. To go on in such circumstances would merely be to throw his life away uselessly—to say nothing of Algy, who would, he knew, stay with him. Only a miracle could save Daby now. Apparently this was not to be, for out of the cluster of now circling machines fell a Spitfire, trailing a long feather of black smoke behind it.
“There he goes,” muttered Biggles grimly. Sick at heart he turned for home.
“You can take Daby’s name off the roster,” he told Tyler, the Adjutant, half an hour later when he walked into his office.
“Are you sure?” questioned Tyler.
“No doubt about it,” retorted Biggles gloomily. “He ran into a mob of Messerschmitts. He must have been out of his mind. I saw him go down. Well, it’s no use brooding over it, I suppose.”
“There’s a signal for you from Group,” said the Adjutant. “The old man wants to see you.”
“Okay. Get me a car,” ordered Biggles. “The boys can go to the flicks tonight if they want to.”
It was nearly midnight when Biggles returned. He was walking towards his quarters, but stopped suddenly as though the night air came the plaintive melody of a Chopin study.
He knew only one man who could play like that. Turning on his heel he ran to the ante-room. Sitting at the piano was Daby.
“What are you doing here?” snapped Biggles, “How did you get home?”
Daby sprang to his feet. “Frankly, I’m not quite sure, sir,” he admitted. “I’m afraid my machine is pretty badly shot up. I had to put it down near Dover and leave it there.”
“But I thought I saw a machine going down in flames?”
“You did, sir, but I wasn’t in it.”
“I don’t understand. Do you mean you got a Hun?”
“I got three, sir, to be precise. I think I forced another to land, but I’m not sure.”
Biggles’ face was stern. “Really, I ought to put you under arrest. What made you go off without me? —and why choose a place where the sky is stiff with Huns?”
“I had a reason, sir,” stated Daby simply. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it would annoy you, but Taggart rang me up this morning and invited me to go to Amiens with him to see him put down some Messerschmitts. I could hardly refuse. I felt that the honour of the squadron was at stake, as well as my own. I could see him in front of me all the way.”
Biggles stared. “Was his the machine I saw go down?”
“Yes, sir.”
At this moment into the room strode Squadron Leader Wilkinson. “Taggart’s had it,” he announced grimly.
“I know,” said Biggles.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him go down.”
“You were there? Then it must have been you who shot down those three Messers. I had a sweep on, and some of my boys saw the whole thing.”
“No, I didn’t shoot down the Messers,” said Biggles quietly. “It was Daby.”
Squadron
Leader Wilkinson stared. “What were you doing, letting Daby go over alone, after criticising me for letting Taggart go?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Biggles slowly, “Daby went without my permission. But at least he was fit to go.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I can prove it.”
“How?”
Biggles took an envelope from his pocket, and from it produced a small square photograph such as is taken by a camera-gun. He held it up. In the centre was a Hurricane. “ Daby took that photograph,” he said. “The pilot of the Hurricane knew nothing about it. I think you will agree that if Daby had been a Hun the pilot of that Hurricane would never have known what killed him.”
“Who was in the Hurricane?”
“Taggart.”
“But Taggart was only a beginner,” protested Wilkinson. “Daby would never have pulled off a shot like that if the Hurricane pilot had been an old hand.”
Biggles smiled faintly and took out a second photograph. “This also is a direct hit,” he said quietly, “Another Hurricane. Again the pilot didn’t suspect he was being shot at—although he was an old hand.”
Wilkinson almost snatched the photograph. His lips parted in horror and surprise. “I know that machine,” he stammered.
“You ought to,” Biggles told him grimly. “You were flying it. You’ll agree, I think, that if Daby was able to score a hit on a pilot of your experience, without you knowing anything about it, he hasn’t been wasting his time.”
Wilks bit his lip. “I can see I shall have to watch my step,” he said sadly.
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