Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade

by W E Johns

  Then the voice spoke again, loudly. It was not so much what it said, or the tone of the voice, that struck Angus all of a heap. It was the language used. It was English; nicely polished Oxford English, with a slight lisp.

  ‘Here, I say, what the dickens do you fellers think you’re playing at?’ inquired the occupant of the machine as he jumped to the ground.

  Angus’s jaw sagged as he stared at a Royal Air Force uniform, with the rings of a Flight Lieutenant. His hands made idiotic signs in the air.

  ‘Who — who are you?’ he gasped.

  Lord Bertie Lissie smiled wanly. ‘Me? I’m Lissie — yes, absolutely.’

  Angus began to shake. ‘But what’s this kite doing here?’ he demanded, pointing to the Heinkel.

  Bertie considered the aircraft with a melancholy expression. ‘I persuaded it to land this morning, after a bit of an argument — if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Then this is — a British aerodrome?’ queried Angus in a stunned voice.

  For a moment Bertie looked alarmed. ‘By Jove! I should jolly well hope so.’ He turned to Nutty. ‘You’re not by any chance the silly ass who landed here about an hour ago and set fire to his machine?’

  But Nutty was not listening. He had sunk down on to the wheel of the Heinkel and buried his face in his hands.

  Bertie was regarding him sympathetically when a number of other officers hurried up, headed by a Squadron Leader.

  ‘What’s going on here ?’ he demanded.

  Angus stood up, looking dazed, and announced himself. ‘I was on my way to 666 Squadron, sir, when I ran into bad weather,’ he explained.

  The Squadron Leader held out his hand. ‘We’re glad to have you. I’m Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. As a matter of fact we were just wondering what had become of you.’ Biggles turned to Nutty Armand. ‘Who’s this?’

  Nutty managed to blurt out his name and rank.

  ‘Why, that’s splendid,’ declared Biggles. ‘We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.’

  ‘Expect me?’ stammered Nutty.

  Biggles was walking towards the mess. He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Yes — but of course, you’ve been absent without leave so perhaps you didn’t know? You were posted to 666 Squadron with effect from tomorrow morning. Come on everybody, let’s get inside out of the rain.’

  [Back to Contents]

  CHAPTER 4

  TAFFY TRUNDLES IN

  HAVING dealt with the morning mail, Biggles tossed the letters into a filing basket and rang the bell for it to be taken away.

  ‘I see there’s a new posting,’ he told Toddy, the station Adjutant.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Toddy. ‘That will bring us up to strength. You saw the note from Wing saying that a spare pilot would also be sent along in the near future?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Thank goodness we’re getting things straightened out at last,’ he remarked, with relief in his voice. ‘I shall never hold this squadron together if they go on keeping us in reserve. Everyone’s aching to get into the air and have a crack at these raiders, and I’m afraid if we’re kept back much longer we shall need new machines before we can put a full squadron up. Carrington, in particular, is getting restive. By the way, this fellow Hughes who is due to report – do you know anything about him?’

  A slight cough from the direction of the door brought him round to see Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie, in charge of B Flight, standing at the threshold.

  ‘Did you say Hughes, sir?’ murmured Bertie, screwing his monocle a little more tightly in his eye.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Taffy Hughes the Buster?’

  Biggles picked up the posting slip. ‘Flying Officer J. W. Hughes, of Aberystwyth.’

  Bertie’s face softened. ‘Yes, that’s Taffy the Buster,’ he purred, and there was a curious note of affection in his voice.

  Biggles frowned. ‘Buster? That sounds ominous. How did he get that name?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Bertie smiled apologetically. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, sir, he has a curious knack of busting things – not that it’s always his fault – if you see what I mean?’

  ‘What sort of things does he bust?’

  ‘He bust four Dornier 17’s one afternoon – we were playing rugger at the time.’

  ‘What do you mean? How the devil could he knock down four Huns while he was playing rugger?’

  Bertie fingered his wisp of a moustache. ‘We were playing the archie battery – on the aerodrome —’

  ‘We? Were you in this too?’

  Bertie coughed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so – absolutely.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the game was just-warming up when a party of jolly old Huns had the nerve to come over and throw things down on us. At first Taffy wouldn’t stop the game, which was quite right, but when the Huns started machine-gunning us it distracted the spectators’ attention, and then he got frightfully annoyed. By Jove he did! You should have seen him spit at them.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Spit! What was the use of that?’

  ‘I explain myself badly,’ returned Bertie sorrowfully. ‘Taffy always spits, spits like a cat, when he gets worked up. Without waiting to change his shirt and shorts, he jumped into the nearest Spitfire and went upstairs like a lamplighter. He got four. Jolly good show, don’t you think?’ Bertie’s eyes brightened at the recollection.

  ‘We can do with a few fellows like that,’ declared Biggles.

  ‘Unfortunately, he didn’t only bust the Dorniers,’ murmured Bertie, in melancholy tones. ‘He bust a hole through the mess.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘A lorry. You see, he was shot down himself by a Messerschmitt 109, and borrowed a lorry to get home so that we could finish the game before dark; but when he got to the mess it seems that the brakes wouldn’t work - beastly nuisance.’

  The suspicious look in Biggles’s eyes deepened. ‘Go on — what else did he bust?’

  Bertie stroked his chin and gazed at the ceiling reminiscently. ‘He bust a roundabout one day, I remember — it was his own. He’d bought it.’

  ‘What in the name of heaven would he want with a thing like that ?’

  ‘It all came through an argument in the mess as to how fast it would rev. up. Poor old Taffy decided to find out — and you’d be surprised how fast it went when he gave her full throttle.’

  ‘It must have been rather fun.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bertie earnestly, ‘that’s what we all thought. We couldn’t understand why the people who were on it made such a fuss.’

  Biggles started. ‘You mean — there were people on it at the time?’

  ‘We forgot to tell them to get off,’ explained Bertie. ‘Not that they stayed on very long — centrifugal force, and all that — if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘I see what you mean. I begin to understand why he’s been posted to me. You’ve given me an idea of what to expect. All right. Carry on with machine-gun practice until Hughes arrives; then maybe we’ll do a little squadron formation practice.’

  Bertie saluted and withdrew.

  Biggles picked up his cane and set off on a tour of inspection. ‘Let me know when Hughes arrives,’ he told Toddy. ‘Something may have delayed him.’

  Biggles spoke more truly than he knew. Something had delayed Taffy. Something always did. In this case it was a formation of enemy bombers. Of course, being on his way to a new unit he need not have engaged them; nor, indeed, would he have seen them had he carried out his orders and flown direct from his station to Kent. But Taffy’s idea of a direct flight between two points was via the Thames Estuary. Even then there was really no excuse for him to fly as high as twenty-five thousand feet.

  The truth of the matter was that the alert had sounded, and he knew it, so the temptation to go round by the Estuary — just to have a look — was too great to be resisted.

  At first, to his intense disappointment, no aircraft were to be seen, and as
he surveyed the dome of lapis lazuli a look of gloom settled in his dark Celtic eyes. He was not to know that the enemy formation had been intercepted, broken up, and turned back, nearer to London, so that he was, in fact, between them and the coast. Still hoping, he continued on towards the Channel, cruising in the direction of the French coast.

  He turned, and was just about to glide back towards his distant destination when the affair developed on such ideal lines that he could not have arranged things better. Out of the haze appeared two Junkers, flying close together; they were about five thousand feet below him, and looked like two dirty fish swimming in a bowl of milky liquid. The pilots were gliding towards their own territory, and it is doubtful if they even saw the British machine which moved quickly into the sun.

  Taffy knew instinctively what had happened; realized that the enemy formation had been broken and that the pilots were now making their way home independently. He felt almost sorry for the unsuspecting pilots below him as he stood his Spitfire on its nose and roared down on them. He took the nearest one first, and held his fire until the last moment. The Junkers broke up instantly, as if it had been struck by one of its own bombs. The other pilot turned to fight, saw the Spitfire, changed his mind, and made the understandable but fatal blunder of diving for home. Taffy, as if he had divined what the German would do, cut him off, zoomed into the sun, dived, came up underneath, and laced the fat fuselage with bullets. The machine turned slowly over on its back and plunged downwards towards the sea.

  Taffy returned to his original height and course. His, eyes were sparkling. Another enemy machine appeared, a Messerschmitt 109 this time, cruising confidently now that it was so near home; but a movement evidently caught the pilot’s eye, for he looked up.

  He saw the Spitfire at once and acted with the speed of light. Flinging his machine into a spin, he sought safety nearer the water. Death followed him down. There was a brief battle just above the water, a cloud of spray, and the Messerschmitt disappeared from view.

  Taffy turned away and looked up, realizing that he was now dangerously low. He could hardly believe his eyes when they picked up a straggling part of five Heinkel fighters less than a mile away, and flying at under a thousand feet. It was obvious from the loose formation in which they flew that they had not thought of danger. Their eyes may have been on the French coast, for he was amazed at the calm way they went on flying even while he was racing towards them.

  He picked out the rear man, and one short burst set his machine on fire. This, he felt, was a satisfactory performance, and he had reason to hope that he would be able to repeat it; but it was not to be. The leading pilot must have looked back, and in another moment the four machines were tearing back over their course, with Taffy heading for home at full throttle. In the ordinary way four machines would not have intimidated him, but, rash though he was, he was no fool; he was too near German-occupied France for safety, and there was a chance of more machines arriving to cut him off. Moreover, his ammunition was running low. On the way home he met another straggler and gave it a short burst, but had no time to reconnoitre the result. With the four enemy machines close behind, close enough to fire at him, he sped towards the white cliffs behind which lay safety.

  He reached them, and looked back to see the Heinkels making for home hotly pursued by archie from the shore batteries. Narrowly missing a barrage balloon, he climbed to two thousand feet and then set a course for his new station. Glancing at his watch, he saw with surprise, but without dismay, that he was likely to arrive late.

  He was aroused from the reverie into which he had sunk by a sudden vibration of the engine, and looked sharply at his rev. counter to see the needle falling back, although from what cause he did not know. Possibly a bullet had hit his engine, he thought vaguely, hoping that it would last out until he reached the aerodrome. In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment, finally being forced to land in a convenient field about half a mile short of it. It was irritating to get so close and then have to make a forced landing, but he was used to that sort of thing.

  The Spitfire, thanks to its flaps, finished its run about twenty yards short of a hedge which bordered the road at that particular spot, and near to where some Tommies were standing by a vehicle which, as Taffy climbed the gate, revealed itself to be a tank. He sat on the gate, watching it for a moment or two while he recovered his composure, and in so doing discovered that he was thirsty.

  ‘Have any of you fellows got anything in your water-bottles?’ he asked the crew of the tank.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came a chorus of replies.

  He accepted the first water-bottle, and having refreshed himself, got off the gate, telling himself that he would have to get on.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked the corporal in charge of the party.

  ‘We’ve had a bit of a breakdown, sir,’ returned the N.C.O.

  Taffy considered the ponderous vehicle curiously, for he had never before had an opportunity of examining one.

  ‘I’d hate to be shut up in that thing, look you,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ answered the corporal. ‘Have a look. She stinks a bit, but that’s all.’

  Taffy crawled through the steel trap. ‘Phew, I should say she does stink,’ he remarked.

  ‘You soon get used to it,’ smiled the corporal.

  ‘And this is where the driver sits ?’ went on Taffy, dropping into the seat behind the wheel and peering through the letterbox slit that permitted a restricted view ahead.

  ‘That’s it, sir,’ agreed the corporal. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he went on, as one of the men outside called something.

  Taffy was so interested that he did not notice his departure. He thumbed the controls gingerly. ‘I’d sooner have my own cockpit than this,’ he declared, and started to vacate the seat.

  Just what he put his foot on he did not know. He never did know. But there was a violent explosion, and the machine jerked forward with a jolt that caused him to strike his head on a metal object behind him. At the same time the trap slammed shut with a clang.

  Slightly dazed, Taffy fell into the driving seat. It was sheer instinct that made him clutch at the wheel and swing it round just as the front of the vehicle was about to take a tree head-on, but he managed to clear it and get back on the road, down which the tank proceeded to charge at a speed that seemed utterly impossible for such a weight.

  ‘Hi! Corporal!’ he shouted. ‘Come and stop the confounded thing. I can’t!’

  There was no reply.

  Snatching a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw to his horror that the corporal was not there. In fact, the machine was empty.

  ‘Gosh, I’m sunk!’ he muttered, white-faced.

  Fortunately the road was straight, but even so it was only with difficulty that he was able to keep the tank on it, for the wheel vibrated horribly, and the steering-gear seemed to do strange things on its own account. He eyed a distant bend in the road apprehensively.

  ‘That’s where we pile up,’ he thought. ‘I shall never make that turn. I must have been daft to get into this devil’s go-cart.’

  He made a quick reconnaissance of the controls, and selected one which he felt ought to be the throttle. ‘Whoa mare,’ he murmured, and pulled it back.

  The machine leapt forward like a greyhound leaving a trap, and again Taffy’s head came into violent contact with the metal object behind him. He fell forward and struck his nose on another metal object. The noise, which had been bad enough before, became unbearable.

  ‘Hi! Let me out!’ he yelled.

  The bend in the road lurched sickeningly towards him, and, as he had prophesied, he failed to make it. He clutched at the side of the tank as it struck the bank and buried itself in the hedge. But he had forgotten the peculiar properties of this particular type of vehicle. Regarded as obstructions, the bank, the ditch, and the hedge were so trivial that the machine did not appear to notice them. There was a slithering scream as the caterpillar wheels got a gri
p on the bank, and then, with a lurch like a sinking ship, it was over.

  The lurch flung Taffy back into his seat, and he looked through the slit to see what lay ahead. A moan of despair broke from his lips when he saw that he was on the aerodrome, heading straight for the sheds. He snatched at the nearest lever, but it had no effect on the vehicle’s progress. He pulled and pushed everything within reach, but it still made no difference. In sheer desperation he clawed at the wheel, hoping to clear the hangars.

  ‘Look out, look you!’ he bellowed, but his words were lost in the din.

  The airmen who happened to be on duty needed no warning. As one man they rushed out of the hangar and, after a glance at the horror bearing down on them, fled incontinently.

  Taffy saw a car, an ancient Morris — it was Lissie’s, although, of course, he was not to know that — directly in his path. He hung on to the wheel, but it was no use. The tank, which had seemed to be more than willing to turn when he was on the road, now refused to answer the controls in the slightest degree. It took the car in its stride, so to speak, and in a second ended its useful life in a cloud of splinters and bent metal. Beyond it loomed the hangar. Lissie rushed out, took one look at the mangled remains of the car, and appeared to go mad.

  ‘Stand clear — I can’t stop,’ bawled Taffy through the letterbox opening.

  Whether the Flight Commander heard or not Taffy did not know; but the Flight Commander leapt for his life at the last moment. The tank roared past him into the hangar.

  Where a bank and a hedge had failed to have any effect it was not to be expected that a mere flimsy canvas hangar could stop it, and Taffy burst out of the far side like an express train coming out of a tunnel, leaving the hangar looking as if a tornado had struck it.

  A mechanic who was having a quiet doze at the back of it had the narrowest escape of his life. He woke abruptly, sat up wonderingly as the din reached his ears, and then leapt like a frog as he saw death burst through the structure behind him. The tank’s caterpillar wheels missed him by inches, and Taffy mentally awarded him the world’s record for the standing jump.