by W E Johns
A party of airmen were under instruction in the concrete machine-gun pit a little farther on. They heard the noise, but, mistaking it for a low-flying formation of planes, they did not immediately look round. They did so, however, as the steel monster plunged into the pit, and how they managed to escape being crushed to pulp must always remain a mystery. But the concrete pit was a tougher proposition than the tank had before encountered and it gave it best. With a loud hiss it gave a final convulsive lurch, and then lay silent.
Taffy picked himself up from the floor and felt himself gingerly to see if any bones were broken. A noise of shouting came from outside, which did not surprise him, so he crawled to the door and tried to unfasten it; but it refused to budge.
A strong smell of petrol reached his nostrils, and in something like a panic he hurled himself against the door, just as it was opened from the outside. He took a flying header into the turf. Blinking like an owl, with oil and perspiration running down his face, he sat up and looked about him stupidly.
Facing him, regarding him grimly, was a Squadron Leader. In a little group behind him were more officers, who had rushed out of the mess when they heard the crash.
Taffy pulled himself together, and facing the C.O. announced, ‘I’m reporting for duty, sir.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I noticed it.’
Taffy felt that some explanation was needed. He indicated the tank. ‘She got away with me, sir. If you ask my opinion they make these things too heavy on the controls.’
The C.O. regarded him stonily. ‘I’m not asking your opinion,’ he said softly. ‘Your name, I fancy, is Hughes?’
Taffy looked puzzled. ‘That’s right, sir. How did you guess?’
Biggles’s lips parted in a mirthless smile. ‘I didn’t guess,’ he said with deadly sarcasm. ‘I knew.’
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CHAPTER 5
ONE GOOD TURN
WHEN he took off on a short test flight, Ginger Hebblethwaite had no intention of landing at Dewton, the home of Number 701 (Hurricane) Squadron; but after wandering about in the blue for some time, and finding himself within gliding distance of Dewton, he decided to drop in and leave his card at the mess.
In accordance with custom, an old custom which the Higher Command has not quite succeeded in abolishing, he did not land immediately. For the honour and glory of the squadron to which he belonged he first treated any casual spectators of his arrival to a short exhibition in the art of aerobatics. He pushed his nose down and roared low over the mess, so low that his wheels almost touched the roof, in order to indicate that the show was about to commence.
Thereafter, at various altitudes, he proceeded to put his machine through every evolution known to aviation. Loops, low rolls, half rolls, rolls on the top of loops, upward spins, and whip-stalls followed each other in quick succession until, feeling slightly giddy, he decided that he had done enough. He cut his engine, glided between the hangars in a manner that scattered his audience, and then skidded round to a neat tarmac landing.
Satisfied that he had upheld the traditions of 666 Squadron, he leapt lightly to the ground, and with a smile on his face advanced towards the members of the Hurricane squadron.
One stood a little apart from the others, and, observing his expression, Ginger’s face lost something of its gaiety and acquired a faint look of anxiety.
The isolated officer, who Ginger now saw wore on his arm the rings of a Flight Lieutenant, took a pace towards him. ‘Who are you?’ he barked, in such a peremptory voice that Ginger jumped. The greeting was unusual, to say the least. ‘Why — er — I’m Hebblethwaite of 666,’ replied Ginger.
‘Say “sir” when you speak to me! I am in command here during the temporary absence of Squadron Leader Wilkinson.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ replied Ginger, abashed and astonished.
‘What do you mean by acting like a madman over my aerodrome?’
Ginger blinked and looked helplessly at the other officers. ‘Not like a madman, sir, I hope.’
‘Don’t argue with me! I say your flying is outrageous — a wanton risk of government property.’
‘But I —’
‘Silence! Consider yourself under open arrest. Report your name and unit to the Duty Officer and then return instantly to your own squadron. I shall refer the matter to Wing Headquarters. You will hear further from your C.O..’
Ginger stiffened and swallowed hard.
‘Very good, sir,’ he muttered between clenched teeth.
He saluted briskly, reported to the Squadron office, and then returned to the tarmac.
Several officers regarded him sympathetically. One of them winked and inclined his head.
Ginger halted near him. ‘What’s the name of that Dismal Desmond?’ he asked softly. ‘What’s biting him, anyway? Has he had a shock of some sort, or is it just plain nasty-mindedness?’
‘I reckon he was just born like it,’ murmured the other. ‘They must have fed him on crabapples when he was a kid. Watch out, though — he’s acting C.O..’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Bitmore.’
‘Then he’s bit a bit more than he can chew this time,’ punned Ginger viciously. ‘How many Huns has he got?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘Then how did he get those rings on his sleeve?’
‘Chasing pupils round the tarmac at a flying training school.’
‘Well, this isn’t one and he isn’t chasing me,’ snapped Ginger. ‘My crowd’ll show him where he steps off if he’s going to try this sort of stuff. Give your blokes my condolences. Cheerio.’
‘Cheer-oh, laddie.’
Ginger climbed into his machine, took off, and raced back to Rawlham. He parked his Spitfire in its usual place and marched stiffly towards the Squadron Office. On the way he met a party of officers, including Algy Lacey, his Flight Commander, and Lord Bertie Lissie, in charge of B Flight.
‘Stand aside,’ he requested curtly as they moved to intercept him. ‘I’m under arrest.’
Algy stopped dead. ‘You’re what?’ he gasped.
‘Under arrest.’
‘Arrest my foot! What’s the game?’
‘No game — it’s a fact. I dropped in on 701 Squadron this morning, the Hurricane crowd over at Dewton, and gave them the once-over before I landed. When I got down, a cross-grained skunk named Bitmore, who, apparently, is acting C.O., ticked me off properly and put me under open arrest.’
‘Your show must have given him a rush of blood to the brain.’
‘Looks that way. Anyhow, he’s reporting me to Wing.’
Algy frowned and looked at Bertie. ‘The fellow must be a scallywag,’ he muttered. ‘What are we going to do about it? We can’t have blighters like this throwing their weight about; life won’t be worth living. Think of what the poor chaps in his own squadron must go through. Quite apart from Ginger, I think we ought to do something for them.’
Bertie fingered his wisp of moustache. ‘Absolutely,’ he declared. ‘Absolutely.’
‘I tell you what,’ went on Algy, and drawing Bertie to one side he whispered in his ear.
Then he turned again to Ginger.
‘All right, laddie,’ he said, ‘you’d better go and report to Toddy. You’ve had orders, and if you don’t obey them it’ll only make things worse.’
Ginger departed in the direction of the Squadron Office, while Algy and Bertie walked quickly back towards their quarters.
Some time later two Spitfires appeared over the boundary of the Hurricane aerodrome at Dewton; and to the officers lounging in front of the mess it was at once apparent that neither of the pilots was adept in the art of flying. Twice they circled the aerodrome, making flat turns and generally committing those faults that turn the hair of an instructor prematurely grey. Twice they attempted to land. The first time they undershot, and opening up their engines at the last moment, narrowly escaped disaster as they staggered across the front of the sheds.
The seco
nd time they overshot hopelessly and, skimming the trees on the far side of the aerodrome, skidded round to a down-wind landing. The spectators wiped the perspiration from their faces, while the ambulance raced round trying to judge the exact spot on which the crash would occur.
The first of the two machines made its third attempt to get in, and a cry of horror arose as the Spitfire drifted along on a course dead in line with the wind-stocking pole. At the last moment the pilot appeared to see it, swerved, missed it by an inch, and flopped down in a landing that would have disgraced a first-soloist. The second machine followed, grazing the mess roof. Together they taxied an erratic course to the hangars.
Two pilots, clad in brand new flying kit and crash-helmets, climbed out of the machines and walked towards the little crowd of officers and airmen who had gathered for the fun.
Slightly in front of them Flight Lieutenant Bitmore stood waiting. He was obviously in his element. Anger and disgust were predominant on his face.
‘Come here,’ he snarled.
Obediently the two officers altered their course towards him.
‘What sort of an exhibition do you call that?’ greeted Bitmore, his lips curling in a sneer. ‘Do you call yourselves pilots?’ He appeared to choke for a moment, and then went on: ‘You’re not fit to pilot a perambulator down a promenade, either of you. A steam-roller driver would have put up a better show. I’ve never seen such an exhibition of supreme inability in my life. You make me —’
His voice trailed away to a silence that could be felt as the nearer of the two recipients of his invective slowly unfastened his flying kit, disclosing the uniform of an Air Commodore. The other had followed his example, and stood arrayed as a Wing Commander.
The Air Commodore eyed the Flight Lieutenant speculatively. ‘Have you quite finished?’ he inquired in a voice that made the spectators shiver. ‘Because, if you have, I will begin. What is your name?’
‘Bitmore, sir.’
‘Bitmore ? Ha, I might have known it. I’ve heard of you. Who is in command at this station?’
There was a titter from the assembled officers, but it faded swiftly as the Air Commodore’s eyes flashed on them.
‘I – I am, sir, temporarily,’ stammered Bitmore.
‘You! You tell me that you are in command of this squadron! How dare you take it upon yourself to criticize my flying. How long have you been in command?’
‘Well, sir —’
The Air Commodore thrust his chin forward. ‘Don’t “well” me – answer my question.’
‘Two days, sir.’
‘Aha! Two days, eh? And you think that qualifies you to criticize officers who have learnt their flying in the field? I called here for petrol, and this is the reception I get.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You will be – yes, you will be, I promise you. Get my tanks filled up and have both these machines cleaned. Come along, jump to it. We’ve no time to waste.’
Bitmore, pale and trembling, lost no time in obeying the order; and the airmen needed no urging. They set about the machines, and in ten minutes the two Spitfires were refuelled.
Half an hour later they looked as if they had only just left the workshops of the makers, but not until they were completely satisfied did the Air Commodore and his aide-de-camp climb into their seats.
‘I shall bear your name in mind,’ was the Air Commodore’s parting shot at Bitmore, as he taxied out and took off.
A quarter of an hour later both machines landed at Rawlham. The two pilots leapt to the ground and, to the great surprise of Flight Sergeant Smyth, ran round the back of the hangars to the officers’ quarters. It struck the Flight Sergeant, from their actions as they ran, that they were both in pain.
They were; but not until they were in Algy’s room and had discarded their borrowed raiment did the pseudo senior officers give way to their feelings. Algy lay on his bed and sobbed helplessly. Bertie, with the Wing Commander’s tunic on the floor at his feet, sat on the bed with his face buried in his hands, making a peculiar gurgling noise.
‘Poor blighter,’ said Algy at last, wiping his face with a towel. ‘He’ll never be able to live that down as long as he lives. Right in front of the whole blinking squadron, too. Still, it served him right. He asked for it.’
‘By Jove! If ever he finds out won’t there be a lovely stink — if you see what I mean,’ chuckled Bertie, polishing his monocle.
But nothing happened, and by the next evening the incident was half forgotten.
Two days later a middle-aged officer, with a double row of medal ribbons on his breast, landed in a Hurricane at Rawlham and briskly towards the Squadron Office.
Biggles, who was working at his desk, looked up as the visitor entered. Instantly his face broke into a smile of welcome, and he sprang to his feet.
‘Why, if it isn’t Wilks!’ he cried delightedly. ‘You’ve got yourself back in harness again I see. Well, this is a surprise. What brings you here? Where are you stationed?’
Squadron Leader Wilkinson, D.S.O., shook hands warmly. ‘I’ve just been given a new squadron – 701 – Hurricanes,’ he announced. We’re at Dewton, just over the way, so I hope we shall be seeing something of each other. I’ve been on a few days’ leave – had to leave the squadron in charge of Bitmore, my senior Flight Lieutenant. I’ve got a fine lot of chaps so I hope we shall do Well.’
‘Good – I hope you will. All the same, I reckon my Spitfires will get more than your Hurricanes.’
Squadron Leader Wilkinson, better known in the Service as ‘Wilks’, laughed. ‘Yes, it looks as if we’re going to have our old Camels versus S.E.5’s competitions again. But that isn’t why I came to see you. A couple of days ago my squadron had a visit from two Air Ministry officers, an Air Commodore and a Wing Commander — awful nuisance, these people. When I came back I made some inquiries about it, and ran into Air Vice-Marshal Logan. He happened to mention to me that he was going to make a surprise inspection of your station some time today, so I thought I’d give you the tip.’
Biggles sprang to his feet. ‘The dickens he is!’ he cried. ‘Thanks very much, Wilks. Dash these people and their surprise visits. They seem to think we’ve nothing else to do but sit and polish our machines.’
Wilks nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, I shall have to be getting back — no, I can’t stay to lunch. I’m very busy at the moment — thanks all the same.’
‘I shall have to get busy myself to put things in order for this inspection,’ replied Biggles seriously. ‘Cheer-oh, old boy, and thanks for giving me the tip. I hope we shall be seeing you again soon.’
‘You certainly will,’ answered Wilks, with a curious expression on his face.
Biggles lost no time in setting preparations on foot for the impending inspection.
Telephones rang, N.C.O.s chased airmen to various tasks, and all officers were ordered out of the mess to help clean their machines.
For two hours the aerodrome presented a scene of unparalleled activity, and by the end of that time everything was in apple-pie order. All ranks were then dismissed to their quarters with orders to parade in twenty minutes, properly dressed for inspection in their best uniforms.
‘Stand by until further orders,’ announced Biggles after he had carried out a thorough inspection of everything and everyone on the station.
An hour passed slowly, and nothing happened. Two hours passed, and still there was no sign of the Air Vice-Marshal.
Biggles began to fidget. ‘This is a bit thick,’ he muttered irritably. ‘It must be after lunch time — we don’t look like getting any. If I dismiss everybody you can bet your life that will be the moment the Air Vice-Marshal will arrive.’ He was speaking to his Flight Commanders.
Slowly the afternoon wore on, but still there was no sign of the expected officer. Then, from a distance, came the drone of many aeroplanes flying in formation, and the personnel of the waiting squadron stiffened expectantly.
A puzzled expression came o
ver Biggies’s face. ‘What’s all this?’ he murmured wonderingly. ‘If this is the Air Vice-Marshal, then he’s —’ He broke off, staring at the far side of the aerodrome as nine Hurricanes, flying low and in a beautiful tight vee formation, swept into sight.
Straight across the aerodrome they roared. When they were about half-way, and immediately in front of the officers’ mess, they dipped in ironical salute. A message bag fluttered to the ground from the leading machine. Then they disappeared from sight beyond the hangars, and the drone of their engines faded in the distance.
A sergeant ran out, picked up the message, and carried it to Biggles. Under the curious eyes of the entire squadron he opened it. An extraordinary expression came over his face as he read the letter.
‘Flight Commanders will report to my office immediately,’ he snapped and, turning on his heels, walked on ahead.
Over his desk he faced them grimly. ‘What do you make of that?’ he inquired curtly, as he passed a sheet of paper.
The Flight Commanders read it together.
‘It is requested that Flight Lieutenant Lacey and Lissie be asked how they like their eggs boiled.
‘For and on behalf of the officers of Number 701 (Fighter) Squadron.
(Signed)
À. R. WILKINSON.
Squadron Leader.’
‘My gosh,’ gasped Algy. ‘What a put-over.’
‘Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain what all this is about,’ requested Biggles softly.
Algy acted as spokesman. Clearly and concisely he told the whole story, from Ginger’s reprimand by Flight Lieutenant Bitmore up to the masquerade, and the admonition of that officer in front of the unit.
Biggles heard him out in silence.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘there are two aspects of this affair. Wilks had evidently discovered the plot, and has taken this course to get his own back – the course that I, knowing him to be an offrcer of the finest type, would expect him to take. If he had reported the matter officially I need hardly tell you that you would have been court-martialled. As it is, he has taken an unofficial course. He has put it across us very neatly. At this moment every officer of 701 is probably convulsed with mirth at our expense. Every squadron in the service will know about it, and we shall never hear the last of it. What are we going to do—’