by W E Johns
‘Is Mr Mooney here, please?’ called a mess waiter from the door.
Cuthbert looked round. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘The C.O. wants to see you in the office, sir.’
‘I’m on my way,’ replied Cuthbert, rising. Emitting an unbelievable volume of sound that could be recognized as a two-stroke motor-cycle, he steered himself to the door and disappeared.
‘Looney Mooney,’ murmured Algy. ‘If he goes on like that on the ground, think what he must be like in the air. I should say that the Flight Commander who gets the job of trailing him around the sky is in for a thin time. Why, Bertie, he makes you seem almost sane!’
The orderly appeared again. ‘Flight Lieutenant Lacey, please, wanted on the telephone,’ he called.
Algy hurried from the room. Three minutes later he returned and resumed his seat.
There was a curious expression on his face. He looked up and caught Bertie’s eyes.
‘Have you been awarded the V.C. or something?’ inquired Bertie.
‘No, but I shall deserve it by tonight — if I live to see it,’ muttered Algy morosely.
‘Why, what’s doing?’
‘Cuthbert has been posted to my flight, and the C.O. wants me to show him the coast — this afternoon.’
The shout of laughter that went up could be heard on the far side of the aerodrome.
When Algy went to the flight hangar after lunch he found the new member of his flight waiting for him. Cuthbert had evidently been making some adjustments to his machine, for his hands were filthy.
‘Come and have a look at my new device for keeping Huns off my tail,’ he invited. ‘You’ll be sorry for the Hun who gets behind me — and so will he.’
‘No, thanks. Personally, I prefer to see that a Hun doesn’t get behind me. In this squadron, when we see Huns we go for them — we don’t turn our tails to them.’
‘I see,’ murmured Cuthbert, unabashed. Then you don’t want to look—’
‘No, thanks,’ said Algy again. ‘I think I shall be able to manage with my guns.’
‘Just as you like.’
‘All I want you to do this afternoon,’ went on Algy, ‘is to keep your eyes on me. Stick close, and try to pick up as many landmarks as you can. We’re going to fly along the coast, but I don’t expect we shall go far over the water, if at all. In any case, keep close to me whatever happens.’
Cuthbert nodded. ‘I will,’ he said seriously.
Five minutes later the two Spitfires were in the air, climbing in wide circles in the direction of the coast. From time to time Algy tilted a wing and indicated some outstanding landmark — a river, a wood, or a road, noting with satisfaction that the pilot he was escorting flew well and kept in his place.
For an hour or more they flew on, following the coast, and then began the return journey.
Algy, who never lost an opportunity of picking up some useful information, edged farther over the Channel, trying to locate the big guns that he knew had been installed along the French coast, which he could see easily. In this occupation he was startled by Cuthbert, who suddenly drew level with him and, having attracted his attention, pointed.
Algy, following the direction, saw a number of tiny specks far above them in the blue.
Mentally congratulating the beginner on his watchfulness and ‘spotting’ ability, he turned away, at the same time subjecting the sky around to a searching scrutiny. What was going on? He did not know, but he felt that something was happening, and his eyes probed the atmosphere in order to find out what it was. He had no wish to be caught in an awkward predicament with a new man on his hands. Still watching the sky, he saw a Junkers 88, several thousand feet above him and making for home. He kept his eyes on it for a moment or two, feeling that as the enemy aircraft was so near home pursuit was not worth while.
But this evidently did not suit Cuthbert, who banked steeply, and set off on the trail of the enemy aircraft.
Rightly or wrongly, Algy always blamed himself for what followed, for he was the leader, and should at once have turned for home, in which case Cuthbert would no doubt have followed him. But Cuthbert’s enthusiasm spoilt his better judgment, and after a quick look round to make sure that the sky was clear behind them, he held on after the enemy machine. Frankly he did not suppose that they would catch it, but it was good practice, and provided they did not go too far out over the Channel there was no particular danger.
It was unfortunate that Cuthbert, in his anxiety to overtake the Junkers, should take the lead at the very moment that Algy’s engine began to give trouble. At first it was only a faint vibration, but it was sufficient to bring a frown to his face. The revolution indicator needle was already falling back.
It was now Algy’s turn to try to catch Cuthbert, but he could not do so. His pupil’s attention was riveted on the Junkers, and not once did he look at his leader. Algy fumed, but in vain. He was only twenty or thirty yards behind, but both machines were flying on full throttle and he had no reserve of speed to overtake the other. On the contrary, his engine began to knock, and he fell farther behind.
‘This is no use — I shall have to get back,’ he muttered savagely. ‘Cuthbert will have to take his luck.’ He throttled back to cruising speed to take some of the strain off the engine, and swung round in the direction of the coast, now two or three miles away.
Once he had turned, the distance between the two Spitfires increased at tremendous speed, but he watched the other as long as he could, and it may have been due to this fact that he failed to notice what normally he would have seen. But what he did see, to his infinite relief, was this. Cuthbert turned suddenly and came racing after him. Satisfied that there was now nothing to worry about, he throttled back still farther, and began a long glide towards home. Wondering why Cuthbert had turned so suddenly, he resumed his systematic searching of the sky. But he did not look very long. His muscles stiffened as his eyes picked out a formation of machines not more than two miles away, flying on a course to cut him off. There was no need to look twice to identify them. They were Messerschmitt 109’s, and that the enemy machines had seen him was clear.
A cold hand seemed to settle over his heart as he watched them — not for himself, but for Cuthbert, who was still a good two miles behind him. Bitterly Algy repented his folly in allowing himself to be persuaded so far from the coast with an untried beginner. He toyed with his throttle to try to squeeze a few more revs. out of his engine, but it became worse instead of better.
What should he do? To wait for Cuthbert in such circumstances was sheer suicide, and even if he did wait there was little he could do. He hoped and prayed that Cuthbert would see the danger and turn off at a tangent, in which case he might beat the enemy machines to the English coast — certainly if they stopped to deal with him, Algy, first.
But either Cuthbert did not see or else he was made of sterner stuff, for straight as an arrow he held his machine towards the approaching storm. As a last resort Algy, too, deliberately turned towards the enemy, although what he was going to do was not clear, for his engine revs. were still falling so there was really no question of fighting.
Cuthbert now moved nearer to him, and it, gave him an idea. Perhaps by diving they might still reach safety. With this object in view he turned again towards the coast and, pushing his stick forward, dived steeply towards the white cliffs now only a mile or so distant. Behind him came Cuthbert, perhaps a quarter of a mile away; then followed the enemy formation of twelve machines. Having the advantage of height, they thundered down, tails cocked high in the air, and the distance between them and the two British machines closed swiftly.
Algy, flying with his head twisted over his shoulder, saw that the Messerschmitts would catch Cuthbert first, and he gritted his teeth in impotence. What he could not understand was that Cuthbert appeared to be making no particular effort to overtake him.
They were practically over the coast-line when the shooting began, and Algy caught his breath when he saw Cuth
bert’s machine swerve as if it had been hit; but it recovered quickly, and swung back on its original course immediately behind him. At the same time its nose went down into a steeper dive until it was not more than a hundred yards in the rear. But the Messerschmitts were also closing up.
‘They’ll get him — they’re bound to get him,’ thought Algy, sick with apprehension, for Cuthbert was still flying in a dead straight line although the whole enemy pack was on his tail. ‘Why doesn’t he do something — roll, loop, spin, anything rather than sit still and be shot like a rabbit? Or is he waiting for me to do something?’
The knowledge that Cuthbert would think he was running away brought a flush to his cheeks, but he could do nothing. Never had he felt so utterly helpless. How was Cuthbert to know that his engine had packed up?
He braced himself for the worst. Instead, he saw the most amazing spectacle that it had ever been his lot to witness. As the Messerschmitts roared in to deliver the knock-out blow, a streak of orange fire, followed by a trail of smoke, spurted backwards from the Spitfire. What it was he could not imagine. His first impression was that Cuthbert’s machine was on fire, but as a second streamer of fire leapt backwards he knew that this was not so. Spellbound, he could only watch.
At the appearance of the first fiery missile the Messerschmitts had swerved wildly, as indeed they had every reason to do, and the thing — whatever it was — actually passed between the two leading machines. It also went very close to one of those in the rear. At the appearance of the second one there was general confusion as each pilot tried to avoid it.
In the mix-up the wings of two of them became locked. For perhaps two seconds they clung together; then they broke apart and, shedding woodwork and fabric, plunged downwards.
Algy watched speechlessly, still unable to understand what was happening, but conscious that two of the enemy machines had gone — a fact that filled him with no small satisfaction.
Two more streamers of fire and smoke hurtled aft from Cuthbert’s machine; they went wide, but they served their purpose. The Messerschmitts had had enough. The enemy formation scattered as the machines pulled out in all directions, and although they hung about in the vicinity, presumably to watch the fire-spitting phenomenon, they gave up the pursuit.
Algy gave a heart-felt sigh of relief, hardly daring to believe that escape was now practically an accomplished fact. His brain became normal, and into his mind for the first time crept snatches of the conversation on the tarmac before they had begun the flight.
What was it Cuthbert had said? ‘Come and see my device... you’ll be sorry for the Hun who gets on my tail.’
That must have been the device he had seen working, but what on earth was it? It looked as if it might have been a glorified Very pistol attached to some part of the machine, trained to fire backwards and operated from the cockpit. But how the dickens did Cuthbert reload? The missile was too big for a Very light, anyway.
Algy wasted no more time guessing. What concerned him now was how to get on the ground without cracking up, for his engine was too far gone for him to hope to get back to the aerodrome. He looked about anxiously for a suitable place to set the machine down. He picked out a field, small and by no means level, and was about to side-slip towards it when he became aware that Cuthbert’s machine was acting in a curious manner. The engine had been cut off, and it seemed to be slipping from left to right. Once it nearly stalled, and the pilot caught it in the nick of time.
Algy watched, with his heart in his mouth, only too well aware that something was wrong. As the Spitfire shot past him, steering a zigzag course for the same field in which he himself proposed to land, he half expected Cuthbert to make some sort of signal, but he did not. With head erect, sitting stiffly in the cockpit, he seemed to be staring fixedly ahead. The Spitfire went straight on towards the ground. Algy, dry-lipped, knew what was going to happen, for he had seen machines go down like that before. Out of the corner of his eye, as he glided over the hedge of the field, he saw the other plane half flatten out, but too late. The undercarriage was swept off in a cloud of mud and grass.
The Spitfire bounced high into the air, stalled, and then drove nose first into the ground.
Algy landed and, without waiting for his machine to finish its run, leapt out, only to sprawl headlong; but he was on his feet in an instant, running like a hare towards the crash, for a little wisp of steam was rising sluggishly into the air from the engine, and he grew cold at the thought that he might be too late. For he knew what the steam portended. He knew it was petrol vapour from a fractured tank running over hot cylinders. But the dreaded horror of fire had not occurred when he reached the machine.
Cuthbert was still strapped in his seat, in a crumpled position.
Troops were running towards the spot, for the machines had come down near a camp.
‘Quick!’ snapped Algy, as he tried to drag aside a cable that was holding the pilot in his seat. He knew that the danger of fire was by no means past; one dying spark from the magneto and the petrol-soaked wreckage would go up like gunpowder. He had seen it happen before.
‘Now then — all together — pull!’ he cried, as willing hands came to the rescue. Between them they got the unconscious pilot free and laid him gently on the grass.
Cuthbert opened his eyes as Algy’s hands ran over him, searching for what he hoped he would not find — the damp patch over a bullet that had found its billet.
‘Where did they get you, laddie?’ he asked, for he felt certain that Cuthbert had been hit.
The wounded man blinked, and forced a smile. ‘Got me through the legs,’ he breathed.
Before Algy could do anything more an ambulance with R.A.M.C. men arrived; field dressings were produced and first aid applied.
‘You’ll be O.K.,’ Algy said cheerfully when the doctor told him that the wounds were not serious. ‘You must have fainted from loss of blood.’
Cuthbert nodded weakly.
‘Why the dickens didn’t you make for home faster when you saw that bunch on your tail?’ muttered Algy.
‘I wasn’t in a hurry,’ answered Cuthbert. ‘You see, I was anxious to try out my new apparatus, but the Huns were a bit too quick for me. One of them got me first burst — confound him.’
‘What the dickens was it?’ Algy demanded.
‘Rockets. I’ve made a gadget to hold them on backwards, so that they shoot behind me. I’ll show you how it works when I come back from hospital.’
Cuthbert was lifted into the ambulance. Algy gripped his hand. ‘Cheerio, kid,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell the C.O. you put up a great show.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Cuthbert. His elbow came down smartly on the side of the vehicle, and his fist followed it.
The ambulance driver looked round in surprise at the sound — clonk-clonk... clonk-clonk.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘Two to Waterloo,’ grinned Cuthbert.
[Back to Contents]
CHAPTER 8
THE LOVE SONG
SQUADRON LEADER BIGGLESWORTH knew that he had a visitor even before he landed after making a short test flight to check certain adjustments that had been made to his Spitfire, for his ever-roving eyes had picked out a car standing at the door of the Squadron Office.
‘She’s still inclined to fly a bit left wing low,’ he told the sergeant rigger, as he shed his parachute and walked over to the office.
‘Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, is inside,’ Toddy told him.
Biggles found the air officer pacing the room impatiently. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he greeted, saluting. ‘Nice of you to look me up —’
‘You may change your mind in a minute,’ interrupted the Air Commodore, tersely. ‘The fact is, Biggles, I’m in a mess.’
‘I might have known it,’ murmured Biggles sadly.
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the only time you honour us with a visit.’
‘I know — I know. It must look that way to
you. But this is really serious.’
‘I seem to have heard that before, too,’ said Biggles softly. ‘Sit down, sir — have a cigarette? What’s the trouble?’
‘I’ll tell you in as few words as possible. You know Amiens and the country round it pretty well, don’t you?’
‘Er — fairly well,’ admitted Biggles cautiously.
‘You know the little church in the Rue Ste Marie — just behind the Hotel de Ville?’
‘Yes, I know it — that is, if it’s still there now that the Nazis are in possession of the town.’
‘I want you to go there for me.’
Biggles started, staring. You want me — to go to Amiens?’
The air officer nodded, and took a large-scale map from his portfolio. ‘These are the facts,’ he said crisply. ‘There is, in Amiens, a man named Marcel Bregard. Until recently he was one of the designers of the Rhône Aviation Company. At the time of the German breakthrough he was working on a special supercharger for radial engines. When the German advance guard rushed the town he put the plans in his pocket to prevent them from falling into German hands, and bolted to the aerodrome, hoping to fly to England with them. But he was too late. The enemy was already in possession. In sheer desperation he went back to the town. By this time it was dark, and he had the misfortune to be knocked down by somebody on a motor-cycle. His right leg was broken, but he managed to crawl to comparative safety. It seems that he had a friend, a girl who lived in the Rue Ste Marie — she ran a little tobacco business there. The house is number one, and is easily identified because it is next doer to the church. well, this girl, whose name is Renée, took him in. He is still there, and is still in possession of the plans — or he was shortly before we heard about this.’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘In rather a strange way; through a British Tommy a lad named Corporal Price. As you probably know, some of our fellows got cut off in the town. Some were captured; others went into hiding, when they could find French people to conceal them — and there were plenty willing to take that risk. Renée took charge of Corporal Price and hid him in a cellar. There he met Bregard, who subsequently told him about the plans. Bregard was, of course, stuck there on account of his broken leg, although being a Frenchman and not in uniform, he was in no danger of arrest. Price determined to get back to England and bring the plans with him. Arrangements were made, but unfortunately the day before he was due to leave he was captured. He was sent to Germany, but jumped the train, pinched a bicycle, and got down to Spain, from where he subsequently made his way home.’