Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade

by W E Johns

  ‘Merci,’ he said softly. ‘We shall not forget you.’

  Faintly came the answer. ‘Au revoir — bon voyage.’ The window squeaked again.

  Biggles crept like a shadow acrosss the street and dived into a narrow turning, suddenly aware that the rain had stopped, to be replaced by a haze, thin as yet, but thickening. In a way it helped him through the town, but at the same time it alarmed him when he thought of the flight back. Twice he had to halt and cower in a doorway as a patrol went past, but he was not challenged, and as soon as he reached open country he broke into a trot.

  By the time he reached the field where he had left the machine the fog was so dense that he doubted if it would be possible to take off. To crash, now that he had the plans in his pocket, would, he thought bitterly, be a sorry ending to his mission. Counting the trees beside the road — a precaution he had taken on arrival — he struck off across the field, only to pull up dead as the murmur of voices reached his ears. He did not attempt to deceive himself. Someone had discovered the machine, and the voices denoted that there were at least two people there.

  For a little while he hesitated, and reasoned thus: if the men were Germans, then they would remain on guard over the machine, in which case he had nothing to gain by delay.

  If, on the other hand, they were Frenchmen, then they ought not to betray him. Taking his pistol in his hand he walked slowly forward.

  As he drew near he was relieved to hear that the voices spoke in French. Still, he was taking no chances, and kept firm grip on his pistol.

  Two bulky figures loomed in the mist, and he soon saw, as he already suspected, that he had to deal with two French peasants. Not seeing him approach, they sprang away in alarm when he addressed them.

  ‘All right, my friends,’ he said quietly. ‘I would advise you to go away and forget what you have seen.’

  ‘Nom de Dieu! He’s English,’ gasped one of the men. ‘We found the machine and didn’t know what to make of it,’ he explained.

  ‘How do things go in England?’ asked his companion eagerly.

  ‘Very well indeed — and they will go better if you’ll take yourselves off and forget what you have seen here,’ returned Biggles. ‘The Free Frenchmen in England will soon be marching back. Off you go.’

  ‘You must have been mad to come here,’ declared one of the men.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ answered Biggles drily. The two men insisted on shaking hands with him, and then faded swiftly into the clammy mist.

  As soon as they had gone Biggles stood for a moment or two regarding the weather.

  Then, having decided what to do, he climbed into his cockpit. To take off in such conditions was, as he knew only too well, asking for trouble. It would be safer to wait. If he heard anyone approaching, then he would have to risk a take-off; if no one came, then he would wait for the weather to clear, as he felt sure it would towards dawn. He was not so optimistic as to hope that it would clear before then. And he was right. Not until the fog was turning grey did it begin to lift.

  ‘I’ll give it another five minutes,’ he decided.

  But before that time was up voices near at hand, and approaching, hastened his departure. It was still not possible to see the boundary of the field, but that could not be helped. He started the engine; then, bracing himself for the ordeal of flying blind, he opened the throttle.

  For a thousand feet he roared blindly through the all-enveloping murk, his lips compressed, eyes glued to his instruments, flying as much as anything by the ‘feel’ of the joystick. Then suddenly the mist grew bright and an instant later he was in clear air, a pale blue sky above and a boundless field of gleaming white below. Swiftly his eyes scanned the atmosphere around him for hostile aircraft, but there was none, and he set a course for home.

  He was, he judged, nearing the coast, for everything below was blotted out by the fog, when the Messerschmitts appeared. He did not see where they came from, but suddenly they were there, a dozen of them, far above and diving towards him. Without taking his eyes from them he raced on, easing the stick forward for more speed, for in speed alone lay his only chance of reaching safety. But the advantage of height was with the Messerschmitts, and they overhauled him rapidly. He knew he would have to fight, for the rising sun was beginning to disperse the mist, so that it offered no cover worth taking.

  Taking the plans from his pocket, he laid them on his knees, determined to throw them overboard should the worst come to the worst.

  The Messerschmitts, diving steeply, closed in, some working round to the right, others to the left, to cut him off. The remainder held straight on, and it was upon the leader of this party that Biggles directed his chief attention, for he would be the first to get within effective range. Indeed, his cannon might be expected to open fire at any moment. When they did, Biggles knew that he would have to turn and fight, or be annihilated.

  Meanwhile, he held on his course, knowing that the nearer he got to home the greater became his chance of finding a British patrol to help him. His only sensation was one of annoyance that he had so far succeeded in his mission only to be thwarted at the last moment, for he did not persuade himself that he could fight a dozen Messerschmitts single-handed and get away with it.

  Then suddenly to his surprise he saw the Messerschmitts start to swerve away. This, at such a juncture, was a most unexpected move, but knowing that it would not have occurred without good reason, he looked around for it. Nor was he long discovering it.

  Coming down at an angle, across the front of the German planes, was a formation of nine Spitfires.

  At first he could hardly believe his eyes, for he could not imagine what they were doing so far over the Channel, but there was no possibility of mistake.

  The Spitfires did not pursue the Messerschmitts, but turned towards him, and, as they drew near, his eyes grew round with wonder when he recognized them for his own squadron.

  ‘The fools,’ he breathed, with a catch in his voice. ‘The silly fools, coming over here in broad daylight.’ Then he laughed.

  The Spitfires fell into place behind him, and he led them back to the aerodrome.

  Air Commodore Raymond was waiting. His face beamed when Biggles handed him the plans.

  ‘Thanks. Did everything go off all right?’ he asked.

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘Of course — why not?’

  ‘Well — I thought there might be difficulties.’

  ‘Nothing to speak of,’ returned Biggles, walking to meet the pilots running towards him.

  He addressed them sternly. ‘What do you lunatics think you’re playing at, wandering about Hun-infested sky at this hour of the morning?’

  ‘We were just waiting for you,’ returned Algy, unabashed. ‘We guessed you’d be along, and thought maybe you’d need a little help.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘How did you know where I’d gone?’

  ‘Ask Sherlock,’ grinned Algy, pointing at Toddy. ‘He’s the man who found the map you plotted your course on.’

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  CHAPTER 9

  THE COWARD

  THE normal duties of Number 666 Squadron consisted of intercepting enemy daylight raiders, and it may have been largely due to Biggles’s leadership that no casualties occurred before they did; but by late autumn the strain of long hours at the tremendous altitude at which battles were fought was beginning to tell. Nutty Armand went to hospital with a bullet through his foot, and Tex O’Hara, to his disgust, was kept on the ground, by the M.O.’s orders, with a wrenched shoulder sustained in collision with a tree while trying to bring his Spitfire down after its lateral controls had been shot away.

  Added to this, three airmen had been injured by bomb splinters when a deliberate dive-bombing attack had been made on the aerodrome during the absence of the machines.

  The fact that this attack had been repeated on two subsequent occasions suggested that the enemy had located the aerodrome. On the other hand, Cuthbert had returned fr
om hospital, and to bring the squadron up to strength came Henry Harcourt.

  Henry was, in appearance, a weedy youth with a thin, pale face and thoughtful grey eyes. His hair was fair and, apparently lacking the strength to support itself, usually hung like a flat wad over his forehead. But his manner was confident, and he had a habit of nodding his head to emphasize his words – which he appeared to choose with great care.

  ‘Oratory, as it was understood by the Athenians, is a lost art,’ he declared sadly in the mess on his first evening, when, after a staggering burst of eloquence, his leg had been pulled by Tug Carrington. ‘Read Plutarch,’ he adjured his hearers earnestly, ‘and you will see where a man can get with no weapon other than his tongue.’

  ‘Try putting your tongue out at a Hun and see where it will get you,’ sneered Tug. ‘I’ll go on saying my piece in this war with a bunch of guns – if it’s all the same to you.’

  Henry regarded him with compassion. ‘As you will,’ he said piously.

  The following morning Toddy entered Biggles’s office and informed him that Henry wished to speak to him.

  ‘If this budding Cicero fondly imagines that we’ve nothing else to do here but talk, I shall have to disillusion him,’ answered Biggles coldly. ‘All right, bring him in.’

  Henry entered, smiling. ‘Good morning, sir; may I take the liberty of saying how extremely gratifying it is to find you in—’

  ‘All right. You’ve found me – what about it?’ broke in Biggles. ‘If you’ve something to say – say it. I’m busy.’

  Henry was not in the least put out – except that he looked at Biggles rather pityingly. ‘What I have to say, sir, is this,’ he continued evenly. ‘In making a cursory perambulation of the station this morning I observed –’

  ‘You mean you saw something? What was it?’

  ‘A small structure obviously provided exclusively for quadrupeds of the porcine genus —’

  ‘In short, you saw a pigsty. What about it?’

  ‘It occurred to me, sir, that on an aerodrome like this there must be a certain number of fragments, unconsumed portions of rations —’

  ‘If you mean scraps, yes, there are plenty. Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, sir, if we acquired a pig, a little pig, and put him in the sty, we could dispose of our garbage and at the same time cause the little pig to develop —’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, that’s an idea. But who’s going to look after it?’

  ‘I will, with pleasure,’ declared Henry promptly. ‘I have a way with animals,’ he added modestly.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Biggles, looking hard at him.

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir. I will undertake to maintain —’

  ‘You won’t overlook that there is a certain amount of flying to be done?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir.’

  ‘All right. You have my permission to buy a pig, chargeable to mess funds.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Henry withdrew, beaming.

  Biggles thought no more about the affair until, that night, while the officers were in the ante-room waiting for dinner to be served, strange sounds were heard coming from the direction of the sty, which was situated at the back of the farm-house, the building that had been converted into officers’ quarters.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ he asked, looking startled.

  Before anyone could answer Henry came in. He looked dishevelled, but pleased with himself.

  ‘I’ve got the little bounder, sir,’ he announced to Biggles.

  ‘Bounder?’

  ‘You know, sir, the porker.’

  ‘He’s got what?’ asked Algy in astonishment.

  ‘A pig,’ returned Biggles shortly.

  ‘No, not really?’ murmured Bertie Lissie, sitting up and taking notice. ‘I say, what fun. Which pig is it?’

  Henry frowned. ‘Which pig? Any pig.’

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘He wanted one,’ he explained.

  ‘I’ll bring my goldfish along,’ sneered Tug.

  ‘And my little rabbit, look you,’ scoffed Taffy.

  ‘Say, what is this, a menagerie?’ demanded Tex plaintively. ‘Ain’t there enough hogs in the sky, without —’

  Henry flushed. ‘I don’t think it’s in the best of taste to hold up to ridicule a dumb animal.’

  ‘Dumb?’ queried Tex.

  ‘Yes – it can’t talk.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d already got that figgered out,’ said Tex slowly.

  ‘Well, therefore it’s dumb.’

  ‘I still don’t get it. Do some of your English pigs talk?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what’s so remarkable about this one being dumb?’

  ‘There’s nothing remarkable about it.’

  ‘Then why make a song about it? It sounds to me like it was just an ordinary hog.’

  Henry admitted, reluctantly, that this was correct.

  ‘It’s all right,’ put in Biggles; ‘he’s going to look after it.’

  He was at breakfast the following morning when a loud cry of anger arose from the back of the mess. He recognized Henry’s voice. A moment later it was followed by a yell of laughter, which so excited his curiosity that he left the table and went round to see what was going on. He found the squadron officers grouped round the sty, and as they made way for him he beheld a spectacle that brought a smile to his face.

  It was the pig, a small white pig. On each side of its little round flanks had been painted the red, white, and blue ring markings such as are carried by service aircraft. Its tail, too, had been adorned with three stripes of red, white, and blue. That these decorations in no way inconvenienced the animal was obvious from the way it stood in the middle of its breakfast, eating with gusto.

  ‘It’s a shame!’ cried Henry hotly.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ protested Ginger. ‘After all, Annie —’

  Biggles started. ‘Annie?’

  ‘That’s her name, sir,’ returned Ginger, pointing at the animal. ‘As I was saying, she was bought out of mess funds; we can’t afford to lose her. If she escaped now anyone will know where she belongs.’

  ‘I shall wash it off,’ declared Henry firmly.

  ‘If the dirty little beast wallows in her grub perhaps it’ll wear off,’ suggested Tug dispassionately.

  ‘If not, she’ll have to grow out of it,’ rejoined Biggles. Then, with a change of tone, he went on crisply, ‘All right. No more fooling. We leave the ground in ten minutes. I shall be leading the squadron this morning.’ He turned to Henry. ‘You’ll fly with A Flight. If we engage, keep as close to me as you can.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Henry meekly.

  During the flight that followed, a large enemy formation was encountered, but with the aid of the Hurricanes of 701 Squadron it was broken up. Five of the enemy machines were shot down, two falling to Biggles’s guns, which, Algy thought, should have satisfied him. But there was a hard expression on his face as he got out of his machine. There was, too, an unusual restraint among the officers as they made their way slowly to the mess, talking in low tones.

  ‘Harcourt, I want a word with you,’ Biggles told Henry, who, looking rather pale, was standing a little apart from the others. ‘Come into the office.’

  Henry followed him through the door.

  As soon as they were inside Biggles turned mildly accusing eyes on the new pilot’s face.

  ‘In the mix-up this morning, Harcourt, it seemed to me that you – shall we say – did not quite pull your weight? I noticed you on the outskirts of the dogfight. Of course, in a show of that sort it’s hard to see just what is happening, and I may have been wrong. It was your first big show?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Henry seemed to speak with difficulty.

  ‘All right. In that case we’ll say no more about it.’ Biggles rested a fatherly hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘If you feel – er – that you’re not quite up to it, tell me. It’s better that way. There’s no hurry – think it over. That’s al
l.’

  Henry, who was biting his lip, saluted and went out.

  Toddy came in with a bustle that seemed unnecessary.

  ‘You heard what I told that boy?’ said Biggles quietly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘I may be wrong; indeed, I hope I am; but I’m afraid he has only just realized the sort of job he has taken on. We shall see.’

  Looking through the window he saw the officers standing in little groups, talking with unusual earnestness. He recognized the signs, and knew only too well what they were talking about. He went over to them.

  ‘Don’t let him suspect you noticed anything,’ he said meaningly. ‘It was his first show, remember. He may find his feet presently – they do sometimes.’

  ‘If he’d had his family wiped out, like I —’ began Tug.

  Biggles cut him short. ‘All right, Carrington, that’s enough. Not everyone is made of the same stuff, you know. Where is Harcourt now?’

  ‘I saw him go across to his quarters,’ said Ginger.

  Biggles stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It might be a good thing if you went and had a word with him,’ he suggested. ‘Be careful. In the end he’ll have to work the thing out for himself, but at this moment a little encouragement may help. Criticism would be fatal.’

  Ginger nodded, and following Henry to his room, found him lying face downwards on his bed.

  ‘What’s the matter — tired?’ began Ginger cheerfully.

  Henry turned a pale face towards him. The rims of his eyes were red. ‘You know it isn’t that,’ he said dully. ‘I funked it — you needn’t tell me.’

  Ginger laughed loudly. ‘Rot!’

  Henry shook his head. ‘You can’t deceive me. I can’t even deceive myself,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘When those guns started I was — afraid.’

  ‘Of course you were. So was I. So were we all,’ declared Ginger. ‘We just kid ourselves that we’re not. Who wouldn’t be? You’ll be all right when you’ve done one or two more shows. Come on, snap out of it. Let’s go and call on Annie.’

  Henry got up and followed Ginger round to the sty.