by W E Johns
Ginger watched him curiously, and with compassion, as he went into the sty and, sitting on the edge of the feeding trough, tweaked the piglet’s ear, a demonstration of affection which the animal appeared to appreciate, for it rested its nose on his knee, grunting contentedly. It seemed that Henry had, as he had claimed, a way with animals.
‘A good pair,’ breathed a voice in Ginger’s ear.
Turning, he found himself face to face with Tug, who was watching the scene with frank disgust.
‘Never be in a hurry to judge people,’ murmured Ginger sagely, as he took Tug by the arm and led him away.
The following morning, as Biggles went out to take the squadron in the air, he noticed that one machine was missing. Who’s absent?’ he asked Toddy tersely.
‘Harcourt, sir.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s reported sick.’
‘Sick? With what?’
Toddy coughed. ‘Toothache, he says.’
Biggles bit his lip. ‘He may or may not have got toothache, but I’ll warrant he’s got a heartache,’ he said. ‘Poor devil!’
‘What shall I do, sir — post him back to the depot?’
Biggles gazed across the aerodrome. ‘I wouldn’t be in a hurry,’ he advised. ‘Let’s wait until we hear what the doctor has to say. I believe in giving these lads every chance. We old hands are tough, but in my early days I remember being very, very frightened. Give him a chance.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Biggles got into his machine and the eight Spitfires roared into the air to patrol their allotted zone.
It was a perfect flying day, without a cloud in the sky, the kind of day when, from above, the earth seems to smile; the kind of day, as Biggles knew, that the enemy, taking advantage of the high visibility, would be likely to come over in force. Nor was he mistaken. He had just levelled out at twenty-two thousand feet when a radio signal from Headquarters, Fighter Command, warned him that a big formation of heavy bombers, accompanied by dive bombers and a fighter escort, was approaching the Thames Estuary.
A few minutes later he could see the sparks of the archie barrage flashing round a long cluster of tiny specks, looking from the distance for all the world like midges in a summer sky. Judging that they were about the same height as himself, he altered his course slightly and sped on to intercept them.
To the watcher on the ground one dogfight is much like another, the successive moves following each other with almost monotonous regularity. But to the airman, who sees the thing from close range, there is always something, only a trifling incident perhaps, to make one combat different from another.
Biggles was studying the enemy’s dispositions, seeking the weakest spot against which to launch his attack, when the Messerschmitts guarding the bombers’ nearest flank turned towards him, obviously intending to keep him at a distance. Without so much as a glance behind to see if the others were following, for he knew they would, he held straight on, watching the distance closely, knowing from experience the range at which the Messerschmitt pilots would probably open fire with their cannon. A split second before such a range was reached he dived suddenly, holding his own fire until he could hope to use his eight machine-guns with good effect. At the end the opposing machines seemed to leap towards each other, and in another moment the sky was the scene of a whirling mêlée.
Biggles’s face set in hard lines, for he realized perfectly well that he had taken on rather more than prudence justified — not that prudence takes much part in a dogfight. There were at least twenty Messerschmitts, and others were leaving the bombers to increase the odds against his own eight machines. Between quick bursts of shooting he scanned the sky anxiously for reinforcements, hoping that Wilks’s Hurricanes, which should be in the district, might show up. But there was no sign of them. And all the while he was working his way through the Messerschmitts to get at the bombers; the later had maintained their positions as they forged on towards their objective, which he had no doubt was London.
To describe in detail the battle that now ensued would necessarily involve much repetition. Words, too, would lag behind the speed of the action.
From such a cloud of machines it was not easy to single one out for individual attack, but seeing a Messerschmitt firing at him Biggles accepted the challenge. For a full minute the two machines spun dizzily round each other; then the Messerschmitt burst into flames. He saw another machine of the same type going down minus a wing, but who shot it down he did not know. A swift survey of the atmosphere revealed five Spitfires. Two had gone. But the Messerschmitts were not so numerous as they had been.
The fight went on. It was the most bitterly contested in all Biggles’s experience, machines of both sides hurtling round and round at frenzied speed, sometimes missing each other by inches, neither side giving way. He narrowly escaped collision with a man dangling on the end of a parachute. Who he was, or to which side he belonged, he did not know. He had no time to look. It was dodge and dodge again. Shooting was of the wildest snapshot description. Every now and then an incident, without beginning and without end, like a short length of news-reel on a screen, photographed itself vividly on his brain. He saw Ferocity Ferris with guns belching not ten feet from a Messerschmitt cockpit.... Angus Mackail, easily recognized by his Glengarry, looping in the wake of another enemy machine, as if tied to it.... Taffy Hughes, spinning on a wing-tip as he handled his guns like a hose pipe, drawing his fire across something outside Biggles’s view... Bertie Lissie, pulling his machine up in a fantastic stalling turn to avoid a plunging Spitfire... and so it went on.
Snatching an opportunity, Biggles looked about him to see what had happened to the bombers. They were still going on in perfect formation. Fighting his way through the milling machines, he raced after them. A shadow made him flinch, but an instant later he saw it was another Spitfire — Algy’s. He went on, diving for more speed, knowing that at all costs he must stop the bombers.
His machine shuddered as a burst of bullets struck it in the rear. As he looked back he caught sight of Algy, whirling as if on a pivot, flecks of orange flame jumping from his guns as he fired at something over Biggles’s head. Looking up he caught a fleeting glimpse of a Messerschmitt pilot just abandoning his machine.
‘Nice shooting,’ murmured Biggles, his eyes smiling across space at Algy, who was now going on after the bombers, which were still some way ahead. He resumed the pursuit, and as he watched the formation ahead he saw a remarkable sight, an incident so spectacular that his lips parted with wonder. He had never seen anything quite like it.
A machine had appeared in the sky immediately over the bombers — perhaps a thousand feet above.
It was a Spitfire. Biggles just had time to think, ‘Who’s that? Where has he popped up from?’ when the Spitfire stood vertically on its nose and went down like a torpedo, straight towards the middle of the bomber formation.
Biggles’s lips went dry. At first he concluded that the Spitfire pilot had been hit, and was either dead or unconscious, for no sane pilot would behave in such a way. While there was still time for the machine to pull out he hoped that it would do so; and, indeed, he watched for it to do so; but it did not, and when collision appeared inevitable he braced himself instinctively for the shock of the frightful crash that must occur.
Instead, he was dumbfounded to see the Spitfire go right through the enemy formation, like a stone falling through a flock of birds. By what miracle it missed hitting one of the bombers in its headlong passage he could not imagine.
But the affair was not yet over. By this time he was convinced that only a dead or unconscious man could be in the cockpit of the Spitfire. What was his amazement, then, to see the British machine pull out of its dive at a speed calculated to strip the wings from the fuselage, and then, without a pause, shoot up again like a rocket.
Biggles’s lips formed the words, ‘He’s mad.’ And this was no idle observation. It was the only conclusion he could reach.
M
eanwhile things were happening. Some of the bombers were beginning to swerve. One or two, evidently new to the business, giving way to the instinct of self-preservation, had gone wide and seemed to lose themselves. Before they could rejoin their formation the Spitfire was in the middle of it, causing it to break in the middle. More machines skidded away, and in a moment or two the formation was in confusion. Sparks were flashing from the muzzles of many guns, but it seemed to Biggles that the bombers stood a better chance of hitting each other than of hitting the lone British machine. One bomber turned away and started gliding down; another followed it, smoke pouring from its tail. The crew toppled out like ripe apples dropping off a tree.
By this time Biggles himself was in range. He sent a bomber reeling, with strips of metal flying from its fuselage. He pulled his nose round to another, and then had to kick his rudder-bar violently to avoid collision as the unknown Spitfire, flying back over its course, came tearing through the middle of the enemy machines. It missed him by inches.
Biggles went in and fired again, although he had very little ammunition left. What became of the lone Spitfire he did not see. In fact, when the bombers started to turn, and he saw the reason, he forgot all about it. Twelve Hurricanes, closely followed by seven Spitfires, had appeared out of the blue, and it was clear that the tide of the battle had turned. The bombers unloaded their bombs and made for home. Biggles fired his remaining ammunition at one of them, and then started to glide down. He could do no good by remaining. But he did not mind, for the enemy machines were now scattered all over the sky, and he felt that he could safely leave them to the newcomers.
Three Spitfires joined him on the way home, one being Algy’s, and two others were already on the aerodrome when he got back.
As soon as he had taxied in he jumped down, and ran to meet Algy.
‘That was pretty hot going,’ he greeted him, groping for his cigarette case.
‘Hot! You’re telling me,’ grunted Algy, stretching his stiff limbs. ‘Did you see that crazy Spitfire?’
Biggles burst out laughing. ‘Did I see it? Did you ever see such a sight in your life? I’ve seen some daft flying in my time, but I’ve never seen anything quite like that. But I must give the fellow his due, whoever he was. There must have been forty bombers in that mob, and he scattered them like a dog barging into a flock of sheep. He must have been off his—’
He broke off as another Spitfire came gliding in. It was a horrible sight. As much of its fabric as remained on the wings seemed to be trailing loose. Its wheels were half lowered, but had jammed at an angle. It was riddled with bullet holes.
‘Look out!’ shouted Algy, jumping clear.
The machine struck the ground, bounced once or twice, and skidded to a standstill.
Biggles raised a hand to his forehead. ‘Suffering Mike! That’s Harcourt’s machine!’ he cried in a strangled voice. ‘Who’s flying it?’
Henry got out — or rather fell out. He staggered about for a bit like a sailor thrown out of a grog shop, and then limped towards the spellbound spectators. There was blood on his face, but he was grinning foolishly.
For a moment Biggles was speechless. His lips moved, but no sound came. Then he gasped. ‘Was that you — up there — you — flinging yourself about in that mob—?’
Henry nodded. ‘Yes, it was me,’ he confessed.
‘But what — what — what on earth came over you?’
The smile faded from Henry’s face. It set in hard lines. ‘Come with me, sir, and I’ll show you,’ he said.
Wonderingly the others followed him to the pigsty — or it would be more correct to say the place where the pigsty had been. For instead of the sty there yawned only a deep round hole. Of pig or sty there was no sign.
‘What’s happened here?’ cried Biggles.
Toddy ran up. ‘Just after you took off a dive bomber came in low and plastered us. He dropped a stick of bombs, but this was the only one that did any damage.’
‘Damage,’ grated Henry. ‘The swine killed Annie - my little Annie.’
Understanding dawned in Biggles’s eyes. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘I went up to avenge her,’ burst out Henry. ‘Revenge! Revenge is sweet. I’ll get the hound who killed my little Annie if I have to shoot every Hun out of the sky.’
Biggles leaned against the mess wall and laughed weakly.
Henry pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘That’s right, laugh,’ he cried bitterly. ‘A lot you care —’ He broke off as a ramshackle motor-car appeared round the corner and nearly ran him down. A man, a farmer by his clothes, alighted.
‘Have you gentlemen lost anything?’ he inquired politely. ‘I ask because I saw this tearing across my land about half an hour ago. My farm adjoins your aerodrome, you know. I had a job to catch her, but seeing her spots I thought she must belong to you.’ He pointed to the car, and the others turned to see what he had brought.
Peering through a net in the back of the vehicle, looking very scared and pleased to be home, was Annie.
[Back to Contents]
CHAPTER 10
THE FLYING SPY
BIGGLES spotted the other Spitfire as he was coming home from a short patrol, made primarily to test the weather conditions, which were far from good.
‘He’s in a hurry, whoever he is,’ he reflected, as he watched the other Spitfire. As it drew near he noted that it was not one of his own squadron machines — as he thought it might be — nor did he recognize the unit markings on the fuselage.
‘There must be a new squadron hereabouts,’ he mused, noting with mild surprise that the newcomer tagged on behind him with the apparent intention of following him home. He moved his rudder-bar slightly so that he could get a better view of the other machine, and, examining it closely, observed that a cluster of holes had been punched in an irregular pattern through the engine cowling. There were similar holes just behind the cockpit, and through the tail.
‘No wonder he was glad to find a pal,’ murmured Biggles.
As he put the Spitfire on the aerodrome the other machine landed near him. The pilot, whom Biggles noted was a Flight Lieutenant, got out and waved a greeting.
‘Pity you didn’t make a better job of it,’ remarked Biggles.
The stranger looked puzzled. ‘How so?’
‘I mean, if you could have got a few more holes through your machine it would have made a useful sieve.’
The other grinned. ‘I’ll give it the cook for a colander,’ he returned, removing his flying cap carefully and looking ruefully at a jagged rent in the ear-flap.
Biggles whistled softly. ‘My word! If that one had been any closer it would have given you a headache,’ he exclaimed.
‘It’s given me a headache as it is,’ answered the stranger, feeling the side of his head gingerly, where a red weal, just below the ear, told its own story.
‘Come across to the mess and have a drink?’ invited Biggles. ‘By the way, my name’s Bigglesworth, of 666. This is where we live.’
‘Mine’s Lakers, of 298.’
‘Where do you hang out?’ asked Biggles. ‘I can’t remember seeing any of your machines in these parts.’
‘No,’ was the reply. ‘We’re down in Sussex, near Marley. We’ve been doing escort duties with the day bombers who have been operating against the invasion ports. We haven’t been at Marley very long.’
‘Marley ?’ echoed Biggles thoughtfully. ‘That’s some way from here. How do you happen to be so far from home?’
‘Just plain curiosity I guess. As a matter of fact, I’m not really on duty today. I went up to do a test, and while I was up I thought I’d have a look at the narrow end of the ‘Channel.’
Biggles was regarding the holes in the machine with a professional eye, ‘Quite,’ he said slowly. ‘But how did you get in this mess?’
Lakers laughed. ‘Serves me right, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t got a Hun yet, so I thought I’d try to get one. I found one, but he was
too good for me.’
‘Not so good,’ commented Biggles. ‘You’d better fly with us for a bit and learn how to do it,’ he bantered. ‘Come along; as you’re so far from home no doubt you’d like some lunch.’
‘Sure! I can do with a bite.’
‘You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?’ went on Biggles, as they walked towards the officers’ mess.
‘Yes. What made you think that?’
‘People who say ‘sure’ and ’I guess’ usually bring it with them from the other side of the Atlantic. Hullo, here comes Algy Lacey. He’s a good scout — one of my Flight Commanders. You ought to know him.’ He made the necessary introductions.
Algy smiled. ‘Glad to meet you,’ he said. Then, to Biggles, ‘How did you get on?’
‘All right — but there was nothing doing. I didn’t see a Hun. I fancy Lakers kept them all to himself; his machine’s got as many holes in it as a petrol filter.’ He turned to the visitor. ‘What exactly happened, Lakers?’
In the mess Lakers told his story. ‘After I left the aerodrome this morning I headed due east for a time, following the coast. I didn’t see a soul, which got a bit boring, so I edged a bit nearer to France to see if the Huns are as thick there as you fellows pretend. For a time I didn’t see anyone, except an occasional Hudson on reconnaissance, and then, suddenly, five or six Messerschmitts piled on top of me. I was only about a mile from the English coast, which didn’t seem very far, but I guess the Huns spotted me just as I spotted them, for as I turned they turned.
‘I shan’t forget the next five minutes in a hurry,’ continued Lakers. ‘At first I put my nose down and streaked over the coast, trying to outdistance them. In other words, I ran away, and I don’t mind admitting it. You fellows might think it’s good fun taking on half a dozen Huns at once — but I know my limitations. Well, the Huns kept pace with me, and managed to head me off. Then more Huns came down from the north. That did it. I got the wind up properly, and just made a wild rush for it. Somehow I managed to get through, but I must have been lucky. I didn’t stop till I saw you in the distance — you may have noticed that I made for you flat out?’