Biggles at War - Spitfire Parade

by W E Johns

  ‘Yes,’ put in Wilks, ‘he has. And now, at last, he’s found her.’

  Biggles started. ‘What do you mean?’ he cried sharply.

  Wilks stared into the fire. ‘He and I ran into a bunch of Messerschmitts this afternoon. We got three of them. Then they got him – in flames. He jumped clear, from twenty thousand – without a parachute.’

  There was silence for a little while. Then Biggles looked at the clock. ‘Well, we’re on early in the morning, so I think it’s time we were getting to bed,’ he suggested.

  [Back to Contents]

  CHAPTER 13

  BERTIE PICKS THE LOCK

  BIGGLES was in conference with his three Flight Commanders when the sound of an approaching aero-engine lined his forehead with a puzzled frown. Had it been the deep-throated roar of a Spitfire engine it would have occasioned no surprise; but in comparison it was a gentle purr, little more than the hum of a two-stroke motor-cycle engine.

  Biggles broke off in what he was saying and turned to the window. What the dickens is this coming?’ he muttered.

  ‘Tiger-Moth,’ murmured Algy, as the aircraft skimmed over the aerodrome boundary with the obvious intention of landing.

  The wrinkle in Biggles’s brow deepened. ‘What on earth’s it doing here?’

  ‘Chappie from a training school, doing a cross-country, lost his way,’ opined Bertie Lissie. ‘When I was instructing I once had a pupil land at Aberdeen thinking he was at Bristol. By Jove, you should have seen his face!’

  The Moth taxied up to the building and two officers alighted. One, evidently the pilot, remained near the machine; the other made off towards the Squadron Office.

  Biggles groaned. ‘It’s Raymond,’ he observed. ‘That means trouble. What does he want now, I wonder?’ He saluted, and the others stood to attention as the air officer entered.

  Air Commodore Raymond shook hands with the assembled officers, a ghost of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth at the expression on Biggles’s face.

  ‘You don’t seem particularly pleased to see me,’ he remarked, a hint of banter in his voice.

  ‘You wouldn’t expect me to be shrieking with joy, sir, would you?’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘I’m no thought-reader, but I’ve come to know that when you turn up, something, somebody, somewhere —’

  ‘Yes – yes. I know all about it,’ interrupted the Air Commodore blandly. ‘That’s the penalty for being so efficient, Bigglesworth. But this is a comparatively easy matter – quite a simple little job.’

  Biggles passed his cigarette case. ‘It will be interesting, sir, to hear your idea of a simple job. How about these officers? Can they stay or shall I ask them to leave us?’

  The Air Commodore lit a cigarette and sat in a chair Biggles had pulled out for him. ‘They can stay. There’s no need to adjourn the conference. It won’t take me long to say what I have to say.’

  ‘Go ahead, sir.’

  The air officer thought for a moment or two, as if weighing his words. ‘Well, I may as well be frank,’ he said bluntly. ‘I want somebody to go to France.’

  ‘What, again!’ cried Biggles.

  ‘Oh, it isn’t as bad as all that,’ went on the Air Commodore quickly. ‘It’s merely a matter of taking a man over and bringing him back.’

  Biggles eyed the Air Commodore suspiciously. ‘Just as simple as all that,’ he murmured, with a trace of sarcasm.

  ‘Well – er – not exactly,’ admitted Raymond. ‘Here are the details. You know the canal that runs from Arras to Abbéville? It’s a real canal – that is to say, there are locks at intervals.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know it perfectly well.’

  ‘Good. We’ve just received information that at this moment a convoy of no fewer than twenty barges is proceeding along it. They’re loaded with bombs, which are on their way to the aerodrome at Abbéville for the bombing of London. I sent a machine over this morning to take a photograph, and the print shows the convoy eighteen miles north of the village of Bonner. We know what time they left Arras, so provided they maintain the same rate of progress – and there’s no reason to suppose otherwise – a simple calculation tells us that they should reach the lock near the village of Bonner at nine o’clock tonight.’

  ‘And you want somebody to lay an egg on them?’ put in Biggles – prematurely as it happened.

  The Air Commodore shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Bombing is not always accurate. The ideal thing would be to blow up the lock with a charge of explosive just as the barges are passing through it; that would not only destroy the barges, the bombs, and the lock, but the resultant flood would inundate enemy aerodrome Number 14. Further, it would generally upset the Boche lines of communication. It’s an opportunity that might not occur again for a long while, so we must make absolutely sure of our mark, and to that end we are going to some pains to ensure success. We’ve decided to blow up the lock. The work will be done by one of our agents, who has recently volunteered for espionage work.’

  ‘What nationality is he?’ asked Biggles suspiciously.

  ‘That’s something we needn’t discuss. What does it matter? Of course, he isn’t British. All we need is a pilot to take him over – he’ll do the rest.’

  ‘But that means using a two-seater machine,’ remarked Biggles. ‘Why come to me? I know some two-seater pilots —’

  ‘Not so fast,’ protested the Air Commodore. ‘We need a man who has done this sort of thing before, and one who knows every inch of the ground. Naturally I came to you first. You can refuse if you like. I wouldn’t order a man to do a show like this; it’s essentially a mission for a volunteer.’

  Biggles smiled wanly. ‘All right, sir. I don’t think we need dwell on that. If you think I’m the man for the job I’ll have a shot at it. What about a machine, though?’

  ‘There’s one outside. I flew down in it in order to leave it here.’

  Biggles surveyed the Moth through the window without enthusiasm.

  ‘There are several possible landing-grounds on both sides of the canal near Bonner,’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘All you have to do is take our man over, land, wait for him to do the job, and then bring him back.’

  ‘I’d rather take one of my own fellows, if you don’t mind; somebody I can trust —’

  ‘No, this man of ours is all right. He needs experience. As a matter of fact, he lived near the place for years, so it’s hard to see how he can go wrong. He’ll be here at eight-fifteen sharp. Make a good job of this and I won’t worry you again for a bit. I may not be able to get along this evening so I’ll wish you luck now. Can you find me transport to take me and my pilot to the station?’

  Biggles made the necessary arrangements by phone, saw the Air Commodore on his way, and returned to the others.

  After he had gone Biggles regarded his Flight Commanders whimsically. ‘Take my tip and never volunteer for anything,’ he said sadly. ‘I did once, in a rash moment, and I’ve been doing it ever since.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘We may as well wash out until after lunch.’

  Bertie opened the door. His dog, Towser, which had evidently been waiting outside, shot into the room exhibiting those extravagant manifestations of joy in which a dog indulges after it has been separated from its master. Biggles, who was on his way to the door, side-stepped to avoid the animal, and stumbled; he made a grab at the desk to save himself, missed it, and fell heavily, but broke his fall to some extent with his right hand.

  It was one of those accidents that happen in a flash. He got up immediately, a spasm of pain twisting his lips. Holding his wrist he turned to Bertie.

  ‘How many times have I got to tell you to keep that dog of yours under control?’ he said curtly. ‘I know he didn’t mean any harm, but —’ He broke off, examining his wrist.

  ‘By Jove! I say, you know, I’m most frightfully sorry, sir,’ stammered Bertie, dropping his monocle in his agitation. ‘That was a bit thick. I’ve told the little rascal not to do that sort of thing.’
<
br />   ‘He pays about as much attention to you as you do to me,’ snapped Biggles.

  Bertie looked pained.

  Biggles regarded him reflectively. ‘You know, Bertie, there are times when I find myself wondering if you’re a bigger fool than you look, or look a bigger fool than you are.’

  ‘I say, sir, that’s a bit steep – absolutely vertical in fact. After all, Towser’s only a pup. When I was in India there was a chappie who kept a tiger—’

  ‘I hope it bit him,’ cut in Biggles coldly.

  ‘Matter of fact, it did.’

  ‘Fine. The animal evidently had some sense.’

  Bertie subsided.

  Algy was the first to realize the significance of the accident, probably because he was looking at Biggles’s wrist, which was already beginning to swell.

  ‘That settles any question of your going to France tonight,’ he observed quietly.

  There was dead silence for several seconds while Biggles examined his wrist, feeling it gingerly.

  ‘Ye’ve sprained it,’ put in Angus Mackail.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Isna doot of it.’

  ‘You’d better see the M.O.,’ suggested Algy seriously.

  Biggles bit his lip as he tried to close his fingers. ‘This is a nice business,’ he muttered. ‘What am I going to tell Raymond?’

  Bertie’s face lighted up. ‘I shall have to take the chappie over,’ he declared.

  ‘I’ll go and see what the M.O. has to say about it,’ decided Biggles. ‘It may not be as bad as we think.’

  But the M.O. soon settled any doubts on that score. He bound up the wrist and put Biggles’s arm in a sling.

  ‘There you are, my boy,’ he said cheerfully; ‘you can put any idea of flying out of your head for a fortnight — at least. Those are my orders.’

  Biggles did not argue, knowing that the doctor was right. ‘I’ll do the job tonight,’ offered Algy as they all walked on to the mess.

  ‘I’ll go myself,’ declared Angus.

  ‘No fear. Absolutely no,’ protested Bertie. ‘I mean to say, after all, Towser’s my dog, and all that sort of thing, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Do you know the country?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Not half! Why, dash it all, I did threee months on the aerodrome at Abbéville before the Frenchies went wallop. I know the place better than the local rabbits.’

  ‘Let’s toss for it,’ suggested Algy.

  ‘No, I think Bertie’s right,’ concluded Biggles. ‘The only alternative to ringing up Raymond and telling him that I can’t do the job is for somebody else to go, and I think it’s Bertie’s pigeon. It was his dog that did the damage, and what is more important, he knows the country — or he should.’

  ‘Every jolly old tree,’ confirmed Bertie. ‘We’ll be back in a couple of jiffies.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Very well, let’s leave it at that.’

  At a quarter past eight he was on the tarmac with Bertie, waiting for the agent who was to do the actual work of blowing up the lock. He had decided that if Air Commodore Raymond had turned up he would have to confess the truth, otherwise he would say nothing. He carried a short leather coat over his arm for the sake of appearance. The sun had already set, and it was an ideal night for the work: moonlight, but with sufficient cloud to provide cover should it be needed.

  ‘You’ve got a gun, I suppose?’ he inquired.

  Bertie tapped his pocket. ‘You bet I have.’

  A moment later a car drew up and two men got out. One was an officer whom Biggles did not know — evidently a member of the Intelligence Staff; the other was a small, middle-aged, nervous-looking man dressed in the blue dungarees of a French peasant.

  The officer came over to Biggles. ‘Here we are,’ he announced. ‘This is your man. Are you ready?’

  ‘Waiting,’ replied Biggles laconically, looking at the agent, who was carrying a small, square, but obviously heavy parcel.

  ‘In that case there’s no need for me to hang about. I’ll get along. You might give Raymond a ring when you get back to let him know how things went off. We’ll send a pilot down to collect the machine and our man later on.’

  ‘Good enough.’

  The officer got back in his car and drove away.

  The agent spoke. ‘We go, eh?’ he said in English; but with a strong foreign accent.

  Biggles frowned, for he had caught the reek of brandy. He said nothing, but he suspected that the agent had been fortifying himself for his ordeal. It was a bad sign.

  Bertie addressed the man. ‘I say, old chap, how long are you likely to be away from the machine?’

  The agent shrugged his shoulders with a fatalistic gesture. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I don’t — that’s why I asked you,’ murmured Bertie.

  ‘One hour — two hours — maybe three,’ was the vague reply.

  ‘Really! By Jove! Well, don’t be too long. And I say, be careful with that box of fireworks up topsides, won’t you?’

  ‘She is safe,’ declared the man. ‘The fuse she is fixed for fifteen minutes. That give me time to get clear.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about you, old top,’ continued Bertie cheerfully, as he helped his accomplice into his seat and then climbed into his own cockpit.

  Two minutes later he was in the air, climbing steeply, and after an uneventful flight over the Channel began a long furtive glide through the wavering searchlight beams that lined the French coast. These were only to be expected and he was not perturbed; which clearly was more than could be said for the passenger, for every time a fresh beam stabbed the sky he struck Bertie on the shoulder and pointed to it.

  ‘I say, old chap, you really must sit still,’ shouted Bertie at last. ‘They won’t hurt you.’ He had an uncomfortable feeling that the man was nervous.

  This was confirmed a few minutes later when, in spite of his efforts to slip across the coast unobserved, some ‘flak’ came up, although it burst at a safe distance. The agent sprang up in his seat.

  ‘Go back!’ he shouted.

  ‘Why?’ asked Bertie amazed.

  ‘We are seen. We are shot at.’

  ‘Look here, my lad, if you don’t sit down I’ll conk you on the bean with my gun,’ roared Bertie, beginning to get angry.

  The man continued to protest, whereupon Bertie threw a loop. After that there was silence, and he glided on through the beams towards his objective. He was satisfied that the searchlights had not picked him up. Gliding at little more than stalling speed the machine made no noise, and he watched the lights douse one by one behind him.

  The actual landing was the most trying part of the operation, for there was always a risk of the field being trapped — that is, prepared by the enemy for the reception of machines engaged in special missions, the trap taking the form of obstacles calculated to crash a machine as it glided in. For a moment or two as the Moth swept low across the marsh which he had selected for his landing-ground, Bertie held his breath. Then the wheels touched lightly and the aircraft ran on to a smooth landing. He climbed down.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I suppose you saw the jolly old canal as we came down? It’s only about a quarter of a mile away — over there.’ He pointed to the north, and then leaned forward in order to see his companion’s face, for he had heard a slight sound that puzzled him. It was as if the man’s teeth were chattering.

  ‘I say, old fellow, what’s the matter? Are you cold?’ he asked anxiously.

  The man did not answer. He passed down his parcel and then got down himself, peering into the darkness.

  Bertie saw that he had not been mistaken. The man was trembling violently.

  ‘It is dangerous, zis place,’ he breathed.

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ answered Bertie. ‘What did you think you were coming on — a picnic? Off you go.’

  The man hung back.

  Bertie mustered all the tolerance in his nature. ‘Now look h
ere, my lad,’ he said seriously, ‘just you trot along and do your stuff. The sooner the job’s done the sooner we go home. My coffee will be getting cold.’

  Still the man hesitated, and Bertie knew that he was in for trouble. Consequently, he was relieved when, in a moment or two, the man picked up his parcel and disappeared into the night. But the relief was short-lived. Inside a minute he was back.

  ‘Here, I say, what’s the matter?’ asked Bertie quickly. ‘You really can’t go on like this. Hop along, there’s a good chap. I’m getting chilly.’

  ‘You will be here — yes?’ inquired the man anxiously.

  Bertie kept his temper. ‘Of course I’ll be here. Get a move on. We don’t want to stick around here all night. I’m getting my feet wet.’

  The agent made an inaudible remark and set off again, while Bertie made preparations for a quick take-off when he returned. So engrossed was he in his task that he started violently when, a few seconds later, a voice spoke from the other side of the machine.

  But it was only the agent again.

  Bertie ducked under the fuselage and joined him. ‘Now look here, you really can’t go on like this,’ he protested.

  ‘It ees impossible!’ cried the other excitedly.

  Bertie stared. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Zere are soldiers.’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘But soldiers!’

  ‘You’ve just said that,’ Bertie pointed out. ‘What did you expect to find — a jolly old mothers’ meeting? Come on now, be a good boy; toddle along and let off your fireworks or I shall start to get angry with you — yes, by jingo!’

  ‘But zee soldiers will see me.’

  ‘Not they. I’ll bet they’re playing pontoon or something. I know! If they come towards you make a noise like a horse.’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, I am not so brave,’ he said huskily.

  ‘Of course you are,’ persisted Bertie. ‘You’re as brave as a lion — anyone can see that.’

  ‘No. Tonight it ees impossible. We come back another time — perhaps tomorrow.’

  Bertie took a pace nearer. His voice was ominously calm. ‘Tomorrow won’t do, my white-livered little rabbit.’