Spitfire Parade Part 2

WITH his second-in-command, Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacy (Senior Flight Lieutenant on the station), at his elbow, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth sat at his desk working on the establishment of the squadron under his command.

In the matter of officers we're not doing so badly,' he observed. 'You will, of course, take over A Flight. You can have Ginger. I'll fly with you myself whenever possible to fill the gap until another officer arrives. Lissie will take B Flight, with Ferris and O'Hara.

I think I heard them return just now from that escort job, so I'll have a word with them presently. We shall have to leave C Flight for the time being.'

Algy picked up a posting slip. 'You might put Carrington in my flight, when he arrives.

That would give us two complete flights, and I could keep an eye on him until we see how he shapes. He's due now.'

'Judging from the particulars, we have of him, he's likely be a difficult fellow to handle.'

As long as he doesn't arrive with the idea of running the squadron I don't mind,'

murmured Algy. He glanced at the clock. 'You might start him in the right place by rapping his knuckles for reporting late.'

'He's not late yet.'

'He will be in another minute, and if he comes by air, as I imagine he will, the muck up topsides will probably delay him. The weather's getting worse. Hullo! What's going on?'

He hurried to the window as the roof vibrated with the roar of a low-flying aircraft.

Biggles joined him.

The vague shape of a Spitfire could just be seen through the rain, side-slipping so steeply that nothing short of a miracle could prevent it from hitting the ground, wing first. The miracle happened. Algy clutched at Biggles's arm as the machine banked vertically ten feet above the turf and came to rest, nose to wind, on the tarmac.

Biggles flushed and made for the door. 'I don't care who he is, but I'm not having that sort of thing here,' he snapped.

I wouldn't be in a hurry,' advised Algy. 'It might be Carrington.'

'Perhaps you're right,' agreed Biggles, taking a cigarette from his case and tapping it on the lid. 'Here he comes.'

A small, hatless, leather-clad figure had detached itself from the machine, and was walking briskly towards the office. His flying jacket was too large, and flapped against thigh boots that were out of proportion to the wearer's 'size.

Biggles went back to his desk. A moment later the door opened and Toddy, the Station Adjutant, put his head inside. There was a curious expression on his face.

'Pilot Officer Carrington, reporting for duty, sir,' he said, and stepped aside.

The new-comer walked slowly into the room and stood stiffly to attention. 'I'm Carrington, sir,' he said, with a suspicion of c.o.c.kney accent.

Will you please salute when you come into this office,' returned Biggles curtly.

'Regulations say you only salute when wearing a hat, sir.' 'What do you mean by coming here without a hat? Where is your hat?'

'Nailed up in Number 8 Squadron Mess, sir.'

Biggles stared at the speaker. He saw a slim, nervous-looking youth whose pale face was thin and pinched as though with hunger. His hair was short and crisply curled. It was soaking wet. Rain trickled down his face and formed a dewdrop on the end of his nose.

Pale grey eyes regarded the C.O. steadily. Occasionally his jaws moved with a rolling motion.

The C.O. got up and held out his hand, rather awkwardly; he was wondering why a squadron with the reputation of Naval Eight 1 should have kept the hat. 'Glad to see you, Carrington,' he said. He glanced at the clock. 'Why are you late ?'

I didn't know I was,' came the answer, promptly. Your clock is a minute fast.

Biggles frowned. You're sure of that?'

Certain. I set my watch by H.Q. time this morning-and they get it from Greenwich.'

Biggles drew a deep breath. 'I'll take your word for it,' he said stiffly. 'I hope you'll like it here.'

I reckon so,' nodded Carrington, casually, glancing round. One place is much the same as another to me,' he added.

Biggles swallowed. 'This is going to be a squadron with a reputation,' he said tersely. I hope you'll bear it in mind.'

I reckon you won't let me forget it,' returned the other, almost defiantly. His jaws recommenced their rolling.

'Forgive me for being personal, but are you eating something 9' inquired Biggles, with studied politeness.

'No, just chewing.'

'Chewing what?'

Gum.'

Do you always chew gum when you report to a new station ?' .

1 Service name for a famous coastal unit.

'This is only my second, so I can't say.'

Algy turned away so that his face could not be seen. He was finding it difficult to retain his composure.

Biggles picked up his pen. Christian name?' he asked. 'Tug.'

I mean your real name.'

That's it Tug.'

Biggles looked up. 'This is no time for pleasantries,' he announced crisply. 'What is your proper name?'

I've told you twice Tug.'

Biggles looked at his senior Flight Commander hopelessly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned his eyes to the new arrival. 'Is that what they call you at home?'

It would be if I had a home.'

Biggles tried different tactics. 'I suppose we must blame your father for a name like that,'

he said cheerfully as he wrote it down.

'You might if he was alive and if you were looking for trouble. My old man was pretty handy with his dukes.'

'Why did he give you a name like that?' asked Biggles, moved to curiosity in spite of himself.

'He was master of a Port of London tug for so long that he couldn't think of anything else. Or it may have been because I was born on a tug. Or perhaps because at the Ring they called me Young Tug.'

'The Ring?'

Blackfriars Ring.'

I see. So you're a professional pugilist?'

If you mean boxer yes. Flyweight.'

Biggles picked up his pen again. How many enemy aircraft have you shot down?'

I dunno, sir.'

Why don't you know?'

I've never bothered to count them, and that's a fact Why trouble ? There's always plenty more.'

Again Biggles's eyes met Algy's. They were twinkling. 'It's a great thing to have a sense of humour,' he said softly. What's that ?' asked Tug.

A sense of humour? Haven't you got one?'

Tug shook his head. Not that I know of.'

I mean - to be able to see the funny side of things,' explained the C.O.

'Funny ?' There was frank incredulity in Tug's voice. 'Do you see something funny about this war, with women and kids -'

'No - no, of course not,' broke in Biggles quickly. 'All right, Carrington. You'll be attached to A Flight. This is Flight Lieutenant Lacey, your Flight Commander. Go with him and he'll introduce you to the mess. There will be no flying till the weather lifts.'

Why not?'

Why not?' The C.O. looked blank, then he frowned. Those are my orders,' he said shortly.

I ought to have guessed that,' murmured Tug.

Biggles swallowed hard. He wanted to say what he was thinking, but he was anxious to avoid trouble with H.Q. at that particular moment. 'I'll give you a day or two to get the hang of things,' he promised.

I shan't need 'em,' announced Tug simply. 'I'm ready as soon as you like. I came down here to shoot Huns, so the sooner I start in the better.'

Yes, I think perhaps you're right,' returned Biggles, smiling in spite of himself. 'By the way, I noticed the way you landed your machine just now. It was a trifle irregular to say the least of it. I never like interfering with a fellow's flying, but machines are expensive, and hard to replace. I hope you'll bear that in mind.'

What I handle, whether it's women, dogs, or planes, I handle rough; then there's no argument as to who's boss,' muttered Tug grimly. 'In the end we get on better that way.'

Biggles put his hand over his mouth so that his smile could not be seen. 'All right, Carrington. As you like. But if you go on flying as you've started it's only a matter of time before you do the enemy a good turn by writing yourself off.'

That'll be my funeral, sir, won't it?'

Biggles gave it up. 'All right,' he said. 'That's all.'

Algy took Tug by the arm and ushered him out of the room. 'Come into the mess and have a drink,' he invited. Meaning booze?'

'Not necessarily, but we don't always drink cold water.' Tug laughed, a short harsh cackle like the sound made by an angry c.o.c.kerel.

It was so unexpected that Algy started. What's the matter?' he asked sharply.

'Matter? Nothing - except if some of the blokes in this war would stop pouring booze down their necks we should get on faster.'

I take it you have a rooted objection to alcohol?' remarked Algy, for the sake of saying something.

r 'I have.

'Why?'

'Because my old man used to flay the hide off me every time he got tight.'

And how often was that?'

Every night.'

Algy smiled faintly and said no more. He cast a sidelong 0 glance at his companion, wondering how he was going to fit in with the others. He saw trouble ahead. Well, it takes all sorts to make a war,' he ruminated.

They found Bertie, Tex, and Ferocity in the anteroom, waiting for the weather to clear. Bertie was playing the piano and the others were singing, but the din subsided as Algy and the new man entered.

'This is Tug Carrington,' announced Algy. He has just been posted to us.'

Tug clasped his hands above his head and turned from side to side in a professional pugilistic fas.h.i.+on. 'Pleased to meet you, boys,' he said seriously, amid a t.i.tter of laughter.

It was unfortunate that a hush should fall at the precise moment when Bertie remarked in a plaintive voice, 'Good heavens, what's this ?'

The hush deepened into an embarra.s.sed silence. The smile faded from Tug's face as a ray of winter suns.h.i.+ne is blotted out by a cloud, and he began to move towards the chair in which Bertie was lolling. He did not walk in the usual way. He seemed to bounce slightly, as if his toes were springs. Reaching Bertie's chair he stopped, and there was something about the way he bristled that reminded Algy of an angry wire-haired terrier.

'Had that remark of yours anything to do with me ?' asked Tug quietly.

For a moment Bertie looked surprised. He screwed his eyegla.s.s a little tighter into his eye. Then he smiled. 'My dear old top,' he murmured, don't tell me you're looking for trouble?'

'What else would I be doing here?' flashed Tug.

Algy b.u.t.ted in. 'All right, Tug; put your hackles down. Bertie didn't mean anything.'

Then he ought to keep his tongue under control,' snapped Tug. 'I don't take lip from anybody.'

Of course not. Let's leave it at that. Have a drink?'

"Thanks. I'll have a gla.s.s of milk with a dash of soda in it.'