Spitfire Parade Part 5

That's it, sir,' agreed the corporal. 'Excuse me, sir,' he went on, as one of the men outside called something.

Taffy was so interested that he did not notice his departure. He thumbed the controls gingerly. 'I'd sooner have my own c.o.c.kpit than this,' he declared, and started to vacate the seat.

Just what he put his foot on he did not know. He never did know. But there was a violent explosion, and the machine jerked forward with a jolt that caused him to strike his head on a metal object behind him. At the same time the trap slammed shut with a clang.

Slightly dazed, Taffy fell into the driving seat. It was sheer instinct that made him clutch at the wheel and swing it round just as the front of the vehicle was about to take a tree head-on, but he managed to clear it and get back on the road, down which the tank proceeded to charge at a speed that seemed utterly impossible for such a weight.

'Hi! Corporal!' he shouted. 'Come and stop the confounded thing. I can't.'

There was no reply.

s.n.a.t.c.hing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw to his horror that the corporal was not there. In fact, the machine was empty.

'Gosh, I'm sunk!' he muttered, white-faced.

Fortunately the road was straight, but even so it was only with difficulty that he was able to keep the tank on it, for the wheel vibrated horribly, and the steering-gear seemed to do strange things on its own account. He eyed a distant bend in the road apprehensively.

'That's where we pile up,' he thought. 'I shall never make that turn. I must have been daft to get into this devil's go-cart.'

He made a quick reconnaissance of the controls, and selected one which he felt ought to be the throttle. 'Whoa mare,' he murmured, and pulled it back.

The machine leapt forward like a greyhound leaving a trap, and again Taffy's head came into violent contact with the metal object behind him. He fell forward and struck his nose on another metal object. The noise, which had been bad enough before, became unbearable.

' Hi! Let me out!' he yelled.

The bend in the road lurched sickeningly towards him, and, as he had prophesied, he failed to make it. He clutched at the side of the tank as it struck the bank and buried itself in the hedge. But he had forgotten the peculiar properties of this particular type of vehicle. Regarded as obstructions, the bank, the ditch, and the hedge were so trivial that the machine did not appear to notice them. There was a slithering scream as the caterpillar wheels got a grip on the bank, and then, with a lurch like a sinking s.h.i.+p, it was over.

The lurch flung Taffy back into his seat, and he looked through the slit to see what lay ahead. A moan of despair broke from his lips when he saw that he was on the aerodrome, heading straight for the sheds. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the nearest lever, but it had no effect on the vehicle's progress. He pulled and pushed everything within reach, but it still made no difference. In sheer desperation he clawed at the wheel, hoping to clear the hangars.

' Look out, look you!' he bellowed, but his words were lost in the din.

The airmen who happened to be on duty needed no warning. As one man they rushed out of the hangar and, after a glance at the horror bearing down on them, fled incontinently.

Taffy saw a car, an ancient Morris - it was Lissie's, although, of course, he was not to know that - directly in his path. He hung on to the wheel, but it was no use. The tank, which had seemed to be more than willing to turn when he was on the road, now refused to answer the controls in the slightest degree. It took the car in its stride, so to speak, and in a second ended its useful life in a cloud of splinters and bent metal. Beyond it loomed the hangar. Lissie rushed out, took one look at the mangled remains of the car, and appeared to go mad.

'Stand clear - I can't stop,' bawled Taffy through the letterbox opening.

Whether the Flight Commander heard or not Taffy did not know; but the Flight Commander leapt for his life at the last moment. The tank roared past him into the hangar.

Where a bank and a hedge had failed to have any effect it was not to be expected that a mere flimsy canvas hangar could stop it, and Taffy burst out of the far side like an express train coming out of a tunnel, leaving the hangar looking as if a tornado had struck it.

A mechanic who was having a quiet doze at the'back of it had the narrowest escape of his life. He woke abruptly, sat up wonderingly as the din reached his ears, and then leapt like a frog as he saw death burst through the structure behind him. The tanks caterpillar wheels missed him by inches, and Taffy mentally awarded him the world's record for the standing jump.

A party of airmen were under instruction in the concrete machine-gun pit a little farther on. They heard the noise, but, mistaking it for a low-flying formation of planes, they did not immediately look round. They did so, however, as the steel monster plunged into the pit, and how they managed to escape being crushed to pulp must always remain a mystery. But the concrete pit was a tougher proposition than the tank had before encountered and it gave it best. With a loud hiss it gave a final convulsive lurch, and then lay silent.

Taffy picked himself up from the floor and felt himself gingerly to see if any bones were broken. A noise of shouting came from outside, which did not surprise him, so he crawled to the door and tried to unfasten it; but it refused to budge.

A strong smell of petrol reached his nostrils, and in something like a panic he hurled himself against the door, just as it was opened from the outside. He took a flying header into the turf. Blinking like an owl, with oil and perspiration running down his face, he sat up and looked about him stupidly.

Facing him, regarding him grimly, was a Squadron Leader. In a little group behind him were more officers, who had rushed out of the mess when they heard the crash.

Taffy pulled himself together, and facing the C.O. announced, 'I'm reporting for duty, sir.'

Biggles nodded. 'I noticed it.'

Taffy felt that some explanation was needed. He indicated the tank. 'She got away with me, sir. If you ask my opinion they make these things too heavy on the controls.'

The C.O. regarded him stonily. 'I'm not asking your opinion,' he said softly. 'Your name, I fancy, is Hughes ?'

Taffy looked puzzled. 'That's right, sir. How did you guess ?'

Biggles's lips parted in a mirthless smile. 'I didn't guess,' he said with deadly sarcasm. 'I knew.'

CHAPTER 5.

ONE GOOD TURN.

WHEN he took off on a short test flight, Ginger Hebblethwaite had no intention of landing at Dewton, the home of Number 701 (Hurricane) Squadron; but after wandering about in the blue for some time, and finding himself within gliding distance of Dewton, he decided to drop in and leave his card at the mess.

In accordance with custom, an old custom which the Higher Command has not quite succeeded in abolis.h.i.+ng, he did not land immediately. For the honour and glory of the squadron to which he belonged he first treated any casual spectators of his arrival to a short exhibition in the art of aerobatics. He pushed his nose down and roared low over the mess, so low that his wheels almost touched the roof, in order to indicate that the show was about to commence.

Thereafter, at various alt.i.tudes, he proceeded to put his: machinethrough every evolution known to aviation. Loops,. 'low rolls, half rolls, rolls on the top of loops, upward spins,.

Sad whip-stalls followed each other in quick succession until,. feeling slightly giddy, he decided that he had done enough. He cut his engine, glided between the hangars in a manner that scattered his audience, and then skidded round to a neat tarmac landing.

Satisfied that he had upheld the traditions of 666 Squadron, he leapt lightly to the ground, and with a_ smile on his face advanced towards the members of the Hurricane squadron.

One stood a little apart from the others, and, observing his expression, Ginger's face lost something of its gaiety and acquired a faint look of anxiety.

The isolated officer, who Ginger now saw wore on his arm the rings of a Flight Lieutenant, took a pace towards him. 'Who are you?' he barked, in such a peremptory voice that Ginger jumped. The greeting was unusual, to say the least. 'Why - er - I'm Hebblethwaite of 666,' replied Ginger. 'Say "sir" when you speak to me! I am in command here during the temporary absence of Squadron Leader Wilkinson.' 'Sorry, sir,' replied Ginger, abashed and astonished. 'What do you mean by acting like a madman over my aerodrome ?'

Ginger blinked and looked helplessly at the other officers. 'Not like a madman, sir, I hope.'

'Don't argue with me! I say your flying is outrageous - a wanton risk of government property.'

'But I -'

Silence ! Consider yourself under open arrest. Report your name and unit to the Duty Officer and then return instantly to your own squadron. I shall refer the matter to Wing Headquarters. You will hear further from your C.O.'

Ginger stiffened and swallowed hard.

'Very good, sir,' he muttered between clenched teeth.

He saluted briskly, reported to the Squadron office, and then returned to the tarmac.

Several officers regarded him sympathetically. One of them winked and inclined his head.

Ginger halted near him. 'What's the name of that Dismal Desmond ?' he asked softly. '

What's biting him, anyway? Has he had a shock of some sort, or is it just plain nasty-mindedness?'

reckon he was just born like it,' murmured the ,other. 'They must have fed him on crabapples when he was a kid. Watch out, though - he's acting C.O.'

'What's his name ?'

'Bitmore.'

'Then he's bit a bit more than he can chew this time,' punned Ginger viciously. 'How many Huns has he got?' 'None that I know of.'

'Then how did he get those rings on his sleeve?'

'Chasing pupils round the tarmac at a flying training school.'

'Well, this isn't one and he isn't chasing me,' snapped Ginger. 'My crowd'll show him where he steps off if he's going to try this sort of stuff. Give your blokes my con-dolences. Cheerio.'

'Cheer-oh, laddie.'

Ginger climbed into his machine, took off, and raced back to Rawlham. He parked his Spitfire in its usual place and marched stiffly towards the Squadron Office. On the way he met a party of officers, including Algy Lacey, his Flight Commander, and Lord Bertie Lissie, in charge of B Flight.

'Stand aside,' he requested curtly as they moved to intercept him. 'I'm under arrest.'

Algy stopped dead. 'You're what?' he gasped.

under arrest'

Arrest my foot! What's the game?'

'No game - it's a fact. I dropped in on 701 Squadron this morning, the Hurricane crowd over at Dewton, and gave them the once-over before I landed. When I got down, a cross-grained skunk named Bitmore, who, apparently, is acting C.O., ticked me off properly and put me under open arrest.'

'Your show must have given: him a rush of blood to the brain.'

'Looks that way. Anyhow, he's reporting me to Wing.'

Algy frowned and looked at Bertie. 'The fellow must be a scallywag,' he muttered. 'What are we going to do about it? We can't have blighters like this throwing their weight about; life won't be worth living. Think of what the poor chaps in his own squadron must go through. Quite apart from Ginger, I think we ought to do something for them.'

Bertie fingered his wisp of moustache. 'Absolutely,' he declared. 'Absolutely.'

I tell you what,' went on Algy, and drawing Bertie to one side he whispered in his ear.

Then he turned again to Ginger.

All right, laddie,' he said, 'you'd better go and report to Toddy. You've had orders, and if you don't obey them it'll only make things worse.'

Ginger departed in the direction of the Squadron Office, while Algy and Bertie walked quickly back towards their quarters.

Some time later two Spitfires appeared over the boundary of the Hurricane aerodrome at Dewton; and to the officers lounging in front of the mess it was at once apparent that neither of the pilots was adept in the art of flying. Twice they circled the aerodrome, making flat turns and generally committing those faults that turn the hair of an instructor prematurely grey. Twice they attempted to land. The first time they undershot, and opening up their engines at the last moment, narrowly escaped disaster as they staggered across the front of the sheds.

The second time they overshot hopelessly and, skimming the trees on the far side of the aerodrome, skidded round to a down-wind landing. The spectators wiped the perspiration from their faces, while the ambulance raced round trying to judge the exact spot on which the crash would occur.

The first of the two machines made its third attempt to get in, and a cry of horror arose as the Spitfire drifted along on a course dead in line with the wind-stocking pole. At the last moment the pilot appeared to see it, swerved, missed it by an inch, and flopped down in a landing that would have disgraced a first-soloist. The second machine followed, grazing the mess roof. Together they taxied an erratic course to the hangars.

Two pilots, clad in brand new flying kit and crash-helmets, climbed out of the machines and walked towards the little crowd of officers and airmen who had gathered for the fun.

Slightly in front of them Flight Lieutenant Bitmore stood waiting. He was obviously in his element. Anger and disgust were predominant on his face.

Come here,' he snarled.

Obediently the two officers altered their course towards him.

What sort of an exhibition do you call that?' greeted Bit-more, his lips curling in a sneer.

'Do you call yourselves pilots ?' He appeared to choke for a moment, and then went on: '

You're not fit to pilot a perambulator down a promenade, either of you. A steam-roller driver would have put up a better show. I've never seen such an exhibition of supreme inability in my life. You make me -'

His voice trailed away to a silence that could be felt as the nearer of the two recipients of his invective slowly unfastened his flying kit, disclosing the uniform of an Air Commodore. The other had followed his example, and stood arrayed as a Wing Commander.

The Air Commodore eyed the Flight Lieutenant speculatively. 'Have you quite finished?

' he inquired in a voice that made the spectators s.h.i.+ver. 'Because, if you have, I will begin. What is your name?'

Bitmore, sir.'

'Bitmore ? Ha, I might have known it. I've heard of yip Who is in command at this station?'

There was a t.i.tter from the a.s.sembled officers, but it faded swiftly as the Air Commodore's eyes flashed on them.

I I am, sir, temporarily,' stammered Bitmore.

'You! You tell me that you are in command of this squadron! How dare you take it upon yourself to criticize my flying. How long have you been in command?'

Well, sir -'

The Air Commodore thrust his chin forward. 'Don't "well" me answer my question.'

'Two days, sir.'

Aha! Two days, eh? And you think that qualifies you to criticize officers who have learnt their flying in the field? called here for petrol, and this is the reception I get.'

I'm sorry, sir.'

'You will be yes, you will be, I promise you. Get my tanks filled up and have both these machines craned. Come along, jump to it. We've no time to waste.'