Spitfire Parade Part 6

Bitmore, pale and trembling, lost no time in obeying the order; and the airmen needed no urging. They set about the machines, and in ten minutes the two Spitfires were refuelled.

Half an hour later they looked as if they had only just left the workshops of the makers, but not until they were completely satisfied did the Air Commodore and his aide-de-camp climb into their seats.

I shall bear your name in mind,' was the Air Commodore's parting shot at Bitmore, as he taxied out and took of A quarter of an hour later both machines landed at Rawl-ham. The two pilots leapt to the ground and, to the great surprise of Flight Sergeant Smyth, ran round the back of the hangars to the officers' quarters. It struck the Flight Sergeant, from their actions as they ran, that they were both in pain.

They were; but not until they were in Algy's room and had discarded their borrowed raiment did the pseudo senior officers give way to their feelings. Algy lay on his bed and sobbed helplessly. Bertie, with the Wing Commander's tunic on the floor at his feet, sat on the bed with his face buried in his hands, making a peculiar gurgling noise.

'Poor blighter,' said Algy at last, wiping his face with a towel. 'He'll never be able to live that down as long as he lives. Right in front of the whole blinking squadron, too. Still, it served him right. He asked for it.'

By Jove ! If ever he finds out won't there be a lovely stink if you see what I mean,'

chuckled Bertie, polis.h.i.+ng his monocle.

But nothing happened, and by the next evening the incident was half forgotten.

Two days later a middle-aged officer, with a double row of medal ribbons on his breast, landed in a Hurricane at Rawl-ham and briskly towards the Squadron Office.

Biggles, who was working at his desk, looked up as the visitor entered. Instantly his face broke into a smile of welcome, and he sprang to "AS feet.

'Why, if it isn't Wilks!' he cried delightedly. You've got yourself back in harness again I see. Well, this is a surprise. What brings you here? Where are you stationed?'

Squadron Leader Wilkinson, D.S.O., shook hands warmly. I've just been given a new squadron 701 Hurricanes,' he announced. We're at Dewton, just over the way, so I hope we shall be seeing something of each other. I've been on a few days' leave had to leave the squadron in charge of Bit-more, my senior Flight Lieutenant. I've got a fine lot of chaps so I hope we shall do Well.'

'Good I hope you will. All the same, I reckon my Spitfires will get more than your Hurricanes.'

Squadron Leader Wilkinson, better known in the Service as 'Wilks', laughed. ' Yes, it looks as if we're going to have our old Camels versus S.E.5's compet.i.tions again. But that isn't why I came to see you. A couple of days ago my squadron had a visit from two Air Ministry officers, an Air Commodore and a Wing Commander - awful nuisance, these people. When I came back I made some inquiries about it, and ran into Air Vice-Marshal Logan. He happened to mention to me that he was going to make a surprise inspection of your station some time today, so I thought I'd give you the tip.'

Biggles sprang to his feet. ' The d.i.c.kens he is!' he cried. ' Thanks very much, Was. Dash these people and their surprise visits. They seem to think we've nothing else to do but sit and polish our machines.'

Wilks nodded sympathetically. ' Well, I shall have to be getting back - no, I can't stay to lunch. I'm very busy at the moment - thanks all the same.'

I shall have to get busy myself to put things in order for this inspection,' replied Biggles seriously. ' Cheer-oh, old boy, and thanks for giving me the tip. I hope we shall be seeing you again soon.'

' You certainly will,' answered Wilks, with a curious expression on his face.

Biggles lost no time in setting preparations on foot for the impending inspection.

Telephones rang, N.C.O.s chased airmen to various tasks, and all officers were ordered out of the mess to help clean their machines.

For two hours the aerodrome presented a scene of unparalleled activity, and by the end of that time everything was in apple-pie order. All ranks were then dismissed to their quarters with orders to parade in twenty minutes, properly dressed for inspection in their best uniforms.

'Stand by until further orders,' announced Biggles after he had carried out a thorough inspection of everything and everyone on the station.

An hour pa.s.sed slowly, and nothing happened. Two hours pa.s.sed, and still there was no sign of the Air Vice-Marshal.

Biggles began to fidget. 'This is a bit thick,' he muttered irritably. 'It must be after lunch time - we don't look like getting any. If I dismiss everybody you can bet your life that will be the moment the Air Vice-Marshal will arrive.' He was speaking to his Flight Commanders.

Slowly the afternoon wore on, but still there was no sign of the expected officer. Then, from a distance, came the drone of many aeroplanes flying in formation, and the personnel of the waiting squadron stiffened expectantly.

A puzzled expression came over Biggies's face. 'What's all this?' he murmured wonderingly. 'If this is the Air Vice-Marshal, then he's -' He broke off, staring at the far side of the aerodrome as nine Hurricanes, flying low and in a beautiful tight vee formation, swept into sight.

Straight across the aerodrome they roared. When they were -about half-way, and immediately in front of the officers' mess, they dipped in ironical salute. A message bag fluttered to the ground from the leading machine. Then they disappeared from sight beyond the hangars, and the drone of their engines faded in the distance.

A sergeant ran Out, picked up the message, and carried it to Biggles. Under the curious eyes of the entire squadron he 'opened it. An extraordinary expression came over his face as he read the letter.

'Flight Commanders will report to my office immediately,' be mapped and, turning on his heels, walked on ahead.

Over his desk he faced them grimly. ' What do you make of that?' he inquired curtly, as he pa.s.sed a sheet of paper.

The Flight Commanders read it together.

It is requested that Flight Lieutenant Lacey and Lissie be asked how they like their eggs boiled.

'For and on behalf of the officers of Number 701 (Fighter) Squadron.

(Signed) A. R. WILKINSON.

Squadron Leader.'

'My gosh,' gasped Algy. 'What a put-over.'

'Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain what all this is about,' requested Biggles softly.

Algy acted as spokesman. Clearly and concisely he told the whole story, from Ginger's reprimand by Flight Lieutenant Bitmore up to the masquerade, and the admonition of that officer in front of the unit.

Biggles heard him out in silence.

Well,' he said slowly, there are two aspects of this affair. Wilks had evidently discovered the plot, and has taken this course to get his own back the course that I, knowing him to be an offrcer of the finest type, would expect him to take. If he had reported the matter officially I need hardly tell you that you would have been court-martialled. As it is, he has taken an unofficial course. He has put it across us very neatly. At this moment every officer of 701 is probably convulsed with mirth at our expense. Every squadron in the service will know about it, and we shall never hear the last of it. What are we going to do -'

He stopped abruptly as the door was flung open and Toddy dashed in.

Staff car just arrived, sir, with a load of officers from the Air Ministry,' he gasped. 'I think the Air Chief Marshal is with them.'

Biggles sprang to his feet. Get back to your stations,' he shouted, making for the door.

The Flight Commanders dashed back to their places.

'What a whizzer,' chortled Algy. 'It's a surprise inspection. Won't 701 be sick when they hear about it? The laugh's going to be on our side after all.'

Absolutely yes, absolutely,' Murmured Bertie.

An hour later the offrcers and airmen of 666 Squadron were paraded, and addressed by the Air Chief Marshal.

It gives me great pleasure,' he declared, to see a squadron in the field that can carry itself with such spotless effrciency. I have visited many units recently, but never have I seen one in which such praiseworthy zeal is so obviously displayed by all ranks. Your equipment is a credit to yourselves, your commanding officer, and the service. I shall make it my business to see that the magnificent example you have set is made known to every other squadron by a special Air Ministry Weekly Order. Thank you.'

Biggles's face wore a broad smile as he returned from seeing the staff officers on their way.

A pretty slice of luck,' he laughed. 'The Air Marshal was So pleased that he asked me if there was any particular request I wished to make. I told aim that we should like to come off reserve and go on to first-line duties. He a.s.sures me that he'll attend to it right away.

As a matter of detail, I took the opportunity of mentioning Ginger's arrest to him, and he has promised to put things right with Wing.'

Bertie screwed his Monocle into his eye. 'By Jove! That's Wonderful. Jolly sporting of him if you see what I mean?'

CHAPTER 6.

SO THIS IS WAR!.

SQUADRON LEADER BIGGLESWORTH, in full flying kit, -stood outside his Squadron Office, his eyes on the rolling cloud-scape overhead, his ears alert to catch the first ring of the telephone, the signal that would send his squadron into the air. Toddy, the Station Adjutant, was sitting beside it. He was smoking a cigarette, quick, jerkily, often tapping it with his forefinger although there was no ash to shake off.

Outside, s.p.a.ced at regular intervals, stood ten Spitfires, the pilots of each of the three flights grouped together, talking with apparent unconcern, but obviously waiting for something to happen. From time to time one would glance in the direction of the Squadron Office. An airman would have known at once that they were on vigilance duty, ready to take wing at a moment's notice.

The Boche are a bit later than usual this morning,' observed Doc.' Lorton, a war-scarred veteran of many campaigns who had just arrived to take over the duties of Station Medical Officer.

Biggles nodded. 'Probably waiting to see what the weather is going to do. If it thickens up worse than it is I expect they'll break into small units instead of coming over in big formations. I -'

The telephone jangled shrilly. Toddy s.n.a.t.c.hed up the instrument. For a few seconds he listened; then, replacing the receiver, he turned to Biggles.

Strong enemy sub-units of bombers, escorted by fighters, approaching the South Foreland,' he rapped out. 'Height, twenty-two thousand; course, north-west.'

Steadying his parachute with his left arm, Biggles ran towards his machine. There was no need to warn the others. They, too, had heard the telephone, and were already climbing into their seats.

Settled in his c.o.c.kpit, Biggles glanced behind him, His hand felt for the throttle, closed over it, and the Spitfire, followed by the three flights in squadron formation, roared into the air.

The cold light of morning grew steadily brighter as the squadron climbed for height. A stiff breeze sprang up in the west, hounding in front of it great ma.s.ses of c.u.mulus cloud, like colossal cauliflowers, gilded at the top, merging into indigo and purple at the base.

Below, the ground was still three parts covered by long grey blankets of mist through which the earth showed as a patchwork quilt of sombre greens and browns.

The squadron climbed steadily, the leader turning slowly towards the Channel, heading for a strip of blue sky which in one place split the cloud-ma.s.s. Entering the opening at sixteen thousand feet, Biggles began to climb more steeply, and presently emerged into a new and lonely world. Mile after mile of gleaming clouds, like ma.s.ses of cotton-wool, stretched away to the infinite distance, where they cut a hard line across a ceiling of delicate green. Below the ten machines appeared ten shadows, each Surrounded by a complete rainbow, racing at incredible speed over the top of the sun-drenched vapour.

As far as Biggles could see, his squadron was alone in the sky. For some time he flew on, still heading south, rounding fantastic pyramids of cloud that seemed to reach to high heaven; compared with them the Spitfires were like midges, drifting along the base of a snow-covered mountain range. He looked anxiously for a break in the cloud-layer, hoping to catch sight of the Channel, to confirm that they had reached it; but the clouds now formed an unbroken expanse, as wild and uncharted as a polar sea, a dividing line between the known and the unknown. Below lay home, friends, and safety; above, mystery, enemies, and death.

Deciding at last that he must have reached the coast, Biggles changed direction and began to fly on a course which he hoped would be parallel with it. His eyes were never still. Above, around, and below they explored the nebulous world, mile by mile, section by section, seeking the enemy machines which he knew must be there; keeping watch, too, for other Home Defence units that he surmised would also be hunting the same trail.

The squadron was now at twenty thousand feet, but the summits of the clouds still seemed to tower as far above as their bases were below. Sometimes Biggles turned his head to stare in the direction of the sun, pulling down dark goggles to s.h.i.+eld his eyes, for the glare was blinding.

'What's happened to them?' he mused, although he was well aware that if the enemy leader had sighted him first he would probably have taken cover in the cloud-bank. He peered forward through his winds.h.i.+eld. Directly ahead lay a mighty mountain of mist, and he approached it cautiously, prepared for instant action, knowing that other machines might appear suddenly from the far side. A swift glance over his shoulder revealed the other Spitfires, still in position, like a school of dolphins in a silver sea.

Biggles, ever watchful, noted that the towering cloud fell away on one side into what appeared to be a cavity, and he edged towards it. Looking down over the side of his c.o.c.kpit, he caught his breath as he found himself gazing into a hole, a pit of incredible size. Straight down for a sheer ten thousand feet the walls of opaque mist dropped into a vast basin, turning slowly from yellow to brown, from brown to purple, and purple to indigo. Ledges occurred at intervals in the precipitous sides, cornices that looked so solid, so concrete, that it seemed as if a man might walk on them.

So taken up was he with this phenomenon that for a moment all else was forgotten; then a movement far below caught his eyes and he knew that his quest was at an end. A number of machines - how many he could not tell - were circling round and round at the bottom of the yawning crater, looking like microscopic fish at the bottom of a deep pool. Occasionally one or more of them would disappear, sometimes to reappear, wings flas.h.i.+ng faintly as the reflected light from above caught them. They were too far away for any distinguis.h.i.+ng marks to be seen, but a sudden gleam of orange fire streaking diagonally across the void told Biggles all he needed to know. It could only be a machine going down in flames, which meant that a battle was going on in the dim recesses of the mysterious well.

Ginger, flying behind Algy in the leading flight, saw his leader's nose tilt steeply downward. Instinctively his hand moved forward, and the next instant his machine was plunging earthward. It was an awe-inspiring moment, for the sensation was one of dropping into the very centre of the universe. Down - down - down - he thought the dive would never end. The wind howled over his wings like ten thousand demons trying to bar his progress, but he heeded it not; he was too engrossed in what was happening below. Twice, as they roared down into the chasm, he saw a machine fall out of the fight, leaving behind a streamer of black smoke around which others continued to turn, to dive, and shoot. There were at least fifty machines there, he decided. He picked out one or two German bombers, but mostly the aircraft were fighters, Hurricanes and Messerschmitt 109's.

A swiftly s.n.a.t.c.hed glance showed him that the squadron was no longer in tight formation; it was beginning to break up as each pilot selected his opponent. He picked out a group of Messerschmitts that were flying close together and raced towards them; but they saw him coming, and scattered like a party of minnows when a pike appears. He picked one out and pursued it relentlessly, his guns grunting viciously in short bursts.

The enemy machine did not burst into flames, as he imagined it would; instead, it zoomed upwards, rolled on to its back, and then, with its engine still on, spun down out of sight through the misty floor of the basin.

Ginger jerked his machine up sharply, and then swerved wildly to avoid collision with a whirling bonfire that was roaring earthward. His nostrils twitched as he hurtled through the smoking trail. The next moment he was shooting again, this time at a Messerschmitt 110; but it was not to be so easily disposed of, for the pilot twisted and turned like a seal with a sea lion at its tail, making it diffrcult for Ginger to bring his guns to bear. It was the first big dogfight he had been in, and the thought uppermost in his mind was that he must inevitably collide with another machine sooner or later, for aircraft were all around him - Hurricanes, Spitfires, Messerschmitts, Junkers, Heinkels, all zooming and diving, banking and rolling in what seemed to be hopeless confusion.

Somewhat to his surprise he was not afraid. He was conscious only of a strange elation, a burning desire to destroy one of the enemy before he himself was killed - as he never doubted that he would be in the end. It seemed impossible that any machine could survive such an inferno. Yet, curiously enough, it did not occur to him to pull out of it.

He flinched as, something struck his machine with a force that made it quiver. The compa.s.s flew to pieces, and the liquid that it contained spurted back in his face.

Mechanically he wiped his face with the back of his hand, at the same time looking round quickly for his attacker. Strangely enough, the only machine he could see that was in a position to fire at him was a Hurricane. At such moments the brain works swiftly, and the scene was photographed on his mind; he even noted the squadron identification mark painted in white letters on the Hurricane's nose. But he had no time to ponder the queer incident, for his attention was then entirely taken up by a sight that seemed to turn his blood to ice. Straight across his path a blazing torpedo that had been a Spitfire was going down vertically towards the bottom of the pit. A dark figure, with an arm flung over its face, emerged from the flames and leapt outwards and downwards. A white parachute streaked out behind it. The machine, almost as if it were still under control, seemed to swerve deliberately towards a Heinkel. The German pilot saw his danger and banked like lightning to escape. But he was a fraction of a second too late. The furnace caught the Heinkel fair and square across the fuselage. There was a shower of sparks and debris, then a blinding flash of flame as the tanks of the n.a.z.i machine exploded. Locked in terrible embrace, the two machines twisted earthward and disappeared from view.

Ginger was beginning to find it diffrcult to think. The whole thing was taking on a quality of unreality that made his movements seem slow and strangely futile. He knew that his flying was getting wild and erratic. Above the roar of engines he could still hear the harsh snarling of multiple machine-guns, but who was shooting, and at whom, he had no idea - until something struck his machine with a crash that made him shrink more tightly into his seat. Looking back, he saw a Messerschmitt on his tail, and at the sight a wave of cold fury surged through him. With a speed that amazed him he whirled round. Unprepared for the move, the enemy pilot swerved, and overshot him. The next instant the tables were turned.

With a reckless abandon that he would not have dared to employ in normal moments, Ginger dragged the stick back into his thigh. The enemy aircraft floated into sight through the swirling arc of his propeller, and he plunged after it, guns spurting.

At such short range it was almost impossible to miss. One of the Messerschmitt's wings [image]

seemed to float upwards; the fuselage dropped earthward, flame licking along its side.

For a moment Ginger watched, fascinated, as the pilot flung himself out of the c.o.c.kpit into the dreadful void, his hand groping feverishly for his parachute ring. He watched the leather-clad figure turning slowly over and over, diminis.h.i.+ng in size, until it was swallowed up in the mist, and then looked about him to see what was happening. He was just in time to see a swastika-decorated tail disappear into the side of the cloud. Then he was alone.

At first he couldn't believe it. What had become of the Huns? Not one was in sight. Nor a Spitfire. Where, a moment or two before, there had been at least a score of machines, not one remained except his own. A feeling of loneliness came over him, and he turned his eyes upward to the blue disk at the top of the crater. He had a sudden urge to be there, for the sides of the chasm seemed to be falling in on him. Pulling the joystick back, he circled upward.

Reaching the sunny side', he looked round quickly, and was able to make out a number of black specks just disappearing in the distance towards the south. He did not follow, for he knew that he had very little ammunition left. Instead, he decided to return to the aerodrome for more.

Some of the other Spitfires were already back when he reached the aerodrome; airmen swarmed about them, refuelling the tanks and reloading the guns. As he switched off and jumped down he saw Biggles hurrying towards him.

' What do you mean by hanging on by yourself after I had pulled out?' demanded Biggles curtly.

Ginger blinked and shook his head. 'I didn't see you go,' he blurted.

Are you all right?' Biggles's voice was suddenly tense with anxiety.

Right as rain. My machine is knocked about a bit I believe, but that's all.'

'Good ; I saw you putting in some nice work, laddie. You certainly gave it to that Messerschmitt.'

As a matter of fact, I believe I got a couple,'. claimed Ginger, wondering how on earth a man could be in such a mix-up and yet watch what his pilots were doing. 'Did you see those two machines collide - pretty grim, wasn't it?'

Biggles nodded. 'I got that Hun - the one that nearly crashed into you. It put the wind up me. I thought for a moment he was going to fall on you.'.

'Have we lost anybody?' asked Ginger anxiously.

I don't know yet. Algy's back - and Bertie.' Biggles looked across the aerodrome to where two more Spitfires were just landing. 'That makes seven back, anyway.'

I saw one of our machines going down in flames, but the pilot baled out - I couldn't see who it was.'

Toddy ran out of the Squadron Office. 'O.K.,' he called cheerfully. 'Everyone is accounted for. O'Hara baled out, but got down all right; he's on his way home in a taxi.