Spitfire Parade Part 10

Feeling that things were going badly, Biggles had no choice but to comply. He dare not risk compromising Renee or Marcel. As the door closed behind him he heard voices muttering on the inside. Standing on the step, he looked quickly up and down the unlighted street, and then slipped into a near-by alley, where he stood, his body pressed against the wall, listening. His brain raced as he tried to decide on a course of action, and after a few moments' reflection he saw got he could not do better than remain where he was. Go out into the street without a pa.s.s he dare not.

The moon had long since disappeared for the night. He noticed that the stars had vanished, too, and presently a thin mizzle of rain did nothing to add to his comfort. He was not surprised, though, for he had been aware for some time of an increasing humidity in the air.

Around him the town lay silent, like a city of the dead. Time seemed to stand still, and only his luminous wrist-watch told him the pa.s.sing of the hours. Midnight came, and found him sick with anxiety and suspense.

Once he had to cower back in the alley as a patrol marched through the street. In the stillness the heavy tramp of marching feet made enough noise for a hundred men, but there were only six. Out of the gloom they came, six vague phantoms, and into the gloom they disappeared. The footsteps echoed eerily in the silent street as they faded in the distance.

Biggles began to fidget as doubts a.s.sailed him. Was it any use waiting? Suppose his machine had been discovered in the field? He had been a long time - much longer than he expected to be. Ought he to. . . . He stiffened as a faint noise reached his ears. It sounded like the squeak of a window being opened.

He stepped out into the street, humming softly the tune of the pa.s.sword song.

The warning came from above, and he broke off abruptly. Looking up he could just make out a pale disk which he. knew was a human face.

'Attention!' came a voice, and a small, compact packet thudded at his feet.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and put it in his inside pocket. When he looked up the face had gone.

'Merci,' he said softly. 'We shall not forget you.'

Faintly came the answer. 'Au revoir --bon voyage.' The window squeaked again.

Biggles crept like a shadow acrosss the street and dived into a narrow turning, suddenly aware that the rain had stopped, to be replaced by a haze, thin as yet, but thickening. In a way it helped him through the town, but at the same time it alarmed him when he thought of the flight back. Twice he had to halt and cower in a doorway as a patrol went past, but he was not challenged, and as soon as he reached open country he broke into a trot.

By the time he reached the field where he had left the machine the fog was so dense that he doubted if it would be possible to take off. To crash, now that he had the plans in his pocket, would, he thought bitterly, be a sorry ending to his mission. Counting the trees [image]

beside the road - a precaution he had taken on arrival - he struck off across the field, only to pull up dead as the murmur of voices reached his ears. He did not attempt to deceive himself. Someone had discovered the machine, and the voices denoted that there were at least two people there.

For a little while he hesitated, and reasoned thus: if the men were Germans, then they would remain on guard over the machine, in which case he had nothing to gain by delay.

If, on the other hand, they were Frenchmen, then they ought not to betray him. Taking his pistol in his hand he walked slowly forward.

As he drew near he was relieved to hear that the voices spoke in French. Still, he was taking no chances, and kept firm grip on his pistol.

Two bulky figures loomed in the mist, and he soon saw, as he already suspected, that he had to deal with two French peasants. Not seeing him approach, they sprang away in alarm when he addressed them.

'All right, my friends,' he said quietly. 'I would advise you to go away and forget what you have seen.'

'Nom de Dieu! He's English,' gasped one of the men. 'We found the machine and didn't know what to make of it,' he explained.

'How do things go in England?' asked his companion eagerly.

'Very well indeed - and they will go better if you'll take yourselves off and forget what you have seen here,' returned Biggles. The Free Frenchmen in England will soon be marching back. Off you go.'

'You must have been mad to come here,' declared one of the men.

'I'm inclined to agree with you,' answered Biggles drily. The two men insisted on shaking hands with him, and then faded swiftly into the clammy mist.

As soon as they had gone Biggles stood for a moment or two regarding the weather.

Then, having decided what to do, he climbed into his c.o.c.kpit. To take off in such conditions was, as he knew only too well, asking for trouble. It would be safer to wait. If he heard anyone approaching, then he would have to risk a take-off; if no one came, then he would wait for the weather to clear, as he felt sure it would towards dawn. He was not so optimistic as to hope that it would clear before then. And he was right. Not until the fog was turning grey did it begin to lift.

'I'll give it another five minutes,' he decided.

But before that time was up voices near at hand, and approaching, hastened his departure. It was still not possible to see the boundary of the field, but that could not be helped. He started the engine; then, bracing himself for the ordeal of flying blind, he opened the throttle.

For a thousand feet he roared blindly through the all-enveloping murk, his lips compressed, eyes glued to his instruments, flying as much as anything by the 'feel' of the joystick. Then suddenly the mist grew bright and an instant later he was in clear air, a pale blue sky above and a boundless field of gleaming white below. Swiftly his eyes scanned the atmosphere around him for hostile aircraft, but there was none, and he set a course for home.

He was, he judged, nearing the coast, for everything below was blotted out by the fog, when the Messerschmitts appeared. He did not see where they came from, but suddenly they were there, a dozen of them, far above and diving towards him. Without taking his eyes from them he raced on, easing the stick forward for more speed, for in speed alone lay his only chance of reaching safety. But the advantage of height was with the Messerschmitts, and they overhauled him rapidly. He knew he would have to fight, for the rising sun was beginning to disperse the mist, so that it offered no cover worth taking.

Taking the plans from his pocket, he laid them on his knees, determined to throw them overboard should the worst come to the worst.

The Messerschmitts, diving steeply, closed in, some working round to the right, others to the left, to cut him off. The remainder held straight on, and it was upon the leader of this party that Biggles directed his chief attention, for he would be the first to get within effective range. Indeed, his cannon might be expected to open fire at any moment. When they did, Biggles knew that he would have to turn and fight, or be annihilated.

Meanwhile, he held on his course, knowing that the nearer he got to home the greater became his chance of finding a British patrol to help him. His only sensation was one of annoyance that he had so far succeeded in his mission only to be thwarted at the last moment, for he did not persuade himself that he could fight a dozen Messerschmitts single-handed and get away with it.

Then suddenly to his surprise he saw the Messerschmitts start to swerve away. This, at such a juncture, was a most unexpected move, but knowing that it would not have occurred without good reason, he looked around for it. Nor was he long discovering it.

Coming down at an angle, across the front of the German planes, was a formation of nine Spitfires.

At first he could hardly believe his eyes, for he could not imagine what they were doing so far over the Channel, but there was no possibility of mistake.

The Spitfires did not pursue the Messerschmitts, but turned towards him, and, as they drew near, his eyes grew round with wonder when he recognized them for his own squadron.

'The fools,' he breathed, with a catch in his voice. The silly fools, coming over here in broad daylight.' Then he laughed.

The Spitfires fell into place behind him, and he led them back to the aerodrome.

Air Commodore Raymond was waiting. His face beamed when Biggles handed him the plans.

Thanks. Did everything go off all right?' he asked. Biggles raised his eyebrows. 'Of course - why not?' 'Well - I thought there might be difficulties.'

'Nothing to speak of,' returned Biggles, walking to meet the pilots running towards him.

He addressed them sternly.

What do you lunatics think you're playing at, wandering about Hun-infested sky at this hour of the morning?'

'We were just waiting for you,' returned Algy, unabashed. 'We guessed you'd be along, and thought maybe you'd need a little help.'

Biggles frowned. How did you know where I'd gone?' 'Ask Sherlock,' grinned Algy, pointing at Toddy. 'He's the man who found the map you plotted your course on.'

-CHAPTER 9.

THE COWARD.

THE normal duties of Number 666 Squadron consisted of intercepting enemy daylight raiders, and it may have been largely due to Biggles's leadership that no casualties occurred before they did; but by late autumn the strain of long hours at the tremendous alt.i.tude at which battles were fought was beginning to tell. Nutty Armand went to hospital with a bullet through his foot, and Tex O'Hara, to his disgust, was kept on the around, by the M.O.'s orders, with a wrenched shoulder sustained in collision with a tree while trying to bring his Spitfire down after its lateral controls had been shot away.

Added to this, three airmen had been injured by bomb splinters when a deliberate dive-bombing attack had been made on the aerodrome during the absence of the machines.

The fact that this attack had been repeated on two subsequent occasions suggested that the enemy had located the aerodrome. On the other hand, Cuthbert had returned from hospital, and to bring the squadron up to strength came Henry Harcourt.

Henry was, in appearance, a weedy youth with a thin, pale face and thoughtful grey eyes.

His hair was fair and, apparently lacking the strength to support itself, usually hung like a flat wad over his forehead. But his manner was confident, and he had a habit of nodding his head to emphasize his words which he appeared to choose with great care.

'Oratory, as it was understood by the Athenians, is a lost art,' he declared sadly in the mess on his first evening, when, after a staggering burst of eloquence, his leg had been pulled by Tug Carrington. 'Read Plutarch,' he adjured his hearers earnestly, and you will see where a man can get with no weapon other than his tongue.'

'Try putting your tongue out at a Hun and see where it will get you,' sneered Tug. 'I'll go on saying my piece in this war with a bunch of guns if it's all the same to you.'

Henry regarded him with compa.s.sion. 'As you will,' he said piously.

The following morning Toddy entered Biggles's office and informed him that Henry wished to speak to him.

'If this budding Cicero fondly imagines that we've nothing else to do here but talk, I shall have to disillusion him,' answered Biggles coldly. 'All right, bring him in.'

Henry entered, smiling. Good morning, sir; may I take the liberty of saying how extremely gratifying it is to find you in-'

'All right. You've found me what about it?' broke in Biggles. If you've something to say say it. I'm busy.'

Henry was not in the least put out except that he looked at Biggles rather pityingly.

'What I have to say, sir, is this,' he continued evenly. 'In making a cursory perambulation of the station this morning I observed '

'You mean you saw something? What was it?'

'A small structure obviously provided exclusively for quadrupeds of the porcine genus -'

'In short, you saw a pigsty. What about it?'

'It occurred to me, sir, that on an aerodrome like this there must be a certain number of fragments, unconsumed portions of rations -'

If you mean sc.r.a.ps, yes, there are plenty. Go ahead.'

'Well, sir, if we acquired a pig, a little pig, and put him in the sty, we could dispose of our garbage and at the same time cause the little pig to develop -'

Biggles nodded. Yes, that's an idea. But who's going to look after it?'

'I will, with pleasure,' declared Henry promptly. 'I have a way with animals,' he added modestly.

'Is that so?' said Biggles, looking hard at him.

Yes, indeed, sir. I will undertake to maintain -'

'You won't overlook that there is a certain amount of flying to be done?'

Certainly not, sir.'

'All right. You have my permission to buy a pig, chargeable to mess funds.'

Thank you, sir.' Henry withdrew, beaming.

Biggles thought no more about the affair until, that night, while the officers were in the ante-room waiting for dinner to be served, strange sounds were heard coming from the direction of the sty, which was situated at the back of the farm-house, the building that had been converted into officers' quarters.

'What on earth is that?' he asked, looking startled.

Before anyone could answer Henry came in. He looked dishevelled, but pleased with himself.

'I've got the little bounder, sir,' he announced to Biggles. 'Bounder?'

You know, sir, the porker.'

'He's got what?' asked Algy in astonishment.

'A pig,' returned Biggles shortly.

'No, not really?' murmured Bertie Lissie, sitting up and taking notice. 'I say, what fun.

Which pig is it?'

Henry frowned. Which pig? Any pig.'

Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'He wanted one,' he explained.

'I'll bring my goldfish along,' sneered Tug.

'And my little rabbit, look you,' scoffed Taffy.

Say, what is this, a menagerie?' demanded Tex plaintively. Ain't there enough hogs in the sky, without -'

Henry flushed. 'I don't think it's in the best of taste to hold up to ridicule a dumb animal.'

'Dumb?' queried Tex.

Yes it can't talk.'

Yeah, I'd already got that figgered out,' said Tex slowly. Well, therefore it's dumb.'

'I still don't get it. Do some of your English pigs talk?' Of course not.'

Then what's so remarkable about this one being dumb?' There's nothing remarkable about it.'

Then why make a song about it? It sounds to me like it was just an ordinary hog.'

Henry admitted, reluctantly, that this was correct.

'It's all right,' put in Biggles ; he's going to look after it.'

He was at breakfast the following morning when a loud cry of anger arose from the back of the mess. He recognized Henry's voice. A moment later it was followed by a yell of laughter, which so excited his curiosity that he left the table and went round to see what was going on. He found the squadron officers grouped round the sty, and as they made way for him he beheld a spectacle that brought a smile to his face.