Spitfire Parade Part 3

Tug turned a coldly hostile eye over the faces that were smiling, and the smiles faded swiftly.

Algy sensed trouble. 'All right,' he said loudly, to relieve the tension. 'Let's -' He broke off short, his muscles stiffening, as a sound, rising and falling on the wind, became audible. One jump took him to the window, eyes turned upwards to the clouds. 'Look out! That sounds like The rest of his words were lost in a crash as a chair hurtled across the room. Tug had flung it aside as he sped to the door. The others followed swiftly, but by the time they had reached the open Tug, hatless and minus anything in the way of flying kit, was sprinting towards his machine, still standing where he had left it on the completion of his 'tarmac' landing. As he reached it, and took a flying leap into the c.o.c.kpit, a Junkers dive bomber dropped out of the clouds overhead, the pilot flying busily, obviously seeking a target.

The whole thing had happened so quickly that Algy had barely time to grasp the facts.

He could only stare.

Biggles burst out of his office. What's going on?' he asked shortly. As he spoke he looked up, and there was no need for anyone to answer his question.

'Get ready to take cover everybody,' he snapped, and made a bee-line for the Bren gun that was mounted in front of the building.

His order was ignored. The officers joined him at the gun. All eyes were on Tug's Spitfire, now taking off cross-wind on one wheel, to what seemed certain destruction.

Biggles paled. 'He's mad. He'll kill himself!' he cried in a strangled voice.

On the face of it this was a safe prophecy, for the Spitfire was now swerving in a manner horrible to watch as it shot like a bullet towards the boundary hedge, which was so close that it seemed impossible that the machine could clear it. Biggles gripped Algy's arm like a vice as he waited for the crash.

At the last moment, when its destruction seemed a.s.sured, the Spitfire rocketed straight up under the Junkers. The enemy pilot, who by this time was taking a line on the aerodrome building, must have seen it coming, for instead of steepening his dive he pulled his nose up, and dipped a wing to get a better view of his a.s.sailant. He did not appear to be unduly worried; there was no reason why he should be, for every advantage, including height, was his.

Biggles was watching the Spitfire. It seemed to fascinate him. He could not understand why it remained in the air, for its pilot seemed to be defying the law of gravity.

'He'll stall that machine as sure as fate,' muttered Algy through dry lips, and then ducked as the wail of Bertie's hunting horn cut into the roar of engines.

'Yoicks ... Tally-Ho !' sang Bertie, clearly excited.

Shut up and put that thing away,' snapped Biggles, whose nerves were on edge. But his eyes never left the combat now taking shape overhead.

The Spitfire, for some reason not immediately apparent, did not stall. It hung for a moment on the point of it, however, its prop screaming as it clawed at the air, and the Junkers sailed in to strike the first blow. The pilot had every reason to hope that it would be the last, for the Spitfire presented an almost stationary target. His nose was nearly in line when the Spitfire levelled out to even keel, and at the same time spun on its longitudinal axis, a manoeuvre both unexpected and spectacular - at least, the Junkers'

pilot seemed to find it so, for he swerved away like a startled colt.

The Spitfire's nose dropped. For three seconds the engine roared as it gathered speed; then the machine soared skyward in a perfectly timed upward spin. It came out at the same level as the Junkers, with its nose in line. Simultaneously the grating roar Of its [image]

eight guns blended with the moan of engines.

Pieces flew off the Junkers, which banked wildly and headed for the nearest cloud.

My hat! Did you ever see anything like that?' gasped Biggles.

'Look! Look!' cried Algy, his voice rising to shrillness.

The enemy pilot, obviously realizing that he had taken a bigger bite than he could comfortably chew, was now concentrating all his efforts on escape; and, indeed, for a few seconds it seemed likely that he would succeed. Strangely enough, Tug appeared to be in no hurry about his next move. He turned slowly to get a clearer view of his adversary; then, deliberately, he put his nose down in an almost vertical dive.

For a terrible moment Algy thought he had been hit, and was diving flat out into the ground, for it seemed certain that he must strike it. But at the last moment he pulled out, the rush of air flattening the gra.s.s under his wings; then he pulled up in a zoom that made the engine howl like a giant in agony, a zoom that brought a cry of delight to Bertie's lips. Like an arrow sped the Spitfire, straight towards the Junkers.

The German pilot saw it coming, and swung round to bring his guns to bear. But he was too late. Much too late. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, at the finish, he knew where the Spitfire was. The desperate manner in which he banked suggested this.

Tug, travelling vertically upwards, fired only a short burst from underneath. Then he was past. But the instant he was above his quarry he flattened out, turned like a flash of light, and, at point-blank range, brought his nose, streaming fire, slowly across the Junkers from prop.-boss to tail-skid. The effect was as though a band-saw was pa.s.sing through it.

It broke in halves. One wing went up and tore off at the roots. The fuselage began to fall, slowly at first, but with swiftly increasing speed.

On the ground n.o.body spoke.

The Junkers's fuselage, minus wings, went into .the ground just beyond the boundary hedge like a torpedo. There was a roar like a clap of thunder as its bombs exploded.

Tug cut his engine, side-slipped steeply to within a hundred feet of the ground, levelled out, turned into wind, and dropped the Spitfire as lightly as a feather on the turf, finishing his run within a score of paces of where the spellbound members of the squadron were watching.

Oh, pretty - pretty to watch,' breathed Bertie.

There was a faint murmur, like the rustle of autumn leaves, as the others allowed long-held breath to escape from their lungs. The face that Biggles turned to Algy was white and wore a curious expression, an expression that was something between relief and frank disbelief.

In all my experience I never saw anything quite like that,' he said slowly. 'Carrington's flying may not be the sort taught at the best schools, but it works - yes, it certainly works.

Tug climbed out of his machine and walked towards the mess. His manner was that of a workman going home from work. There was nothing either in his expression or behaviour to suggest that anything unusual had happened.

The others followed him in.

'Nice work, Tug,' said Biggles sincerely.

'Thanks.' Tug tossed the word over his shouder like a piece of orange peel.

'Have a drink?' Biggles beckoned the mess waiter.

Tug nodded dispa.s.sionately. Thanks,' he said again. I could do with a gla.s.s of barley water.'

He glanced suspiciously round the company - but n.o.body was smiling.

CHAPTER 3.

THE ARRIVAL OF ANGUS.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT ANGUS MACKAIL was annoyed. In his big Highland heart he felt that he had reason to be, and the fact that he could do nothing about it was like petrol on an oil bomb. After shooting down six enemy aircraft (four of them in one week) he had made application for posting to a squadron stationed near his home town of Aberdeen. The reason he had given to support this application was that the C.O. of the unit concerned, one Donald Mackail, was his brother - which was true enough. But, unfortunately for Angus, his C.O., Ian McIntosh, knew Donald just as well as he knew Angus, and with shrewd judgment perceived that while apart Angus and Donald were good if irresponsible officers, if ever they came together anything might happen. For which reason he had turned down the application.

Feeling that he had been badly treated, Angus had signified his disapproval, and at the same time discharged some of the steam of his wrath by performing over the aerodrome the sequence of aerobatics widely advertised in pre-war air displays as 'crazy flying', an event that had terminated abruptly when he knocked - accidentally be it said - one of the chimney-pots off the C.O.'s quarter.

It was unfortunate for Angus that a new Wing Commander should have chosen that moment to inspect the station, particularly as he had that morning received a letter from the Air Ministry inviting him to dispose of unruly officers by posting them to a special squadron then being formed for the express purpose of instilling into them the rudiments of that desirable quality known as discipline.

The upshot of the affair was that Angus was posted; not, as he had hoped, to bonny Scotland, but to Kent, where the new unit, Number 666 Fighter Squadron, was located.

Of course, he knew nothing of the real purpose of the squadron, but he learned that it was commanded by a Squadron Leader named Bigglesworth, and this did nothing to allay his not unnatural irritation; for he felt that an officer with such a name might not, or would not, perceive his finer qualities.

His orders were that he was to fly his Spitfire down to the new squadron as soon as weather permitted, and this had for some days been in accord with his humour; but in the circ.u.mstances he felt that the sooner he shook the dust - or rather, the mud - of such an ungrateful squadron off his boots, the better, regardless of meteorological conditions.

He would, he decided, proceed forthwith to Rawlham, Kent, and report to the Squadron Leader with the curious name. His machine was wheeled out and the engine started.

Angus, clapping an old regimental glengarry on the back of his head, as was his habit, tore across the aerodrome into the air, where he found conditions worse than he expected. Still, by flying low he expected no difficulty in finding his way, so he struck off to the south, intending to pick up his landmarks after crossing the Thames.

Before ten minutes had pa.s.sed he was regretting his hasty decision to start, for visibility became so bad that he had to admit to himself that he had no idea of his position. Once he found a road that he thought he knew, only to overshoot it, and presently found himself racing over a bleak country-side that he could not remember seeing before.

However, more by luck than judgment he found the Thames, and sped on more hopefully.

For half an hour he tore round searching for some landmark that would give him his bearings, growing more and more angry at his own folly. Once he nearly collided with a row of poplars, and on another occasion almost took the roof off a cottage. It was the dark silhouette of a church tower flashing past his wing-tip that decided him to run no further risks, but to come down and make inquiries about his position on the ground.

'Losh, I've had enough of this,' he grunted, as he throttled back and side-slipped down into a pasture. It was a praiseworthy effort to land in extremely difficult conditions, and would have succeeded but for an unlooked-for circ.u.mstance.

Just as the machine was finishing its run a dark object 'appeared in the gloom ahead, an object which, at the last moment, he recognized for an animal of the bovine species.

Having no desire to collide with an unoffending cow - more for his own sake than that of the animal - he kicked out his foot and swerved violently. There was a shuddering jar as the undercarriage twisted under the excess strain, and the machine slid to a standstill flat on the bottom of its fuselage, like a toboggan at the end of its run.

'Nae sae quid,' he muttered savagely, looking round for the cause of the accident, and noting with surprise that the animal had not altered its position. This struck him as odd, and he gazed at it curiously, wondering what it was doing, for it was certainly moving.

Then he saw that it was tearing up clods of earth with its front teeth, occasionally kneeling to thrust at the ground with a pair of vicious-looking horns.

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An unpleasant sinking feeling caught him in the pit of the stomach as he stared, now in alarm, at the ferocious-looking beast, which, at that moment, as if to confirm his suspicions gave vent to a savage bellow. He felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the creature for a bull - and it was evidently not one of the pa.s.sive variety, either.

Now Angus had many accomplishments, but bull-fighting was not among them, so he looked round in a panic for some haven of retreat; but all he could see was the enveloping misty rain. What lay outside his range of vision, and how far away he was from the nearest hedge, he had no idea. He remembered once reading in a book that the sound of the human voice will often quell the most savage beast, and it struck him that the moment was opportune to test the truth of this a.s.sertion. Never did an experiment fail more dismally. Hardly had he opened his lips when the bull, with a resentful bellow, charged.

The c.o.c.kpit of an aeroplane is designed to stand many stresses and strains, but not the head-on charge of an infuriated bull. Angus was well aware of it. He knew only too well that the fabric that covered his fuselage could no more withstand the onslaught of the bull's horns than an egg can deflect the point of an automatic drill. Just what the result would be he did not wait to see, for as the bull loomed up like an express train on one side of the machine he evacuated it on the other.

It must, be admitted that Angus, in spite of his big athletic frame, disliked physical exertion. In particular he disliked running, a thing not uncommon amongst men who normally judge their speed in miles per minute rather than miles per hour. But on this occasion he covered the ground so fast that the turf seemed to fly under his feet. Where he was going he did not know, nor did he pause to speculate; his one idea at that moment was to put the greatest distance between himself and the bull in the shortest possible time.

The direction he chose might have been worse. On the other hand, it might have been better. Had he gone a little more to the right he would have found it necessary to run a good quarter of a mile before he reached the hedge that bounded the field. As it was, he ran only a hundred yards before coming to the boundary, which at that point took the form of a barn with a shallow but extremely slimy pond by the side of it. Such was his speed, however, that he saw onl(y the barn, and, the first indication he had of the presence of the pond was a clutching sensation round the ankles. This at once arrested th e progress of the lower part of his body with out affecting the upper part. The result was inevitable. He hurtled forward like a diver taking a header from a spring board.

He came up in a panic, striking out madly, thinking that he was deep water; but finding that he could stand - for the water was not more than three feet deep he staggered to his feet and floundered to the far side. Having reached it he looked round for the bull, taking the opportunity of unwinding from his neck a festoon of water-weed. The animal was nowhere in sight, so after pondering the scene, gloomily for a moment or two while he recovered his breath, he made his way past the barn to what was obviously the farm-house. Standing amid a depressed-looking company of pigs and fowls he knocked on the door.

It was opened almost at once, somewhat to his suprise, by a very pretty girl of about eighteen, who eyed him with astonishment. When he made his predicament known he was invited inside and introduced to her mother, who was busy with a saucepan at a big old-fashioned range.

Within a short time he was sitting in front of the fire, draped in an old overcoat, watching his uniform being dried and dipping pieces of bread into a bowl of soup. He felt some qualms about his machine, but he did not feel inclined to investigate, for he hesitated to lay himself open to ridicule by telling his hostesses the details of his encounter with the bovine fury in the meadow.

How long he would have remained in the chair is a matter for conjecture, for the fire was warm and he felt disinclined to stir, but a knock on the door announced the arrival of what was to furnish the second half of his adventure that day. Had he been more observant he might have noted that the girl blushed slightly; but he was looking towards the door, so it was with distinct astonishment and dour disapproval that he observed the entrance of a dark, dapper, and undeniably good-looking pilot officer in Royal Air Force uniform.

The pilot officer, who was very young, stopped dead when he saw Angus; his brow grew dark with suspicion and he shot an inquiring glance at the girl, who hastened to explain the circ.u.mstances. It soon transpired that he was a French Canadian, and the girl's fiance; the explanation mollified him, but it was clear that he was by no means happy at finding another airman in what he regarded as his own particular retreat. Indeed, he made this so apparent that Angus felt embarra.s.sed.

However, they entered into conversation, although this was not as easy as it should have been, for the Canadian spoke better French than English, while Angus knew no French, and his English was not only impregnated with a Highland brogue, but was punctuated with words not found in the Oxford Dictionary. Still, Angus learned that his new acquaintance was named Armand, a name which, at his unit, had been naturalized first to Almond, and then to 'Nutty It appeared that he, too, was in a rather difficult position. Three days previously, while waiting to be posted to a service squadron, he had, without permission left the depot in a borrowed aircraft on an unofficial visit to his fiancee. While enjoying her hospitality he had been caught by the bad weather. When the time had come for him to leave, flying was absolutely out of the question, so he had done the only thing he could do in the circ.u.mstances; he had rung up the depot and informed the irate Officer in charge that he had been compelled to make a forced landing, but would return as soon as possible. But when the weather did not improve he had been ordered back anyway. So, leaving his aircraft - a communication squadron Tiger-Moth - where he had landed it, which was in a field rather larger than the one Angus had chosen, he had started back to the depot by road. But finding the weather slightly better and likely to clear before nightfall, he had now returned to fetch the machine.

Angus, in turn, related how he had become lost in the rain, and had landed with disastrous results to his undercarriage. He was, he stated, on his way to 666 Squadron at Rawlham.

The Canadian crossed to the window to regard the weather, which was now certainly improving but was by no means settled.

I will fly you to the squadron,' he declared.

Angus started. Like many pilots he had a curious antipathy to being flown by a stranger, and he said as much. But as the afternoon wore on, and Nutty's frown grew deeper, he began to understand the position. The Canadian, who was evidently of a jealous disposition, was loath to leave him there with his girl; yet he, Nutty, was expected back at the depot, and further delay might get him into more trouble than he was already in.

So, rather than cause any friction between the lovers, Angus began seriously to contemplate Nutty's suggestion.

The weather was still dull, with low clouds scudding across the sky at a height of only two or three hundred feet; but it had stopped raining, and light patches in the clouds showed where the sun was trying to break through. In any case, Angus knew that he would soon have to let the squadron know where he was or they would be sending out search-parties to look for him, for his departure from the north would have been signalled. So, rather against his better judgment, he accepted Nutty's invitation. He thanked his hostesses for their hospitality, resumed his uniform, and accompanied his companion to a rather delapidated Tiger-Moth that stood dripping moisture in the corner of a long field.

When his eyes fell on the machine he instantly regretted his decision, but there was no going back. More than ever did he regret leaving the comfortable fireside when his pilot, who handled the joystick like a pump-handle, took off with a stone-cold engine in a steep climbing turn. A minute later the machine was swallowed up in the murk. The period immediately following was a nightmare that Angus could never afterwards recall without a shudder, for Nutty, quite lightheartedly, seemed to make a point of taking every possible risk that presented itself. It became more and more obvious that he was either a novice of little experience, or else he had become overconfident from long practice - Angus wasn't sure which. However, he managed to get up through the clouds, when he at once set off on a course that Angus felt certain would never take them to Rawlham.

' Hi! You're going too far east!' he shouted in the pilot's ear. Nutty shrugged his shoulders expressively. 'Who flies - me or you?' he roared.

Angus's lips set in a straight line. ' This isna' going to be funny,' he told himself bitterly. '

The fool will unload me on the wrong side of the Channel if I don't watch him ' He could see Nutty's lips moving, as if he were singing to himself.

Angus's lips also moved - but he was not singing.

'Hi!' he shouted again presently. D'ye ken whaur you're going?'

The Canadian looked both hurt and surprised. Rawlham, you said, mon ami.'

'Yes, but you're going the wrong way. You're getting too far south.' Angus pointed desperately towards the north. Non . . . non, non,' argued Nutty emphatically.

Angus's expression became grim. He felt like hitting the man on the head, but as there was no dual-control joystick in his c.o.c.kpit there was nothing he could do except sit still and fume, deploring the folly that had led him into such a plight.

Meanwhile Nutty started to explore the sky in all directions, until not even Angus had the remotest idea of their position. But the Canadian evidently had some secret method of navigation, for he suddenly throttled back and, turning with a smile, pointed downwards.

Rawlham!' he called cheerfully.

Angus stared unbelievingly, for he felt convinced that they were not within twenty miles of the place.

Nutty, without any more ado, jammed the joystick forward and roared earthward.

Angus turned white and clutched at the sides of the c.o.c.kpit, prepared for the worst.

There was no altimeter in his c.o.c.kpit, and it looked as if the pilot was going straight into the ground. To his infinite relief, not to say astonishment, the machine levelled out at about two hundred feet over an aerodrome. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, for he was prepared to land anywhere, and be thankful for the opportunity.

It was nearly dark when the machine touched its wheels on the wet turf near the edge of the aerodrome. In fact, they were rather too near it, for the Moth finished its run with its nose in a ditch and its tail c.o.c.ked high in the air.

Angus got out of the machine almost as quickly as he had left his Spitfire when the bull had charged it; but as soon as he was clear he surveyed the crash dispa.s.sionately. He was still gazing at it when his attention was suddenly attracted by the curious antics of his companion. With a loud cry of horror he had leapt to the ground and was fumbling with a revolver. For a moment Angus did not understand, and his first impression was that the unhappy pilot was going to shoot himself in a fit of remorse for having crashed his machine. But then he saw that he was mistaken.

Losh, mon, what ails ye ?' he inquired coldly.

'Voila!' Nutty pointed, and following the outstretched finger, Angus turned stiff with shock. Dimly through the darkening mist, not fifty yards away, stood an aeroplane. It did not need a black cross on the side of its fuselage to establish its ident.i.ty. The machine, beyond all doubt and question, was a Heinkel.

Angus turned to his companion in white-hot fury. 'You fush-faced fool,' he snarled. I said ye were off your course. You've landed us in France. These are Germans.'

Nutty paid no attention. With praiseworthy alacrity he was performing the last rites over his machine. He raised the revolver, and at point-blank range sent a shot into the petrol-tank. A tongue of flame sprang out, and within a minute the machine was a blazing inferno.