24 Spitfire Parade

by Captain W E Johns

  His machine shuddered as a burst of bullets struck it in the rear. As he looked back he caught sight of Algy, whirling as if on a pivot, flecks of orange flame jumping from his guns as

  he fired at something over Biggles's head. Looking up he caught a fleeting glimpse of a Messerschmitt pilot just abandoning his machine.

  'Nice shooting,' murmured Biggles, his eyes smiling across space at Algy, who was now going on after the bombers, which were still some way ahead. He resumed the pursuit, and as he watched the formation ahead he saw a remarkable sight, an incident so spectacular that his lips parted with wonder. He had never seen anything quite like it.

  A machine had appeared in the sky immediately over the bombers — perhaps a thousand feet above.

  It was a Spitfire. Biggles just had time to think, 'Who's that? Where has he popped up from?' when the Spitfire stood vertically on its nose and went down like a torpedo, straight towards the middle of the bomber formation.

  Biggles's lips went dry. At first he concluded that the Spitfire pilot had been hit, and was either dead or unconscious, for no sane pilot would behave in such a way. While there was still time for the machine to pull out he hoped that it would do so; and, indeed, he watched for it to do so; but it did not, and when collision appeared inevitable he braced himself instinctively for the shock of the frightful crash that must occur.

  Instead, he was dumbfounded to see the Spitfire go right Through the enemy formation, like a stone falling through a flock of birds. By what miracle it missed hitting one of the bombers in its headlong passage he could not imagine.

  But the affair was not yet over. By this time he was convinced that only a dead or unconscious man could be in the cockpit of the Spitfire. What was his amazement, then, to see the British machine pull out of its dive at a speed calculated to strip the wings from the fuselage, and then, without a pause, shoot up again like a rocket.

  Biggles's lips formed the words, 'He's mad.' And this was no idle observation. It was the only conclusion he could reach.

  Meanwhile things were happening. Some of the bombers were beginning to swerve. One or two, evidently new to the business, giving way to the instinct of self-preservation, had gone wide and seemed to lose themselves. Before they could rejoin their formation the Spitfire was in the middle of it, causing it to break in the middle. More machines skidded away, and in a moment or two the formation was in confusion. Sparks were flashing from the muzzles of many guns, but it seemed to Biggles that the bombers stood a better chance of hitting each other than of hitting the lone British machine. One bomber turned away and started gliding down; another followed it, smoke pouring from its tail. The crew toppled out like ripe apples dropping off a tree.

  By this time Biggles himself was in range. He sent a bomber reeling, with strips of metal flying from its fuselage. He pulled his nose round to another, and then had to kick his rudder-bar violently to avoid collision as the unknown Spitfire, flying back over its course, came tearing through the middle of the enemy machines. It missed him by inches.

  Biggles went in and fired again, although he had very little ammunition left. What became of the lone Spitfire he did not see. In fact, when the bombers started to turn, and he saw the reason, he forgot all about it. Twelve Hurricanes, closely followed by seven Spitfires, had appeared out of the blue, and it was clear that the tide of the battle had turned. The bombers unloaded their bombs and made for home. Biggles fired his remaining ammunition at one of them, and then started to glide down. He could do no good by remaining. But he did not mind, for the enemy machines were now scattered all over the sky, and he felt that he could safely leave them to the newcomers.

  Three Spitfires joined him on the way home, one being Mgy's, and two others were already on the aerodrome when he got back.

  As soon as he had taxied in he jumped down, and ran to meet Algy.

  'That Was pretty hot going,' he greeted him, groping for his cigarette case.

  'Hot! You're telling me,' grunted Algy, stretching his stiff limbs. 'Did you see that crazy Spitfire?'

  Biggles burst out laughing. Did I see it? Did you ever see such a sight in your life? I've seen some daft flying in my time, but I've never seen anything quite like that. But I must give the fellow his due, whoever he was. There must have been forty bombers in that mob, and he scattered them like a dog barging into a flock of sheep. He must have been off his ---'

  He broke off as another Spitfire came gliding in. It was a horrible sight. As much of its fabric as remained on the wings seemed to be trailing loose. Its wheels were half lowered, but had jammed at an angle. It was riddled with bullet holes.

  'Look out!' shouted Algy, jumping clear.

  The machine struck the ground, bounced once or twice, and skidded to a standstill.

  Biggles raised a hand to his forehead. Suffering Mike! That's Harcourt's machine!' he cried in a strangled voice. 'Who's flying it?'

  Henry got out - or rather fell out. He staggered about for a bit like a sailor thrown out of a grog shop, and then limped towards the spellbound spectators. There was blood on his face, but he was grinning foolishly.

  For a moment Biggles was speechless. His lips moved, but no sound came. Then he gasped. Was that you - up there -- you - flinging yourself about in that mob — ?'

  Henry nodded. Yes, it was me,' he confessed. 'But what - what - what on earth came over you?'

  The smile faded from Henry's face. It set in hard lines. 'Come with me, sir, and I'll show you,' he said.

  Wonderingly the others followed him td the pigsty - or it would be more correct to say the place where the pigsty had been. For instead of the sty there yawned only a deep round hole. Of pig or sty there was no sign.

  What's happened here?' cried Biggles.

  Toddy ran up. 'Just after you took off a dive bomber came in low and plastered us. He dropped a stick of bombs, but this was the only one that did any damage.'

  'Damage,' grated Henry. 'The swine killed Annie - my little Annie.'

  Understanding dawned in Biggles's eyes. 'I see,' he said.

  'I went up to avenge her,' burst out Henry. Revenge! Revenge is sweet. I'll get the hound who killed my little Annie if I have to shoot every Hun out of the sky.'

  Biggles leaned against the mess wall and laughed weakly.

  Henry pointed an accusing finger at him. 'That's right, laugh,' he cried bitterly. 'A lot you care —' He broke off as a ramshackle motor-car appeared round the corner and nearly ran him down. A man, a farmer by his clothes, alighted.

  'Have you gentlemen lost anything?' he inquired politely. 'I ask because I saw this tearing across my land about half an hour ago. My farm adjoins your aerodrome, you know. I had a job to catch her, but seeing her spots I thought she must belong to you.' He pointed to the car, and the others turned to see what he had brought.

  Peering through a net in the back of the vehicle, looking very scared and pleased to be home, was Annie.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FLYING SPY

  BIGGLES spotted the other Spitfire as he was coming home from a short patrol, made primarily to test the weather conditions, which were far from good.

  'He's in a hurry, whoever he is,' he reflected, as he watched the other Spitfire. As it drew near he noted that it was not one of his own squadron machines — as he thought it might be — nor did he recognize the unit markings on the fuselage.

  'There must be a new squadron hereabouts,' he mused, noting with mild surprise that the newcomer tagged on behind him with the apparent intention of following him home.., He moved his rudder-bar slightly so that he could get a better view of the other machine, and, examining it closely, observed that a cluster of holes had been punched in an irregular pattern through the engine cowling. There were similar holes just behind the cockpit, and through the tail.

  'No wonder he was glad to find a pal,' murmured Biggles.

  As he put the Spitfire on the aerodrome the other machine landed near him. The pilot, whom Biggles noted was a Flight Lieutenan
t, got out and waved a greeting.

  'Pity you didn't make a better job of it,' remarked Biggles. The stranger looked puzzled. '

  How so?'

  'I mean,. if you could have got a few more holes through your machine it would have made a useful sieve.'

  The other grinned. 'I'll give it the cook for a colander,' he returned, removing his flying cap carefully and looking ruefully at a jagged rent in the ear-flap.

  Biggles whistled softly. My word! If that one had been any closer it would have given you a headache,' he exclaimed.

  'It's given me a headache as it is,' answered the stranger, feeling the side of his head gingerly, where a red weal, just below the ear, told its own story.

  'Come across to the mess and have a drink?' invited Biggles. 'By the way, my name's Bigglesworth, of 666. This is where we live.'

  'Mine's Lakers, of 298.'

  'Where do you hang out ?' asked Biggles. 'I can't remember seeing any of your machines in these parts.'

  'No,' was the reply. We're down in Sussex, near Marley. We've been doing escort duties with the day bombers who have been operating against the invasion ports. We haven't been at Marley very long.'

  •

  'Marley ?' echoed Biggles thoughtfully. 'That's some way

  • from here. How do you happen to be so far from home?'

  'Just plain curiosity I guess. As a matter of fact, I'm not really on duty today. I went up to do a test, and while I was up I thought I'd have a look at the narrow end of the 'Channel.'

  Biggles was regarding the holes in the machine with a professional eye, 'Quite,' he said slowly. 'But how did you get in this mess?'

  A

  Lakers laughed. 'Serves me right, I suppose,' he replied. 'As a matter of fact, I haven't got a Hun yet, so I thought I'd try to get one. I found one, but he was too good for me.'

  Not so good,' commented- Biggles. 'You'd better fly with usfor a bit and learn how to do it,' he bantered. Come along; as you're so far from home no doubt you'd like some lunch.'

  Sure! I can do with a bite.'

  'You're a Canadian, aren't you?' went on Biggles, as they walked towards the officers'

  mess.

  'Yes. What made you think that?'

  'People who say 'sure' and I guess' usually bring it with them from the other side of the Atlantic. Hullo, here comes Algy Lacey. He's a good scout - one of my Flight Commanders. You ought to know him.' He made the necessary introductions.

  Algy smiled. 'Glad to meet you,' he said. Then, to Biggles, 'How did you get on ?'

  All right - but there was nothing doing. I didn't see a Hun. I fancy Lakers kept them all to himself; his machine's got as many holes in it as a petrol filter.' He turned to the visitor.

  What exactly happened, Lakers?'

  In the mess Lakers told his story.

  'After I left the aerodrome this morning I headed due east for a time, following the coast.

  I didn't see a soul, which got a bit boring, so I edged a bit nearer to France to see if the Huns are as thick there as you fellows pretend. For a time I didn't see anyone, except an occasional Hudson on reconnaissance, and then, suddenly, five or six Messerschmitts piled on top of me. I was only about a mile from the English coast, which didn't seem very far, but I guess the Huns spotted me just as I spotted them, for as I turned they turned.

  'I shan't forget the next five minutes in a hurry,' continued Lakers. 'At first I put my nose down and streaked over the coast, trying to outdistance them. In other words, I ran away, and I don't mind admitting it. You fellows might think it's good fun taking on half a dozen Huns at once - but I know my limitations. Well, the Huns kept pace with me, and managed to head me off. Then more Huns came down from the north. That did it. I got the wind up properly, and just made a wild rush for it. Somehow I managed to get through, but I must have been lucky. I didn't stop till I saw you in the distance - you may have noticed that I made for you flat out?'

  'What do you suppose you're flying that kite for?' It was Tug Carrington who spoke, and his voice seemed to bristle with criticism.

  Lakers shrugged his shoulders. `To fight, I suppose.'

  'You only suppose? You won't get many Huns if you go on like you did this morning,'

  returned Tug frostily.

  'Oh, give him a chance,' broke in Biggles. 'He says himself he hasn't been on the job very long. Do you really want to get a Hun?' he went on, turning to Lakers.

  'I should say I do!'

  'Then suppose we go over together this afternoon and have a look round - that is, you, Lacey, and myself? I've got to do a patrol, anyway.'

  'That's fine! But don't let me butt in on —'

  'Oh, it's a pleasure. We always try to do the best we can for our guests, don't we, Algy ?'

  'Certainly.'

  Well, that suits me,' declared Lakers. 'Have a cigarette?' He took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it. Biggles took it, removed a cigarette, and examined the case with interest. It was a flat one, solid gold, slightly bent to fit the pocket. Engraved across the corner were the initials F.T.L.

  'Nice case,' Biggles observed, handing it back to its owner. He glanced at his watch. '

  Excuse me, but I've got a little job to do in the office. I shan't be long. You'd better go in and get some lunch. About this trip this afternoon - suppose we leave the ground at three?'

  Suits me,' agreed Lakers.

  After lunch, leaving Lakers with his coffee, Biggles touched Algy on the arm and left the room.

  'What's the idea?' inquired Algy, as soon as they were outside.

  'I'll show you,' returned Biggles, and walked towards the hangars. On the way, at a point where a hedge came near to the path, he stopped to break off a thin straight ash stick, which he trimmed of its leaves as he walked along.

  'Are you going to ride a horse or something?' inquired Algy, regarding this unusual procedure with interest.

  Biggles shook his head. 'At the moment I'm just riding a hunch,' he replied. Wait a minute and I'll show you.'

  Reaching the sheds, he went straight to the visiting Spitfire. Some mechanics were working on it, but he dismissed them. 'Now,' he said to Algy, as soon as the men had gone, 'I want you to take a good look at those bullet holes near the cockpit. Can you see anything peculiar about them?'

  Algy threw him a glance of frank amazement, and then examined the holes carefully.

  `No, I'm dashed if I can see anything unusual about them,' he declared, after he had finished his scrutiny. 'They look like good, honest bullet holes to me.'

  `Do you remember, when we were having lunch, I asked Lakers if he'd been under fire before this morning? I asked him the direct question.'

  'Yes, I remember perfectly. He said no.'

  'Then what do you make of this?'

  Biggles inserted the ash stick in a hole on one side of the fuselage and pushed it on until the point rested in the corresponding hole on the opposite side, where the bullet had emerged.

  'I still don't see what you're getting at,' murmured Algy. Can you tell me how a bullet could pass along a path now

  indicated by that stick without touching the pilot? It would go through his thigh, wouldn't it? It couldn't possibly miss hint entirely, could it?'

  `No, it certainly could not,' agreed Algy slowly.

  'Did you notice Lakers limping, or bleeding, or mentioning being hit? You didn't? Well, I'm as certain as I stand here that Lakers wasn't in the cockpit of that machine when those bullets were fired.'

  What on earth made you spot that?' gasped Algy.

  'You needn't flatter me on account of my eyesight, but I'm not entirely a fool, I hope. I was looking at those holes before Lakers told his story. At first I thought he was just piling on the agony - some fellows talk like that, you know. But let us pass on. This fellow says his name is Lakers.'

  'Have you any reason to suppose that it isn't?'

  'Yes, I have a very good reason. You see, I happen to know Lakers personally. I was talking to him i
n the Club only about a month ago.'

  'There might be two Lakers.'

  'There might. But it would be a thundering funny coincidence, wouldn't it, if they both had the same initials - F.T.L. - and the same identical cigarette case, with the initials engraved in the same way in the same place?'

  Algy stared. 'The same cigarette case?' he echoed.

  'That's what I said. Nobody's going to make me believe that there are two such cigarette cases in the world, both belonging to fellows named Lakers, who happen to have the same initials. There's a limit to my imagination. It happens that today was not the first time that I have seen the case which that fellow is now flaunting. Obviously something is wrong somewhere. I don't like mysteries - they worry me.'

  'What do you think?' asked Algy in a low voice.

  'I'll tell you what I think. I think that fellow who is now in the mess calling himself Lakers deliberately produced that cigarette case to prove, by suggestion, in case there should be any doubt, that his name is Lakers. I'm prepared to swear that case belonged to Frank Lakers. Why, we played bridge with it lying on the table. I even admired it, and he told me it was a twenty-first birthday present from his father.'

  Algy stared. 'Have you finished giving me shocks?'

  'Not quite. Just turn this over in your mind and see if it suggests anything to you. Frank Lakers is dead. He went out out on a patrol job near the French coast one day last week, and didn't come back. He was seen to crash - in France - near Calais.'

  'How on earth do you know that?'

  'Because I made it my business to ring up the Air Ministry just now. That's where I went when I disappeared just before lunch.'

  'I see. Then what do you think - now?'

  'I'll tell you. I think that Frank Lakers is either in a German prison hospital, or else staring up at the sky through six feet of Flanders mud. What's this fellow doing with his cigarette case? I should say he has got it as proof of identity in case the question arises; and it wouldn't surprise me if he had letters addressed to Lakers in his pocket, too. Then what is he doing here, far away from his allegi6aerodrome ? Work it out for yourself.'