24 Spitfire Parade

by Captain W E Johns

  'You think - he's a spy?'

  What else can we think? I don't want to appear to have a spy complex, but - well, that's what it looks like to me. Everything points to this fellow being a German agent'

  'He speaks English well.'

  'That's nothing to go by. There are hundreds of German-Americans who speak English as well as we do. On the other hand, of course, there's just a chance that he is a British agent up to some game. Funny things happen in war.'

  'Can't you ring up the Air Ministry and find out?'

  'And to be told to attend to my own business? In any case the fellow will have gone before our people can do anything, and we daren't detain him on mere suspicion.'

  'Then what are we going to do about it? We can't just let him go.'

  'I'm going to plant a trap,' said Biggles. Ìf he is who and what he says he is he will come on this trip this afternoon; if he isn't, then he won't - at least, I can't imagine him shooting down an enemy machine if he's a Hun himself.'

  'What is he doing here do you suppose?'

  'I should say he's out to collect all the information he can, using a captured machine.

  Having got it, he'll try to get back to where he came from. On the table in the map-room I've put a map; it shows all the Fighter Command aerodromes - but not in the tight places. I want you to go back to the mess and suggest to Lakers that it might be a good thing if he walked along to the map-room and ascertained the position of this aerodrome in relation to his own. Show him the room, and leave him there. He'll see the map, and if he's what we think he is he'll try to get away with it, because it would look like a first-class prize to take to Germany. If he does pinch it, his next idea will bop get away as quickly as he can. In other words, if he's on the level he'll go back to the mess; if he isn't he'll make for his machine and take off.'

  But what about you?' asked Algy. 'Won't he wonder where you are and what you're doing? What shall I tell him?'

  'Tell him that I've had an urgent call from Wing, and may be late back. Suggest to him that our proposed trip may have to be postponed for a little while. As a matter of fact I shall be in the air, high up, watching the aerodrome. You will watch him, and if he makes a break for it run out and wave a towel in front of the mess.

  That will tell me that he has left the ground. I shall be up topsides waiting for him. I shall suggest to him by certain methods that I want him to come back with me. If he doesn't —

  well, it'll be his funeral. Have you got that clear?'

  'Absolutely.'

  Good. Then I'll get off.'

  Algy watched Biggles climb into his machine and take off, and then, deep in thought, walked slowly back to the mess. Lakers was still in conversation with the officers who were not on duty.

  The man seemed so absolutely at home, so self-possessed and natural in his speech and movements, that a sudden doubt assailed Algy. Suppose Biggles had made a mistake?

  Spy scares were common in every service, he knew, but that spies operated anywhere and everywhere could not be denied, and some of them with amazing effrontery. He watched the suspected officer closely for some sign or slip that might betray him; but he watched in vain.

  'Well, there's no point in wasting time,' he decided, and touched Lakers on the arm.

  Oh, Lakers,' he said, 'I've a message for you from the C.O. He's had to go off on a job and may* late back, so this proposed show of ours may have to wait for a little while. He will probably be back not later than half-past three, but, in the meantime, he suggests that you have a look round the map-room, so that if you got separated from us during the show you'd know your way back — either to here, or to your own aerodrome.'

  'I see,' answered Lakers. 'That's not a bad idea. I think I'll follow his advice.'

  He picked up his flying kit and threw it over his arm. Algy raised his eyebrows. You won't want those, will you?'

  Ì may as well take them along,' replied Lakers coolly. 'I don't think too much of this weather,' he went on, looking under his hand towards the horizon where dark clouds were rising. 'It looks to me like thunder coming up. If it comes this way I may push along home without waiting for Bigglesworth to come back. I don't want to get hung up here for the night, and we can postpone the show until another day if necessary.'

  Algy's heart missed a beat, for it began to look as if Biggles was right.

  O.K.,' he said. 'You do just as you like. I'll show you the map-room.'

  Together they walked across to the building.

  'Here we are,' resumed Algy, glancing at the map that had been purposely left on the table. Ì'll stroll back to the mess if it's all the same to you. Let me know if I can be of any help.'

  'I will — thanks.'

  Algy left the room, closing the door behind him, and passed the window as if he was returning to the mess. But as soon as he was out of sight he doubled back and peeped in.

  Lakers was bending over the map, studying it carefully. He made a note or calculation on the margin, folded the map, and then looked at the sky. For a little while he regarded it thoughtfully, and then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he put the map in his pocket, picked up his flying kit, and left the room.

  Algy watched him walk straight to his machine. The engine started, and the Spitfire began to taxi slowly into position for a take-off.

  Algy waited for no more. He rushed into the wash-house, tore a towel from its peg, then darted back into the open waving it above his head. High up in the sky he could just make out Biggles's Spitfire, circling as it awaited the signal.

  'By gosh, he was right!' muttered Algy, as Lakers took off and headed towards the south.

  The topmost Spitfire at once banked round to follow it.

  'Is that Lakers taking off?' said a voice at his elbow. Algy spun round on his heel and saw that it was Bertie who had spoken.

  'Yes,' he answered quickly.

  'Bad show about his brother.'

  'Whose brother?'

  `Lakers's brother, of course.'

  Algy puckered his forehead in an effort to understand. Lakers's brother?' he repeated foolishly.

  Bertie stared at him through his monocle. 'What's the matter with you?' he inquired. 'I simply said it was a bad show about his brother being killed. He told me about it while you and Biggles were out of the room.'

  Algy staggered. 'What did he tell you?' he gasped.

  'He said that his brother, Frank Lakers, had just been killed. They were both in the same squadron. That's his brother's cigarette case he's got; he borrowed it from him the very day before he went west - that's how he came to tell me about it. The odd thing was, he would have been with his brother, and probably gone west at the same time, but for the fact that he'd lent his machine to another fellow just before the show. He got it pretty badly shot about, too, but came off with nothing worse than a bullet through the leg. The machine hasn't been repaired yet - hi! What's wrong with you?'

  But Algy wasn't listening. Understanding of the whole situation flooded his brain like a spotlight, and he ran like a madman towards his machine, praying that he might be in time to prevent a tragedy.

  Biggles, sitting in his cockpit ten thousand feet above the aerodrome, stiffened suddenly when he saw Algy's signal, and his jaw set grimly as he picked out the Spitfire just leaving the aerodrome.

  So he's making a bolt for it, is he?' he mused. 'I'm afraid he's got a shock coming to him.'

  He swung round, following the same course as the lower Spitfire, which was now climbing towards the south.

  But a haze was forming under the atmospheric pressure of the advancing storm, and the lower machine was no more than an indistinct grey shadow. Biggles, suddenly aware that he might lose his man after all, pushed the joystick forward and raced down in pursuit.

  The drone of his engine became a shrill wail as the whirling airscrew bit into the air. The distance between the two machines closed rapidly.

  At five thousand feet Biggles flattened out, only a few hundred feet above and
behind his quarry, which was still heading towards the south. He could see the pilot's head clearly; he appeared to be looking at the ground, first over one side of his machine and then over the other. Not once did he look behind him, and Biggles smiled grimly as he went nearer, intending to cut the Spitfire off and force it to return. If Lakers refused -

  well, it was going to be just too bad.

  At that moment Lakers looked back over his shoulder.

  For one fleeting instant Biggles stared into his face, and then moved like lightning, for the Spitfire had spun round, its nose tilted upwards, and sent a stream of bullets glittering past Biggles's wing-tip.

  Biggles kicked out his right foot and flung the control-stick over in a frantic turn. The attack was unexpected, but

  he did not lose his head. Nor did he take his eyes off Lakers for a moment. As quick as thought he brought his machine back on its course, and took the other Spitfire in his sights.

  At that moment Lakers was within an ace of death; but Biggles did not fire. As his hand touched the button for the fatal burst his head jerked up as something flashed across his sights between him and his target. It was a Messerschmitt. From its fuselage a streamer of orange flame swirled aft.

  For the next three seconds events moved more swiftly than they can be described; they moved as quickly as Biggles's brain could act and adjust itself to a new set of conditions, conditions that completely revolutionized his preconceived ideas. After the first shock of seeing the Messerschmitt he looked up in the direction whence it had come, and saw five more machines of the same type pouring down in a ragged formation.

  He realized instantly that Lakers had not fired at him, as he had at first supposed, but at the leader of the Nazi planes, and had got him, by brilliant shooting, at the first burst.

  Lakers had shot down a Hun!

  It meant that something was wrong somewhere, but there was no time to work it out now. Where was Lakers ? He found him, actually in front of him, nose tilted upwards, taking the •diving Huns head-on.

  Biggles roared up alongside, and his lips parted in a smile as he saw something else.

  Roaring down behind the enemy machines, at a speed that threatened to take its wings off, was another Spitfire.

  For perhaps two seconds the machines held their relative positions — the two lower Spitfires side by side, facing the five diving Huns, and the other Spitfire coming down like an arrow behind them. Then, in a flash, the whole thing collapsed into a whirling dogfight, a milling vortex, as the

  Messerschmitts pulled out of their dive; that is, all except the last one, which continued its dive straight into the ground. The odds were now three against four. Biggles smiled grimly.

  It is almost impossible to recall the actual moves made in an aerial dogfight; the whole thing resolves itself into a series of disjointed impressions. Biggles took one of the dark machines in his sights, fired and swerved as he heard bullets hitting his own machine. He felt, rather than saw, the wheels of another machine whi7z past his head, but whether friend or foe he did not know. A Messerschmitt, with a Spitfire apparently tied to its tail by an invisible cord, tore across his nose. Another Spitfire was going down in a steep side-slip with white vapour streaming from its engine. Another Messerschmitt floated into his sights; he fired again, and saw it jerk upwards, an almost certain sign that the pilot had been hit. There was no time to watch it; instead, he snatched a swift glance over his shoulder for danger, but the air was clear. Turning, he was just in time to see two Messerschmitts vanishing into the haze. Below, two ghastly bonfires, towards which people were running, poured clouds of smoke into the air. Near them was a Spitfire, cocked up on its nose; some troops were already helping the pilot from his seat. Another Spitfire was circling low down; it climbed to meet him, and he confirmed, as he already suspected, that it was Algy's machine.

  So it's Lakers on the ground,' he reflected. 'And Lakers had fought against the Huns.' He couldn't understand it. Not a little worried, he headed back to the aerodrome.

  Landing, he ran to the Squadron Office. 'Have you had any phone messages?' he asked Toddy tersely.

  'Were you in that mix-up just now over the Downs?' 'Yes, it was me and Algy — and Lakers; you know, the

  fellow who dropped in to lunch. He's down. Is he hurt?' `No. Shaken a bit, that's all.'

  'Has he gone to hospital?'

  `No, he's on his way back here in a car.'

  Biggles went outside and met Algy, who had just got out of his machine.

  Algy was pale. 'Is he all right?' he asked anxiously. Ìf you mean Lakers - yes.'

  Thank God! My word, Biggles, you nearly boobed that time!'

  So it seems. But what do you know about it?'

  'It's Lakers's brother - I mean, this fellow is the brother of the chap you knew.'

  'Brother!' ejaculated Biggles.

  'Yes, I'll tell you all about it —'

  'Shut up - here he comes. Don't, for the love of Mike, say anything about this spy business.'

  Lakers jumped out of the car that had pulled up on the road and hurried towards them.

  Say, I guess I've got to thank you for helping me to get that Hun,' he cried.

  'Don't thank me,' replied Biggles. Thank your lucky star. By the way, what made you push off as you did, without waiting for me to come back?'

  Lakers jerked his thumb towards the darkening sky. I thought I'd better try to get home before the storm broke.'

  'You pinched a map out of the map-room,' Algy accused him.

  'Yes, I know I did,' replied Lakers frankly. I thought I'd better borrow it to make sure of finding my way home. I intended bringing it back tomorrow - it would have been an excuse to come and see you again. By the way, did I hear you say something just now about a spy? I thought I just caught the word.'.

  'Yes, you did,' replied Biggles. 'But it was only a rumour.'

  CHAPTER

  THE RECORD BREAKERS

  To some people the business of shooting down a hostile aeroplane may seem a comparatively simple matter. A fellow accustomed to potting at rabbits, knowing that the modem fighting aircraft is fitted with multiple machine-guns capable of spitting bullets at the rate of one hundred and fifty rounds a second, may be pardoned for wondering how a pilot ever misses his mark. In actual fact, to sit in a vehicle travelling at something over three hundred miles an hour, and hit a target travelling at the same speed in another direction, is one of the most difficult things in the world. In the First Great War there were plenty of pilots who fired thousands of rounds of ammunition without hitting anything more tangible than the atmosphere; consequently, a gasp of amazement went up when it was learned that a certain Captain Trollope had set up a record by shooting down six enemy planes in one day - a record which, while it was equalled, remained unbroken until the end of the war.

  These facts were, of course, well known to the officers of Biggles's Squadron, who, being professionally interested, often discussed the prospects of a new record being set up.

  Now it happened that during a spell of bad weather this very subject was being debated when Squadron Leader Wilkinson, of 701 Squadron, with eight Hurricanes behind him, landed on Biggles's aerodrome. They had, it transpired, attempted a patrol, but ice-forming conditions, rapidly getting worse, had made a landing advisable if not imperative. So they had come down at the nearest aerodrome, and announced their intention of waiting for the weather to improve. Gathered around the fire, the original debate was resumed, and naturally the Hurricane pilots joined in the conversation.

  Squadron Leader Wilkinson, better known as Wilks, took the view that, although six victories in one day was a tall order, it was surprising that the figure had net been doubled, now that the number of machines in the sky nearly every day far exceeded anything that had happened in the last war.

  Algy was inclined to think that a pilot would have to be more than lucky to break the record. One could not, he asserted, take on a formation of seven or eight Huns, and not only survive the
combat, but bring every one of them down.

  Lord Bertie Lissie raised another point — an important one. It would, he declared, be necessary to bring all the machines down on land, otherwise confirmation of the victories would not be possible. It was not necessary for him to qualify this statement by saying that many combats took place over the sea, particularly the Channel, as this was well known to them all. Even then, he continued, as machines usually flew in formation, it would be difficult for a pilot to prove that he, and not someone else, had fired the actual shots that had brought down any particular aircraft.

  And so the discussion went on; and the upshot of it was (naturally, perhaps, in the circumstances) that before evening the affair had taken on a personal note, the pilots of each squadron asserting that if the record was to be broken, it would be by one of their fellows. Wilks, in particular, was convinced that a Hurricane would do the trick. Biggles'

  s reply was to the effect that the Hurricane pilots flattered themselves ; if the record was broken it would be by a Spitfire.

  This was, of course, only friendly rivalry, each pilot supporting his own squadron, as he was bound to, and the type of machine which he himself flew. There the matter ended when the party broke up, and no one expected that anything more would be heard of it.

  But before the stars had completely faded from the sky the following morning Ginger made an unceremonious entry into his Commanding Officer's room and informed him in a voice hoarse with emotion that Squadron Leader Wilkinson had just shot down three machines in quick succession — two Messerschmitts and one Heinkel — and was even then in the air looking for more.

  Biggles received this startling news with incredulity and chagrin.

  'Holy mackerel!' he muttered as he tore off his pyjamas. 'We can't let Wilks get away with this. If he knocks down any more machines today his Hurricane-mongers will crow so loud that we shall all get the earache. What's Algy doing?'

  'He's waiting for you.'