24 Spitfire Parade

by Captain W E Johns

'Toddy told us. It was after daylight when he told us, too.'

  What's daylight got to do with it?' inquired Biggles blandly. 'That was hours ago. What do you think I've been doing since – lounging about in the mess, like you?'

  Silence fell. All eyes were on Biggles's face, for by this time everyone knew that something had happened. The atmosphere was tense.

  'What have you been doing?' demanded Wilks.

  Biggles deliberately lit a cigarette to keep the party on tenterhooks.

  Well, if you really want to know,' he murmured, gazing at the ceiling, 'I happened to drop in at a night fighter squadron. After dinner there was a raid. The lads went off to do their stuff– and – well, I couldn't just sit there alone, could I? So I went with them. Struck lucky, too. Found a couple of bombers near Redhill – all by myself. There we were —'

  'Cut out the blah-blah,' snapped Wilks. `How many did you get?'

  Biggles sent a smoke ring curling towards the ceiling before he answered. 'Only two,' he said carelessly. 'And to settle any doubts which you may justifiably have, they've both been confirmed --'

  The rest was drowned in the yell that went up from the Spitfire pilots, a yell that brought the mess waiter to see what was the matter.

  Bertie Lissie was doing a fox-trot with Algy, while the rest beat time.

  `Balmy,' murmured the waiter sadly, as he closed the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FORTUNE OF WAR

  'LUCK,' remarked Squadron Leader Wilkinson, with unusual solemnity, is a frivolous lady, and about as reliable as a meteorological report. One day, when things look grim, she'll blow you a kiss; the next, just when you think you're on top of the world, she'll slap your face. The trouble is, you don't know which it's going to be. And when it comes to flying, she's never far away. No one taking off in an aircraft can say – no, not for five minutes ahead – what he's going to run into.'

  'Which,' put in Biggles quietly, 'is probably a very good thing.'

  'Take the case of one of my lads, young Tony Luke,' resumed Wilks. 'I would have bet any money that he would have gone a long way. When I first knew him, in France, at the beginning of the war, there wasn't a finer pilot in the service. Lady Luck seemed to ride with him, and he couldn't do anything wrong. Then, suddenly, for no reason that I could ever discover, she let him down, and he hit the floor with a bump that knocked a screw loose in his mental equipment – at least, that's the way it looked to me. I never saw a fellow change so quickly. From being a steady pilot he just went – well, gaga.'

  Biggles nodded moodily. 'Quite true, but there was a reason for that,' he murmured.

  There were about a dozen officers gathered round the fire in the ante-room of 666

  Squadron. Occasionally one of them would pull his chair a little nearer to the fire, which was nearly out; for the hour was late and the night was cold. Outside the wind fretted and fumed across the bleak expanse of treeless land that was the aerodrome. It is likely that the officers would have been in bed had not Willa, looking strangely tired and depressed, dropped in about dusk, and having stayed to dinner, discovered that he was weatherbound. So they had sat up, yarning, as airmen will. And when airmen yarn it is always about the same thing, the thing that matters most - flying.

  Wilks sipped his drink and turned to Biggles. 'You were saying,' he prompted, 'that there was a reason for Tony cracking up the way he did. How did you learn about it? He was never in your squadron, was he?'

  'No. I got the details from Joe Fairwell - he commanded the squadron Tony was in before he was posted to you. He came to you from hospital, didn't he?'

  'That's right. What happened? I suspected there was something. As a matter of fact, I heard odd rumours, but nothing definite. The thing happened in France, I understand?'

  'Yes - it happened in France, quite early in the war, before the Germans broke through.'

  Biggles lit a cigarette and flicked the dead match into the dying fire.

  'Go ahead, I'm listening,' invited Wilks.

  'It's a longish story.'

  'No matter, the night's our own.'

  Biggles settled down more comfortably in his chair. His eyes took on a far-away look as he drew at his cigarette and sent a wisp of grey smoke coiling ghost-like to the ceiling.

  'The thing started,' he began, 'as these things so often do - with a crash. It seems that Tony was doing a late patrol over the Maginot Line, when, inside French territory, he ran a Junkers 88. He gave chase and caught it. There was a scrap, and the Junkers went down

  - a flamer. It crashed behind the French lines, not far from Sedan. And that, it seems, was

  - although he didn't know it - the turning-point in Tony's life. Luck, as you say, had been his partner, but even as the Junkers was going down she turned her back on him - or so we must conclude. Don't ask me why. I don't know. Luck doesn't give reasons. Anyway, at that precise moment some fool archie gunners, French gunners, decided to take a hand.

  Maybe they thought the Junkers had won the fight and it was our own machine going down. Nobody knows. Nobody ever will know. All I know is that a lump of shrapnel hit Tony's engine and brought him down.

  'As he went into a glide he wasn't particularly worried - there was no reason why he should be. He didn't even consider it necessary to bale out. Naturally he'd try to save his machine, and with that object looked about for a place to land. He was out of luck. There wasn't any place to land, but he didn't realize it until it was too late to jump. He tried to get into a pasture, but his wing-tip hit a poplar, and that was that. When he woke up he was in bed with a broken back - or so he thought.

  'Apparently, what had happened was this. The poplar stood in the grounds of a château.

  Two ladies, mother and daughter, were walking in the grounds, and seeing the crash, ran up just in time to drag Tony clear of the wreck before it went up in flames. They fetched help, and with some servants got him into the house and put him on a bed. Then, quite properly, they telephoned to the nearest R.A.F. unit. The M.O. came straight over, and arrived just as Tony was recovering consciousness. He was in terrible pain. The M.O.

  examined him, and reckoned he was in a bad way. His back was injured, and it would have been dangerous to move him. He sent for the lady who owned the château and told her so; he asked if he might leave the patient where he was for a few days until he could get a better idea of the damage. This was agreed, and so Tony stayed in the chateau — in bed, of course.

  'Now it is not for me to criticize anybody; it's always easy to foresee things afterwards —

  so to speak. But I sometimes wonder if the lady, who happened to be a Countess — I won't mention names — was wise in detailing her daughter, Marie, to take charge of the sick-room. She acted for the best, no doubt. But Marie was a pretty girl, and Tony was a good-looking lad. The result was inevitable. They fell in love with each other. This, for Tony, was a tragedy because, apart from his injuries, he was hardly in a financial position to ask the hand in marriage of the daughter of one of the oldest and richest families in France. He was too young, anyway, to think seriously of marriage. Besides, he knew that he might be killed any day. Still, that's how it was.

  By the end of a fortnight Tony was better — much better; that is, as far as the injuries sustained in the crash were concerned. But his heart was sick, for he knew that he had absolutely no right to make love to his nurse, and the knowledge that when he left the château he would have to say goodbye to her for ever got on his mind. He was, of course, still in a pretty low state. He afterwards told Joe that he used to lie there wondering how he could pretend to the M.O. that he was worse than he really was, so that he could stay on. In fact, he lied to the M.O. to maintain the deception.

  'But it seems that Marie was feeling much the same way, and Tony suspected it. Don't ask me why he acted as he did because I don't know — unless it was that he had correct ideas of honour. Maybe he was wise. Maybe he acted like a fool. As I say, it's hard to judge people's actions when they'r
e not normal. What he did was this. One night he was overcome by remorse at the trick he was playing on the M.O. and the Countess, by pretending to be worse than he was. He realized apparently that he had no right to trespass further on the hospitality of his hostess. He debated in his mind whether he should tell the truth or just go. In the end, unable to make up his mind, he took a coin from his pocket and tossed for it. He wasn't to know that Lady Luck had deserted him.

  The coin came down heads, which meant go. What would have happened if it had come down tails must always remain for conjecture.

  'Well, feeling that he couldn't face saying goodbye to Marie, he dressed right then, in the middle of the night, and, getting through the window, departed. He left a note for the Countess, thanking her for what she had done for him and telling her why he was leaving. About dawn some French troops found him staggering along the Sedan road and took him to hospital.

  'But Lady Luck had not yet finished. Tragedy was close behind. In the morning Marie of course discovered that he had gone, and guessed the reason. She discovered where he had been taken, and set off in her car to visit him. She had nearly reached the hospital when a Hun came over and dropped a bomb — not aiming at anything in particular; you know the sort of thing. It burst near the car and blew it to pieces. Marie wasn't killed outright. They carried her into the hospital, and before she died she sent a message to Tony by the M.O. "Tell him," she said, looking at the sky, "that I shall be waiting for him, up there." That was all.

  'The M.O. kept the news from Tony until he was discharged from hospital fit for duty.

  Then he told him, and gave him the message. Tony said not a word, but there's no doubt that something in him died at that moment. One can imagine how he felt – the pain, and all the useless regret. He must have felt responsible for her death, for if he hadn't run away as he did she wouldn't have been near the hospital. But that's how it was. In his room, that night, he told his C.O. all about it, and shortly afterwards Joe told me. He was worried about the way Tony was behaving, particularly in the air. He flew like a madman, as if he didn't care whether he lived or died – which was probably the case. He shot down seven Huns in a week and, the last I heard, he'd piled up a score of twenty-eight inside two months – all confirmed. How many he really got heaven only knows, for he wouldn't bother to confirm his victories. Joe told me that he had the greatest difficulty in getting him to fill in his combat reports. He used to come back with his machine shot to rags. The truth of the matter was, I have no doubt, he was looking for Old Man Death, and he didn't care who knew it. He was wounded, and went to hospital, but even then he couldn't die. When he came out he was posted to you, Wilks. From what I hear, he's still crazy, roaring about in the blue – looking for her. He's been looking for her for six months —'

  'Yes,' put in Wilks, 'he has. And now, at last, he's found her.'

  Biggles started. 'What do you mean ? ' he cried sharply.

  Wilks stared into the fire. He and I ran into a bunch of Messerschmitts this afternoon.

  We got three of them. Then they got him – in flames. He jumped clear, from twenty thousand – without a parachute.'

  There was silence for a little while. Then Biggles looked at the clock. 'Well, we're on early in the morning, so I think it's time we were getting to bed,' he suggested.

  CHAPTER 13

  BERTIE PICKS THE LOCK

  BIGGLES was in conference with his three Flight Commanders when the sound of an approaching aero-engine lined his forehead with a puzzled frown. Had it been the deep-throated roar of a Spitfire engine it would have occasioned no surprise; but in comparison it was a gentle purr, little more than the hum of a two-stroke motor-cycle engine.

  Biggles broke off in what he was saying and turned to the window. What the dickens is this coming?' he muttered.

  'Tiger-Moth,' murmured Algy, as the aircraft skimmed over the aerodrome boundary with the obvious intention of landing.

  The wrinkle in Biggles's brow deepened. 'What on earth's it doing here?'

  Chappie from a training school, doing a cross-country, lost his way,' opined Bertie Lissie. When I was instructing I once had a pupil land at Aberdeen thinking he was at Bristol. By Jove, you should have seen his face!'

  The Moth taxied up to the building and two officers alighted. One, evidently the pilot, remained near the machine; the other made off towards the Squadron Office.

  Biggles groaned. 'It's Raymond,' he observed. That means trouble. What does he want now, I wonder?' He saluted, and the others stood to attention as the air officer entered.

  Air Commodore Raymond shook hands with the assembled officers, a ghost of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth at the expression on Biggles's face.

  'You *don't seem particularly pleased to see me,' he remarked, a hint of banter in his voice.

  'You wouldn't expect me to be shrieking with joy, sir, would you?' returned Biggles evenly. 'I'm no thought-reader, but I've come to know that when you turn up, something, somebody, somewhere —'

  'Yes – yes. I know all about it,' interrupted the Air Commodore blandly. 'That's the penalty for being so efficient, Bigglesworth. But this is a comparatively easy matter –

  quite a simple little job.'

  Biggles passed his cigarette case. 'It will be interesting, sir, to hear your idea of a simple job. How about these officers? Can they stay or shall I ask them to leave us?'

  The Air Commodore lit a cigarette and sat in a chair Biggles had pulled out for him.

  They can stay. There's no need to adjourn the conference. It won't take me long to say what I have to say.'

  Go ahead, sir.'

  The air officer thought for a moment or two, as if weighing his words. 'Well, I may as well be frank,' he said bluntly. 'I want somebody to go to France.'

  'What, again!' cried Biggles.

  'Oh, it isn't as bad as all that,' went on the Air Commodore quickly. 'It's merely a matter of taking a man over and bringing him back.'

  Biggles eyed the Air Commodore suspiciously. 'Just as simple as all that,' he murmured, with a trace of sarcasm.

  'Well – er – not exactly, admitted Raymond. 'Here are the details. You know the canal that runs from Arras to Abbeville? It's a real canal – that is to say, there are locks at intervals.' 'Yes, sir, I know it perfectly well.'

  Good. We've just received information that at this moment a convoy of no fewer than twenty barges is proceeding along it. They're loaded with bombs, which are on their way to the aerodrome at Abbeville for the bombing of London. I sent a machine over this morning to take a photograph, and the print shows the convoy eighteen miles north of the village of Bonner. We know what time they left Arras, so provided they maintain the same rate of progress – and there's no reason to suppose otherwise – a simple calculation tells us that they should reach the lock near the village of Bonner at nine o'clock tonight.'

  'And you want somebody to lay an egg on them?' put in Biggles – prematurely as it happened.

  The Air Commodore shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Bombing is not always accurate. The ideal thing would be to blow up the lock with a charge of explosive just as the barges are passing through it; that would not only destroy the barges, the bombs, and the lock, but the resultant flood would inundate enemy aerodrome Number 14. Further, it would generally upset the Boche lines of communication. It's an opportunity that might not occur again for a long while, so we must make absolutely sure of our mark, and to that end we are going to some pains to ensure success. We've decided to blow up the lock.

  The work will be done by one of our agents, who has recently volunteered for espionage work.'

  'What nationality is he?' asked Biggles suspiciously.

  'That's something we needn't discuss. What does it matter? Of course, he isn't British.

  All we need is a pilot to take him over – he'll do the rest.'

  'But that means using a two-seater machine,' remarked Biggles. Why come to me? I know some two-seater pilots —'

 
; 'Not so fast,' protested the Air Commodore. 'We need a man who has done this sort of thing before, and one who knows every inch of the ground. Naturally I came to you first. You can refuse if you like. I wouldn't order a man to do a show like this; it's essentially a mission for a volunteer.'

  Biggles smiled wanly. 'All right, sir. I don't think we need dwell on that. If you think I'm the man for the job I'll have a shot at it. What about a machine, though?'

  'There's one outside. I flew down in it in order to leave it here.'

  Biggles surveyed the Moth through the window without enthusiasm.

  'There are several possible landing-grounds on both sides of the canal near Bonner,' went on the Air Commodore. 'All you have to do is take our man over, land, wait for him to do the job, and then bring him back.'

  'I'd rather take one of my own fellows, if you don't mind; somebody I can trust —'

  `No, this man of ours is all right. He needs experience. As a matter of fact, he lived near the place for years, so it's hard to see how he can go wrong. He'll be here at eight-fifteen sharp. Make a good job of this and I won't worry you again for a bit. I may not be able to get along this evening so I'll wish you luck now. Can you find me transport to take me and my pilot to the station?'

  Biggles made the necessary arrangements by phone, saw the Air Commodore on his way, and returned to the others.

  After he had gone Biggles regarded his Flight Commanders whimsically. 'Take my tip and never volunteer for anything,' he said sadly. 'I did once, in a rash moment, and I've been doing it ever since.' He glanced at the clock. We may as well wash out until after lunch.'

  Bertie opened the door. His dog, Towser, which had evidently been waiting outside, shot into the room exhibiting those extravagant manifestations of joy in which a dog in-dulges after it has been separated from its master. Biggles, who was on his way to the door, side-stepped to avoid the animal, and stumbled; he made a grab at the desk to save himself, missed it, and fell heavily, but broke his fall to some extent with his right hand.

  It was one of those accidents that happen in a flash. He got up immediately, a spasm of pain twisting his lips. Holding his wrist he turned to Bertie.