24 Spitfire Parade

by Captain W E Johns

  'How many times have I got to tell you to keep that dog of yours under control?' he said curtly. 'I know he didn't mean any harm, but —' He broke off, examining his wrist.

  'By Jove! I say, you know, I'm most frightfully sorry, sir,' stammered Bertie, dropping his monocle in his agitation. 'That was a bit thick. I've told the little rascal not to do that sort of thing.'

  'He pays about as much attention to you as you do to me,' snapped Biggles.

  Bertie looked pained.

  Biggles regarded him reflectively. 'You know, Bertie, there are times when I find myself wondering if you're a bigger fool than you look, or look a bigger fool than you are.'

  'I say, sir, that's a bit steep – absolutely vertical in fact. After all, Towser's only a pup.

  When I was in India there was a chappie who kept a tiger —'

  'I hope it bit him,' cut in Biggles coldly.

  Matter of fact, it did.'

  'Fine. The animal evidently had some sense.'

  Bertie subsided.

  Algy was the first to realize the significance of the accident, probably because he was looking at Biggles's wrist, which was already beginning to swell.

  'That settles any question of your going to France tonight,' he observed quietly.

  There was dead silence for several seconds while Biggles examined his wrist, feeling it gingerly.

  'Ye've sprained it,' put in Angus Mackail.

  `Do you think so?'

  Isla doot of it.'

  'You'd better see the M.O.,' suggested Algy seriously.

  Biggles bit his lip as he tried to close his fingers. 'This is a nice business,' he muttered. '

  What am I going to tell Raymond?'

  Bertie's face lighted up. 'I shall have to take the chappie over,' he declared.

  'I'll go and see what the M.O. has to say about it,' decided Biggles. It may not be as bad as we think.'

  But the M.O. soon settled any doubts on that score. He bound up the wrist and put Biggles's arm in a sling.

  'There you are, my boy,' he said cheerfully; 'you can put any idea of flying out of your head for a fortnight - at least. Those are my orders.'

  Biggles did not argue, knowing that the doctor was right. Ì'll do the job tonight,' offered Algy as they all walked on to the mess.

  'I'll go myself,' declared Angus.

  'No fear. Absolutely no,' protested Bertie. 'I mean to say, after all, Towser's my dog, and all that sort of thing, if you get my meaning.'

  `Do you know the country?' inquired Biggles.

  'Not half! Why, dash it all, I did threee months on the aerodrome at Abbeville before the Frenchies went wallop. I know the place better than the local rabbits.'

  'Let's toss for it,' suggested Algy.

  `No, I think Bertie's right,' concluded Biggles. 'The only alternative to ringing up Raymond and telling him that I can't do the job is for somebody else to go, and I think it's Bertie's pigeon. It was his dog that did the damage, and what is more important, he knows the country - or he should.'

  'Every jolly old tree,' confirmed Bertie. We'll be back in a couple of jiffies.'

  'I hope you're right,' murmured Biggles. 'Very well, let's leave it at that.'

  At a quarter past eight he was on the tarmac with Bertie, waiting for the agent who was to do the actual work of blowing up the lock. He had decided that if Air Commodore Raymond had turned up he would have to confess the truth, otherwise he would say nothing. He carried a short leather coat over his arm for the sake of appearance. The sun had already set, and it was an ideal night for the work: moonlight, but with sufficient cloud to provide cover should it be needed.

  'You've got a gun, I suppose?' he inquired.

  Bertie tapped his pocket. 'You bet I have.'

  A moment later a car drew up and two men got out. One was an officer whom Biggles did not know - evidently a member of the Intelligence Staff; the other was a small, middle-aged, nervous-looking man dressed in the blue dungarees of a French peasant.

  The officer came over to Biggles. 'Here we are,' he announced. 'This is your man. Are you ready?'

  'Waiting,' replied Biggles laconically, looking at the agent, who was carrying a small, square, but obviously heavy parcel.

  'In that case there's no need for me to hang about. I'll get along. You might give Raymond a ring when you get back to let him know how things went off. We'll send a pilot down to collect the machine and our man later on.'

  Good enough.'

  The officer got back in his car and drove away.

  The agent spoke. 'We go, eh?' he said in English; but with a strong foreign accent.

  Biggles frowned, for he had caught the reek of brandy. He said nothing, but he suspected that the agent had been fortifying himself for his ordeal. It was a bad sign.

  Bertie addressed the man. I say, old chap, how long are you likely to be away from the machine?'

  The agent shrugged his shoulders with a fatalistic gesture. 'Who knows?'

  'I don't — that's why I asked you,' murmured Bertie.

  'One hour — two hours — maybe three,' was the vague reply.

  Really! By Jove! Well, don't be too long. And I say, be careful with that box of fireworks up topsides, won't you?'

  She is safe,' declared the man. The fuse she is fixed for fifteen minutes. That give me time to get clear.'

  'I wasn't thinking about you, old top,' continued Bertie cheerfully, as he helped his accomplice into his seat and then climbed into his own cockpit.

  Two minutes later he was in the air, climbing steeply, and after an uneventful flight over the Channel began a long furtive glide through the wavering searchlight beams that lined the French coast. These were only to be expected and he was not perturbed; which clearly was more than could be said for the passenger, for every time a fresh beam stabbed the sky he struck Bertie on the shoulder and pointed to it.

  'I say, old chap, you really must sit still,' shouted Bertie at last. 'They won't hurt you.' He had an uncomfortable feeling that the man was nervous.

  This was confirmed a few minutes later when, in spite of his efforts to slip across the coast unobserved, some 'flak' came up, although it burst at a safe distance. The agent sprang up in his seat.

  `Go back!' he shouted.

  'Why?' asked Bertie amazed.

  'We are seen. We are shot at.'

  'Look here, my lad, if you don't sit down I'll conk you on the bean with my gun,' roared Bertie, beginning to get angry.

  The man continued to protest, whereupon Bertie threw a loop. After that there was silence, and he glided on through the beams towards his objective. He was satisfied that the searchlights had not picked him up. Gliding at little more than staffing speed the machine made no noise, and he watched the lights dowse one by one behind him.

  The actual landing was the most trying part of the operation, for there was always a risk of the field being trapped' — that is, prepared by the enemy for the reception of machines engaged in special missions, the trap taking the form of obstacles calculated to crash a machine as it glided in. For a moment or two as the Moth swept low across the marsh which he had selected for his landing-ground, Bertie held his breath. Then the wheels touched lightly and the aircraft ran on to a smooth landing. He climbed down.

  'Here we are,' he said cheerfully. I suppose you saw the jolly old canal as we came down? It's only about a quarter of a mile away — over there.' He pointed to the north, and then leaned forward in order to see his companion's face, for he had heard a slight sound that puzzled him. It was as if the man's teeth were chattering.

  'I say, old fellow, what's the matter? Are you cold?' he asked anxiously.

  The man did not answer. He passed down his parcel and then got down himself, peering into the darkness.

  Bertie saw that he had not been mistaken. The man was trembling violently.

  'It is dangerous, zis place,' he breathed.

  Fiddlesticks!' answered Bertie. 'What did you think you were coming on — a picnic? />
  Off you go.'

  The man hung back.

  Bertie mustered all the tolerance in his nature. 'Now look here, my lad,' he said seriously, just you trot along and do your stuff. The sooner the job's done the sooner we go home.

  My coffee will be getting cold.'

  Still the man hesitated, and Bertie knew that he was in for trouble. Consequently, he was relieved when, in a moment or two, the man picked up his parcel and disappeared into the night. But the relief was shortlived. Inside a minute he was back.

  'Here, I say, what's the matter?' asked Bertie quickly. 'You really can't go on like this.

  Hop along, there's a good chap. I'm getting chilly.'

  'You will be here — yes?' inquired the man anxiously.

  Bertie kept his temper. 'Of course I'll be here. Get a move on. We don't want to stick around here all night. I'm getting my feet wet.'

  The agent made an inaudible remark and set off again, while Bertie made preparations for a quick take-off when he returned. So engrossed was he in his task that he started violently when, a few seconds later, a voice spoke from the other side of the machine.

  But it was only the agent again.

  Bertie ducked under the fuselage and joined him. 'Now look here, you really can't go on like this,' he protested.

  'It ees impossible!' cried the other excitedly.

  Bertie stared. What's that?'

  Zere are soldiers.'

  What have they got to do with it?'

  'But soldiers!'

  'You've just said that,' Bertie pointed out. What did you expect to find — a jolly old mothers' meeting? Come on now, be a good boy; toddle along and let off your fireworks or I shall start to get angry with you — yes, by jingo!'

  'But zee soldiers will see me.'

  'Not they. I'll bet they're playing pontoon or something. I know! If they come towards you make a noise like a horse.'

  The man shook his head. 'No, I am not so brave,' he said huskily.

  Of course you are,' persisted Bertie. 'You're as brave as a lion — anyone can see that.'

  'No. Tonight it ees impossible. We come back another time — perhaps tomorrow.'

  Bertie took a pace nearer. His voice was ominously calm. 'Tomorrow won't do, my white-livered little rabbit.'

  He was wondering what he ought to do, for there was no time to return to the aerodrome and report what had happened. Already the barges would be approaching the lock. There seemed to be only one answer. He tapped his useless confederate on the chest with a calculating forefinger.

  'Now you listen to me, my noble gladiator. You stay here and look after the machine.

  Can you manage that?'

  The agent looked horrified. It was obvious that his one idea was to get back across the Channel as quickly as possible.

  Bertie perceived this. When he spoke again his voice was gentle, but behind it lay a crisp, vibrant ring that had not previously been there.

  'If you're not here with this aircraft when I come back, the next time I see you I'll cut off your legs, sharpen the stumps, and drive you into the ground with a mallet— by Jove, I will! — you mark my words.' With this parting admonition he picked up the parcel and made off in the direction of the lock.

  A walk of a few minutes was sufficient to convince him that the man was at least right in one respect. Seven or eight

  soldiers were standing on or about the lock and, judging by a faint glow of light that issued from the guard-house window, it seemed likely that there were more inside. Unfortunately, in every direction the country was open, bare, and desolate; a mouse could hardly have approached the lock without being observed.

  This is awkward — deuced awkward,' he mused, as he put down his load and stopped to consider the problem.

  A minute's reflection was sufficient for him to realize that conditions were unlikely to be changed and that any attempt to get near the lock was doomed to failure from the start.

  Still, the idea of returning to the aerodrome with the mission incomplete was unthinkable, and he refused to consider it.

  With no fixed plan in his mind he struck off at a tangent towards the canal, reaching it some distance above the lock. It was, he found, a turgid-looking stream, supported on either side by raised banks. Where were the barges? He looked up and down the shining ribbon of water, and although in the moonlight he could see for a considerable distance, there was no sign of them. He glanced at his luminous wrist-watch. It was three minutes to nine.

  'These Intelligence chappies don't live up to their name,' he ruminated. It looks as if they'

  ve made a mistake in their beastly calculations, and the boats have either passed hours ago or are still ambling along near Arras. I'd better see if I can find them.' With his dangerous parcel under his arm he set off along the towing-path.

  After covering about two hundred yards he came to a bend, and as he rounded it an exclamation broke from his lips, for his eyes fell on something he had not bargained for, although at first it did not occur to him that it might be of service. It was a footbridge, an elevated, flimsy wooden structure that spanned the canal from side to side linking two footpaths. As he stood regarding it he heard a sound that set his pulses racing. It was the chug-chug-chug of engines.

  'By Jove, here come the beastly barges,' he breathed, staring up the canal to where a long line of dark shadows had appeared on the placid water. For a moment or two he hesitated, thinking swiftly, and then drew a deep breath. Ìf it comes off it ought to be fun,' he told himself. If it doesn't, I'm afraid that silly ass I brought here will have to walk home.' He waited no longer but, crouching low, ran quickly to the footbridge and wormed his way to the middle of it.

  He had not long to wait, although in the circumstances the minutes seemed like hours.

  Slowly but surely the heavy boats, low in the water, crept nearer. He removed the cover from the parcel by his side. He found the firing plunger and forced it home. 'I hope that chappie didn't make any mistake about that fuse,' he murmured.

  Lying flat, he looked along the line of boats, the first one now less than fifty yards away and the others following at short intervals. They looked unreal. He could see the steersman of the leading boat clearly, a burly fellow, smoking a long pipe as he leaned against the heavy rudder. Were there any other men on board? He did not know, but he hoped not. With his revolver in his right hand and the bomb in his left, he waited until the barge drew level. The bows passed under the bridge, creating a sensation that he himself was moving. He tensed his muscles; then, as the steersman drew level, he dropped; and as he dropped, he struck.

  But an object moving in the dark is a deceptive target; moreover, he was to some extent encumbered by his burden. And instead of the butt of the revolver hitting the man on the head as he intended, it caught him on the shoulder.

  His startled cry was cut short by Bertie, who landed on top of him, and together they rolled down the short companionway into the cabin.

  Bertie, being the more agile, was up first. He had dropped the bomb, but he still retained his grip on the revolver, although he dare not make full use of it because of the alarm the report would inevitably cause. So, grasping the muzzle and swinging the weapon like a club, he sprang at the bargee. But his adversary was no fool and, seeing how Bertie was armed, he promptly sent the candle, which provided the only light, spinning across the room.

  Now Bertie was not so foolish as to enter willingly into a wrestling bout with a man twice his weight — certainly not in the dark; so he darted up the steps and vaulted over the low superstructure at the top. He was round in a flash, crouching low, waiting for the man who he felt certain would follow him. And he was not mistaken. He heard him muttering and cursing in German as he came blundering up the stairs; but it seemed that he had a good idea of what to expect, for as Bertie struck at him again he ducked with surprising agility, and Bertie all but lost his balance. But he did not lose his head, and as the man jumped clear he leapt at him like a cat.

&nbs
p; The German instinctively stepped backwards, evidently forgetting where he was, which was close to the outside extremity of the deck. He made a desperate effort to keep his balance, but Bertie, seizing his opportunity, dashed in and knocked him over backwards.

  There was a terrific splash as the man went overboard.

  Bertie waited long enough to see him start swimming towards the bank, and then turned his attention to the bomb. As near as he could judge, the fuse had been burning for five minutes, which gave him another ten minutes' grace; so he picked it up and ran along the side of the barge looking for the best place to put it. Heavy black tarpaulins had been lashed over the cargo, and for this reason he could not see it; nor had he time to investigate, for the boatman was now running along the bank yelling at the top of his voice. Hunting about quickly, Bertie found a partition between two tarpaulins just about amidships, and this, he decided, would have to suit his purpose. He thrust the bomb into the gap, and then looked about anxiously for a way of escape.

  The situation was even worse than he expected. The second barge, apparently suspecting that something was wrong, had closed up until it was only a few yards behind. From the opposite direction, the direction of the lock, a party of soldiers was running along the towing-path, on the same side of the canal as he had left the aircraft. There seemed to be only one course left open to him, and he lost no time in taking it. Seizing the rudder, he threw his weight against it and brought the barge over until it was running along within a few feet of the opposite bank — that is to say the bank farthest from the soldiers, who were now less than fifty yards away. He wondered vaguely why they did not shoot, for he knew that they must be able to see him; then he remembered the dangerous cargo the barge carried, and understood their reluctance to use firearms.

  At this moment a second man, who must have been asleep below, came scrambling up to the deck. He let out a yell when he saw what was happening.

  Bertie waited no longer. He took a flying leap at the bank, landed on all fours, and threw himself over the embankment just as a bullet whistled past his ear. But the embankment was as good as the parapet of a trench, and he took advantage of it, running like a plover towards the bridge as fast as his legs could carry him. When he was about half-way he risked a peep at the opposite bank, and saw at a glance that his hopes of getting back to the machine, via the bridge, were very slim,