by W E Johns
‘Let’s have it—quick.’
Algy handed him a bottle.
Biggles tore the cork out with his teeth and coaxed a little of the liquid the bottle contained between Johnny’s pallid lips.
Johnny spluttered. He gasped. He retched. Then he was sick.
‘Okay,’ said Biggles softly. ‘Keep that blanket over him to keep him warm.’
Johnny was sick again. Panting, he opened his eyes. They were dull, with the pupils dilated. He was sick again.
‘Pass the water, Algy,’ ordered Biggles. He wiped Johnny’s face and bathed the temples. ‘There should be some smelling-salts in that first-aid cabinet,’ he told Ginger.
Ginger brought the bottle.
Johnny gasped as the pungent fumes struck his nostrils, but they hastened his recovery.
‘What—what was it?’ he gasped.
‘Take your time, old lad—you’ll soon be okay,’ said Biggles soothingly.
Johnny’s eyes cleared, and he was soon able to sit up.
‘Feel well enough to tell us what happened?’ asked Biggles.
‘Yes, I think so. My God! It was awful.’
‘Lucky your wheels were on the floor, eh?’
‘If they hadn’t been—I should—have come a crumper.*2 Is this—what got—the others?’
Biggles nodded. ‘Tell us what happened.’
Johnny had another drink of water. ‘Well, I just sat there for what seemed a long time,’ he explained. ‘Then I felt a queer sort of feeling coming over me. At first I thought it was the heat; then I realised it wasn’t. But by that time I was too far gone to do anything about it. It was hell. Phew! Does my head rock! It feels as if there were a couple of pistons inside it.’
‘That’ll pass off,’ said Biggles. ‘Go on with the story.’
‘I thought I was dying,’ continued Johnny. ‘Everything round me was all distorted. I had a feeling I was flying upside-down. The instruments were all heaped in a pile. I tried to move, to call you on the radio, but I couldn’t. My bones had all gone to jelly. Then I couldn’t make out what things were—they sort of flowed about into each other, as if they were liquid. They turned all colours.’
‘But you were still conscious?’
‘I can’t say I knew what was happening. The pain in my head was terrible. It felt as if my brain had split into two parts. One part was mad, and the other part a sort of spectator. I couldn’t do anything—couldn’t make a sound. That’s the last I remember. I suppose I must have passed out. The thought of that happening in the air makes my skin curl. What was it? Do you know?’
‘I think so,’ answered Biggles. ‘I fancy it was the piece of chewing-gum you ate.’
Johnny stared at Biggles’ face. ‘Chewing-gum?’ he ejaculated. ‘What chewing-gum?’
Biggles’ expression changed to one of questioning surprise. ‘Didn’t you find a packet of chewing-gum in the pocket of your instrument panel, and put a piece in your mouth?’
‘No. I hate the stuff, anyway.’
Biggles looked incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’
A smile, faintly sarcastic, curled Johnny’s lips. ‘Dash it all! I may look dumb, but I’m not so cheesed that I don’t know when I chew gum. I tell you, I never touch the stuff.’
Biggles bit his lip, looking really crestfallen. ‘If that’s the case I’m on the wrong trail after all. I still don’t understand it though. Are you absolutely positive that there was no gum in your cockpit?’
‘Not to-day.’
‘What do you mean by that, exactly? Does it imply that you have had some gum in your cockpit on other occasions?’
‘There usually is a piece. It’s a free issue, you know. Might almost call it normal equipment.’
‘You find it in the machine when you get in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who puts it there?’
‘Sergeant Gray used to. He sort of did the round before the show.’
‘But there was no gum in your machine to-day? Why not, I wonder?’
‘Probably because I told Gray yesterday morning that he was wasting his time putting it in.’
Biggles looked at Ginger. ‘Wasn’t there any gum in your machine, either?’
‘No.’
An expression of baffled bewilderment came over Biggles’ face. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘This is a bone-shaker,’ he said in a disappointed voice. ‘Everything turned out just as I thought it would, except that I expected Ginger to be the one to crack up. I’ve gone wrong somewhere—or else the devils have been too smart for me. I would have bet my life that I was on the right track. I’d more or less proved it—as I thought—this morning. I offered you a piece of chewing gum—Algy had got it for me from the canteen. You refused. I offered Scrimshaw a piece. He refused, too—told me he never touched the stuff. I was suspicious of chewing-gum, and when I discovered that neither you nor Scrimshaw touched the stuff it seemed to confirm my theory—that the stuff was phoney. I was convinced that you and Scrimshaw always got back because, by a lucky chance for you, neither of you chewed gum. By passing out this morning, Johnny, you’ve knocked my theory sideways.’
‘What set you on this chewing-gum line of argument?’ asked Ginger curiously.
Biggles took a small square of pink paper from his pocket and showed it to Johnny. ‘This is the stuff the gum is packed in, isn’t it? Really, I needn’t ask you, because I bought a packet this morning.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Johnny.
‘I found a piece of this paper in Moorven’s machine. That told me he had been chewing-gum in the cockpit. I paid no attention to it at the time—after all, there was nothing remarkable about it. But when, last night, I found a piece of the same paper in A Flight office, where Gray was lying apparently drunk, I began to think. When I learned from the sergeants’ mess that Gray had had nothing to drink there, I thought still harder. I thought I was on the track. When, this morning, as I have said, I learned that you and Scrimshaw, the survivors of a squadron, never touched gum, my surmise began to look a certainty. Now it looks as though the gum has nothing to do with it . . . but I still think there’s something queer about it.’
‘Since Gray is dead, he couldn’t very well put gum into any of the machines this morning,’ Algy pointed out.
‘That’s true enough,’ admitted Biggles. ‘And I’m afraid that settles the argument. There was no gum—yet Johnny passes out. Obviously, it wasn’t gum that did the trick.’ He sat down on the end of the stretcher and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, there was certainly no gum in my machine,’ declared Ginger. ‘If there had been I should probably have nibbled a piece. I was getting pretty browned off, sitting there doing nothing.’
For a little while Biggles sat with his chin in his hand, deep in thought. Then he got up. ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered. ‘I’m just going to have a look round these machines.’ He went off, climbing first into the cockpit of Johnny’s machine, and then treating Ginger’s in like manner. He was not long away. ‘All right,’ he said briskly when he returned. ‘We may as well get back to Dum Dum. Don’t mention this business to anyone, nor even speak of it among yourselves in the mess. I don’t think you’re quite fit to fly yet, Johnny, so you’d better trundle back in the blood-wagon. Do you feel well enough to drive it?’
‘Yes, I’m all right now,’ answered Johnny. In spite of his assurance he still looked somewhat shaken.
‘Fine. Algy will fly your machine home. Let’s go.’
Biggles walked over to his aircraft, and after waiting for Algy and Ginger to get into position, took off.
Chapter 10
The Blitz That Failed
When Biggles landed at Dum Dum, and taxied in, he observed with mounting curiosity that the airfield was, to use the common Air Force expression, in a state of flap. Airmen were running about, orders were being shouted, and engines roared as aircraft were dispersed all round the perimeter of the airfield. Having stepped down, he was gazing with mild surprise
at this spectacle, when Air Commodore Raymond, followed by Group Captain Boyle, the station commander, came hurrying to him.
‘Thank heaven you’re back,’ began the Air Commodore in a tense voice. ‘You’re the very man I want to see.’
‘What the dickens is going on here?’ asked Biggles.
‘We’re in for a pasting, I’m afraid—and Calcutta, too, no doubt,’ asserted the Air Commodore, pulling a wry face. ‘We’ve just had a signal from our forward observers to the effect that the biggest formation of Jap bombers seen in this part of the world is heading in this direction. Ninety-eight of ’em. We suppose they’re taking advantage of the situation created by the secret weapon to have a really good smack at us. They know we are powerless to stop them.’
‘You mean, they think we are,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘How far away is this formation?’
‘They’ll be here in twenty minutes.’
‘What are they?’
‘Mitsubishi bombers.’
‘Any escort?’
‘No. They have good reason for thinking they don’t need one.’
‘What are you doing about it?’
‘We’re sending up six fighters to intercept them.’
‘Six! What do you suppose six machines are going to do against that mob? Why only six? There are more fighters than that on the station.’
‘I know, but we daren’t leave ourselves without a reserve. With this secret weapon operating I don’t suppose we shall see any of our machines again.’
Biggles pointed at a pathetically small formation of Spitfires just taking off. ‘Are those the six?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stop them. Call them back.’
‘But —’
‘I know what I’m doing, sir. Recall them.’
The Air Commodore hesitated. ‘But if Calcutta is bombed —’
‘You’re going the right way to get it bombed,’ broke in Biggles impatiently. ‘Look, sir, we’ve no time to waste in argument or explanations. If you’ll leave this operation to me I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘But think —’
‘I’ve never let you down yet, have I?’
The Air Commodore decided. ‘All right.’ He turned to the Group Captain. ‘Recall those machines.’
The Group Captain hurried off, and in a few seconds the flight could be seen returning. Algy and Ginger had landed. Biggles waved to them, beckoning urgently. Then he turned again to the Air Commodore. His voice was brittle.
‘Will you let me handle this?’
‘Yes, but if things go wrong —’
‘I know—you’ll be held responsible. I’m afraid that’s a risk you’ll have to take, sir. I know how many fighters I’ve got, but how many others are there available on the station? I’m including the two Hurricanes belonging to Crisp and Scrimshaw in my outfit.’
‘Apart from those we’ve seven—all that are left of 910 Squadron.’
‘As Crisp isn’t back yet, that means we can put up fifteen, all told, if we include my Beaufighter.’
‘But are you going to leave the airfield without a single fighter on it?’ cried the Air Commodore aghast.
‘What are fighters for if not to fight? They’ll never have a better opportunity than this, nor is there ever likely to be a greater emergency.’
‘But suppose none of them get back?’
‘That’ll be your worry—I shan’t be here,’ answered Biggles curtly.
Algy and Ginger came running up. ‘What goes on?’ asked Algy quickly.
‘There’s a big formation of Jap bombers on the way,’ Biggles told him without emotion. ‘We ought to be able to hit them a crack. Algy, I want you to get every fighter on the station lined up—including those Spits that are just landing—with the pilots on parade behind them. Jump to it. Ginger, turn out the squadron. It will line up with the rest. Make it snappy.’
‘You’re sure you know what you’re doing, Bigglesworth?’ asked the Air Commodore, in tones of acute anxiety.
‘No, I’m not sure,’ answered Biggles frankly. ‘How can anyone be sure of anything in times like these? I’m hoping, that’s all, but that doesn’t mean I’m guessing. Sorry I haven’t time to talk any more now. See you later.’ He walked briskly to where the machines had been mustered in line, with their pilots in a group behind them. He beckoned to Algy. ‘Keep those fellows together until I join you; I want a word with them. I shan’t be long.’
‘Okay.’
Biggles walked on to the end of the line of machines. In a few minutes he was back, facing the line of pilots, officers and sergeants, who were fidgeting at the delay.
‘Listen, everyone,’ he said loudly. ‘You all know what’s been going on here—I mean, this secret weapon scare. Forget it. If anyone goes for a Burton to-day it will be from some other cause. Here is your chance to get your own back for what the enemy has done to those messmates who are no longer with us. There are a hundred Japs for you to carve at, so you can help yourselves. There’s no escort so it should be a slice of cake. Scrimshaw, last night you seemed to have a load of dirty water on your chest. Now you can get rid of it. My crowd will remember what happened to Angus yesterday.’
‘Here comes Johnny Crisp,’ said someone.
Looking round Biggles saw Johnny running like a hare across the field.
‘Hey! What’s going on?’ yelled Johnny.
‘There’s a big Jap formation on the way,’ Biggles told him.
‘Gimme an aircraft—gimme an aircraft!’ bleated Johnny deliriously.
Biggles smiled. ‘Sure you’re fit to fly?’
‘Watch me; oh boy, just watch me!’ cried Johnny hysterically.
‘All right—take the Beaufighter.’ Biggles turned back to the waiting pilots. ‘That’s all. Give these perishers everything you’ve got. We haven’t far to go. I shall lead in the Typhoon. Let’s get weaving.’
There was a rush for the machines.
Biggles started for his aircraft. Pointing eastward, he shouted to the Air Commodore, who was standing by, ‘Get in your car and head up the road that way. You might be in time to see something worth watching.’
The Air Commodore waved understandingly, and ran towards his car.
Biggles climbed into his machine, settled himself in the seat and felt for the throttle. Engines roared, and the mixed formation moved forward, swiftly gaining speed, sending clouds of dust swirling high into the air behind it. Heading eastward, Biggles eased the control column back for altitude.
Five minutes later, at fifteen thousand feet and still climbing, he saw the enemy formation, composed of Mitsubishi bombers as the Air Commodore had stated, strung out like a great dragon across the sky, at an estimated height of twelve thousand feet. He smiled mirthlessly as he altered course a trifle to intercept it. He spoke in the radio.
‘Tally-ho, boys! Tally-ho! There they are. We’ve got ’em. Bertie, get me that leader. Ginger, Tug, stay up to pick off stragglers. Here we go!’
Biggles launched his attack from the starboard quarter, aiming at the neck of the dragon. He went down in a steep dive, with the rest opening out as they streamed down behind him. In an instant the air was being cut into sections by lines of tracer shells and bullets. He picked a Mitsubishi on the near side of the enemy formation, the pilot of which was showing signs of nervousness. Being nearest to the descending tornado he was edging away, forcing others inside the formation to swerve, and lose position in their efforts to avoid collision. To Biggles this was as old as war flying itself. There is usually one such machine in a big formation, and it becomes as much a menace to its own side as to its opponents.
Biggles planned to aggravate the trouble. He held his fire. Tracer flashed past him, but he paid no heed to it, even if he saw it. But when bullets began splashing off his engine cowling he frowned, and pressed a foot gently on the rudder-bar, but without taking his eyes off the bomber he had marked down. He took it in his sights, and at three hundred yards jammed hard on the firing but
ton. The Typhoon shuddered a little as the guns flamed, concentrating a cone of bullets on the Mitsubishi, which swerved wildly, causing others to do the same. The first result of this was not immediately apparent, for the Typhoon had roared over its target to zoom steeply on the other side.
Turning on the top of the zoom Biggles saw that the onset had achieved all that he had hoped of it. The dragon had cracked across the middle, and the formation was now in the shape of a dog’s hind leg. Four bombers were going down in different directions and at different angles, one in flames, one smoking. Two others, one of which, Biggles thought, was the swerver, had their wings locked—the prelude to disaster. As he watched they broke apart, one, minus half a wing, to fall spinning. The crew of the other baled out. A Hurricane was also going down, leaving a plume of black smoke to mark its trail. The pilot scrambled out on the fuselage, to be swept off instantly into space by the tearing slipstream.
A look of puzzled astonishment came over Biggles’ face as he made out another Hurricane boring along up the middle of the enemy formation blazing a berserk path with its guns. Such madness, far outside the range of recognised tactics, was at all events effective, and the enemy machines were thrown into confusion. But it was also suicidal. Biggles recognised Scrimshaw’s machine.
‘Scrimshaw, come out of that, you fool,’ he snarled into the radio.
Whether Scrimshaw heard the order or not Biggles never knew. He may have tried to obey. At any rate, the Hurricane, all the time under the fire of a dozen enemy gun turrets, whirled round, and then zoomed high. For a moment it hung in a vertical position, its airscrew flashing; then its nose whipped down viciously, dead in line with a Jap. Without altering its course it plunged on, and struck the Mitsubishi just aft of the centre section. There was a blinding explosion, which must have been felt by every aircraft within half a mile. Several other bombers in the immediate vicinity were hurled aside as dead leaves are swept up by a gust of wind. Pieces of the machines that had collided flew far and wide.
‘There goes Scrimshaw,’ muttered Biggles to himself, as he raced down to plaster the disturbed bombers before their pilots could regain control. At the same time he tried to keep an eye on what was happening. ‘Strewth! What a scramble,’ he murmured.
