by W E Johns
Biggles went back to his desk. A moment later the door opened and Toddy, the Station Adjutant, put his head inside. There was a curious expression on his face.
‘Pilot Officer Carrington, reporting for duty, sir,’ he said, and stepped aside.
The new-comer walked slowly into the room and stood stiffly to attention. ‘I’m Carrington, sir,’ he said, with a suspicion of Cockney accent.
‘Will you please salute when you come into this office,’ returned Biggles curtly.
‘Regulations say you only salute when wearing a hat, sir.’
‘What do you mean by coming here without a hat? Where is your hat?’
‘Nailed up in Number 8 Squadron Mess, sir.’
Biggles stared at the speaker. He saw a slim, nervous-looking youth whose pale face was thin and pinched as though with hunger. His hair was short and crisply curled. It was soaking wet. Rain trickled down his face and formed a dewdrop on the end of his nose.
Pale grey eyes regarded the C.O. steadily. Occasionally his jaws moved with a rolling motion.
The C.O. got up and held out his hand, rather awkwardly; he was wondering why a squadron with the reputation of Naval Eight1 should have kept the hat. ‘Glad to see you, Carrington,’ he said. He glanced at the clock. ‘Why are you late?’
‘I didn’t know I was,’ came the answer, promptly. ‘Your clock is a minute fast.’
Biggles frowned. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Certain. I set my watch by H.Q. time this morning—and they get it from Greenwich.’
Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said stiffly. ‘I hope you’ll like it here.’
‘I reckon so,’ nodded Carrington, casually, glancing round. ‘One place is much the same as another to me,’ he added.
Biggles swallowed. ‘This is going to be a squadron with a reputation,’ he said tersely. ‘I hope you’ll bear it in mind.’
‘I reckon you won’t let me forget it,’ returned the other, almost defiantly. His jaws recommenced their rolling.
‘Forgive me for being personal, but are you eating something?’ inquired Biggles, with studied politeness.
‘No, just chewing.’
‘Chewing what?’
‘Gum.’
‘Do you always chew gum when you report to a new station?’
‘This is only my second, so I can’t say.’
Algy turned away so that his face could not be seen. He was finding it difficult to retain his composure.
Biggles picked up his pen. ‘Christian name?’ he asked.
‘Tug.’
‘I mean your real name.’
‘That’s it – Tug.’
Biggles looked up. ‘This is no time for pleasantries,’ he announced crisply. ‘What is your proper name?’
‘I’ve told you twice – Tug.’
Biggles looked at his senior Flight Commander hopelessly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned his eyes to the new arrival. ‘Is that what they call you at home?’
‘It would be if I had a home.’
Biggles tried different tactics. ‘I suppose we must blame your father for a name like that,’ he said cheerfully as he wrote it down.
‘You might if he was alive – and if you were looking for trouble. My old man was pretty handy with his dukes.’
‘Why did he give you a name like that?’ asked Biggles, moved to curiosity in spite of himself.
‘He was master of a Port of London tug for so long that he couldn’t think of anything else. Or it may have been because I was born on a tug. Or perhaps because at the Ring they called me Young Tug.’
‘The Ring?’
‘Blackfriars Ring.’
‘I see. So you’re a professional pugilist?’
‘If you mean boxer – yes. Flyweight.’
Biggles picked up his pen again. ‘How many enemy aircraft have you shot down?’
‘I dunno, sir.’
‘Why don’t you know?’
‘I’ve never bothered to count them, and that’s a fact. Why trouble? There’s always plenty more.’
Again Biggles’s eyes met Algy’s. They were twinkling. ‘It’s a great thing to have a sense of humour,’ he said softly.
‘What’s that?’ asked Tug.
‘A sense of humour? Haven’t you got one?’
Tug shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘I mean — to be able to see the funny side of things,’ explained the C.O..
‘Funny?’ There was frank incredulity in Tug’s voice. ‘Do you see something funny about this war, with women and kids —’
‘No - no, of course not,’ broke in Biggles quickly. ‘All right, Carrington. You’ll be attached to A Flight. This is Flight Lieutenant Lacey, your Flight Commander. Go with him and he’ll introduce you to the mess. There will be no flying till the weather lifts.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ The C.O. looked blank, then he frowned. ‘Those are my orders,’ he said shortly.
‘I ought to have guessed that,’ murmured Tug.
Biggles swallowed hard. He wanted to say what he was thinking, but he was anxious to avoid trouble with H.Q. at that particular moment. ‘I’ll give you a day or two to get the hang of things,’ he promised.
‘I shan’t need ‘em,’ announced Tug simply. ‘I’m ready as soon as you like. I came down here to shoot Huns, so the sooner I start in the better.’
‘Yes, I think perhaps you’re right,’ returned Biggles, smiling in spite of himself. ‘By the way, I noticed the way you landed your machine just now. It was a trifle irregular to say the least of it. I never like interfering with a fellow’s flying, but machines are expensive, and hard to replace. I hope you’ll bear that in mind.’
‘What I handle, whether it’s women, dogs, or planes, I handle rough; then there’s no argument as to who’s boss,’ muttered Tug grimly. ‘In the end we get on better that way.’
Biggles put his hand over his mouth so that his smile could not be seen. ‘All right, Carrington. As you like. But if you go on flying as you’ve started it’s only a matter of time before you do the enemy a good turn by writing yourself off.’
‘That’ll be my funeral, sir, won’t it?’
Biggles gave it up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Algy took Tug by the arm and ushered him out of the room. ‘Come into the mess and have a drink,’ he invited.
‘Meaning booze?’
‘Not necessarily, but we don’t always drink cold water.’
Tug laughed, a short harsh cackle like the sound made by an angry cockerel.
It was so unexpected that Algy started. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked sharply.
‘Matter? Nothing — except if some of the blokes in this war would stop pouring booze down their necks we should get on faster.’
‘I take it you have a rooted objection to alcohol?’ remarked Algy, for the sake of saying something.
‘I have.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my old man used to flay the hide off me every time he got tight.’
‘And how often was that?’
‘Every night.’
Algy smiled faintly and said no more. He cast a sidelong glance at his companion, wondering how he was going to fit in with the others. He saw trouble ahead. ‘Well, it takes all sorts to make a war,’ he ruminated.
They found Bertie, Tex, and Ferocity in the anteroom, waiting for the weather to clear. Bertie was playing the piano and the others were singing, but the din subsided as Algy and the new man entered.
‘This is Tug Carrington,’ announced Algy. ‘He has just been posted to us.’
Tug clasped his hands above his head and turned from side to side in a professional pugilistic fashion. ‘Pleased to meet you, boys,’ he said seriously, amid a titter of laughter.
It was unfortunate that a hush should fall at the precise moment when Bertie remarked in a plaintive voice, ‘Good heavens, what’s this?
’
The hush deepened into an embarrassed silence. The smile faded from Tug’s face as a ray of winter sunshine is blotted out by a cloud, and he began to move towards the chair in which Bertie was lolling. He did not walk in the usual way. He seemed to bounce slightly, as if his toes were springs. Reaching Bertie’s chair he stopped, and there was something about the way he bristled that reminded Algy of an angry wire-haired terrier.
‘Had that remark of yours anything to do with me?’ asked Tug quietly.
For a moment Bertie looked surprised. He screwed his eyeglass a little tighter into his eye. Then he smiled. ‘My dear old top,’ he murmured, ‘don’t tell me you’re looking for trouble?’
‘What else would I be doing here?’ flashed Tug.
Algy butted in. ‘All right, Tug; put your hackles down. Bertie didn’t mean anything.’
‘Then he ought to keep his tongue under control,’ snapped Tug. ‘I don’t take lip from anybody.’
‘Of course not. Let’s leave it at that. Have a drink?’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a glass of milk with a dash of soda in it.’
Tug turned a coldly hostile eye over the faces that were smiling, and the smiles faded swiftly.
Algy sensed trouble. ‘All right,’ he said loudly, to relieve the tension. ‘Let’s —’ He broke off short, his muscles stiffening, as a sound, rising and falling on the wind, became audible. One jump took him to the window, eyes turned upwards to the clouds. ‘Look out! That sounds like—’
The rest of his words were lost in a crash as a chair hurtled across the room. Tug had flung it aside as he sped to the door. The others followed swiftly, but by the time they had reached the open Tug, hatless and minus anything in the way of flying kit, was sprinting towards his machine, still standing where he had left it on the completion of his ‘tarmac’ landing. As he reached it, and took a flying leap into the cockpit, a Junkers dive bomber dropped out of the clouds overhead, the pilot flying busily, obviously seeking a target.
The whole thing had happened so quickly that Algy had barely time to grasp the facts.
He could only stare.
Biggles burst out of his office. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked shortly. As he spoke he looked up, and there was no need for anyone to answer his question.
‘Get ready to take cover everybody,’ he snapped, and made a bee-line for the Bren gun that was mounted in front of the building.
His order was ignored. The officers joined him at the gun. All eyes were on Tug’s Spitfire, now taking off cross-wind on one wheel, to what seemed certain destruction.
Biggles paled. ‘He’s mad. He’ll kill himself!’ he cried in a strangled voice.
On the face of it this was a safe prophecy, for the Spitfire was now swerving in a manner horrible to watch as it shot like a bullet towards the boundary hedge, which was so close that it seemed impossible that the machine could clear it. Biggles gripped Algy’s arm like a vice as he waited for the crash.
At the last moment, when its destruction seemed assured, the Spitfire rocketed straight up under the Junkers. The enemy pilot, who by this time was taking a line on the aerodrome building, must have seen it coming, for instead of steepening his dive he pulled his nose up, and dipped a wing to get a better view of his assailant. He did not appear to be unduly worried; there was no reason why he should be, for every advantage, including height, was his.
Biggles was watching the Spitfire. It seemed to fascinate him. He could not understand why it remained in the air, for its pilot seemed to be defying the law of gravity.
‘He’ll stall that machine as sure as fate,’ muttered Algy through dry lips, and then ducked as the wail of Bertie’s hunting horn cut into the roar of engines.
‘Yoicks... Tally-Ho!’ sang Bertie, clearly excited.
‘Shut up and put that thing away,’ snapped Biggles, whose nerves were on edge. But his eyes never left the combat now taking shape overhead.
The Spitfire, for some reason not immediately apparent, did not stall. It hung for a moment on the point of it, however, its prop screaming as it clawed at the air, and the Junkers sailed in to strike the first blow. The pilot had every reason to hope that it would be the last, for the Spitfire presented an almost stationary target. His nose was nearly in line when the Spitfire levelled out to even keel, and at the same time spun on its longitudinal axis, a manoeuvre both unexpected and spectacular — at least, the Junkers’ pilot seemed to find it so, for he swerved away like a startled colt.
The Spitfire’s nose dropped. For three seconds the engine roared as it gathered speed; then the machine soared skyward in a perfectly timed upward spin. It came out at the same level as the Junkers, with its nose in line. Simultaneously the grating roar of its eight guns blended with the moan of engines.
Pieces flew off the Junkers, which banked wildly and headed for the nearest cloud.
‘My hat! Did you ever see anything like that?’ gasped Biggles.
‘Look! Look!’ cried Algy, his voice rising to shrillness.
The enemy pilot, obviously realizing that he had taken a bigger bite than he could comfortably chew, was now concentrating all his efforts on escape; and, indeed, for a few seconds it seemed likely that he would succeed. Strangely enough, Tug appeared to be in no hurry about his next move. He turned slowly to get a clearer view of his adversary; then, deliberately, he put his nose down in an almost vertical dive.
For a terrible moment Algy thought he had been hit, and was diving flat out into the ground, for it seemed certain that he must strike it. But at the last moment he pulled out, the rush of air flattening the grass under his wings; then he pulled up in a zoom that made the engine howl like a giant in agony, a zoom that brought a cry of delight to Bertie’s lips. Like an arrow sped the Spitfire, straight towards the Junkers.
The German pilot saw it coming, and swung round to bring his guns to bear. But he was too late. Much too late. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, at the finish, he knew where the Spitfire was. The desperate manner in which he banked suggested this.
Tug, travelling vertically upwards, fired only a short burst from underneath. Then he was past. But the instant he was above his quarry he flattened out, turned like a flash of light, and, at point-blank range, brought his nose, streaming fire, slowly across the Junkers from prop-boss to tail-skid. The effect was as though a band-saw was passing through it.
It broke in halves. One wing went up and tore off at the roots. The fuselage began to fall, slowly at first, but with swiftly increasing speed.
On the ground nobody spoke.
The Junkers’s fuselage, minus wings, went into the ground just beyond the boundary hedge like a torpedo. There was a roar like a clap of thunder as its bombs exploded.
Tug cut his engine, side-slipped steeply to within a hundred feet of the ground, levelled out, turned into wind, and dropped the Spitfire as lightly as a feather on the turf, finishing his run within a score of paces of where the spellbound members of the squadron were watching.
‘Oh, pretty — pretty to watch,’ breathed Bertie.
There was a faint murmur, like the rustle of autumn leaves, as the others allowed long-held breath to escape from their lungs. The face that Biggles turned to Algy was white and wore a curious expression, an expression that was something between relief and frank disbelief.
‘In all my experience I never saw anything quite like that,’ he said slowly. ‘Carrington’s flying may not be the sort taught at the best schools, but it works — yes, it certainly works.’
Tug climbed out of his machine and walked towards the mess. His manner was that of a workman going home from work. There was nothing either in his expression or behaviour to suggest that anything unusual had happened.
The others followed him in.
‘Nice work, Tug,’ said Biggles sincerely.
‘Thanks.’ Tug tossed the word over his shouder like a piece of orange peel.
‘Have a drink?’ Biggles beckoned the mess waiter.
Tug
nodded dispassionately. ‘Thanks,’ he said again. ‘I could do with a glass of barley water.’
He glanced suspiciously round the company — but nobody was smiling.
[Back to Contents]
* * *
1 Service name for a famous coastal station.
CHAPTER 3
THE ARRIVAL OF ANGUS
FLIGHT LIEUTENANT ANGUS MACKAIL was annoyed. In his big Highland heart he felt that he had reason to be, and the fact that he could do nothing about it was like petrol on an oil bomb. After shooting down six enemy aircraft (four of them in one week) he had made application for posting to a squadron stationed near his home town of Aberdeen. The reason he had given to support this application was that the C.O. of the unit concerned, one Donald Mackail, was his brother — which was true enough. But, unfortunately for Angus, his C.O., Ian McIntosh, knew Donald just as well as he knew Angus, and with shrewd judgment perceived that while apart Angus and Donald were good if irresponsible officers, if ever they came together anything might happen. For which reason he had turned down the application.
Feeling that he had been badly treated, Angus had signified his disapproval, and at the same time discharged some of the steam of his wrath by performing over the aerodrome the sequence of aerobatics widely advertised in pre-war air displays as ‘crazy flying’, an event that had terminated abruptly when he knocked — accidentally be it said — one of the chimney-pots off the C.O.’s quarter.
It was unfortunate for Angus that a new Wing Commander should have chosen that moment to inspect the station, particularly as he had that morning received a letter from the Air Ministry inviting him to dispose of unruly officers by posting them to a special squadron then being formed for the express purpose of instilling into them the rudiments of that desirable quality known as discipline.
The upshot of the affair was that Angus was posted; not, as he had hoped, to bonny Scotland, but to Kent, where the new unit, Number 666 Fighter Squadron, was located.
Of course, he knew nothing of the real purpose of the squadron, but he learned that it was commanded by a Squadron Leader named Bigglesworth, and this did nothing to allay his not unnatural irritation; for he felt that an officer with such a name might not, or would not, perceive his finer qualities.
