by W E Johns
He stopped abruptly as the door was flung open and Toddy dashed in.
‘Staff car just arrived, sir, with a load of officers from the Air Ministry,’ he gasped. ‘I think the Air Chief Marshal is with them.’
Biggles sprang to his feet. ‘Get back to your stations,’ he shouted, making for the door.
The Flight Commanders dashed back to their places.
‘What a whizzer,’ chortled Algy. ‘It’s a surprise inspection. Won’t 701 be sick when they hear about it? The laugh’s going to be on our side after all.’
‘Absolutely – yes, absolutely,’ murmured Bertie.
An hour later the offrcers and airmen of 666 Squadron were paraded, and addressed by the Air Chief Marshal.
‘It gives me great pleasure,’ he declared, ‘to see a squadron in the field that can carry itself with such spotless effrciency. I have visited many units recently, but never have I seen one in which such praiseworthy zeal is so obviously displayed by all ranks. Your equipment is a credit to yourselves, your commanding officer, and the service. I shall make it my business to see that the magnificent example you have set is made known to every other squadron by a special Air Ministry Weekly Order. Thank you.’
Biggles’s face wore a broad smile as he returned from seeing the staff officers on their way.
‘A pretty slice of luck,’ he laughed. ‘The Air Marshal was so pleased that he asked me if there was any particular request I wished to make. I told aim that we should like to come off reserve and go on to first-line duties. He assures me that he’ll attend to it right away. As a matter of detail, I took the opportunity of mentioning Ginger’s arrest to him, and he has promised to put things right with Wing.’
Bertie screwed his monocle into his eye. ‘By Jove! That’s wonderful. Jolly sporting of him – if you see what I mean?’
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CHAPTER 6
SO THIS IS WAR!
SQUADRON LEADER BIGGLESWORTH, in full flying kit, stood outside his Squadron Office, his eyes on the rolling cloud-scape overhead, his ears alert to catch the first ring of the telephone, the signal that would send his squadron into the air. Toddy, the Station Adjutant, was sitting beside it. He was smoking a cigarette, quickly, jerkily, often tapping it with his forefinger although there was no ash to shake off.
Outside, spaced at regular intervals, stood ten Spitfires, the pilots of each of the three flights grouped together, talking with apparent unconcern, but obviously waiting for something to happen. From time to time one would glance in the direction of the Squadron Office. An airman would have known at once that they were on vigilance duty, ready to take wing at a moment’s notice.
‘The Boche are a bit later than usual this morning,’ observed ‘Doc.’ Lorton, a war-scarred veteran of many campaigns who had just arrived to take over the duties of Station Medical Officer.
Biggles nodded. ‘Probably waiting to see what the weather is going to do. If it thickens up worse than it is I expect they’ll break into small units instead of coming over in big formations. I —’
The telephone jangled shrilly. Toddy snatched up the instrument. For a few seconds he listened; then, replacing the receiver, he turned to Biggles.
‘Strong enemy sub-units of bombers, escorted by fighters, approaching the South Foreland,’ he rapped out. ‘Height, twenty-two thousand; course, north-west.’
Steadying his parachute with his left arm, Biggles ran towards his machine. There was no need to warn the others. They, too, had heard the telephone, and were already climbing into their seats.
Settled in his cockpit, Biggles glanced behind him, His hand felt for the throttle, closed over it, and the Spitfire, followed by the three flights in squadron formation, roared into the air.
The cold light of morning grew steadily brighter as the squadron climbed for height. A stiff breeze sprang up in the west, hounding in front of it great masses of cumulus cloud, like colossal cauliflowers, gilded at the top, merging into indigo and purple at the base.
Below, the ground was still three parts covered by long grey blankets of mist through which the earth showed as a patchwork quilt of sombre greens and browns.
The squadron climbed steadily, the leader turning slowly towards the Channel, heading for a strip of blue sky which in one place split the cloud-mass. Entering the opening at sixteen thousand feet, Biggles began to climb more steeply, and presently emerged into a new and lonely world. Mile after mile of gleaming clouds, like masses of cotton-wool, stretched away to the infinite distance, where they cut a hard line across a ceiling of delicate green. Below the ten machines appeared ten shadows, each surrounded by a complete rainbow, racing at incredible speed over the top of the sun-drenched vapour.
As far as Biggles could see, his squadron was alone in the sky. For some time he flew on, still heading south, rounding fantastic pyramids of cloud that seemed to reach to high heaven; compared with them the Spitfires were like midges, drifting along the base of a snow-covered mountain range. He looked anxiously for a break in the cloud-layer, hoping to catch sight of the Channel, to confirm that they had reached it; but the clouds now formed an unbroken expanse, as wild and uncharted as a polar sea, a dividing line between the known and the unknown. Below lay home, friends, and safety; above, mystery, enemies, and death.
Deciding at last that he must have reached the coast, Biggles changed direction and began to fly on a course which he hoped would be parallel with it. His eyes were never still. Above, around, and below they explored the nebulous world, mile by mile, section by section, seeking the enemy machines which he knew must be there; keeping watch, too, for other Home Defence units that he surmised would also be hunting the same trail.
The squadron was now at twenty thousand feet, but the summits of the clouds still seemed to tower as far above as their bases were below. Sometimes Biggles turned his head to stare in the direction of the sun, pulling down dark goggles to shield his eyes, for the glare was blinding.
‘What’s happened to them?’ he mused, although he was well aware that if the enemy leader had sighted him first he would probably have taken cover in the cloud-bank. He peered forward through his windshield. Directly ahead lay a mighty mountain of mist, and he approached it cautiously, prepared for instant action, knowing that other machines might appear suddenly from the far side. A swift glance over his shoulder revealed the other Spitfires, still in position, like a school of dolphins in a silver sea.
Biggles, ever watchful, noted that the towering cloud fell away on one side into what appeared to be a cavity, and he edged towards it. Looking down over the side of his cockpit, he caught his breath as he found himself gazing into a hole, a pit of incredible size. Straight down for a sheer ten thousand feet the walls of opaque mist dropped into a vast basin, turning slowly from yellow to brown, from brown to purple, and purple to indigo. Ledges occurred at intervals in the precipitous sides, cornices that looked so solid, so concrete, that it seemed as if a man might walk on them.
So taken up was he with this phenomenon that for a moment all else was forgotten; then a movement far below caught his eyes and he knew that his quest was at an end. A number of machines — how many he could not tell — were circling round and round at the bottom of the yawning crater, looking like microscopic fish at the bottom of a deep pool. Occasionally one or more of them would disappear, sometimes to reappear, wings flashing faintly as the reflected light from above caught them. They were too far away for any distinguishing marks to be seen, but a sudden gleam of orange fire streaking diagonally across the void told Biggles all he needed to know. It could only be a machine going down in flames, which meant that a battle was going on in the dim recesses of the mysterious well.
Ginger, flying behind Algy in the leading flight, saw his leader’s nose tilt steeply downward. Instinctively his hand moved forward, and the next instant his machine was plunging earthward. It was an awe-inspiring moment, for the sensation was one of dropping into the very centre of the universe. Down — down
— down — he thought the dive would never end. The wind howled over his wings like ten thousand demons trying to bar his progress, but he heeded it not; he was too engrossed in what was happening below. Twice, as they roared down into the chasm, he saw a machine fall out of the fight, leaving behind a streamer of black smoke around which others continued to turn, to dive, and shoot. There were at least fifty machines there, he decided. He picked out one or two German bombers, but mostly the aircraft were fighters, Hurricanes and Messerschmitt 109’s.
A swiftly snatched glance showed him that the squadron was no longer in tight formation; it was beginning to break up as each pilot selected his opponent. He picked out a group of Messerschmitts that were flying close together and raced towards them; but they saw him coming, and scattered like a party of minnows when a pike appears. He picked one out and pursued it relentlessly, his guns grunting viciously in short bursts.
The enemy machine did not burst into flames, as he imagined it would; instead, it zoomed upwards, rolled on to its back, and then, with its engine still on, spun down out of sight through the misty floor of the basin.
Ginger jerked his machine up sharply, and then swerved wildly to avoid collision with a whirling bonfire that was roaring earthward. His nostrils twitched as he hurtled through the smoking trail. The next moment he was shooting again, this time at a Messerschmitt 110; but it was not to be so easily disposed of, for the pilot twisted and turned like a seal with a sea lion at its tail, making it diffrcult for Ginger to bring his guns to bear. It was the first big dogfight he had been in, and the thought uppermost in his mind was that he must inevitably collide with another machine sooner or later, for aircraft were all around him — Hurricanes, Spitfires, Messerschmitts, Junkers, Heinkels, all zooming and diving, banking and rolling in what seemed to be hopeless confusion.
Somewhat to his surprise he was not afraid. He was conscious only of a strange elation, a burning desire to destroy one of the enemy before he himself was killed — as he never doubted that he would be in the end. It seemed impossible that any machine could survive such an inferno. Yet, curiously enough, it did not occur to him to pull out of it.
He flinched as, something struck his machine with a force that made it quiver. The compass flew to pieces, and the liquid that it contained spurted back in his face.
Mechanically he wiped his face with the back of his hand, at the same time looking round quickly for his attacker. Strangely enough, the only machine he could see that was in a position to fire at him was a Hurricane. At such moments the brain works swiftly, and the scene was photographed on his mind; he even noted the squadron identification mark painted in white letters on the Hurricane’s nose. But he had no time to ponder the queer incident, for his attention was then entirely taken up by a sight that seemed to turn his blood to ice. Straight across his path a blazing torpedo that had been a Spitfire was going down vertically towards the bottom of the pit. A dark figure, with an arm flung over its face, emerged from the flames and leapt outwards and downwards. A white parachute streaked out behind it. The machine, almost as if it were still under control, seemed to swerve deliberately towards a Heinkel. The German pilot saw his danger and banked like lightning to escape. But he was a fraction of a second too late. The furnace caught the Heinkel fair and square across the fuselage. There was a shower of sparks and debris, then a blinding flash of flame as the tanks of the Nazi machine exploded. Locked in terrible embrace, the two machines twisted earthward and disappeared from view.
Ginger was beginning to find it diffrcult to think. The whole thing was taking on a quality of unreality that made his movements seem slow and strangely futile. He knew that his flying was getting wild and erratic. Above the roar of engines he could still hear the harsh snarling of multiple machine-guns, but who was shooting, and at whom, he had no idea — until something struck his machine with a crash that made him shrink more tightly into his seat. Looking back, he saw a Messerschmitt on his tail, and at the sight a wave of cold fury surged through him. With a speed that amazed him he whirled round. Unprepared for the move, the enemy pilot swerved, and overshot him. The next instant the tables were turned.
With a reckless abandon that he would not have dared to employ in normal moments, Ginger dragged the stick back into his thigh. The enemy aircraft floated into sight through the swirling arc of his propeller, and he plunged after it, guns spurting.
At such short range it was almost impossible to miss. One of the Messerschmitt’s wings seemed to float upwards; the fuselage dropped earthward, flame licking along its side.
For a moment Ginger watched, fascinated, as the pilot flung himself out of the cockpit into the dreadful void, his hand groping feverishly for his parachute ring. He watched the leather-clad figure turning slowly over and over, diminishing in size, until it was swallowed up in the mist, and then looked about him to see what was happening. He was just in time to see a swastika-decorated tail disappear into the side of the cloud. Then he was alone.
At first he couldn’t believe it. What had become of the Huns? Not one was in sight. Nor a Spitfire. Where, a moment or two before, there had been at least a score of machines, not one remained except his own. A feeling of loneliness came over him, and he turned his eyes upward to the blue disk at the top of the crater. He had a sudden urge to be there, for the sides of the chasm seemed to be falling in on him. Pulling the joystick back, he circled upward.
Reaching the sunny side, he looked round quickly, and was able to make out a number of black specks just disappearing in the distance towards the south. He did not follow, for he knew that he had very little ammunition left. Instead, he decided to return to the aerodrome for more.
Some of the other Spitfires were already back when he reached the aerodrome; airmen swarmed about them, refuelling the tanks and reloading the guns. As he switched off and jumped down he saw Biggles hurrying towards him.
‘What do you mean by hanging on by yourself after I had pulled out?’ demanded Biggles curtly.
Ginger blinked and shook his head. ‘I didn’t see you go,’ he blurted.
‘Are you all right?’ Biggles’s voice was suddenly tense with anxiety.
‘Right as rain. My machine is knocked about a bit I believe, but that’s all.’
‘Good ; I saw you putting in some nice work, laddie. You certainly gave it to that Messerschmitt.’
‘As a matter of fact, I believe I got a couple,’ claimed Ginger, wondering how on earth a man could be in such a mix-up and yet watch what his pilots were doing. ‘Did you see those two machines collide — pretty grim, wasn’t it?’
Biggles nodded. ‘I got that Hun — the one that nearly crashed into you. It put the wind up me. I thought for a moment he was going to fall on you.’
‘Have we lost anybody?’ asked Ginger anxiously.
‘I don’t know yet. Algy’s back — and Bertie.’ Biggles looked across the aerodrome to where two more Spitfires were just landing. ‘That makes seven back, anyway.’
‘I saw one of our machines going down in flames, but the pilot baled out — I couldn’t see who it was.’
Toddy ran out of the Squadron Office. ‘O.K.,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Everyone is accounted for. O’Hara baled out, but got down all right; he’s on his way home in a taxi. Taffy got his tail shot off, but managed to get on the carpet near Foxted. I’m sending transport for him.’
Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘Then we’ve done well,’ he declared. ‘Let’s slip inside and get some coffee. We can allow ourselves ten minutes; then we’ll get off again and try to intercept on the way home any bombers that got through.’ He turned towards the other pilots, who were standing in little groups comparing notes. Cupping his hands round his mouth he called, ‘Stand easy for ten minutes!’
He was walking towards the mess, upon which the other officers were also converging, when the drone of an approaching machine made him turn to see what it was, for as his own machines were all accounted for he knew it could not be one of them.
A Hurricane was coming in low over the boundary hedge, swinging a little as it glided on towards the buildings. He watched it curiously for a moment or two, and a glance at the wind-stocking showed him that the machine was coming in at an angle with the wind.
‘That silly ass will pile up if he isn’t careful,’ he observed casually to Ginger, who had remained at his elbow.
He had started to walk on again, but stopped abruptly as the Hurricane flattened out a good ten feet above the ground, and wallowed as if it were about to pancake.
‘Look out, Smyth — watch that machine!’ he called tersely.
The Hurricane lost flying speed, dropped heavily on its wheels, bumped, bumped again, and then swerved wildly as it ran to a standstill.
Before it had finished its run Biggles was racing towards it, followed by Ginger, Flight Sergeant Smyth, and several airmen. He swung himself up to the cockpit, took one swift look at the occupant, and then, straddling the fuselage, started to unbuckle the safety belt round the limp figure in the pilot’s seat.
‘Take it easy,’ he said to the Flight Sergeant, who climbed up to help him. ‘Ginger, fetch the M.O.... Gently; Smyth,’ he went on quickly as a crimson stain became visible between the pilot’s shoulders.
Together they lifted the wounded man to the ground, resting his head on a folded tunic.
Biggles dropped on a knee and bent low over the ashen face.
‘All right, laddie,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll soon fix you up.’ The stricken pilot did not answer. He smiled faintly. ‘Where are you from?’ asked Biggles.
‘From 701 — sir... Sergeant-Pilot — Graves. Tell... tell Squadron Leader Wilkinson — I tried — to get — back.’
