by W E Johns
To describe the combat in detail, move and counter-move, would be like cataloguing the moves in a game of chess, and as intricate; but by the end of a quarter of an hour neither had gained an advantage or given the other a reasonable opportunity for a coup de grace, although a lot of ammunition had been expended.
Biggles’s early impetuosity received a check when a burst of fire from his opponent went through the fuselage just behind his head, one shot actually grazing his helmet. After that he settled down to cold, calculated fighting. The opening stages took place well inside the British coast-line, but as it progressed the two machines drifted with the prevailing wind first to the Channel and then nearer to enemy territory — much to Biggles’s concern. However, he could do nothing about it. Banking, diving, and zooming, the two machines fought on, the rest of the world forgotten. Both pilots had opportunities to break away, but both refused to take them, preferring to see the thing through to the bitter end. More than once the machines passed so close that the pilots could see each other’s faces. The German, Biggles saw, was a clean-shaven fellow of about his own age, with long flaxen hair. He wore no helmet.
Biggles’s ammunition was running low, and he knew that at any moment it might give out, when suddenly came the end. The pilots found themselves facing each other at a distance of not more than a hundred yards. Both started shooting, the tracer bullets making a glittering streak between them. Biggles knew that collision was inevitable unless the German turned, for he himself had no intention of turning; not only would this be a sign of weakness, but it would be breaking one of the first rules of air combat. For this reason he did not expect the other to give way, either. He had actually braced himself for the crash when, at the last moment, the German lost his nerve and dived, passing underneath the Spitfire.
Biggles was round in a flash, expecting the Messerschmitt to come up behind him. But it did not. It was going down in an erratic glide towards the sea with stationary airscrew.
That the pilot was in difficulties was clear, and as Biggles tore down behind him he saw the reason. One of the German’s elevators had been shot away; the whole tail unit looked as though it might collapse at any moment.
Biggles did not use his guns again, although a finishing shot now would have been a simple matter. Instead, he watched the pilot pancake on the water. After that he waited only long enough to make sure that boats were going out to pick him up, and then headed for home to report the affair and put in a claim for the victory. He also wanted a fresh supply of ammunition.
He was greeted on the aerodrome by Algy, who informed him that Wilks had not improved his score.
‘Then he’s still one ahead of me,’ remarked Biggles. ‘I’ve still got time to even things up.’
‘If you can get another you’ll be quits,’ Algy told him. ‘Wilks won’t get any more today.’
‘Why not?’
‘He took on a Hun near Folkestone and the gunner nearly got him first burst. A bullet grazed his arm and the doctor has forbidden him to fly again today. His arm is in a sling, and he’s as sore as a bear.’
‘That’s tough luck,’ replied Biggles with genuine sympathy.
He turned to the Flight Sergeant who had come up. ‘Get some patches put over these holes.’ He pointed to the bullet holes in the fuselage. ‘Have her ready as soon as you can. Ring up the mess and let me know when she’s finished.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The work of repairing the damaged machine took longer than Biggles expected. Thirty bullets had gone through it; one had nicked a cable, necessitating a replacement. So it was late in the afternoon before he was in the air again in a final attempt to level with Wilks and, if possible, beat him. He had already put in six hours’ flying that day, which was enough for any pilot. He was desperately tired, but his anxiety to even up the score urged him on.
But it seemed as if he was to be out of luck, for although he scoured the sky in all directions for more than two hours not a single hostile aircraft could he find. For some reason or other the sky was completely deserted. Bored and fed up, he hung on until it was nearly dark, and in the end had to turn towards home without having fired a shot. As a matter of fact, he did not reach home. He finished his patrol some way from the aerodrome, and rather than risk a forced landing by running out of petrol, he dropped in at the first aerodrome he reached in order to pick some up. It turned out to be a night-fighter squadron, and such was the hospitality of the pilots amongst whom he found himself that he stayed on, and finally allowed himself to be persuaded to stay to dinner.
Having made this decision, he went, as a matter of duty, to the telephone, and rang up his own squadron to let them know that he was safe.
‘You’d better stay where you are for the night, sir,’ Toddy told him from the other end. ‘It’s getting pretty thick here, and it would be dangerous to try to get back in the dark. I’ll send transport for you. By the way, did you get another Hun?’
Biggles admitted reluctantly that he had drawn blank. ‘That’s a pity,’ commiserated Toddy.
‘Why — any particular reason?’
‘Yes. Wilks has just rung up. The whole crowd of them are coming over tonight — presumably to crow about their score.’
‘Is that so?’ replied Biggles slowly. ‘Oh, well, it can’t be helped. Send a car for me about ten o’clock.’
‘O.K., sir.’
As a matter of fact, it was nearly half past ten when Biggles got back to the aerodrome. He was still in full flying kit. He found the mess chock-a-block with officers, for Wilks and his Hurricane pilots, knowing that he was coming back, had deliberately delayed their departure until he returned. His entry was heralded by a derisive yell from the Hurricane pilots, and a chorus of protest from the Spitfire pilots.
‘What’s all the noise about?’ inquired Biggles evenly, as he dropped into a chair. ‘Why all the excitement, Wilks?’
‘We’re feeling a bit on our toes — and don’t pretend you don’t know why. Tough luck, you old son of a gun.’
‘What are you tough-lucking me for?’ demanded Biggles with simulated astonishment. ‘You, with your arm in a sling.’
‘Because you’ve now got to admit that Hurricanes are the real Hun-getters,’ declared Wilks.
Biggles frowned. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘I reckon we’ve proved it by getting four Huns to your three, in a straight contest.’
Biggles pretended to look enlightened. ‘Oh, so that’s what you’re all crowing about?’
‘It’s something to crow about, isn’t it? Come on, Biggles, you’re whacked, and you know it. Stop bluffing.’
‘Bluff? Me bluff?’ Biggles looked pained. ‘My dear chap, we don’t do that sort of thing — not in this squadron. But who told you that I’d only got three Huns?’
The first suspicion that Biggles was holding something up his sleeve was reflected in Wilks’s face. His smile faded. ‘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 dou
bts 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.
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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 Wilks, 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 into 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’re 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 —’
