Biggles (33 page)

‘For Cripe's sake, Algy, can't you let a fellow be? I've not had breakfast.'

‘Can't help that,' said Algy heartily. ‘There's someone here to meet you. My old chum, Biggles.'

Bertie stretched out a languid palm which Biggles shook with obvious reserve and refused the offer of a drink. To start with, all the conversation, what there was of it, was made by Algy. Biggles made disapproving noises as his cousin rambled on about various characters he'd never met. Finally, Biggles felt he'd had enough and mentioned combat flying. At this, a transformation seemed to come over the recumbent peer.

‘Best plane in the world, the Spitfire,' he announced quietly.

‘You've flown one then?' asked Biggles with an air of disbelief.

Lissie nodded. ‘Actually I test-flew the prototype last year, and I've been flying ‘em ever since. Haven't had much chance as yet
to try it out against a German Messerschmitt, but had a crack at one in France a few weeks back.'

‘What happened?' Biggles asked, all prejudice forgotten now.

‘Out-manoeuvred the blighter every time, but he got away, drat him. I had a spot of engine trouble, but I've been working on it and it won't happen next time.'

For the remainder of the afternoon, Biggles, Algy and Bertie Lissie talked about the Spitfire — its range, its fire-power, its strengths and weaknesses. There seemed nothing about the aircraft Bertie Lissie didn't know, and by the time the three of them strolled off for an early dinner at the Carlton Grill, the final vacancy in the Special Duty Squadron had been filled.

That epoch-making spring of 1940 soon proved to be a time of furious activity for Biggles' squadron — No. 666 as it was officially designated now. At first they were based at Tangmere and it was there that Biggles did the preliminary work of what he described as ‘licking them into shape'. This included aerobatics, close formation flying, and days of intensive practice in techniques of combat flying. For while 666 was specially designed to take on any unusual assignments going, Biggles was also anxious to make it the crack Spitfire squadron in the R.A.F. He was a splendid leader and was inspired by the memory of the way that Major Mullen had built up his Sopwith Camel Squadron during those hard-fought months in France in 1917. Algy, of course, proved an invaluable second-in-command, and Bertie Lissie — oddities apart — soon showed himself to be an exceptional pilot, flying his aircraft with the dash and flair with which he had driven his racing cars before the war.

But there was little time for 666 to practise now. At the beginning of May they were in France as the German
Blitzkrieg
swept through undefended Holland and Belgium. They were fighting in the air as Calais fell, and during that fine May weather were in the thick of things as the German armies rumbled on through France. For a few days they were based at Amiens, and when it was threatened they were ordered back to Tangmere. It was from there that Biggles led them through the heroic days of the great evacuation from Dunkirk.

These were the days when the untried fliers in the Squadron proved themselves, whilst for Biggles, this ceaseless flying round the clock was like a repetition of his toughest days on the Western Front — lack of sleep, continual battles with the enemy, and wondering which members of the little Squadron would fail to return. But the personnel of 666 appeared to live a charmed existence. The only casualty was ‘Tex' O'Hara.

With the Dunkirk evacuation at its height, the Squadron was doing its bit to keep the Luftwaffe from the beaches, and Algy saw O'Hara's Spitfire set upon by a pair of Messerschmitts which had been machine-gunning the queues of troops waiting to embark. Tex took them both on, single-handed. This was against Biggles' orders, for he insisted all along that the flights must always stick together — and ‘Tex' had paid the price. The last Algy saw of his aircraft was a trail of thick black smoke heading to the sea. That night, the Squadron drank to ‘Tex's' memory — but two days later he turned up again at Tangmere, his left arm in a sling, but otherwise not much the worse for wear.

‘Sorry Biggles,' he exclaimed, as he reported back for duty. ‘Tried to be a bit too clever. Should have remembered what you told me. Guess I'm darned lucky to be here to tell the tale.'

‘What happened to you, then?' asked Biggles, trying to hide the relief he felt.

‘I fixed one of them, but the other one got on my tail and that was that. Some joker on a fishing boat pulled me out of the drink, and here I am!' He grinned. ‘They always say it takes a helluva lot to kill a Texan.'

‘Good lad,' said Biggles, who couldn't help admiring his spirit. ‘Get yourself patched up. How long before you think that you can fly again with that arm of yours?'

‘Tomorrow, if it's all the same with you,' said Tex. And at dawn next morning, as the Special Duty Squadron took off to battle in the skies above the Channel, Tex was back amongst them.

Biggles came through these weeks of battle splendidly. This was the life that he was born for. Fighting was in his blood, and much as he'd enjoyed the soft life and adventures of his years of peace,
he loved the challenge of the dedicated combat pilot — the knowledge that his life depended on his skill within the cockpit, the deadly game he played among the clouds, and the final headon confrontation with another human being set to kill him. Perhaps his reactions were a little slower now than in his youth, but if they were he didn't notice. It seemed that as a pilot he was in his prime — a tougher, more experienced and determined flier than he had ever been — and danger, far from ageing him, had made him younger, as it always did.

During this period he had heard nothing from the Air Commodore, and had had little time to think about him either, so that it came as a surprise when he returned from a patrol that second week of June to find the familiar figure sitting in the Mess. He was looking thinner and more lined than when Biggles saw him last, and responded wearily to Biggles' greeting.

‘Good to see you James. I hear you're flourishing. Excellent reports about your Squadron. Very proud of you, my boy.'

‘We've done our best,' replied Biggles modestly, giving that slightly nervous laugh with which he habitually responded to unexpected praise.

‘What are you drinking, sir?'

‘The usual Scotch and soda, if it's all the same to you.'

Biggles joined him, and as the two men drank, Raymond shook his head.

‘These are tough times, James, you know.'

Biggles nodded.

‘No need to tell me that, sir. But the French could still hold out as they did last time.'

‘I doubt it. No, we're really up against it. Churchill's in Paris at the moment, trying to put some backbone into their confounded government, but they're a miserable crowd. Not a real man among ‘em. No, James, I don't give much for his chances. The French are caving in. A week or two, and I wouldn't be surprised if the Huns don't occupy the whole of Europe. That's why I'm here, James.'

‘Really, sir?' said Biggles, who knew that Raymond wasn't one for social visits.

‘Rather a tricky job of work I've got for you, I'm afraid.'

Biggles nodded. ‘That's what I'm here for, sir,' he said.

‘Quite. Ever heard of a character called Clairvaux, James?'

‘The aircraft designer? Yes, of course. Met him a few years back when he was trying to get the Schneider trophy with that monoplane of his. Can't say I took to him.'

‘No, nor did I, but that's neither here nor there. Fact is, the blighter's been developing the plane since then and from the reports we've had it's pretty revolutionary. Something to do with superchargers for the engine. Double-Dutch to me, but our boffins say they'd give their eye teeth for a look at it.'

‘You mean they haven't seen it?' asked Biggles. ‘But I thought the French were meant to be our allies?'

‘Some of them are, James. Others aren't, and that includes friend Clairvaux. The Schneider business soured him and he's consistently refused to work with us. I won't say the man's a traitor, but he's resisted all our efforts to persuade him to disgorge his secrets. He's sitting tight. The French government's got other things to think about, and in a day or two it'll be too late anyhow — the Germans will have reached him.'

‘Where is he then?' asked Biggles quickly.

‘Just outside Saumur, along the River Loire. Village called Andrey. He's got a factory there with its own small airfield. According to Intelligence reports, the aircraft's there, and so is Monsieur Clairvaux. I want them both.'

‘That shouldn't be too difficult to arrange,' said Biggles thoughtfully.

‘In theory, no,' the Air Commodore replied, ‘but I must warn you that it could be trickier than it appears. Clairvaux himself could well prove difficult, and no one seems to know how near the Germans are. The Front's collapsing and the Huns are anxious to get hold of Clairvaux too.'

‘We'd better get a move on, then,' said Biggles.

It says a lot for Raymond's influence, as well as for the keenness of the Special Duty Squadron, that the operation went as smoothly as it did. Few of the Squadron had much sleep that night. Plans were discussed, maps studied, and shortly after midnight a twinengined Wellington touched down at Tangmere. As dawn was breaking, it took off again and headed south, with Biggles and Algy at the controls. Both knew the dangers of the flight, for the Germans had swept over northern France, and their aircraft
could control the skies ahead of them. Raymond at first suggested the whole Squadron as an escort, but Biggles had vetoed this.

‘Too risky, sir, and certain to attract attention. Frankly, I'd rather that we took them by surprise as we used to in the good old days. South to the Bay of Biscay, then follow the Loire, flying as low as possible.'

Algy had backed him up in this, and as the twin-engined bomber came in from the sea and followed the river towards its destination, it was at little more than roof-top height. It was exciting flying, calling for perfect judgment.

‘Nice flying, Biggles!' shouted Algy, as they seemed to skim a bridge by inches. Biggles grinned happily in reply.

‘Not such a bad old crate, is she Algy? How're the others?'

Algy glanced back at Ginger and Tex O'Hara, who were strapped into the rear crew-seats of the aircraft, and gave them the thumbs-up sign in greeting.

‘Ginger's looking worried, Biggles. Perhaps for his sake you'd better take her up a little higher. You're not flying Spitfires any more.'

‘Right you are!' said Biggles, easing back the controls and sending the Wellington up to a few hundred feet.

‘That better, Ginger?' he called out.

‘Thanks, Biggles,' Ginger answered. ‘This height's a little easier on my nerves.'

From here it was possible to see the signs of French defeat. It was another perfect summer day, and many of the roads were crammed with the cars and carts of fleeing refugees. A village beyond Nantes was burning and further on they saw two German tanks.

‘Just hope we're going to be in time,' shouted Algy grimly, and as he spoke there came the rattle of machine-gun fire and the Wellington lurched sickeningly. Algy glimpsed the grey and green fuselage of a Messerschmitt diving past them, and Biggles struggled with the controls. For several moments it was touch and go. A church tower seemed to loom ahead of them and Algy never knew how Biggles missed it, but then the Wellington came zooming up, and banked sharply to the left as the German plane came diving back for the kill. The Wellington was not constructed for this sort of flying, for Biggles was treating it like a fighter-plane. Few pilots would have got away with it, but by
that sixth sense he had developed in a lifetime's flying, he saved the heavy plane from stalling, and spun it round so that ‘Tug' Carrington, in the Wellington's rear gun-turret, was presented with a perfect target. Tug did his deadly work with cold precision, and his twin Vickers guns went barking out their tracer-fire as the German flashed across his sights. At such short range the German had no chance, and Algy glimpsed the Messerschmitt disintegrating in mid-air.

‘Nice shooting, Tug!' said Biggles quietly across the intercom. ‘Any sign of any more about?'

‘Seems to have been on his own, Biggles,' Tug replied.

‘Well, keep your eyes skinned from now on. We can only hope he didn't radio our position back to Base before we got him.'

The Wellington was soon back on course, and their luck held out. Saumur appeared, and a few minutes later Algy was saying, ‘Well, it looks as if we've made it, Biggles. The airfield's slap ahead. I wonder what we're going to find?'

Biggles brought the Wellington in to a perfect landing, and taxied up the tarmac to a hangar and a group of buildings. After the action of the previous few minutes it was a strangely peaceful scene, and the whole place seemed deserted. He switched off the engines and, unbuckling his safety belt, turned round to give his crew their orders.

‘Algy, old lad, you'll stay where you are, and so will Tug. I want to be prepared for instant take-off in the event of trouble. The rest of you come with me. We'd better get a move on if we're going to get this Monsieur Clairvaux and his plane before the Huns arrive.'

Biggles was the first one out, gun in hand. The others followed, and as they entered the hangar Biggles whistled softly beneath his breath.

‘Crikey, Ginger! What d'you think of that? Really worth coming for!'

There in the centre of the hangar, sleek as some enormous silver bird, stood a low-wing fighter plane.

‘So Raymond was right as usual,' replied Ginger. ‘Clairvaux had finished it after all. It's ready to be flown. I wonder where the blighter is.'

‘Probably hopped it,' answered Biggles. ‘Can't say I blame him. Give us a hand up. I'm going to have a look inside the cockpit.'