Biggles (34 page)

But, just as Biggles pulled back the canopy, a voice rang out.

‘Stay where you are — and gentlemen, please drop your guns!'

Framed in the hangar entrance stood a slender figure in a field-grey uniform. Just behind him were four other men with submachine-guns, German paratroopers. Biggles could see at once that he and his comrades had no chance.

‘Drop it, Tex!' he shouted, seeing the headstrong Texan was about to start a gun-fight that could only have ended in disaster.

‘O.K. Biggles,' Tex replied, dropping his Smith and Wesson on the floor and raising his hands towards the German. Ginger did likewise.

‘Very wise of you' remarked the German officer in perfect English, as one of his men retrieved the guns. ‘Into the office, please! The man you came to fetch is there as well. I'm afraid that we arrived before you.'

There were several Frenchmen in the little office, guarded by another German, and among them Biggles recognised Clairvaux, who greeted him with a bitter smile.

‘So the British did come after all, but just a little late, as usual.'

Biggles could have said a lot — but wisely held his tongue.

‘We did out best,' he said.

‘Enough of this!' barked the German. ‘I am afraid that you will have to wait awhile until our glorious German Army comes to occupy this part of France. It won't take long, but in the meantime, no tricks please. My men will keep you under guard.'

He barked an order, and two of the paratroopers entered the office and herded Biggles, Tex and Ginger up against the wall. They were allowed to sit and smoke, but nothing else.

‘Wonder what on earth old Algy's up to?' muttered Biggles out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He must have realised by now that something's up.'

‘Silence!' shouted one of the Germans, pointing his machinegun threateningly at Biggles.

But, as if in answer to the query, there was the sudden unmistakable roar of the Wellington's engines from outside, followed by the brisk bark of machine-gun fire. The roar grew to a crescendo and, seconds later, Biggles saw the bomber as it
flashed past the office window and its noise receded. He smiled at Ginger. Algy, at any rate, had got away.

After that the hours dragged. The guard was changed. At around two o'clock coffee was brought in, but nothing else, and Biggles kept wondering how much longer it would be before the full force of the enemy arrived. Obviously not long. From where he was sitting he could clearly see the far end of the runway, but nothing stirred and he was getting very stiff. Then one of the Germans shouted excitedly, ‘Transport planes! They've come!' and Biggles saw the silhouette of two three-engined Junkers 52s circling the airport and coming in to land. Ginger had seen them too, and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of weary resignation. It would not be long now before they would all be on their way to Germany, to spend the rest of the war inside a German prison camp. So much for their efforts to secure the Frenchman and his secret aircraft. A pathetic ending for their precious Special Duty Squadron!

But even as Biggles pondered this gloomy future, he heard another German shouting, ‘Spitfire! Spitfire!' Then he saw them too — six Spitfires in immaculate formation sweeping across that clear blue sky, closely followed by a Wellington. Algy and his comrades had returned.

The German aircraft didn't stand a chance, and were soon plummeting in flames. Seconds later, the Spitfires were coming in to land and the German guards were rushing out to meet them. In the confusion, Biggles, Tex and Ginger dodged out of the office and back into the hangar just in time to see the battle on the runway as a dozen Royal Marine commandos leapt from the Wellington and stormed towards them.

It was a grim encounter while it lasted, with the Germans firing from the shelter of the airport buildings. The German officer went down in a hail of bullets, and then it was suddenly all over and a figure with a Sten gun was standing in the hangar entrance.

‘Anyone at home?' it called.

And Biggles answered, ‘Algy! My dear old chap, am I glad to see you!'

‘Better get a move on, Biggles,' Algy said laconically. ‘There's half the blinking German Army up the road by the look of things. We can't stay long. What're we going to do about the plane?'

‘What do you think, my lad?' said Biggles quickly. ‘I'm flying it. You'd better see to the Frenchman. He's in the office at the back.'

Clairvaux and his colleagues made no objection now to coming back to England. He even seemed pleased at the idea that his plane would come as well.

‘Better the British than the Boche!' he answered when Biggles explained their plans. Luckily the plane was fuelled and ready. The hangar doors were pulled right back and, seconds later, Biggles was taxiing across the runway where he joined the waiting Spitfires of his Squadron. He recognised the unmistakeable features of Flight Lieutenant Lissie in the leading plane and raised his hand to him in thankful greeting. Bertie waved back, and then with Biggles in the lead the planes took off and headed home to England, leaving Andrey and its airfield to the Germans.

The fall of France a few days later started the period when Britain stood alone. For Biggles and 666 Special Duty Squadron, this meant that they were now committed to the Front Line in the battle for survival. There was a note of thanks from Raymond for their mission and, unofficially, Biggles heard that the irritable Monsieur Clairvaux had been persuaded to put his talents at the full disposal of the Allies, and that the British scientists were more than grateful for his aircraft with its revolutionary engine.

But once the Luftwaffe launched its mass attacks against the south of England from its fields in France, 666 became a normal fighter squadron and special missions all but ceased. The only one that did crop up occurred when Biggles had to go back to Amiens to pick up an important top French scientist who, like Clairvaux, was badly needed back in Britain. It was a straightforward enough affair — in theory — and not unlike the sort of work Biggles had done behind the enemy Lines in 1918. He was flying a Lysander — a heavy, rather gentlemanly plane after the Spitfire — which could almost land on half-a-crown, making it ideal for operations of this sort. He went by night.

Raymond's liaison had been excellent this time, and Biggles had no problem landing on a torch-lit field outside the town. Then came inevitable delays. The French Resistance group who
met him kept assuring him their man was on his way, but it proved a good three hours before he finally drove up, apologetic and explaining that the Boche patrols had held him up. Dawn was already breaking before Biggles got away, and he knew that in the heavy old Lysander he was a sitting duck for any enemy patrol that spotted him. He did the one thing possible — hedge-hopping all the way back to the coast, then trusting fervently to luck that the enemy would have other things to occupy their minds than a solitary Lysander — and, for once, they had.

For by now, the Battle of Britain had begun in earnest, and from dawn to dusk Reichsmarshal Goering's Dorniers and Heinkels were sailing in formation through the summer sky, guarded by attendant packs of Messerschmitts. And from dawn to dusk, Squadron 666, along with the other fighter squadrons along that hard-pressed shore, flew up to give them battle.

Their day began when their batmen pulled them from their beds at 4.30 a.m. for ‘dawn readiness', and Biggles was surprised that it was always Bertie Lissie, that fervent enemy of early mornings, who was invariably in his Spitfire first. Their routine was always much the same. Biggles was fanatical about the vital need for height superiority — another lesson he had learned the hard way years before — and once the Controller ordered take-off, they would fly upwards in formation to a height of 20,000 feet, then wait for battle.

They rarely waited long. At this height they would be on oxygen, and as soon as someone in the Squadron spotted the enemy below, he would report across his radio to Biggles, who in turn would give the order ‘Tally-ho!'. Then, all nine Spitfires would sweep down on the formation like avenging angels. By now they had worked out the best routine for dealing with them. The Messerschmitt was vulnerable from behind and when attacked, the German pilots would usually attempt a half roll before diving vertically to get away, but the Spitfires would be after them, and soon the sky above the Channel would be witnessing ferocious dogfights as Biggles and his Squadron battled for the kill.

Then, it was back to Base for breakfast — usually baked beans and fried eggs in the Mess — and when the aircraft had been checked, refuelled and their guns re-loaded, 666 would once again take off to await the next wave of enemy attack.

The Squadron had its losses. Early that August, Taffy Hughes ignored Biggles' constant warning — ‘beware the Hun in the sun' — and while taking on a Dornier was caught from behind by a yellow-nosed Messerschmitt. Ginger reported later that the last he saw of him was a black trail plunging to the sea. Bertie's plane went down in flames just two days later, but he managed to get out, and his parachute was spotted by the Deal lifeboat. He lost his monocle and got very wet, but was in the air again at six next morning. Biggles nearly copped it too, for by the end of August he was getting slightly ‘battle-happy', and was beginning to take risks he would have normally avoided. This may partially have been the effect of age, and it was around this time that the Wing M.O. had tried to ‘ground' him, saying that his nerves would soon be shot to pieces. Biggles avoided this, of course — he always did — but Algy began to get worried about him now, and it was Algy who ultimately saved his life.

They had been up twice that morning, and the Squadron had already taken on a massed formation of the enemy. All had gone well for several minutes as the Spitfires did their deadly work. They had had several kills and, more importantly, the German bombers had been forced to break formation, and several were already heading back for France. This was the point at which the Spitfires would normally break off their attack and return to Base as well, but suddenly across his radio Algy heard Biggles' voice. He can't have realised he was transmitting, for he was swearing furiously to himself, and then he started shouting that he'd ‘seen the Hun that got old Taffy' and was after him. Then the radio went dead.

Algy was out of ammunition but he immediately began to search the skies for Biggles. There was no sign of him. The German planes had disappeared, and Algy could see Tex and Ginger just below him heading back towards the English coast. Algy climbed higher. Still no sign of Biggles, so he kicked the rudder-bar and, climbing higher still, he made for France. It was a perfect August morning, and from this height he could see for miles — the glittering azure of the Channel, the twin white cliffs of Calais and Dover on each horizon, and a destroyer far beneath him like a child's toy as it made for Portsmouth. But although he scanned the skies, there was no sign of aircraft now. At this point, Algy had to take a chance. He knew the Messerschmitts had
come either from Belgium or from northern France. He wasn't certain which, but plumped for France and finally spotted what he sought. Far below him, just to the north of Calais, he saw a pack of half a dozen Messerschmitts encircling one lone aeroplane — a Spitfire.

There was a deadly duel in progress and he could see already that the British plane was trapped. From the way it was performing, he knew the pilot must be Biggles, but the odds against the plane were far too great. One of the Messerschmitts went down in flames, but even as Biggles dived past it, two other Messerschmitts were climbing high above him for the kill.

‘O.K., you blighters, here I come!' Algy muttered through clenched teeth, and shoving the stick hard forward, aimed his aircraft in a power-dive straight for the leading Messerschmitt. He cursed himself for being out of ammunition, but was counting on diverting the attack to give his chum the chance to get away. Down, down he went and practically blacked out. Then, over his radio, he heard one of the German pilots shouting,
‘Achtung, Achtung,
Spitfire!' It was a brave attempt, and had his guns been loaded Algy could have finished both Messerschmitts at once. As it was, the leading aircraft took evasive action, rolled and dived away, but the one behind it kept straight on for Biggles, and as Algy pulled out of his dive and banked, he saw behind him in his cockpit mirror deadly tracer-fire raking Biggles' Spitfire from the rear.

Algy was powerless, and saw the Spitfire's wing come off, smoke start to billow from its engine, and the fuselage twist in the beginning of a spin. He saw it all as if it was happening in slow-motion, and he told himself that Biggles must be dead. But then a miracle occurred. Just as the first flames were licking from the engine, the Spitfire's canopy slid back, a figure tumbled out and, seconds later, Algy glimpsed the white fleck of an opening parachute. It mushroomed out with Biggles dangling on the end of it, kicking his legs to straighten out the cords.

They were over flat green farmland, and Biggles hadn't all that far to fall, but even so, one of the Messerschmitts showed signs of coming back to deal with him — until Algy flipped his wings to warn him off.

‘No you don't, my lad!' said Algy softly to himself, making a tight turn round his cousin as he drifted down. He saw Biggles
wave — though whether in greeting or farewell, he wasn't sure. Then he was down in the middle of a field, the long line of the parachute spewed out behind him. Algy still buzzed protectively overhead and for a moment wondered what to do, but coming down the road beyond the field was something that made his mind up for him — an open German Army lorry with half-a-dozen field-grey soldiers in the back. There was no question now of leaving Biggles to their tender mercy. Instead, he banked the Spitfire, flattened out above a line of trees, and landed barely ten yards from where Biggles stood.

‘Taxi!' shouted Biggles, raising a gloved hand and grinning ruefully at Algy.