Spitfire Parade Part 15

'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 trespa.s.s 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 -'

'Yes,' put in Wilks, 'he has. And now, at last, he's found her.'

Biggles started. 'What do you mean ? ' he cried sharply.

Wilks stared into the fire. He and I ran into a bunch of Messerschmitts this afternoon.

We got three of them. Then they got him in flames. He jumped clear, from twenty thousand without a parachute.'

There was silence for a little while. Then Biggles looked at the clock. 'Well, we're on early in the morning, so I think it's time we were getting to bed,' he suggested.

CHAPTER 13.

BERTIE PICKS THE LOCK.

BIGGLES was in conference with his three Flight Commanders when the sound of an approaching aero-engine lined his forehead with a puzzled frown. Had it been the deep-throated roar of a Spitfire engine it would have occasioned no surprise; but in comparison it was a gentle purr, little more than the hum of a two-stroke motor-cycle engine.

Biggles broke off in what he was saying and turned to the window. What the d.i.c.kens is this coming?' he muttered.

'Tiger-Moth,' murmured Algy, as the aircraft skimmed over the aerodrome boundary with the obvious intention of landing.

The wrinkle in Biggles's brow deepened. 'What on earth's it doing here?'

Chappie from a training school, doing a cross-country, lost his way,' opined Bertie Lissie. When I was instructing I once had a pupil land at Aberdeen thinking he was at Bristol. By Jove, you should have seen his face!'

The Moth taxied up to the building and two officers alighted. One, evidently the pilot, remained near the machine; the other made off towards the Squadron Office.

Biggles groaned. 'It's Raymond,' he observed. That means trouble. What does he want now, I wonder?' He saluted, and the others stood to attention as the air officer entered.

Air Commodore Raymond shook hands with the a.s.sembled officers, a ghost of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth at the expression on Biggles's face.

'You *don't seem particularly pleased to see me,' he remarked, a hint of banter in his voice.

'You wouldn't expect me to be shrieking with joy, sir, would you?' returned Biggles evenly. 'I'm no thought-reader, but I've come to know that when you turn up, something, somebody, somewhere -'

'Yes yes. I know all about it,' interrupted the Air Commodore blandly. 'That's the penalty for being so efficient, Bigglesworth. But this is a comparatively easy matter quite a simple little job.'

Biggles pa.s.sed his cigarette case. 'It will be interesting, sir, to hear your idea of a simple job. How about these officers? Can they stay or shall I ask them to leave us?'

The Air Commodore lit a cigarette and sat in a chair Biggles had pulled out for him.

They can stay. There's no need to adjourn the conference. It won't take me long to say what I have to say.'

Go ahead, sir.'

The air officer thought for a moment or two, as if weighing his words. 'Well, I may as well be frank,' he said bluntly. 'I want somebody to go to France.'

'What, again!' cried Biggles.

'Oh, it isn't as bad as all that,' went on the Air Commodore quickly. 'It's merely a matter of taking a man over and bringing him back.'

Biggles eyed the Air Commodore suspiciously. 'Just as simple as all that,' he murmured, with a trace of sarcasm.

'Well er not exactly, admitted Raymond. 'Here are the details. You know the ca.n.a.l that runs from Arras to Abbeville? It's a real ca.n.a.l that is to say, there are locks at intervals.' 'Yes, sir, I know it perfectly well.'

Good. We've just received information that at this moment a convoy of no fewer than twenty barges is proceeding along it. They're loaded with bombs, which are on their way to the aerodrome at Abbeville for the bombing of London. I sent a machine over this morning to take a photograph, and the print shows the convoy eighteen miles north of the village of Bonner. We know what time they left Arras, so provided they maintain the same rate of progress and there's no reason to suppose otherwise a simple calculation tells us that they should reach the lock near the village of Bonner at nine o'clock tonight.'

'And you want somebody to lay an egg on them?' put in Biggles prematurely as it happened.

The Air Commodore shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Bombing is not always accurate. The ideal thing would be to blow up the lock with a charge of explosive just as the barges are pa.s.sing through it; that would not only destroy the barges, the bombs, and the lock, but the resultant flood would inundate enemy aerodrome Number 14. Further, it would generally upset the Boche lines of communication. It's an opportunity that might not occur again for a long while, so we must make absolutely sure of our mark, and to that end we are going to some pains to ensure success. We've decided to blow up the lock.

The work will be done by one of our agents, who has recently volunteered for espionage work.'

'What nationality is he?' asked Biggles suspiciously.

'That's something we needn't discuss. What does it matter? Of course, he isn't British.

All we need is a pilot to take him over he'll do the rest.'

'But that means using a two-seater machine,' remarked Biggles. Why come to me? I know some two-seater pilots -'

'Not so fast,' protested the Air Commodore. 'We need a man who has done this sort of thing before, and one who knows every inch of the ground. Naturally I came to you first. You can refuse if you like. I wouldn't order a man to do a show like this; it's essentially a mission for a volunteer.'

Biggles smiled wanly. 'All right, sir. I don't think we need dwell on that. If you think I'm the man for the job I'll have a shot at it. What about a machine, though?'

'There's one outside. I flew down in it in order to leave it here.'

Biggles surveyed the Moth through the window without enthusiasm.

'There are several possible landing-grounds on both sides of the ca.n.a.l near Bonner,' went on the Air Commodore. 'All you have to do is take our man over, land, wait for him to do the job, and then bring him back.'

'I'd rather take one of my own fellows, if you don't mind; somebody I can trust -'

'No, this man of ours is all right. He needs experience. As a matter of fact, he lived near the place for years, so it's hard to see how he can go wrong. He'll be here at eight-fifteen sharp. Make a good job of this and I won't worry you again for a bit. I may not be able to get along this evening so I'll wish you luck now. Can you find me transport to take me and my pilot to the station?'

Biggles made the necessary arrangements by phone, saw the Air Commodore on his way, and returned to the others.

After he had gone Biggles regarded his Flight Commanders whimsically. 'Take my tip and never volunteer for anything,' he said sadly. 'I did once, in a rash moment, and I've been doing it ever since.' He glanced at the clock. We may as well wash out until after lunch.'

Bertie opened the door. His dog, Towser, which had evidently been waiting outside, shot into the room exhibiting those extravagant manifestations of joy in which a dog in-dulges after it has been separated from its master. Biggles, who was on his way to the door, side-stepped to avoid the animal, and stumbled; he made a grab at the desk to save himself, missed it, and fell heavily, but broke his fall to some extent with his right hand.

It was one of those accidents that happen in a flash. He got up immediately, a spasm of pain twisting his lips. Holding his wrist he turned to Bertie.

'How many times have I got to tell you to keep that dog of yours under control?' he said curtly. 'I know he didn't mean any harm, but -' He broke off, examining his wrist.

'By Jove! I say, you know, I'm most frightfully sorry, sir,' stammered Bertie, dropping his monocle in his agitation. 'That was a bit thick. I've told the little rascal not to do that sort of thing.'

'He pays about as much attention to you as you do to me,' snapped Biggles.

Bertie looked pained.

Biggles regarded him reflectively. 'You know, Bertie, there are times when I find myself wondering if you're a bigger fool than you look, or look a bigger fool than you are.'

'I say, sir, that's a bit steep absolutely vertical in fact. After all, Towser's only a pup.

When I was in India there was a chappie who kept a tiger -'

'I hope it bit him,' cut in Biggles coldly.

Matter of fact, it did.'

'Fine. The animal evidently had some sense.'

Bertie subsided.

Algy was the first to realize the significance of the accident, probably because he was looking at Biggles's wrist, which was already beginning to swell.

'That settles any question of your going to France tonight,' he observed quietly.

There was dead silence for several seconds while Biggles examined his wrist, feeling it gingerly.

'Ye've sprained it,' put in Angus Mackail.

'Do you think so?'

Isla doot of it.'

'You'd better see the M.O.,' suggested Algy seriously.

Biggles bit his lip as he tried to close his fingers. 'This is a nice business,' he muttered. '

What am I going to tell Raymond?'

Bertie's face lighted up. 'I shall have to take the chappie over,' he declared.

'I'll go and see what the M.O. has to say about it,' decided Biggles. It may not be as bad as we think.'

But the M.O. soon settled any doubts on that score. He bound up the wrist and put Biggles's arm in a sling.

'There you are, my boy,' he said cheerfully; 'you can put any idea of flying out of your head for a fortnight - at least. Those are my orders.'

Biggles did not argue, knowing that the doctor was right. I'll do the job tonight,' offered Algy as they all walked on to the mess.

'I'll go myself,' declared Angus.

'No fear. Absolutely no,' protested Bertie. 'I mean to say, after all, Towser's my dog, and all that sort of thing, if you get my meaning.'

'Do you know the country?' inquired Biggles.

'Not half! Why, dash it all, I did threee months on the aerodrome at Abbeville before the Frenchies went wallop. I know the place better than the local rabbits.'

'Let's toss for it,' suggested Algy.

'No, I think Bertie's right,' concluded Biggles. 'The only alternative to ringing up Raymond and telling him that I can't do the job is for somebody else to go, and I think it's Bertie's pigeon. It was his dog that did the damage, and what is more important, he knows the country - or he should.'

'Every jolly old tree,' confirmed Bertie. We'll be back in a couple of jiffies.'

'I hope you're right,' murmured Biggles. 'Very well, let's leave it at that.'

At a quarter past eight he was on the tarmac with Bertie, waiting for the agent who was to do the actual work of blowing up the lock. He had decided that if Air Commodore Raymond had turned up he would have to confess the truth, otherwise he would say nothing. He carried a short leather coat over his arm for the sake of appearance. The sun had already set, and it was an ideal night for the work: moonlight, but with sufficient cloud to provide cover should it be needed.

'You've got a gun, I suppose?' he inquired.

Bertie tapped his pocket. 'You bet I have.'

A moment later a car drew up and two men got out. One was an officer whom Biggles did not know - evidently a member of the Intelligence Staff; the other was a small, middle-aged, nervous-looking man dressed in the blue dungarees of a French peasant.

The officer came over to Biggles. 'Here we are,' he announced. 'This is your man. Are you ready?'

'Waiting,' replied Biggles laconically, looking at the agent, who was carrying a small, square, but obviously heavy parcel.

'In that case there's no need for me to hang about. I'll get along. You might give Raymond a ring when you get back to let him know how things went off. We'll send a pilot down to collect the machine and our man later on.'

Good enough.'

The officer got back in his car and drove away.

The agent spoke. 'We go, eh?' he said in English; but with a strong foreign accent.

Biggles frowned, for he had caught the reek of brandy. He said nothing, but he suspected that the agent had been fortifying himself for his ordeal. It was a bad sign.

Bertie addressed the man. I say, old chap, how long are you likely to be away from the machine?'