Biggles in the Orient

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: Outward Bound

  2: Haunted Skies

  3: Biggles Briefs Himself

  4: Biggles Makes a Wager

  5: Suicide Patrol

  6: Rendezvous With Death

  7: Biggles Investigates

  8: Death Marches on

  9: Biggles Plays Fox

  10: The Blitz That Failed

  11: Biggles Sums Up

  12: The Oriental Touch

  13: Fresh Plans

  14: The Trap

  15: Biggles Makes a Call

  16: The Green Idol

  17: The End of the Trail

  Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Captain W. E. Johns

  Copyright

  BIGGLES

  IN THE ORIENT

  Captain W.E. Johns

  Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks for help in preparing these editions to Jennifer Schofield, author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd and especially to John Trendler, editor of Biggles & Co, the quarterly magazine for Biggles enthusiasts.

  Chapter 1

  Outward Bound

  With the serene dignity of a monarch bestowing a favour, His Majesty’s Flying-boat Capricorn kissed the turquoise water of the marine aircraft base at Calafrana, Malta, and in a surge of creamy foam came to rest by her mooring buoy, setting numerous smaller craft bobbing and curtsying in a gentle swell that was soon to die on the concrete slipways. Through the sparkling atmosphere of the Mediterranean dawn every detail of the rockbound coast stood revealed with a clarity unknown in northern isles.

  In the cabin, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, more commonly known to his friends (and, perhaps his enemies) as ‘Biggles,’ yawned as he stood up and reached for the haversack containing his small-kit that rested on the luggage rack above his seat.

  ‘I’ve had a nice sleep,’ he announced inconsequently, for the benefit of the several officers of his squadron who were pulling on shoes, fastening tunics, and the like, preparatory to disembarking.

  It was the same little band of hard-hitting warriors that had fought under him during the Battle of Britain, in the Western Desert, and elsewhere, and more than one carried scars as perpetual souvenirs of these theatres of war. That none had been killed was, admittedly, a matter of wonder. There were some who ascribed this to astonishing good fortune; others, to leadership which combined caution with courage. Other reasons put forward were superb flying, straight shooting, and close co-operation—which is another way of saying that sort of comradeship which puts the team before self. The truth was probably to be found in a combination of all these attributes.

  There were the three flight commanders: Algy Lacey, fair and freckled; Lord ‘Bertie’ Lissie, effeminate in face and manner, for ever polishing an eyeglass for no reason that anyone could discover; and Angus Mackail, twelve stone of brawn and brain, with heather in his brogue and an old regimental glengarry on his head. All wore the purple and white ribbon of the D.F.C.*1

  The rest were flying officers; like the flight-lieutenants they were all long overdue for promotion, but as this would have meant leaving the squadron (wherein there was no establishment for senior ranks, and consequently no chance of advancement) they had forgone promotion to remain in the same mess. There was ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, a waif who had attached himself to Biggles and Algy before the war, and who had almost forgotten the slum in which he had been born; ‘Tex’ O’Hara, a product of the wide open spaces of Texas, U.S.A.; ‘Taffy’ Hughes, whose paternal ancestor may have been one of those Welsh knifemen that helped the Black Prince to make a name for valour; ‘Tug’ Carrington, a Cockney and proud of it, handy with his ‘dukes,’ hating all aggressors (and Nazis in particular) with a passion that sometimes startled the others; Henry Harcourt, a thin, pale, thoughtful-eyed Oxford undergraduate, who really loathed war yet had learned how to fight; and ‘Ferocity’ Ferris, who, born in a back street of Liverpool, had got his commission, not by accident (as he sometimes said) but by sheer flying ability.

  This strange assortment of humanity, which could only have been drawn together by the vortex of war, formed Number 666 (Fighter) Squadron, R.A.F. More usually it was referred to in places where airmen meet as ‘Biggles’ Squadron.’ And this was the literal truth, for on the formation of the unit, to Biggles had been sent—with his knowledge, of course—pilots of peculiar temperament, men with only two things in common, utter fearlessness and a disinclination to submit to discipline—two traits that often go together. Nevertheless, by example, by the force of his own personality, and by a strange sort of discipline which appeared to be lax, but was, in fact rigid, Biggles had moulded them into a team with a reputation that was as well known to the enemy as to the Air Ministry. The result was a third common factor—loyalty; loyalty to the service, to the team, and above all, to their leader.

  ‘There’s a cutter coming out, presumably to take us ashore,’ observed Algy, from a seat that commanded a view of the port. ‘Now we shall know what it’s all about. I must confess to some curiosity as to the whys and wherefores of this sudden rush to Malta.’

  ‘It isn’t customary for an Air Commode*2 to turn out to meet new arrivals,’ remarked. Ginger. ‘There’s an Air Commodore in the stern of that cutter—I can see his scrambled eggs*3 from here.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a new regulation. Welcome to your new home, gentlemen, and all that sort of thing—if you see what I mean?’ suggested Bertie, brightly.

  A minute later the Air Commodore stepped aboard. He went straight to Biggles, who by this time was looking a trifle surprised at this unusual reception.

  ‘’Morning, Bigglesworth,’ greeted the Air Commodore.

  ‘’Morning, sir,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Why not?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ returned the Air Commodore. ‘The Higher Command seems to be particularly concerned about you. You’ll find breakfast ready in the mess. Better not waste any time—you’ve only got an hour.’

  The puzzled expression on Biggles’ face deepened. ‘An hour for what, sir?’

  ‘To stretch your legs, I suppose.’

  ‘But I don’t quite understand,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I was ordered to bring my squadron here. Naturally, I assumed it was for duty on the island.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ returned the Air Commodore. ‘My orders—by signal received last night—were to give you breakfast and push you along to Alexandria. The aircraft leaves the water in an hour. My tender will take you ashore. You might as well leave your kit where it is.’

  ‘Very good sir.’

  The Air Commodore walked forward to speak to the pilot.

  ‘Well, stiffen me rigid!’ exclaimed Ginger softly. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I don’t make anything of it. We’ve got our orders. Alex it is, apparently. Let’s go ashore for a shower and a rasher of bacon.’

  Eight hours later the Capricorn touched down in the sweeping bay of Alexandria. Biggles stood up and reached for his haversack.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Ginger. ‘There’s another brass-hat*4 in that cutter coming out from station head-quarters.’

  Biggles looked through the window. ‘You’re right,’ he confirmed. ‘It looks as though the Near East is littered with Air Commodores. Unless I’m mistaken that’s Buster Brownlow. He’s a good scout. He commanded Ten Group in the Battle of Britain.’

  The Air Commodore came aboard.

  ‘Hello, Biggles!’ he greeted. ‘Get cracking—you’ve only got an hour.’

  Biggles
started. ‘What, again?’

  The Air Commodore raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean—again?’

  Biggles laughed shortly. ‘Well, last night, out of the blue, I got an order instructing me to hand over my equipment and take the squadron by road to Pembroke Dock, where the Capricorn was waiting to take us to Malta. We made our landfall at dawn, after a comfortable trip. The A.O.C., Malta, pushed us along here. Now you’re telling us —’

  ‘That you’re not stopping. Quite right. There’s a Wimpey*5 on the tarmac waiting to take you to Baghdad, so you’d better get ashore.’

  ‘Do you happen to know what this is all about?’ questioned Biggles curiously.

  ‘I know no more than you,’ answered the Air Commodore, and returned to the motor-boat.

  ‘Join the Air Force and see the world,’ murmured Ferocity Ferris, with bitter sarcasm.

  ‘That’s it. The service is living up to its jolly old reputation, what?’ remarked Bertie.

  The sun was setting behind the golden domes of Khadamain, the most conspicuous landmark in the ancient city of the Caliphs, when the Wellington rumbled to a stand-still on the dusty surface of Hinaidi airfield, Baghdad.

  Biggles stood up. ‘Now maybe we shall get the gen*6 on this circus,’ he asserted.

  The cabin door was opened and an officer wearing the badges of rank of a Group Captain looked in. ‘Get weaving, you fellows,’ he called breezily. ‘A head wind has put you ten minutes behind schedule. You’re moving off in fifty minutes. Leave your kit where it is and stride along to the mess for dinner.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘What is this—a joke?’

  ‘Joke?’ The Group Captain seemed surprised. ‘Not as far as I know. What gave you that quaint idea?’

  ‘Only that it’s customary for officers to know where they’re going,’ answered Biggles. ‘This morning we were at Malta.’

  ‘Well, by to-morrow morning you’ll be in India,’ returned the Group Captain. ‘My orders are to push you along to Karachi. Someone may tell you why when you get there. See you presently.’

  Biggles looked over his shoulder at the officers who, with their kit, filled the cabin. ‘You heard that?’ he queried helplessly. ‘We’re on our way to India. The Air Ministry, having decided that we need a rest, is giving us a busman’s holiday. If this goes on much longer we shall meet ourselves coming back.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ muttered Tex.

  ‘Presumably none of us is supposed to get it,’ replied Biggles. ‘No doubt we shall though, eventually, if we keep on long enough.’

  The stars were paling in the sky when, the following morning, the aircraft landed at Drigh Road airfield, Karachi.

  ‘This, I should say, is it,’ said Tug confidently.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ murmured Henry Harcourt, moodily.

  The pilots stepped down. As they stretched their cramped limbs two jeeps came tearing across the sun parched earth. After they skidded to a stop a Wing Commander alighted.

  ‘’Morning Biggles,’ he greeted. ‘Get your fellows aboard and I’ll run you to the mess. Coffee is waiting. You haven’t long —’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know,’ broke in Biggles impatiently. ‘We’ve only got an hour, then you’re pushing us along to—where is it this time?’

  ‘Dum Dum. Our best Liberator*7 is waiting to take you. Say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you my foot,’ snapped Biggles. ‘We’ve been careering round the globe for forty-eight hours. I’m getting dizzy.’

  ‘I thought Dum Dum was a kind of bullet,’ grunted Taffy.

  ‘So it is,’ answered Biggles. ‘It also happens to be an airfield about two miles from Calcutta, on the other side of India. They say that in the old days the first dum-dum bullets were made there. I could use some, right now. Let’s go. Even if we’re condemned to chase the rainbow we might as well eat.’

  It was late in the afternoon when the Liberator landed its load of pilots at Calcutta. Biggles was first out, fully prepared to see a duty officer with a fresh movement order in his hand. Instead, his eyes fell on the last man he expected to see. It was Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, who, as far as he knew, seldom left the Air Ministry.

  ‘Hello,’ greeted the Air Commodore with an apologetic smile.

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘I should have guessed it,’ he said wearily. ‘Was all this rushing from here to there really necessary?’

  ‘You can decide that for yourself, after we’ve had a chat,’ replied the Air Commodore seriously. ‘Do you want a rest, or shall we get down to things right away?’

  ‘Is the whole squadron included in that invitation?’

  ‘No. I’d rather talk to you alone in the first place. You can tell your fellows about it later on—in fact, you’ll have to. But the Air Officer Commanding, India, and the G.O.C*8 land forces, are here, waiting to have a word with you. That’ll give you an idea of the importance of the matter that caused you to be rushed out.’

  ‘All right, sir. In that case we’d better get down to brass tacks right away. What about my officers?’

  ‘They can go and get settled in their new quarters. Everything is arranged. You’ve got your own mess.*9’

  ‘Then this really is the end of the trail?’

  ‘I don’t want to seem depressing, but it’s likely to be the end of the trail in every sense of the word. We’re up against it, Bigglesworth, and when I say that you can guess it’s pretty bad.’

  ‘So you send for me,’ said Biggles plaintively. ‘We were supposed to be due for a rest.’

  ‘I didn’t send for you,’ denied the Air Commodore. ‘The A.O.C.*10 fixed that with the Ministry. Admittedly, I mentioned your name. See what comes of having a reputation. Matter of fact, I wasn’t pleased myself at being hauled out here—I’ve been here three days.’

  Biggles turned to speak to Algy. ‘Take over,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll join you later.’

  Without speaking, the Air Commodore led the way to station headquarters, where, in an inner office, the two generals were waiting.

  ‘Sorry to rush you about like this, Bigglesworth, but there were reasons,’ explained the Air Officer, holding out his hand.

  Biggles nodded. ‘I’ve been in the service long enough to know that things don’t happen without a reason, sir,’ he said simply.

  ‘We brought you out here as we did, for two reasons. The first was speed, and the second, security. The fewer people who know you are here, the better. The Japanese High Command knows all about you, so if they learned that you were on the way out they’d put two and two together.’ A note of bitterness crept into the Air Marshal’s voice. ‘They might even have prevented your arrival. Of course they are bound to find out sooner or later, but by that time you’ll be on the job—I hope. Take a pew.’ The A.O.C. sat down, mopping perspiration from his forehead with a large handkerchief, for the air was heavy and hot. ‘Raymond, I think you’d better tell the story,’ he suggested.

  Chapter 2

  Haunted Skies

  With cigarettes lighted the four officers sat at a table that was entirely covered by a map of Eastern Asia.

  ‘In this war of wars,’ began the Air Commodore, looking at Biggles, ‘from time to time one side or the other is suddenly confronted by a new weapon, or device, which, for a while at any rate, seems to defy counter measures. The result is a temporary advantage for the side employing the instrument. Hitler’s magnetic and acoustic mines were typical examples. We have given him some hard nuts to crack, too. After a while, of course, the mystery is solved, but while it persists the Higher Command gets little sleep. Here, in our war against Japan, we have bumped into something that is not only lifting our casualties to an alarming degree, but is affecting the morale of pilots and air crews, and, indirectly, the troops on the ground in the areas where we are unable to provide adequate air cover.’

  ‘That’s unusual,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘Unusual but understandable, as I think you will presently agree,’ r
esumed the Air Commodore. ‘British fighting forces are rarely perturbed by odds against them, or any new method of waging war, provided they know what they are fighting against: but when a man is suddenly confronted by the unknown, by something that kills without revealing itself—well, he is to be pardoned if his nerves begin to suffer. As you know, as well as I do, in such circumstances weak characters try to find Dutch courage by ginning-up, drinking more liquor than they can carry; already we have had one or two bad cases. To put the matter bluntly, we have run into something very nasty, and to make matters worse, we haven’t the remotest idea of what it is. Of course, the Oriental mind works on different lines from ours, but not even our Eastern experts can hazard a guess as to what is going on. And now, before we go any farther, I’ll tell you what is going on.’ The Air Commodore stubbed his cigarette.

  ‘The trouble first occurred on our air route between India and Chungking, in China,’ he continued. ‘You’ve probably heard something about that particular line of communication. When the Japs crashed into Burma, and put the Burma Road out of commission, we had to find a new way of getting war material to China. Our answer was a new life-line up the Himalayas to Tibet, and across the Tibetan plateau to China. At first coolies did the work, manhandling the stuff on their backs. But it was slow. To make a long story short we developed an air service, one that kept clear of the northern extremity of Burma, and possibly Japanese interference. For a time all went well; then, for some unaccountable reason, machines failed to get through. Not all of them. Occasionally one went through on schedule, and this only deepened the mystery. Perhaps I had better make the point clear. Naturally, when our machines first started to disappear we assumed that the Japs had got wind of the route and had established an advanced base from which fighters could operate. And that may in fact be the case. But the astonishing thing is, pilots who have got through have invariably reported a clear run. They didn’t see a single enemy machine the whole way. That’s hard to explain. If the Japs know of the route, and are attacking it, it seems extraordinary that some machines should be allowed to pass unmolested. In a nutshell, our machines either got through untouched, or they didn’t get through at all. There was nothing in between. What I am trying to make clear is, the machines that failed, disappeared utterly. There has not been a single case of a pilot fighting his way through. In the ordinary course of events one would expect machines to arrive at their destination badly shot up, to report that they had been attacked by enemy fighters. But that has not happened. As I say, once in a while a pilot makes an uneventful flight. The rest just vanish.’