Biggles in the Gobi Read online

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  FOREWORD

  CHAPTER I: VICTIMS OF OPPRESSION

  CHAPTER II: OUTWARD BOUND

  CHAPTER III: FENG-TAO TAKES A CHANCE

  CHAPTER IV: TRAGEDY AT NAN-HU

  CHAPTER V: AN AFTERNOON TO REMEMBER

  CHAPTER VI: GINGER WINS AN ARGUMENT

  CHAPTER VII: A LAND OF FEAR

  CHAPTER VIII: NO REST FOR ALGY

  CHAPTER IX: SHOCKS — IN THE PLURAL

  CHAPTER X: BAD LUCK FOR BIGGLES

  CHAPTER XI: COUNTING THE HOURS

  CHAPTER XII: UNWELCOME VISITORS

  CHAPTER XIII: CUTTING IT FINE

  MAP

  FOREWORD

  SOME regular readers of these stories have complained that Algy has of late been rather pushed into the background. This is to some extent true, but it could not be avoided unless Biggles was to be guilty of the folly of leaving himself without a reserve. In his capacity as Biggles’ second-in-command it would naturally fall to Algy to hold the fort in case an operation should go wrong, or Biggles become a casualty. In other words, it is not good generalship for a commanding officer and his second-in-command to expose themselves to the same risk at the same time, although on occasion it may be unavoidable.

  In the following pages we have a case in point. Readers must judge for themselves who took the greatest risk, Biggles or Algy. Anyway, it turned out to be an affair in which Algy found himself in charge, in the actual field of operations. The story is now told in the hope that readers will no longer feel that he is always left “holding the baby”.

  A word about the Gobi. The Desert of Gobi is the general term for the remote, sterile, inmost heart of Asia. The limits are still undefined, but it embraces roughly 300,000 square miles of land which nowhere approaches the sea. Most of it is shifting sands, gravel, rocky masses, or mountains which rise to a great height, the melting snows of which form rivers that, unlike most rivers which flow towards the sea, flow away from it to lose themselves in vast salt marshes. Over thousands of square miles nothing grows but a coarse grass, and a plant, the root of which yields the well-known liquorice. There is no railway. The few roads are mere tracks, deeply rutted by cart or camel caravans proceeding from one water-hole to another, and useless for motor transport. Like most deserts the Gobi suffers from extremes of heat and cold, which produce fierce winds that move the sand from one place to another.

  The land is sparsely inhabited by several warlike tribes, mostly nomadic, speaking their own languages and professing different religions. Until comparatively modem times this arid wilderness was a blank on the map, having been seen by half-a-dozen Europeans who, at their peril, entered from the west. China closed the door from the east. The country is dotted with ancient Buddhist shrines, cared for by priests and visited by wandering pilgrims.

  All the places named in the following pages really exist, including the Caves of a Thousand Buddhas. The first man to see this amazing shrine, which is of great age, was the famous Asian explorer, Sir Aurel Stein, in 1908. In the Caves he was shown by the guardian priest a secret library that contained printed books dating back to the year 868 A.D. — the oldest books known to exist. It was implied recently in an American magazine (which should have known better) that Sir Aurel Stein stole some of these books. That is untrue. It is correct that he brought some home with him, for no one on the spot could translate them. They are now in the British Museum. But he paid for them with a sum of money sufficient for the Abbot to develop the productivity of the oasis and build a guest-house for the use of visiting pilgrims, which had long been his ambition.

  W. E. J.

  CHAPTER I

  VICTIMS OF OPPRESSION

  WHEN Biggles and his police pilots filed into the Scotland Yard Headquarters of their Chief, Air Commodore Raymond, one glance at his face was enough to tell them that something unusual was in the air.

  “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” invited the Air Commodore, returning to his desk from the big wall map of the world before which he had been standing when they entered. “This may be a longish session,” he added, pushing forward the cigarette box. “I asked you all to come because I have had put to me a matter so complicated that you might as well all hear about it together. Let me make it clear at once that I haven’t been instructed to proceed with the case I’m going to tell you about. I have simply been asked if a certain project is technically practicable, and if it is, could it be undertaken by us. Not in an official capacity, however. You’ll understand what I mean by that presently.”

  “So it’s one of that sort,” murmured Biggles, cynically. “We do the job for the government and if anything goes wrong, the government has never heard of us.”

  The Air Commodore smiled wryly. “The security of this country is largely maintained by people who are prepared to accept those conditions,” he said quietly. “With the world in a state of chaos, ready to boil over, it is sometimes the only way. However, in this case the motive is humanitarian, not political.”

  “That’s something to be thankful for,” observed Biggles, reaching for a cigarette.

  “Frankly, in my opinion, the project is not what I call a reasonable risk, chiefly because, in spite of the popular romancing about magic carpets, the aeroplane, as a vehicle of transport, still has definite limitations. On the ground, and it must often come to ground, it can be both useless and helpless. But let me tell you what this is about so that you can judge for yourselves. If you say the prospects of success are no more than a forlorn hope then I’ll make a report to that effect. I want you to look at the thing from the purely practical angle and say exactly what you think.”

  “I always try to do that,” answered Biggles drily, “but as you may have noticed, it is usually the impractical things that we have pushed on to us.”

  “You needn’t tell me,” agreed the Air Commodore sadly. “But let us get down to it. In this case, the section of the world with which we are concerned is China, and China is a hefty slice of the earth’s surface. To be more precise, it occupies about four million square miles. The actual spot that is worrying us is just about in the centre of Asia, more than a thousand miles from the nearest sea—literally the back of beyond, as you might say. The first difficulty that arises is the political aspect, for the days when a man could wander at will over the face of the globe are finished. China is a Republic. The present government is Communist. That doesn’t mean that every Chinaman is a Communist, any more than everyone in Europe behind the Iron Curtain is a Communist. China, is, if you like, behind a bamboo curtain, inasmuch as Russia is in and we are out. We recognise that. After all, China is an ancient land that has had many ups and downs, and what really goes on behind the impassive faces of its present rulers, no European could guess. We are not at war with China, so legally we have as much right there as the Soviet Union. I said legally. In practice it doesn’t work out that way. Soviet propaganda has inflamed many of the Chinese against us; but to suggest that after many years of honest trading every Chinaman hates us would be absurd. We still have many friends there, although at the moment, with the Reds in power, they would be foolish to allow that to be known. The result is, in this latest revolution, a great many Western Europeans have been treated abominably, among the greatest sufferers being the missionaries and doctors who have devoted their lives to the improvement of conditions in the more backward parts of the country. This isn’t a new story. Missionaries were the first to push into the heart of the country which up to a hundred years ago was practically unknown. Very fine men they were, too. Most of them lost their lives sooner or later. Now history is repeating itself.

  “When the crash came some got out. Others stayed. We know that many of these have b
een brutally murdered. The condition of those still alive is something not nice to think about. Their ultimate fate is bound to be a miserable death. There is nothing we can do about it—or so it seemed until recently—for we had no idea where they were, and as I said at the beginning, China is a big place.”

  “I gather you now have some information?” put in Biggles.

  “Yes. Several of these unfortunate people are still alive, having been smuggled—if I can use that word—by friends into the remote heart of the country. Of course, they may all be dead by now, for the man who brought the news, a Chinese priest, was months getting to us. He had to cover, on foot, in appalling conditions, about fifteen hundred miles. He came, he said, to pay a debt. A missionary, one of the refugees, had once saved his life, at the risk of losing his own, from some brigands. These wretched Europeans have no hope of ever getting out. Apart from the likelihood of their being recognised and murdered they couldn’t do the journey. They have practically no food and they couldn’t get any on the way. Food, as we understand it, where they are is practically non-existent at the best of times. So as things stand, even if they are not betrayed, they will stay where they are until they die—unless....”

  “Unless someone goes to fetch them out.”

  “Exactly.” After a pause the Air Commodore went on. “There’s only one sort of vehicle capable of making the journey—an aeroplane. The absence of roads knocks out any other form of mechanical transport.”

  “What is the great difficulty about fetching them if you know where they are?” queried Biggles.

  “There are several. First, there is the distance to be covered without being seen by hostile eyes and intercepted. Having succeeded in that, the actual place must be located. After flying a compass course for more than a thousand miles over country that all looks alike, that would not be easy. Then, to cap all, there is the hazard of getting down on unsurveyed ground knowing that a crack-up, if not serious in itself, would result in the rescue party being in the same hopeless plight as the people they were trying to rescue.”

  “What about the fellow who brought the news? Where is he now?”

  “In Hong Kong.”

  “Does he want to go back? I’m thinking of a guide.”

  The Air Commodore shrugged. “He might go. He could be asked.”

  “Who was he exactly?”

  The Air Commodore referred to the docket on his desk. “A Chinese priest named Feng-tao, who was making a pilgrimage to Lhasa when he halted at the sanctuary and saw who was there.”

  “I take it that as these people of ours have to eat, they are being looked after by friends?”

  “Yes, friendly Chinese.”

  “How many refugees are there?”

  “There were eleven when the man left but others might arrive.”

  Biggles grimaced. “Quite a crowd. Are they all British?”

  “No. Many countries had missionaries and doctors—the two things often go together—working in China. According to the particulars I have here there are six British, four men and two women. The others are, one American, one Swede, one Dutch, a Frenchman and a Swiss. We have the names of some of them. Most of these people have spent years in the country so they know the languages and customs; but that alone isn’t enough to get them out.”

  “You spoke just now of a sanctuary. Are these people in a temple?”

  “Something of the sort. Did you ever hear of the Caves of a Thousand Buddhas?”

  “No. That’s a new one for me.”

  “Well, the place is pretty well known, although as it is practically inaccessible, few Europeans have seen it. It consists of a cliff honeycombed with innumerable caves, most of them interconnected and all wonderfully painted or decorated with images of Buddha. The whole place is artificial and of great age. It is believed that there are still secret recesses that no white man has ever seen. These particular caves, for there are many similar shrines in Central Asia, were first made known by the explorer, Sir Aurel Stein, in 1908. He came upon them when travelling from India to China. There is a guardian priest in charge. But this is not the actual place where the refugees are hiding. There is a similar shrine in the same region.”

  “What particular region are you talking about?”

  “It’s near Tunhwang. You’ll find it on the map. It’s a town near the junction of Sinkiang and Mongolia, sometimes called in the flowery language of the country, The Gateway to the Terrible Desert of Gobi. Some twenty miles southward there is an oasis named Nan-hu. It’s on a stream called the Tang River. The Caves with which we are concerned are in a cliff that overlooks the stream.”

  “Sounds a bit vague.”

  “Of course it’s vague. In such a country it couldn’t be otherwise. There isn’t a road anywhere near. The nearest track worth calling a road is about a hundred miles to the north. Look for Ansi on the map and you’ll find it on the one road that marches across Asia to Europe, the old Silk Road, probably the oldest road in the world, and certainly the longest, for it wanders a quarter of the way round the globe. For thousands of years this road was no more than the usual track used by pilgrims and merchant caravans. Now the Russians have given it some sort of a surface and call it The Red Highway. Over it roll convoys carrying war stores to Korea. We understand that the ancient hostelries have been replaced by barracks and refuelling stations, with telephones and radio. Russian planes follow the road so you’d better keep clear of it. Of course, the whole zone is under Soviet influence.”

  “You mean there are airfields?”

  “Yes. But as far as we know there is nothing nearer to the Caves than Hami or Suchow, both about two hundred miles away. They’re no use to you.”

  Biggles smiled. “I wasn’t thinking of using them.”

  The Air Commodore referred again to the docket. “I have here all the information available. Someone has been very thoroughly into the position, gleaning a lot of interesting details from the people who managed to get home when they saw what was coming. For instance, there are two or three landmarks. First, there is the Tang River. Then, a little way off, there is another famous rendezvous for pilgrims known as the Lake of the Crescent Moon. This is a small lake of intensely blue water lying among the dunes of sheer desert—something of a phenomenon. Moreover, near the lake, an inspired priest has improved the scenery by planting a line of poplars. So apart from the unique shape of the lake, the trees, where there are no other trees for miles and miles, should be outstanding. This lake, you understand, is, quite close to Nan-hu, which, as I think I told you, is the place where our people are hiding. They are being taken care of in the guest-house by a saintly man who, unless he has been removed by the Russians, is well disposed towards us. I mention these details in passing in case you should ever find yourself there. There is only one other landmark near Nan-hu, and that is a small disused temple with a ruined tower and a crypt below. It should be possible to see it from the air.”

  “Where actually are the Caves?”

  “They are in the cliff that rises up from the stream. The name of the guardian of this place, by the way, is Ching-fu. He must be taking risks looking after our people, who, apart from anything else, must be straining his frugal resources to the utmost. Of course, by the time you get there, if you decide to go, the man, and the little guest-house in which he lives, may have disappeared.”

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “Is that all?”

  “Well, that’s the main outline, enough to give you an idea of what we’re asked to tackle. Naturally, the government would like to rescue these people if it’s humanly possible; but they’re not prepared to plunge the country into another war to achieve that. The question is, is a rescue attempt a feasible proposition?”

  “You’re asking me?” said Biggles quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me get this clear. The Caves are actually in the Chinese Republic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neither we, nor Russia, are at war with China, or with ea
ch other, so strictly speaking we have as much right in China as the Russians.”

  “Strictly speaking, yes. But for all practical purposes, no. We haven’t the right to fly over China without permission.”

  “Russian planes are flying across China.”

  “No doubt they have permission since they are providing the Chinese with certain things they require, such as money and munitions. It would be a waste of time for us to request such facilities. Even if China said yes, the Russians would say no, and at the moment the Russians are calling the tune. Even if the Russians agreed, would you care to fly an unarmed machine through their fighters?”

  Biggles smiled bleakly. “Not unless I was prepared to commit suicide.”

  “That’s what I thought. So you see, officially the government can do nothing. But of course,” went on the Air Commodore slowly, “if a private individual tried to fly across China it would be a different matter altogether. The government could pretend to know nothing about it. Don’t frown. That’s how things are done nowadays. But even in such circumstances an incident might lead to trouble. Things in the Far East are so critical that it needs only a spark to start a conflagration.”

  The Air Commodore’s eyes were on Biggles’ face. “Well, what do you think about it?”

  “Is there any desperate urgency about a decision?”

  “No, although obviously every day’s delay is bound to make matters more serious for the refugees.”

  Biggles picked up a ruler and a large magnifying glass from the table and walked over to the map that covered the wall. Standing close, he studied it for some time in silence, occasionally using the ruler to plot courses or measure distances. Then he said: “The nearest point from which we might be allowed to operate seems to be Dacca, in Pakistan. It’s almost directly south of the objective.”

  “Quite right,” agreed the Air Commodore. “That would mean flying over the Himalayas and Thibet—the so-called Top of the World.”