Biggles Cuts It Fine Read online

  Bertie looked at Algy. His expression was serious. “Ginger’s right, old boy. If these thugs get ashore we’ve had it; and Biggles too, probably. If they don’t knock us off it’ll be hard labour in Siberia for us, for the rest of our naturals. Our only hope is to stop them from getting on the island. Of course, it’s up to you, but that’s how it looks to me.”

  Marcel stepped in. “No. It is up to me,” he contended vehemently. “This is France. It is my duty to prevent invasion on French soil. These communists land everywhere, but here only over my dead body. I will raise the flag. If they shoot on that, they make the war, not us. Do you fight with me, or do I fight alone?” From his notebook he took a tiny French flag and held it aloft. “Voilà. Le Drapeau. Vive la France!” he saluted.

  “That’s the stuff!” cried Bertie. “Legally Marcel is right,” he told Algy. “This is as much a part of France as France itself. We’re foreigners. We’ve no say in the matter.”

  “Okay, have it your own way,” agreed Algy. “I suppose we might as well be shot here for trying to stop a war as go home and be shot for starting one. We get the dirty end of the stick either way.”

  “If we’re going we’d better get cracking or we shall be too late,” asserted Ginger.

  “Always the cracking,” said Marcel. “Bon. Let us make the crack, tout-de-suite.”

  They all set off at a run.

  Before they reached the gallery they could see the submarine, apparently feeling its way carefully towards the rocky coast. There were several men on deck. Ginger led the way to the entrance he had made and hurrying along the passage stopped at the first machine-gun. Without much difficulty he pushed out the protective dry-stone wall in front of it, exposing the target in plain view.

  Marcel seated himself behind the greasy Mauser. “I know this beast,” he announced. “I met him in the war.” He opened the lid of an ammunition box and, pulling out the belt, loaded the gun.

  “Regardez!” he cried, with intense satisfaction.

  Just what he intended to do he did not say; nor did the others ask him. He wasted no time showing them. Before anyone was prepared for it—and that included Marcel, Ginger thought—the gun was streaming a shower of lead. Apparently Marcel had failed to take a firm holding, for the bullets went all over the place, most of them flicking the water well in front of the submarine. The effect on those on deck was instantaneous. There was a rush for the conning tower.

  “ Bad!” murmured Marcel. Profiting from his trial, he took a firmer grip with the obvious intention of carrying on with the work.

  “Take it easy!” said Algy anxiously.

  Marcel fired another burst and this time did better. At any rate, bullets could be heard smacking on metal.

  “Bien!” murmured Marcel, and repeated the dose. This time he held his thumb down for so long that Algy warned him to go steady with the ammunition.

  “Zut!” answered Marcel. “There is plenty and we do not have to buy it,” he declared recklessly, and carried on.

  The air was filled with the reek of cordite and burning oil. The water jacket of the gun was smoking. Ginger put his hand near it and drew it back quickly. “She’s nearly red hot,” he announced. “There’s no water in the jacket. You’ll burn the gun out.”

  “It is not our gun,” was all Marcel had to say to that.

  There was no answering fire from the submarine, which by this time was turning away, gathering speed.

  “I told you,” claimed Ginger. “They’re not going to shoot their own guns to bits.” He looked at the rockets. “Pity we don’t know how to work them,” he said regretfully.

  “Don’t you start fiddling with those things,” ordered Algy curtly.

  They stood watching the submarine. It did not submerge, but travelling awash picked up speed as it retired.

  “Hold your fire,” Algy told Marcel. “You’ve done enough. They’ve changed their minds about landing. You’ve given them something to think about.”

  “Yes, by Jove,” said Bertie. “I’d like to hear what’s going on inside that beastly sardine tin. Let ‘em work that one out. Jolly good show, Marcel.”

  “Yes, he seems to have settled the argument for the moment, but let’s not crow too soon,” said Algy cautiously. “I’m all for leaving well alone.” He looked down at the iceberg that had delayed their departure. “There’ll soon be room for us to get through. Let’s go down and get ready to move off before any more snags crop up.”

  As they left the gallery and hurried on down the bill towards the bay it did seem to Ginger that the end of their troubles was in sight. Nothing that he could think of could stop them now. But within a minute he realised that he had forgotten one thing.

  “Hark!” he exclaimed, skidding to a stop.

  They all pulled up.

  Softly through the still air came the hum of a gliding aircraft.

  Ginger pointed. “There he is! It’s a Sunderland. It’s Biggles!”

  “Yes, by Jove, and he’s coming in,” cried Bertie. “What about the mine?”

  Algy let out a groan.

  With one accord they pelted on down the hill

  XIII

  OUT WITH A BANG

  WHETHER or not Biggles had seen them, or the submarine, they had of course no means of knowing; but he could not have failed to see the ice, or the flying-boat in the bay. This was confirmed by the way he was heading straight for the gap between the promontory and the berg, the exposed part of which was now nearly halfway across the bay.

  It was clear to Ginger that there was nothing they could do, whatever happened. It was too late to stop Biggles. Not all the waving in the world would have any effect. He would merely suppose, as Algy had done, that any signals they made were simply a greeting. The last thing that would occur to him was that there was danger in landing in the bay.

  There was this about the situation. The berg was now serving a useful purpose in that it covered most of the area suspected of holding mines, thus forcing Biggles to land along the line which, because they had intended to use it themselves, they had come to regard as reasonably safe. They would soon know, thought Ginger. He quite expected the submarine to start shooting, but nothing of the sort happened. Perhaps, with all the excitement, and the fact that the aircraft had arrived gliding, they hadn’t noticed it. The submarine’s own engines and its passage through the water would drown any slight sound that the aircraft made. But this was conjecture. All that mattered was, so far there had been no gunfire.

  The aircraft came on, engines idling and still losing height, straight towards the gap. Another ten seconds, thought Ginger, and the suspense would be over, one way or the other. He held his breath.

  Beside him the others were standing rigid, staring, thinking the same thoughts, no doubt.

  The keel of the Sunderland touched, slashing a long white feather in the surface of the water and sending bow-waves rippling. Nothing happened. It surged on, fast losing way, and ran smoothly to a standstill. A burst of throttle sent it on again until it was close in. Biggles’ head appeared.

  “Phew!” gasped Algy. “He’s made it. Let’s fetch him.” He ran down to the dinghy.

  Biggles was dropping his anchor. By the time he had done this the dinghy was alongside. The cabin door opened and there stood Biggles, regarding them with askance and a suspicion of annoyance. “What do you fellows think you’re up to?” he demanded. “I was ready to write your obituary notices, but I thought I’d better have a look round first.”

  “You told us to come here,” answered Algy.

  “I didn’t tell you to make an indefinite picnic of it.”

  “You’d better have the gen before you talk about picnics,” returned Algy. “Things here are all set to boil over. To give you an idea, it may interest you to know that you’ve just landed over a minefield.”

  Biggles started. “Are you kidding?”

  “There was no kid about the one I exploded. It blew me high and dry.”

  “Who did
this?”

  “Some scallywags in a submarine. It’s still about, so something may start at any moment. Ten minutes ago the crew tried a landing, but we beat ‘em off with machine-guns.”

  Biggles stared. “Where did you get the guns?”

  “Right here. This rock is a young Gibraltar. It’s no place to stand nattering. Let’s get out before some big stuff starts coming over.”

  “Wait a minute. I must get this clear. Are you telling me that this island is an armed depot?”

  Algy pointed to the Dog’s Head. “That rock is hollow. There’s a gallery stiff with guns of all sorts.”

  “I must look at this,” declared Biggles.

  “You can take my word for it. I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. Don’t you understand there’s a submarine hanging about? We’ve had a tough time. Why do you suppose we’re still here?”

  “I didn’t see the submarine.”

  “Then it must have submerged. It can’t be far away.”

  “If we go they may come ashore and dismantle everything.”

  “Okay. Go and look. But I’m telling you, this place is red hot.” In as few words as possible Algy narrated the events of the past two days.

  Biggles’ eyes opened wide as he listened. “By thunder! You have had a time,” he admitted. “We’ll push off. But first I must have a look at this gunnery outfit. It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

  “Ginger can take you up the hill,” suggested Algy. “The rest of us will stay here and have the machines ready for a snappy take-off. I’ve a feeling that we shall have to make one.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

  Leaving the others with the two machines Ginger paddled Biggles ashore and set off up the Dog’s Head at the fastest speed possible. On the way Ginger described how he had made his discovery.

  Reaching the objective they first looked at the sea, but could see no sign of the submarine.

  “She must have gone,” said Biggles.

  “Sitting on the bottom, more likely,” replied Ginger. “Come on.”

  Biggles whistled when he saw what was inside the gallery. He took out his pocketbook, made a quick sketch map and jotted down some notes. “We might as well get our facts right while we are here,” he remarked. “I think that’s the lot.” He closed his book. “Let’s get weaving.”

  They hurried out, and reaching the open saw the submarine surfacing about half a mile beyond the right hand promontory, heading in a direction that would give it a view inside the bay.

  “There she is!” cried Ginger. “She’s got teeth, and if she sees us she’ll use them.”

  “Run for it!” snapped Biggles.

  They raced down the hill.

  Those aboard the aircraft must have seen them coming and guessed what had happened, for by the time Biggles and Ginger had reached the bay the engines of both machines had been started. Biggles grabbed the paddle. Neither spoke. The danger was apparent. Both were aware of what was now certain to happen, and there was no need to talk about it.

  They reached the nearer of the two machines just as the nose of the submarine came slowly round the end of the promontory. It was still about half a mile away. Not, as Ginger realised, there was any need for it to come nearer. For the heavy armament it carried the range was short. Men were busy on deck and it could only be a matter of seconds before the guns opened up.

  Bang! A gun flashed and a shell screamed overhead to burst in a shower of broken rock just beyond the slipway.

  “Leave the dinghy!” shouted Biggles.

  Coming alongside Ginger jumped for the cabin. Marcel, who was waiting, pulled him in. He heard Biggles shout to Algy in the other machine. “Get off! Don’t wait!” Then Biggles leapt aboard and dashed forward. As Marcel slammed the door Ginger went after him. Through the side window of the control cabin the first thing he saw was Algy’s machine streaking for the open sea. As it tore on the submarine came into view, and from the activity on her deck it was obviously going to be a close thing. In fact, Ginger doubted if they would get off.

  Just what happened during the next minute or two he was not sure, for his view was partly obscured by flying spray. The submarine seemed to be turning slowly, presumably to bring its full armament to bear. Tracer shells streamed from a gun to make a white line across Algy’s tail.

  Biggles lifted his machine off the water. A machine-gun came into action. Some bullets struck the Sunderland. Ginger saw the gun that had been firing at Algy swing round to cover them, and he thought, “This is it.”

  It was, but not as he had imagined.

  With his eyes still on the submarine he saw a sheet of flame hurl a pillar of water high into the air. A strangled cry left his lips and he clutched at the side of the cockpit to brace himself, knowing that the blast must bit them; which it did, lifting the big machine as if it had been a scrap of paper. All he could think was: “ Bertie was right.” The scour of the rip tide must have shifted the mines, and the submarine had run foul of one of its own weapons. As soon as he felt that Biggles had regained control of the aircraft he looked out. The nose of the submarine, at right angles to the water and sliding down, was just disappearing. A tidal wave was leaping towards the slipway. Behind it a great fiat patch of oil was spreading over the dark water.

  But both machines were in the air now, together, Algy taking up formation behind Biggles. Twice they circled low, looking for survivors from the submarine, but the vessel must have been blown in halves and they saw none. In fact, but for the evil-looking oil stains there was nothing to show that, a minute or two before, a vessel had been there.

  Biggles turned away.

  “Are you going to land?” Ginger asked him.

  “No,” answered Biggles. “From our point of view, that’s probably the best thing that could have happened.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, it’ll be some time before the people who sent the submarine here will realise that it isn’t coming back, and that should give our people plenty of time to come out and have a look at this set-up. No doubt the same sort of thing has been going on elsewhere. When the enemy realises that his game is rumbled he’ll probably pack up. Meanwhile, we’ll get home.”

  Biggles set a course for Cape Town.

  The action taken by the Higher Authorities was much as Biggles had predicted, although he, having made his report to the Air-Commodore, took no further active part in the affair. He attended several Security meetings at high level. After that there was silence, and it was only after some time had passed that the Air-Commodore told him confidentially the upshot of the investigations.

  A joint British and French Naval Mission, accompanied by Marcel as guide, went to Hog Island, where everything was found just as it had been left. The guns were removed and the gallery blown up by French engineers, from which it may be supposed that the lonely island has reverted to its former purpose of providing a home for gulls, seals and penguins. The island being a French possession, the matter was of course left to their jurisdiction.

  Biggles gathered from what the Air-Commodore said that the nations of all the Western Powers owning islands anywhere had undertaken to make a thorough search in case the liberties taken with the Crozets had been repeated elsewhere. The Chilean government was tipped off about the likelihood of trespassers in the Magellen Straits. Whether they, or anyone else, ever found anything, Biggles never knew. Security silence was clamped on tight and not a word of the plot reached the newspapers.

  Marcel, at a later date, told them of one suspicious incident. A Russian whaler was seen working towards the Crozets, but finding itself shadowed by a French destroyer altered course and returned to the area allocated for whale hunting by the International Commission which exists for that purpose.

  All this suited Biggles and his comrades, who agreed that they wouldn’t care if they never saw the South Indian Ocean again.

  The Hydrographic Office put Algy’s lake on the naval charts, and accepted his name fo
r it—Lake Desolate.

  In conclusion it may be said that the unlucky Cockney castaway, Alf Robinson, on whose tragic experience so much had depended, recovered from his injuries, and later, changing his mind about the sea, joined the Royal Navy.

  THE END