Biggles In Borneo Page 14

  As the aircraft drew near Ginger gave a sudden cry. “Look at the ground!” he muttered.

  Explanation was unnecessary. The landing-ground was pitted with craters, any one of which would be sufficient to wreck an aircraft that tried to land on it.

  “Looks like we’re sunk,” went on Ginger. “What are you going to do? We’ve no juice to go anywhere else even if we wanted to. It’s either the aerodrome or the forest.”

  “Better tell Biggles the position.”

  Ginger went through to the cabin and told Biggles how matters stood.

  “Anyone on the aerodrome?” asked Biggles.

  “Not a soul. They must have taken cover when the dirt started dropping. In any case, we haven’t enough petrol to hang about while they fill in the craters.”

  “Then there’s nothing to argue about,” declared Biggles. “It means a crash landing. Tell Algy to get on with it. I’d take her in myself, but it’s no use pretending; I’m in no state to judge distance, and should probably hit the trees. Go ahead. Algy knows what to do.”

  Ginger went back to the cockpit. “Biggles says put her down as best you can,” he told Algy briefly.

  Algy did not answer. With his eyes on the bomb-torn landing-ground, he started gliding down, his left hand on the switch ready to cut the ignition the moment before the impact, to reduce the risk of fire. A number of figures could now be seen standing on the edge of the aerodrome. There were also three burnt-out crashes; one, of course, was that of the ill-fated Japanese flying-boat that had tried to land, but whether the other two were British or Japanese there was no means of knowing.

  Algy glided in slowly over the tree-tops. There were, of course, open spaces between the craters, but no area large enough to offer a full length runway. The big machine continued to lose height. Algy switched off and lowered his wheels, hoping they would absorb some of the shock of impact before they were wiped off, as it seemed certain they would be. Ginger braced himself. The wheels touched, with a clear run of perhaps forty yards to the first crater. The machine settled down, still travelling at high speed. Algy pressed his left foot on the rudder-bar. The machine vibrated horribly as it swerved, but it missed the crater and rushed on to the next. Algy repeated the performance, but the next crater was too close, and the swerve of necessity more acute. The undercarriage crumpled under the strain. The keel struck the ground with a crash; shuddering, the machine skidded towards the next crater; it mounted the pile of detritus that surrounded the yawning hole, and then, with another crash, it stopped. Both Algy and Ginger were flung forward, but not with sufficient force to cause injury.

  The moment the machine came to rest they scrambled through into the cabin. The door was already opened, and Biggles was urging the two Chinese to get out. With the dread of fire ever present in his mind, no one moves faster than an airman leaving a crash. In a few seconds the whole party was outside, and had placed a safe distance between it and the wreck.

  “Good work, Algy,” said Biggles. “You haven’t made as big a mess as I expected.”

  People came running from the occupied end of the aerodrome.

  “What you might call a spectacular homecoming,” said Biggles weakly.

  “But we are at least home,” observed Ginger philosophically.

  CHAPTER XV

  DISASTER AT LUCKY STRIKE

  BIGGLES, shivering in spite of a pile of blankets, lay in bed and listened to the tale of woe that the home-base party had to tell. The others stood around. This, briefly, was the story.

  The first indication of trouble came within an hour of the Cayman leaving for Malaya, when Suba’s medicine-men had picked up a drum message that was being tapped across the island. This announced that Japanese transports were arriving at Brunei, on the coast of British North Borneo. This was followed by another message saying that many aeroplanes were landing on the aerodrome. Shortly before dawn yet another message said that Japanese troops were advancing through the bamboo belt towards the heart of the island. They were under the command of a general named Yashnowada. Upon receipt of this disturbing information those at Lucky Strike, realizing that the landing-ground must be the objective for which the troops were making, started to put the place in a state of defence. It was decided that, as soon as it was light, one of the Beaufighters should take off to try to locate the Japs, and if possible hamper their advance. Before the machine could take off, however, there had come the first of three air raids, which proved conclusively that the position of the aerodrome was known to the enemy.

  The first raid had occurred when, without warning, no fewer than eighteen Japanese bombers appeared over the aerodrome. At the time one of the Beaufighters was having some adjustments made, so it was not airworthy. The other two had taken off, and, flown by Bertie and Tug, had shot down three of the raiders. Two had fallen in the forest, the other one on the aerodrome. Rex had taken Suba and the natives away from the aerodrome as soon as the enemy machines appeared, so there had been no casualties; but damage had been done to the village, also to some of the store-huts. Unfortunately, the grounded Beaufighter had received a direct hit, and was blown to pieces. After the raiders had withdrawn the two Beaufighters had managed to land, in spite of bomb craters. One had suffered minor damage in combat and was being repaired when a second raid, this time by twelve machines, had occurred. Bertie had gone up in the one serviceable fighter, but after shooting down two of the raiders, one of which had crashed on the landing-ground, his machine had been set on fire. He had baled out and had made a safe landing at no great distance from the base. The Beaufighter was a total wreck.

  This left only one aircraft, the machine that had been under repair at the time of the second raid. All hands had been set to work to fill in the craters, but it was a long task, and work was still going on when the third raid had taken place. This was the attack that Algy and Ginger had seen from the air. In it, the last Beaufighter had been set on fire and destroyed.

  “Where was the Liberator all this time?” asked Biggles at this stage of the story.

  Bertie broke the sad news that the Liberator had not come back from Australia. They had been expecting it every minute, but it had not come—which was just as well, asserted Bertie, or it would certainly have been destroyed. Nothing was known of it.

  “Which means,” said Biggles grimly, “that we haven’t a single machine here?”

  “I’m afraid that’s about it, old warrior,” admitted Bertie sadly.

  “I can’t understand why you didn’t have serious casualties, particularly amongst the natives.”

  Rex admitted that the native village had been pretty badly knocked about, but Suba didn’t mind because new houses could easily be built. The absence of casualties was explained by the fact that there were caves running under the hill, although the existence of these was unknown to the white men until the raid had started, when the natives had fled to them.

  “I think that’s about all,” concluded Bertie.

  “It’s enough to go on with, too,” replied Biggles sarcastically. “I would go and get a dose of fever at a time like this,” he added bitterly.

  “What with Japanese troops coming through the jungle, and air raids, it begins to look as if Lucky Strike is about washed up,” put in Rex.

  “It may look that way to you,” answered Biggles coldly. “Things aren’t going to be easy, I must admit, but if this little yellow swine Yashnowada thinks he’s going to knock us out—and that is evidently his intention—he’s got another think coming. We must get a move on. Rex, you handle the natives; set them to work filling in the bomb holes in case the Liberator turns up. Don’t let the men work haphazard ; try to make a clear runway—we can mark it out with smudge fires if the Liberator comes. With or without it, we’ve got to get in touch with Australia to get some replacements. With some fighters, I still think we could hold this place indefinitely; without them—well, as soon as the Japs realize that there’s no opposition they’ll come in at low level and blast the place
off the face of the earth. We can expect them back pretty soon, anyway. Some of you go and look at the Cayman to see if there is any hope of getting it into the air. Rex, ask Suba to listen for drum messages that might give us the position of enemy troops. Tell the natives to make for the caves if there’s another raid; our lads had better shift all the stores into them. Get on with it.”

  Ginger went outside with Algy. “Oh, for a bunch of Spitfires!” he moaned. “With these bombers coming over here without escort we could give them the shock of their lives.”

  Algy nodded. “A nice thought, but we haven’t any fighters and we don’t look like getting any,” he said quietly. “It’s no use kidding ourselves; things are pretty serious. If the Liberator doesn’t come back, and the Cayman turns out to be completely cheesed, we might as well start walking. Let’s go and look at her.”

  They walked over to the Cayman and found Flight Sergeant Smyth already there.

  “What do you make of her, Flight Sergeant?” asked Algy.

  “I won’t say she’ll never fly again, sir, but fixed as we are I wouldn’t give much for her chance. The worst trouble is the undercarriage and a twisted airscrew. There’s a hole in the hull, but that wouldn’t matter unless a landing was made on water.”

  Algy nodded moodily. “Well, you’d better see what you can do with her. We’ll give a hand. For a start we’d better try to get her under the trees, or the Japs, if they come again, will scatter the pieces all over the aerodrome.”

  The ground staff and most of the officers worked on the machine until noon, by which time the natives, under Rex’s supervision, had filled in sufficient craters to form a fairly safe runway. A supply of poles had been cut to use as rollers, to get the machine to the trees.

  Ginger was snatching a mouthful of lunch when the distant hum of an aero engine sent him dashing outside, although a cheer from the mechanics gave him a clue to the truth.

  The Liberator was coming in, and men raced to light small fires to mark the runway.

  Knowing how much depended on it, Ginger held his breath while the machine landed, and gasped his relief when it ran in without mishap. He went to meet it as it taxied in.

  Angus looked down at him, his eyes wide with concern, for he had, of course, seen the bomb craters.

  “Get a move on!” yelled Ginger. “What have you brought?”

  “Petrol and oil,” answered Angus. “What’s been happening here?”

  “Get down and I’ll tell you,” answered Ginger.

  In a few minutes the Liberator was the centre of furious activity as the oil and petrol drums were rolled out.

  Biggles appeared, his face still flushed with the fever. “Ginger, get that machine refuelled as quickly as you can,” he ordered tersely. “Then get her under the trees out of sight until I decide who’s to go to Australia.”

  Ginger waited only long enough to hear the cause of the delay in the Liberator’s return.

  There was nothing remarkable about it. The machine had been damaged by enemy fighters which it had encountered near the Australian coast, and Angus had decided to get the repairs effected at Darwin. These had taken two days.

  Ginger returned to the Liberator. He waited until the work of refuelling was complete, and then climbed into the cockpit to taxi the machine out of sight under its partly destroyed bough-shelter. Having started the engines, he was about to move forward when he noticed that the mechanics, who were still standing by the machine, were all staring into the sky. He guessed what was coming even as he pushed open the side window and shouted, “What is it?”

  “Enemy bombers, sir,” called the flight sergeant. “Twelve of them—coming in low.”

  Now in moments of great peril the human brain is capable of its best efforts. Under the urge of self-preservation it co-ordinates itself with nerve and muscle to a remarkable degree. Thus was it at this moment with Ginger. Action was practically simultaneous with thought, and his movements were swift. He realized that if the bombers were in view of the airmen on the ground, the aerodrome must be in view of the enemy pilots, in which case they must already have seen the Liberator. Clearly, there was no longer any point in trying to get it under the trees. Even if it had not been seen it was impossible that the aircraft could escape damage from the bombs that would soon be falling—and the Liberator was the last possible link with Australia. If it were destroyed, no matter how hard Biggles worked, the squadron would be rendered noneffective, to say the least of it. Obviously, the thing to do was to get it out of the target area.

  Even while these thoughts crowded through Ginger’s brain he was roaring round into the runway. He had a fleeting vision through a side window of the airmen racing for cover, and of Bertie gesticulating frantically as he pointed to the sky; then, with his teeth clenched, he was tearing along the runway. He couldn’t see the enemy machines; nor did he try; he was much too occupied with what he was doing.

  The first bombs fell before he was off the ground. He did not hear them coming, but he heard the roar of the explosions and felt the blast hit the machine. It was only by sheer strength that he kept it on the runway. The instant his wheels were off the ground he banked steeply, and missing the tree-tops by a matter of a few feet, he raced away over the forest. Not until he had got the aircraft on even keel did he try to see the enemy bombers, but they were behind him, so he was unable to see anything of them. By turning slightly he could see bombs falling on the aerodrome, so he roared on, not caring much about direction, but concerned only with getting out of the danger zone.

  Nothing happened. If the enemy bombers pursued him, which he did not think likely, he was unaware of it. Presently he began to think more clearly. The first point that struck him was, that it would be no use going back to the aerodrome—at least not unless he was prepared to circle for hours while the inevitable craters were filled in. And if he was going to be in the air for hours he might as well try to do something useful. It was then that the idea of trying to reach Australia first struck him. If he could get to Darwin the authorities might release some delivery pilots to take new Beaufighters out—or fighters of some sort. Yes, he decided, that was the thing to do. If he could get some machines to Lucky Strike the whole position would be changed.

  The aerodrome could be defended, and even though the bombers continued to come over, the squadron could take heavy toll of them, and carry on as a thorn in the side of the enemy’s lines of communication, as Malta was doing in the Mediterranean.

  The prospect thrilled him, and he reached eagerly for Angus’s maps, still reposing in their locker. He had only one fear. The Japs had seen him go. They would guess that he was making for Australia because there was no British landing-ground nearer. Yashnowada, as soon as he received their report, would radio to every squadron in Java and other islands to cut him off. By night it would be an easy matter to dodge them, but in broad daylight it would not be so easy, and several hours must elapse before night fell. If he were intercepted, with his gun turrets unmanned, he would need more than skill to escape, so with the map on his knees he began climbing steeply for height as the first obvious precaution. At the same time he settled down to watch the sky as far as his limited field of view permitted.

  Half an hour passed and found him, as far as he could make out, alone in the sky, on a straight course for Darwin at an altitude of twenty thousand feet. He had a long flight ahead of him, and he did not want to use the oxygen apparatus unless it became necessary. Once, out of curiosity, he donned the radio headphones ; he picked up several messages, but they were, he supposed, in Japanese ; at any rate, there was nothing in English, so he put the phones back on their peg.

  Presently it struck him that every plane looking for the Liberator would patrol on a direct course between Borneo and Darwin, so he edged a little to the west, hoping in this way to dodge them, although the new course would take him over Java.

  One o’clock found him over the Java Sea, with the long blue shape of the island filling the southern horizon.
He knew that he was bound to fly over it, or another of the Japanese occupied islands, which now stretched for thousands of miles from the northern tip of Sumatra to New Guinea. The gaps between them were negligible and hardly worth bothering about, so he decided to fly straight on. Anxiously, now, he watched the sky ahead, for he had apparently passed over the area affected by the monsoon, and the sky in front of him was clear turquoise blue. Once he saw a formation in the distance, but it was far below him; watching the machines, he edged away; the formation held on its course, and eventually disappeared in the west.

  By two o’clock the southern coast of Java was fading astern, and by three he was far out over the Indian Ocean. There were no more islands. The ocean, a lonely, limitless expanse of unruffled blue, lay before him. He was safe. At any rate he considered that the chance of encountering hostile aircraft was now remote.

  Hardly had the thought passed through his mind when far ahead on his line of flight he saw a flash. It was gone in an instant, but he knew that the spark of light could have been caused by one thing only—an aeroplane, banking. Who could be flying a plane in such a place, and why, he could not imagine. Watching the spot closely, for there was as yet no sign of an aircraft, he turned a little to the east to give it a wide berth. For five minutes he stared at the spot fixedly, but when the plane still did not appear he drew a deep breath of relief and turned his eyes ahead. His whole body stiffened when, a bare two miles away, he saw a plane at his own height. From the way it grew more distinct he knew that it was standing towards him, which meant that the pilot had seen him. Looking at the aircraft head-on he could not recognize the type, but whatever it was he had no desire to meet it, so he decided to try to outclimb it, as his best chance of escape.

  So concerned was he with avoiding hostile aircraft that it did not occur to him that the machine might be friendly, so his relief when, a moment later, he recognized a Fairey Fulmar was so great that he laughed aloud. A second Fulmar appeared, cutting across his bows, and he regarded them with no small curiosity. Then, suddenly, he guessed the answer to the problem of their unexpected appearance. The Fulmar was a two-seater fleet-fighter, which could only mean that an aircraft carrier was in the vicinity, for the Fulmars were too far from land to belong to a shore-based unit. One of the Fulmars came so close that he could see the pilot staring at him. He could not understand the interest. It seemed natural that as soon as the pilots identified the Liberator they would go their ways; but it was soon clear that they had no such intention. Far from that, one of the gunners fired a burst of tracer across his nose. The pilot held up his hand in a signal that could not be misunderstood. It was an order to follow. Ginger noticed that he was wearing headphones, so he made haste to don his own. A minute later a voice was speaking in his ears: “Come along, Liberator, we want to look at you... Can you hear me, Liberator?...”