Biggles WWII Collection Read online

  ‘It’s no use guessing,’ declared Biggles. ‘No doubt he’ll tell us how it happened when he arrives – not that it matters very much now. Von Stalhein has got us in a nasty jam, and it would be foolish to deny it. Still, it isn’t the first time.’

  ‘I gather from what he told me that he intends to – er – dispose of us in the morning.’

  ‘That, I imagine, is his idea,’ returned Biggles. ‘But it isn’t mine. Morning is a long way off. Let’s have a look round to see if there’s any way out of this den.’

  ‘There isn’t – I’ve looked,’ returned Algy promptly.

  ‘Jack Shepherd once asserted, and on more than one occasion proved, that neither bolts nor bars will hold a man if he is determined to get out. There’s always a way – if you can find it. Let’s try.’

  They made a complete survey of the cabin, and were soon forced to admit that escape appeared to be a hopeless proposition. There were only two exits. One was the door, which was bolted and guarded by a sentry. The other was the skylight in the deck, which they had no means of reaching; in any case it seemed to be fastened from the outside. For the rest, a glance was enough to reveal the futility of trying to make any impression on the heavy, hardwood timbers of which the ship was built. It would have been difficult enough with proper tools, and they had nothing remotely resembling a cutting instrument. Nor was there a fitment of any sort that could be removed and used as a weapon. There was a bunk at one end of the cabin, but like everything else it was stoutly built and offered no solution to the problem. There was a mattress on it, together with a rather dirty sheet and an old brown blanket. Biggles looked at them reflectively for a moment or two and then turned back to Algy.

  ‘I agree with you in this respect,’ he said. ‘There’s only one way out of this room, and that’s the way we came in – through the door.’

  ‘It’s not likely to be opened.’

  ‘On the contrary, it will be opened when Ginger arrives.’

  ‘Yes, but he’ll have an escort of at least two or three armed men with him. We’re hardly in a case to take them on with our bare fists.’

  ‘By the time they arrive we ought to have something better than bare fists,’ asserted Biggles. ‘After all, we have this advantage. We know that the worse that can happen is that we shall be shot, and as we shall be shot in any case if we don’t get away, we’ve nothing to lose if we fail.’

  ‘Really, they’ve absolutely no right to shoot us,’ protested Algy.

  ‘What von Stalhein has a right to do, and what he does, are two entirely different things,’ returned Biggles, smiling. ‘If he needs an excuse for treating me as a spy, he’s got one in this Boche uniform I’m wearing. But we’re wasting time. I’m going to see about getting out.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Certainly. There’s only one sentry on duty. We’ll tackle him first.’

  Biggles took up a position immediately under the electric-light bulb. ‘Switch off the light,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want to electrocute myself.’

  Algy crossed to the switch and turned off the light. He heard the sound of a jump, followed by a splintering noise. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he muttered.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got what I wanted,’ answered Biggles. ‘It’s the electric flex.’ As he spoke he removed the bulb from the end.

  ‘What are you going to do with that wire?’

  ‘I’ll show you. What I want you to do now is lie here, just inside the door, and groan. When the sentry comes in he’s bound to look at you – enough light will come in from the corridor for him to see you. I shall then proceed to throttle him with the noose I’m making in this flex. All right, go ahead with the groaning; I’m all ready, and we’ve no time to waste.’

  Algy did as he was told, and his groans echoed pitifully in the little cabin. Biggles waited until he heard the sentry’s footsteps approaching and then hammered on the door.

  The sentry stopped. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘My friend is ill – I think he’s dying,’ answered Biggles, and Algy’s groans seemed to confirm his statement.

  A key scraped in the lock and the German looked in, bayonet at the ready. It was obvious from his attitude that he was taking no risks. ‘What’s happened to the light?’ he asked, glancing up.

  ‘It went out,’ replied Biggles vaguely.

  The sentry looked at Biggles, who was standing in a passive, dejected attitude, and then took a pace nearer to Algy, who was curled up on the floor, still groaning. He leaned towards him. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked gruffly.

  Biggles jumped like a cat, slipped the noose over the man’s head, and in a single jerk pulled it taut round his bare throat, cutting short the cry that rose to his lips. The rifle clattered to the floor as instinctively he clutched with both hands at the wire which was throttling him.

  ‘Shut the door,’ snapped Biggles.

  Algy jumped to the door and closed it.

  Biggles forced the sentry to the floor. ‘Keep still or I’ll choke you,’ he snarled. Then to Algy, ‘Get that sheet. Tear it into strips and tie him while I hold him.’

  The sentry made no resistance. Indeed, as he was already nearly dead, he was in no condition to do so.

  ‘Buck up,’ urged Biggles. ‘I don’t want to kill the wretched fellow.’

  For a minute or two, after he had loosened the wire, he really thought he had killed him, for the man’s eyes were projecting and his tongue hanging out. His body was limp. However, by applying artificial respiration they restored him, after which Biggles relieved him of his jacket and trousers. This done, he was securely bound and gagged, and lifted into the bunk. The blanket was spread over him.

  ‘Why all this performance?’ queried Algy. ‘There’s nothing to prevent us making a bolt for it, is there?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten Ginger,’ Biggles reminded him. ‘We can’t go without him. From now on I’m the sentry. As he spoke Biggles threw off his officer’s uniform and put on that of the soldier. ‘You stay here and keep an eye on Fritz,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going outside.’

  ‘I get it,’ answered Algy, as Biggles picked up the rifle and went out into the corridor.

  ‘All clear,’ he whispered; then he locked the door and took up the sentry’s duties.

  It was clear that everything now depended upon Ginger’s early arrival, for should this be delayed a dozen contingencies might arise to betray the plot. The sentry might be relieved; von Stalhein might come and recognition follow; the N.C.O. in charge of the guard might come along and perceive that the sentry was not the man he had posted. Still, it did not occur to Biggles to leave the boat without Ginger. The minutes ticked by. All seemed quiet. The men who had been working outside had evidently been dismissed.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE LAST ROUND

  IT WAS A good half-hour before Biggles heard with satisfaction the sound that he had so anxiously awaited; it was the tramp of feet coming up the gangway. There was a challenge; it was answered; the footsteps came on again, now on the deck, towards the head of the companion-way. Biggles walked up and down past the cabin door.

  A minute later there appeared at the end of the corridor a procession consisting of four persons. First came a naval officer, in oilskins, a belt on the outside carrying a revolver-holster. He was followed by two seamen, also in oilskins, carrying rifles. Between them, looking very forlorn, marched Ginger. He did not even glance up as the party came to a halt in front of the door where Biggles awaited it.

  Biggles saluted, unlocked the door, and threw it wide open. The party went inside. All eyes were on Algy, for enough light entered from the corridor for him to be seen. Biggles brought up the rear.

  As soon as he was across the threshold he dropped the point of his bayonet until it was pointing at the officer’s back. ‘The first man who moves or makes a sound dies,’ he said quietly, but distinctly.

  Every head, including Ginger’s, turned.

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bsp; Biggles stood like a statue just inside the doorway. His eyes met those of the officer. ‘One sound and it will be your last,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re desperate men. Algy, take his revolver. Ginger, collect the rifles.’

  None of the Germans made a sound, nor did they protest; they seemed stunned, which was hardly surprising. Such movements as they made were slow, and they were disarmed almost before they realized what was happening.

  Biggles now came inside and closed the door. ‘Take their oilskins and caps, then tie them up,’ he ordered. ‘Use the rest of the sheet, and the flex.’

  As soon as this had been done he took the blanket, cut it into three pieces with his bayonet, and tied them over the prisoners’ heads. ‘They’ll do,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s go. We’ve no time to talk now, but there’s one thing I must know.’ He turned to Ginger. ‘Did you get that message through to the fleet?’

  Ginger started. He seemed to be in a dream. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he confessed. ‘I looked for it until I ran out of petrol, then—’

  ‘Never mind the rest,’ cut in Biggles. ‘That’s all I want to know. We’ve got to get that message through somehow. There’s still time, but there’s only one way. A hundred yards along the beach there’s a Dornier flying-boat. We’ve got to get to it. If there’s trouble on the way and I drop out, don’t wait for me. Go on to the machine. One of us at least ought to reach it. The fleet must come first. Let’s get into these oilskins and caps; in the dark we ought to pass for the escort returning ashore having delivered the prisoner. We’ll try to bluff our way through. If that fails we shall have to fight.’

  He put on the officer’s oilskins and cap. As the others followed suit with the remaining garments he looked them over critically. ‘You’ll do,’ he announced. ‘Let’s march off.’

  With Biggles at the head, the little party marched along the corridor to the companionway. A dozen steps took them to the deck. Biggles did not stop, but went straight on to the gangway where a guard stood on duty. The night was cloudy, with rain threatening, so it was not until he was almost within touching distance of the guard that he saw, just beyond, near the stern, in the dim glow of a partly obscured lamp, two other men. One he recognized instantly by his figure; it was von Stalhein. The other appeared to be the captain. Biggles distinctly heard von Stalhein say, ‘I must go below now; I want a few words with this new prisoner.’

  Biggles did not alter his pace. The man on duty stiffened to attention as he passed, but said nothing. They went on down the narrow gangway to the rocks, which were deserted. Here Biggles paused for a moment to get his bearings, and it was while they stood thus, in the silence, that he heard von Stalhein speak to the man at the head of the gangway.

  Said he, in the harsh peremptory tones which German officers employ when addressing subordinates, ‘Did somebody go ashore just then?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the man. ‘It was the guard that brought the prisoner aboard.’

  Von Stalhein uttered an exclamation of annoyance. ‘I wanted to speak to that officer,’ he snapped, presumably to the captain. Footsteps moved swiftly towards the companion-way.

  ‘We’ve got to get a move on,’ said Biggles softly. ‘He’s going below. In three minutes he’ll discover that his birds have flown. We’ll make for the aircraft. Keep close, and don’t make any noise unless it becomes necessary.

  They walked quickly along the beach to the point where the air squadron was stationed. Biggles hoped that no sentry would have been posted actually on the beach, but in this he was disappointed. A figure loomed up in the darkness.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ rapped out a voice.

  A split second later, before Biggles could reply, there was a shout from the boat, now some seventy or eighty yards away. ‘Stop those men!’ roared a voice.

  The sentry took a pace nearer. ‘Who are you? he asked suspiciously, for he had, of course, heard the shout.

  ‘Here’s my warrant,’ answered Biggles casually, taking a pace nearer as though to show a pass. At the last moment he moved like lightning. Grabbing the sentry’s rifle with his left hand, he brought the butt of his revolver down on his head.

  The sentry collapsed like a wet blanket.

  By this time there was a commotion on the boat; von Stalhein’s voice, shrill with anger, could be heard above the others.

  ‘Run for it,’ said Biggles tersely, and sprinted along the beach until he was opposite the Dornier, which was anchored a few yards out.

  He discovered the reason why it was so close as soon as he plunged into the water, for the beach shelved quickly, and he was wet to the waist by the time he reached the cabin door. Without waiting to see how the others fared, he ran forward and hauled up the anchor. By the time this was done the others were aboard, the flying-boat rocking with the abruptness of their entry.

  ‘Algy, you take the centre gun-turret,’ he ordered curtly. ‘If there’s no machine-gun use your rifle, but don’t start shooting until we’re rushed. Ginger, stand by me and watch the shore. Tell me what happens. Use your rifle when you have to.’ With that Biggles dropped into the pilot’s seat, switched on the petrol and ignition, and felt for the starter.

  ‘There’s a crowd coming along the beach; I can hear them, but I can’t see them yet,’ said Ginger in the manner of a radio commentator. ‘I can hear von Stalhein telling people to rush the machine,’ he went on. ‘The flying personnel are turning out. They’re manning the searchlight.’

  ‘Keep them back,’ ordered Biggles, and the starter whirred. But the engine was cold and nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing happened.

  Ginger’s rifle spat, and the single report was followed by the crash of a machine gun somewhere close at hand. In the middle of the pandemonium that followed the engine came to life. Simultaneously several shots were fired at the machine. Ginger staggered back and flopped down, grabbing at his shoulder. His rifle clattered to the floor. ‘They’ve got me,’ he muttered. ‘Go on, it’s only my shoulder.’

  Algy’s gun was playing a vicious tattoo on the crowd rushing towards the aircraft, but it was drowned in the roar of the engine as Biggles opened the throttle. The Dornier surged forward across the smooth surface of the fiord.

  ‘We’re away,’ cried Ginger weakly, pressing his hand on his wound.

  But Biggles was not so sure. He couldn’t see a thing. To make matters worse, the searchlight suddenly came on, and the beam, sweeping low across the water, came to rest on the flying-boat, dazzling him. Actually, it was this light that gave him his position, for he knew where it was stationed. The difficulty was, it was only possible to take off straight down the centre of the fiord, and if he veered to either side he was likely to collide with the cliffs that hemmed it in. Knowing the position of the searchlight, he swung the aircraft round until it was facing what he thought – and hoped – was the right direction, and pushed the throttle wide open. He dared not delay any longer, for shots were now striking the machine, and he knew that it only needed one in a vital place to put it out of action.

  Bending forward to peer through the windscreen into the blackness ahead, he held the joystick forward, and waited. The stick tightened as the machine gathered flying speed. He gave it another few seconds to be on the safe side and then took it off the water.

  Algy’s gun ceased firing and presently he appeared.

  ‘Have a look at Ginger,’ ordered Biggles. ‘He’s been hit. There ought to be a first-aid outfit on board.’

  Algy disappeared into the cabin, and presently came back with the outfit. ‘I’ve got it,’ he called. ‘Incidentally, I see we’ve got a load of bombs on board.’

  ‘Have we though?’ A curious smile crossed Biggles’s face as he said the words. He looked down. Now at two thousand feet, just below the clouds, the coastline and the outlines of the fiord could easily be traced. He could not actually see the boat from which they had just escaped, but he knew roughly where it was, and he swung round in a wide curve to fly back over it. Two or three ot
her searchlights had now joined the first, and their beams criss-crossed the sky in search of him. Flecks of flame showed where flak was bursting, but the fire was not intense and caused him little concern. A glance over his shoulder revealed Algy attending to Ginger. Then he went on with his eyes on the target. His hand moved to the bomb release and the load of high explosive went hurtling down, to burst with a glare that lit up the sky like lightning. It was, of course, impossible to ascertain what damage had been done, but satisfied with his parting shot, Biggles turned towards the west, and soon the coast was a dark shadow behind him.

  He was now faced by two problems, although they were to a great extent linked together. The first was how to warn the fleet of its danger, and the second, how to get home in a German machine without being shot down by British anti-aircraft defences. He felt that if he could solve one, the other might solve itself. That is to say, if he could make contact with the fleet, or any British patrol vessel fitted with wireless, the warning would be flashed out, and they, at the same time, would be picked up. The trouble was, he had no idea of the position of the fleet. Thinking it over, he saw that an alternative would be to fly straight on home. It would come to the same thing in the end, for a radio message would soon stop the fleet. After some consideration he decided that an attempt to locate the fleet might end, as Ginger’s flight had ended, in running out of petrol before the object was achieved; he resolved, therefore, to go straight on towards England. If he passed a patrol ship on the way, well and good. He would try to land near it and get the skipper to send the all-important warning.

  Algy, having got Ginger comfortable, joined Biggles in the cockpit.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Not bad. The bullet got him just under the collar-bone and went right through. He’ll be all right after a day or two in hospital. How are we going to get on the carpet without being shot to bits by our own people?’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking about the same thing,’ answered Biggles. ‘If there was a torch on board we could signal in Morse.’