Biggles In Borneo Page 15

  Ginger raised a hand to show that he understood, and turned obediently to follow. He was annoyed at the interruption because he was in a hurry to get to Australia, but he was in no condition to start an argument with one Fulmar, let alone two. The fleet-fighters took up positions on either side of him, and shepherded him like well-trained collies.

  Ten minutes later the aircraft carrier came into view on the southern horizon, and in another quarter of an hour Ginger was circling over it. He was not at all pleased at the prospect of having to put the big machine down on a steel deck, but there was nothing else for it, so he went in and made a reasonably good landing. His brakes soon brought him to a standstill. Airmen in dark blue uniforms ran out. Among them was an officer whom he took to be the duty officer.

  Ginger climbed down. “What’s the idea?” he asked in a voice that was by no means friendly. He still resented the waste of time.

  The officer grinned. “We just wanted to look you over.”

  “Haven’t you seen a Liberator before?”

  “Plenty, but the pilots were not always white.” Ginger frowned. He began to understand.

  “Do you mean that the Japs fly Liberators?”

  The officer nodded. “Yes. They captured one or two in the Philippines.” A puzzled look came over the officer’s face. “You’re not alone in that kite, are you?”

  “I am.”

  The officer’s frown grew deeper. “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, but my squadron is an unusual squadron, and at the moment circumstances are even more unusual.”

  The officer continued to look puzzled. It was plain that he was suspicious of a Liberator that operated over the Indian Ocean without a crew. “I think you had better come and have a word with the Old Man,” he suggested.

  “Do you mind if I ask what ship this is?” inquired Ginger.

  “Adelaide—Royal Australian Navy.”

  Ginger followed the officer to the bridge, where he came face to face with an elderly, genial-looking, broad-shouldered man in captain’s uniform.

  Ginger saluted. “Flying Officer Hebblethwaite, sir, Royal Air Force,” he announced.

  “Captain Garnet. Sorry to pull you in, Mr. Hebblethwaite, but we can’t afford to take chances. This is a queer place, and a queer time for you to be here, isn’t it? Queer idea, flying solo, too.”

  “I think I had better explain, sir,” said Ginger.

  “Yes, I think you had,” answered Captain Garnet.

  Ginger told his story.

  CHAPTER XVI

  GINGER GOES BACK

  BIGGLES was worried. He had watched the Liberator’s frenzied take-off with mixed feelings, for while he realized the purpose behind Ginger’s action, he doubted his ability to run the gauntlet, solo, to Australia—assuming that that was his intention. Moreover, he had hoped to use the Liberator to take detailed despatches to Australia, explaining his position and asking for instructions. The aircraft was his only connecting link. Now it had gone.

  There had been no time to ponder on this upsetting development at the moment. The enemy bombers had occupied his attention. For the first time they had come in at low level and there was no way of stopping them. In the circumstances the only thing Biggles could do was to take cover in the caves with the rest and so avoid casualties. Most of the stores, and the fuel brought by the Liberator, had already been carried in, which was, as Algy remarked, something to be thankful for. So the squadron, as well as the natives, sat under the hill while the ground quivered under the assault of high-explosive bombs. To have to sit and take it was a new experience for most of the members of Biggles’s squadron, and there were glum faces as the bombardment proceeded without interruption.

  “Good thing Ginger got off,” remarked Algy. “If he hadn’t, by this time there would have been nothing left of the Liberator but splinters.”

  Biggles nodded. “Yes. I was a bit peeved when I saw him go, but taking all the circumstances into consideration I think he did the right thing.”

  “How’s the fever?”

  “Better, thanks—probably because with all this going on I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “Ginger may come back when the raid is over.”

  Biggles looked doubtful. “I don’t think so. He’ll have the sense to realize that it will be hours before we can fill in the craters.”

  “Do you think we shall be able to hang on here?”

  “With some fighters we could soon put an end to this bombing—or at any rate make it a costly business.”

  “The Japs seem mighty anxious to wipe us out,” remarked Algy.

  “Naturally. They’re concentrating at Brunei. The next jump on the way to Australia is Surabaya, in Java. We’re sitting right across their line of communication.”

  “What about these troops which the drums say are trying to reach us through the forest?”

  Biggles called Rex and put the question to him.

  “I don’t think they’ll do it,” said Rex. “At least, it wouldn’t take much to stop them. I know these jungles. What with heat, and fever, and snake-bite, and shortage of food, and all the rest of the things that can happen to a party in this sort of country, I’ll wager half of them are non-effective already. With Suba and his boys pushing poisoned darts into them they’d soon get fed up. If we could bomb them, or attack them from the air at the same time, they wouldn’t stand an earthly of getting through. They must still be some days’ march away.”

  “Do you think Suba would try to hold them if we asked him?”

  “I’m sure of it. These fellows live for fighting. Now that the country is being invaded the other tribes might chip in.”

  “Could Suba get in touch with them?”

  “Of course—by drum talk. If he suggested a truce with his old enemies while they all set about the invader, every tribe on the island might fall in line—particularly as there would be some head-collecting in prospect.”

  “You might suggest that to him.”

  “I will,” promised Rex.

  Biggles went to the mouth of the cave and listened. “The blitz seems to be over,” he said.

  “Let’s go and have a look round.”

  The Japs had done their work well, although there was very little material damage for the simple reason that, apart from empty huts, there was little to damage. There were fewer holes in the aerodrome than Biggles expected, except round the Cayman, which was now a complete wreck. It seemed that the enemy bombers had concentrated on the trees fringing the landing-ground; doubtless supposing that stores, and possibly aircraft, would be concealed under them. With fallen trees lying everywhere, the fringe of the forest looked as if it had been struck by a tornado, although as far as any useful military purpose was concerned this was really a waste of high explosive.

  “All right, get busy everybody,” ordered Biggles. “We’ll show them that we can fill in holes faster than they can make ‘em. The Liberator will come back sometime—I hope. Flight Sergeant, get the remains of the Cayman cleared away—no, just a minute. Assemble the bits and pieces at the top end of the aerodrome. We never use that end. From the air the machine will look like a serviceable aircraft, so it should give the Japs something to aim at. Maybe they’ll leave this end alone. Rex, see what sort of force Suba is willing to muster to attack the Japs in the forest. By using relays of runners he might keep us in touch with their position, and that would be worth knowing.” Biggles took a stiff dose of quinine. “Thank goodness this fever is passing.” He smiled. “We’ve probably established a new record.”

  Algy looked surprised. “For what?”

  “For being the only squadron in the Royal Air Force without an aircraft of any sort.”

  There were no more raids that day. By nightfall the bomb craters had been filled in and the surplus rock carried away, so that the aerodrome once more presented a fair surface.

  The splinter-torn wings and fuselage of the Cayman had been dragged to the
unoccupied end of the landing-ground and roughly assembled to look like a serviceable machine, which, it was hoped, would attract the attention of the bombaimers if there came another raid. Suba’s drums were muttering. Far away other drums could be heard answering.

  “Ginger hasn’t come back, so he must have gone on to Australia,” remarked Biggles, as they sat down to a meal of bully beef, rice and biscuits. “Everything now depends on whether he got through or not. The earliest we can expect him back is tomorrow evening. I advise everyone to turn in early, because we shall probably have another busy day, bomb-dodging and filling in craters.”

  Rex appeared. “ Suba is flat out to have a crack at the Japs,” he announced. “He’s selecting two hundred of his best warriors. I’m going with him. We aim to start just before dawn. He says the whole island is buzzing with drum talk. From what I can gather, the tribes are taking a new interest now they know that white men are here to help them smite the Japs.”

  “That’s fine,” said Biggles. “If you can locate the enemy you might let me have a message, and put up smoke signals to show us where they are, in case we get reinforcements.”

  This Rex promised to do, and soon afterwards, as there was nothing more to be done, the squadron and its strange mixture of guests settled down for the night in improvised huts that Suba’s people had built for them.

  The following morning Biggles, looking much fitter, was on the move while the stars still showed through the gaps in the clouds that heralded the rainy season. He saw Rex move off with Suba and his warriors, hideous in warpaint, and as the sky turned grey he was on his way to the airmen’s quarters to see Flight Sergeant Smyth when his ears caught the distant hum of aero engines. For a minute or two he hoped that it might be the Liberator; but then, when he detected the drone of many engines, he knew that the enemy bombers were on their way to finish their work of destruction.

  Quick blasts from the Flight Sergeant’s whistle warned the sleeping camp of the impending raid, and in a few seconds the occupied end of the aerodrome was buzzing with activity.

  “Everybody get to the caves!” shouted Biggles. “There’s no sense in taking chances and there’s nothing we can do. Jackson, go and make sure the natives are taking cover.”

  There was a general move in the direction of the caves. Biggles went with the rest, but when he was nearing them he stopped to count the enemy aircraft. Algy, Bertie and some of the officers waited with him.

  “Eighteen of the blighters,” muttered Bertie, gazing up at the western sky through his monocle.

  “Flying at five thousand, for a guess,” murmured Algy.

  “I’d give a deuced lot of money—if I had any—for one little Spitfiring-piece,” sighed Bertie.

  Biggles’s face wore a curious expression as he stared in turn at all points of the compass.

  “They seem to be making a lot of noise,” he remarked. “The noise seems to be all round us, too, as if there was more than one formation.”

  “There is!” cried Algy suddenly. “They’ve brought an escort. Look!” He pointed to the south, where a cluster of specks, considerably higher than the bombers, were strung out in a long V-formation. “There are another twelve machines in that lot,” added Algy, looking puzzled.

  “It’s usual for an escort to come from the same direction as the machines it is guarding,” observed Biggles. “That’s no escort. Judging from the way they are diving I’d say—if I didn’t know it was impossible—that those twelve machines were going to have a crack at the bombers... Just a minute!” Biggles’s voice rose sharply. “They’re Faireys. You can’t mistake the cut of the tail unit. Yes, by all that’s miraculous, they’re Fulmars!” Biggles’s voice ended in a yell of exultation.

  “How about bobbing into the jolly old caves?” suggested Bertie. “The beastly bombers are getting close—too jolly close—yes, by Jove.”

  “Not me,” returned Biggles. “I’m going to watch this—and believe me, it’s going to be worth watching.”

  Those who had gone into the caves now came running out to watch what promised to be an air battle to remember. There seemed to be little risk of bombs, for by this time the bomber pilots had seen the fighters now tearing down to intercept them, and what had been a neat formation soon broke up in something that looked very much like panic. One or two of the bombers turned for home; others made haste to get rid of their now undesirable cargoes, the bombs bursting harmlessly in the forest.

  The first casualties occurred when two of the bombers collided before a single shot had been fired. One bomber lost a wing and spun down into the trees; the other, not so badly damaged, went into a glide; the crew of four baled out.

  “I wouldn’t care to be in those fellows’ shoes,” remarked Algy. “Suba and his boys must be somewhere about the spot where they’ll touch down.”

  Biggles was not particularly interested in the fate of the bomber crew. “What beats me is where these Fulmars have come from,” he muttered. “Somehow I feel that Ginger must have had a hand in it, yet I don’t see how he could possibly have brought them here. The Liberator isn’t with them, anyway.”

  Nothing more was said, for the fight had now been joined. The result was never in doubt, and there were moments when muttered comments indicated that the British airmen could almost feel sorry for the Japanese, who for the most part behaved as if they had never before been in action.

  “The perishers are learning that it’s one thing to unload bombs on people who can’t hit back, but another kettle of fish when someone else is in the sky to argue about it,” sneered Tug Carrington, whose parents had been killed in a London raid.

  To describe the combat in detail would necessitate wearisome repetition. There was one outstanding incident that brought a gasp from the onlookers. One of the Fulmars, after tearing down in a terrific dive, pulled up vertically under a bomber. For a second, at the top of its zoom, it seemed to be suspended by an invisible cable. Its guns spurted tracer.

  Then something fell from the bomber—several things. They were bombs. It was clear to the spectators that the bomb-aimer, either by accident or design, had released his entire load of bombs. They descended in a shower on the Fulmar, which, having for the moment lost flying speed, was sluggish on controls, if not actually out of control. It seemed certain that the British aircraft must be hit; yet by a miracle it was not, although the entire load of bombs passed within a few feet of it. The danger passed, the Fulmar fell off on one wing, while the bomber, with an engine aflame, went down at a steep angle into the forest. A rising pillar of smoke marked the position of the crash.

  “Phew!” whistled Biggles. “I wouldn’t have been in that Fulmar at that moment for all the tea in China. I should like to have seen the pilot’s face when he saw what was falling on him. If his hair doesn’t turn white overnight then he must have more nerve than I’ve got.”

  Generally speaking, the Fulmars made rings round the bombers. Seven followed the two that had by collison destroyed themselves. At one moment no fewer than four bombers were falling out of the sky at the same time. The battle became a rout as the enemy planes scattered and made for home. The survivors disappeared from sight with the Fulmars still mauling them. Slowly the drone of engines and the grunting of machine-guns died away. Silence fell.

  “That seems to be about all,” remarked Biggles. “And we still don’t know the answer to the mystery of where the Fulmars came from.”

  “I think we shall pretty soon,” returned Algy, pointing to a single Fulmar that now came streaking back low over the tree-tops.

  Those on the ground watched it while it made a complete circuit of the landing-ground, obviously ascertaining if it was safe to land; then it came gliding in.

  The fighter landed, and taxied straight on to the occupied end of the aerodrome. At the last moment it swung round with a flourish and came to rest. The airscrew stopped.

  There was a swish as the front cockpit cover was opened. Ginger stood up. His face was wreathed in smiles.
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  “Good morning, everybody,” he called cheerfully. “Is there a bed left anywhere on this station? Because if there is, I know a bloke who could use it.”

  Biggles took a pace forward. “Not so fast, my lad. Before you close your little blue eyes I’d like to know how you came to get in a squadron of Fulmars?”

  Ginger looked pained. “Get in a squadron. Don’t you believe it! I led the squadron.” Ginger’s face broke into a grin. “What sort of show did I put up?”

  There was a titter of mirth.

  “Come off your high horse before you fall off,” suggested Biggles. “We’re all agog to hear how you did it.”

  Ginger got down. He swayed for a moment on his feet and passed his hand wearily over his face. “My goodness! I’m tired,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to sleep yet. I’ve brought a packet of good tidings that should make good listening—as they say at the B.B.C.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE END OF YASHNOWADA

  WITH a steaming cup of coffee taking some of the lines out of his tired face, Ginger passed on his glad tidings. He described how he had landed on the aircraft carrier, and was enthusiastic about the reception accorded him when it was learned that he was a member of the squadron that had marooned itself, so to speak, in the heart of enemy territory. It seemed that the Australian pilots knew all about it, this probably being the result of the Liberator’s previous visits to Darwin.