Biggles Goes to War Read online

  There were also such matters as uniforms and national markings for the aeroplanes to be considered. In regard to the former, it had been decided to adopt the regulation Maltovian army uniform of a pale-blue jacket, with a small pair of gold wings on the left breast, and breeches with a red stripe, continental pattern service caps and black field-boots. For identification markings on the machines it had been agreed to use the Maltovian national colours of red, black, and green, but these had not yet been put on for fear of international complications while the machines were being flown across Europe. For the same reason their uniforms had been packed in their suitcases.

  The three airmen rose as Count Stanhauser entered the room and walked over to them. Biggles pulled out the vacant chair. ‘Well, here we are, sir,’ he said, smiling cheerfully. ‘All present and correct.’

  The Count sat down and Biggles signalled to the waiter to serve breakfast.

  ‘So you are all ready for departure?’ questioned the Count.

  ‘Everything is settled as far as we are concerned,’ answered Biggles. ‘Are your arrangements complete?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘You only think? That isn’t enough, sir. On this job we must always be sure. What are you doubtful about?’

  The Count looked uncomfortable for a moment. ‘It isn’t doubt, perhaps, so much as fear, knowing that so much depends upon this issue,’ he said quietly. ‘The necessity for landing between here and Maltovia was an unexpected difficulty.’

  ‘No single-seater, even with the special long-range tanks which I have had fitted to our machines, could possibly fly all the way from here to Maltovia without an intermediate landing for petrol,’ declared Biggles. ‘I told you that, and you said you would make arrangements for us to land in Weisheim, which is about half-way.’

  ‘That is true and I have made such arrangements. You warned me, you remember, that in this matter we should have to be very careful because of the suspicion with which military aircraft are regarded in Europe. Bearing this in mind, I have arranged with a friend of ours in Weisheim, who owns a large estate, to have his private aerodrome ready for your reception, with an ample supply of fuel.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? It sounds an ideal scheme to me,’ confessed Biggles. ‘You will have to give us the precise position of this aerodrome, of course.’

  ‘I have marked the place on the map which I will give you in a moment. Yet, somehow, I have a feeling of disquiet.’

  Biggles glanced at the others. He did not need telling that the Count was holding something back. Turning again, he looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Count Stanhauser,’ he said in a low voice, ‘we all know that by making an unauthorized landing at Weisheim, instead of landing at an official customs airport, we are committing a breach of international regulations punishable by imprisonment; that is a risk we must be prepared to take – if that is what is worrying you. If you are thinking of something else, why not be quite frank with us? By withholding anything, no matter how insignificant it may appear, you must lessen our chances of success.

  The old man leaned forward in his chair. His expression was very serious. ‘Major Bigglesworth,’ he said in a voice so low that it was little more than a whisper, ‘I am going to be absolutely honest with you. We have reason to suspect that our lines of communication are being tampered with. It is so hard to know whom we can trust.’

  Biggles looked grave. ‘You mean that Lovitznian spies are on the job?’

  ‘That is precisely what I do mean.’

  Biggles took out a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on the table. ‘I can’t say that I am surprised,’ he murmured. ‘In fact, I was half prepared for something of the sort. The question arises, how far will they go?’

  ‘They will go to any lengths to prevent the fulfilment of our plans, you may be sure.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that. What I really meant was, how acute is the danger? How much does the other side know already?’

  ‘That is a question which, I fear, I cannot answer.’

  ‘But you suspect that there may be a hitch at Weisheim?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  ‘What is the name of the man who owns the place?’

  ‘Baron von Kestler.’

  ‘Have you proof that he is a friend?’

  ‘The Baroness, his wife, is a Maltovian. She has helped us in the past. It was with her, in the absence of the Baron, that I conspired for your landing.’

  ‘Ah!’ Biggles was silent for a few moments after his quiet ejaculation. ‘Well, we can’t hold up things now; we shall have to do the best we can,’ he went on. ‘What about the position in Maltovia? Is there any reason to suspect treachery or sabotage there?’

  ‘It is hard to say.’

  ‘This is all very vague,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Can you give us the name of a man there, a prominent man, whom we can trust absolutely? It would be useful to know some one like that.’

  ‘You can trust my nephew, Ludwig Stanhauser, with your life. He knows you are coming.’

  ‘Does he speak English?’

  ‘He was educated in England. It was upon his suggestion that I came to see you.’

  ‘Good! Any one else?’

  ‘The Princess. She has also been to England and speaks your language.’

  ‘We are hardly likely to see her, I imagine. Any one else?’

  ‘It would be better, I think, if you pursued this question with Ludwig. After all, it is some time since I was at home in Maltovia, and things outside my knowledge may have occurred. I only know that there is renewed activity on the part of the enemy.’

  ‘What you really mean is, they know we are coming out?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but it might be so.’

  ‘What gives you that impression?’

  ‘Zarovitch, the Lovitznian minister in London, has returned to Lovitzna. He went hurriedly.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘The dickens he has. That doesn’t sound so good. Well, we can’t do anything about it if he has. Anything else?’

  ‘One more thing I must tell you.’ The Count began drawing invisible lines on the tablecloth with a fork. ‘General Otto von Nerthold, one of our most able military leaders, a true patriot and the strongest man in our country, an officer to whose zeal we owe our defences, was assassinated last night.’

  Biggles caught Algy’s eye for an instant before he looked back at the Count. ‘That’s bad,’ he said. ‘It looks as if the enemy are going to try to win their war by underhand methods.’

  ‘Such is Lovitzna’s way, and the way of the big country behind them.’

  ‘In which case our straightforward methods may cause them some surprise,’ answered Biggles grimly.

  ‘Be ever on your guard.’

  ‘It’s as bad as that, is it?

  ‘I fear it is. Tell me, are you armed?’

  Biggles made a grimace. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘we are, and it would seem to be as well for us that we are. For risks of war I was prepared, but murder by unseen enemies is unpleasant to contemplate.’

  ‘I would have warned you earlier,’ declared the Count sadly, ‘but I did not know that matters had reached the stage they have until I received a dispatch this morning. In fairness to you I must offer you the option of withdrawing if you wish.’

  ‘We don’t withdraw when once we have started, sir.’

  ‘It brings joy to my heart to hear you say that.’

  ‘We shall endeavour to be worthy of your confidence,’ said Biggles seriously. ‘You have no more unpleasant news for us, I hope?’

  ‘No, I do not think that I have anything more to say, beyond once more expressing my deepest gratitude for what you are doing, at the same time regretting that our little country is not in a financial position to recompense you more in accordance with your worth.’

  Biggles permitted a faint smile to cross his face. ‘We are not doing this for money, Count Stanhauser,’ he said quietly. ‘If you wan
t the truth, we are doing it because there is in us, as there is in most Englishmen, a love of justice, a sense of right and wrong, and sympathy for the underdog. That is why we shall be proud to wear our Maltovian uniforms.’

  Tears sprang to the old man’s eyes. He was almost overcome by emotion. ‘Yes, … I knew … that,’ he said huskily. ‘Then there is nothing more to say except goodbye, and may God go with you to defend the right.’

  Ten minutes later the three ‘Lances’ took up formation over the aerodrome and, with Biggles leading, headed south-east towards the Channel. Below, on the deserted tarmac, a single lonely figure watched them go, his right hand held high in farewell.

  1 A mechanic specializing primarily in aircraft engines.

  2 A person who looks after the airframe, particularly the adjustment of the control surfaces and wings.

  Chapter 3

  Dangerous Ground

  FOR NEARLY FIVE hours the three machines bored their way across Central Europe at a speed of nearly two hundred miles an hour over masses of billowy cumulus cloud that was rolling slowly in the same direction as they were travelling. More than once, when the earth was completely blotted out, Biggles was compelled to go down under the cloud bank in order to pick up a landmark to make sure that he was on his course. A glance at the watch on the instrument-board, and a quick mental calculation, told him that they were approaching their destination, and he expressed his relief in relaxation, for, although he had said little about it to the others, he could not entirely rid himself of the fear of a forced landing, knowing well what the result would be. The machines would certainly be impounded if nothing worse.

  Indeed, more than once he half regretted the hasty decision that had sent them out on yet another mission; not for himself, but for the others, Ginger in particular. He himself knew only too well what the future was likely to hold, for he no longer had any delusions about war-flying. Algy knew, too, he reflected, and he was well able to take care of himself; but Ginger was young, and, however well he might be able to fly, real war-flying was something new to his experience. The responsibility was on his shoulders, and if anything happened to the lad who was now roaring along near his left wing-tip, he knew that he would never forgive himself. Therefore doubts assailed him. What would happen if any of them had the misfortune to be forced down in Lovitzna? It was unlikely that they would be accorded the normal treatment of prisoners of war. Caught in arms against another country, it would be useless to appeal to the British Foreign Office for assistance; in any case, his spirit revolted from such a course. Well, time would show. The curious part of the affair was that they were getting nothing out of it. They stood to lose their lives, and against that, to gain nothing – at least, their pay as Maltovian officers, a matter of a few shillings a day, really amounted to nothing. It was always the way when one was fighting for a cause, he thought moodily. Still, it was too late to turn back now.

  What sort of reception awaited them at Weisheim, where they were to refuel? He himself had entertained doubts before the Count had amplified them by relating the circumstances of the arrangement. To have the machines confiscated before they so much as reached the country for which they were bound would indeed be a bitter anticlimax. It would not happen if he could prevent it, and to that end he had made certain private arrangements without taking the others into his confidence, the reason for this being that he was anxious not to alarm them.

  Another glance at the watch and he throttled back to half-throttle, eased the stick1 forward, and glided down into the piled-up vapour above which they had been skimming. In an instant he was swallowed up, but holding the stick steady, in a few seconds he emerged into a dim world, grey in the fading light of the November evening. He was rather sorry about the cloud, for it forced him to fly lower than would have been necessary had the sky been clear, and, moreover, against the grey background the machines would stand out to watchers below as clearly as flies on a ceiling. Yet there was no help for it; he had never before flown over Weisheim, and only by using his eyes could he hope to pick up the landing-ground, which, the Count had informed him, was marked out with the usual white circle.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed the other two machines close behind. They had opened out somewhat in coming through the cloud, so he held on his course just below the ‘ceiling’2, watching the ground intently. He was just beginning to get worried when a broad river came into view, and he grunted his satisfaction, for this was the landmark for which he had been waiting. Reaching it, he turned sharply to the left, and after following its winding course for about ten miles, struck off again to the east over fairly open country, scrutinizing methodically every inch of the ground with the thoroughness of long experience. A few minutes later his patience was rewarded when a small white circle, set in the centre of a large, open stretch of parkland, came into view. Not far away to the north the grey pile of a big country house rose above a group of trees. Signalling to the others that he was going down, he throttled right back and glided towards the circle, for, in accordance with their prearranged plan, he was to be the first to land.

  His steady eyes regarded the landing-ground with satisfaction, but, at the same time, at the back of his mind there was a vague uneasiness which he could not dispel. Not a soul was in sight, and this, far from allaying his fears, only served to strengthen them. Why was nobody there, he wondered. Their arrival was expected, in which case it was only reasonable to suppose that some one – the Baroness or her servants – would be there to receive them.

  As slowly as he dared, he glided on towards the white circle, his whole mind concentrated on the field, its surface and surroundings. At a height of not more than twenty feet he acted as though he was going to land, but at the last moment he turned, and opening his engine, roared low along the boundary of the unofficial aerodrome. Suddenly he caught his breath and stared hard. Had he been mistaken? He crossed the field and raced back along the opposite side. No, there was no mistake. Right across the green turf, at intervals of about fifty yards and not more than two feet above the ground, had been stretched a series of wires. The field had been ‘trapped’, and any machine attempting to land on it would inevitably turn a somersault. But for the fact that the wire was new it would have been impossible to see it, and even so, had it not been for his particularly careful examination, which would not, of course, have occurred in the ordinary way, the trap would have escaped observation, if for no other reason than that it was hardly to be expected. Biggles’s face was grim and slightly pale as he zoomed high to where the others were circling, waiting to follow him in. They closed up, goggles raised, eyes questioning, but he only shook his head and turned away to the north. Glancing down as he sped over the far boundary of the field, he saw something that brought a slow smile over his face: a dozen or more men, most of them in uniform, had run out from a clump of trees and were staring upwards. ‘I’d give a lot for the pleasure of shooting you up,’ he thought savagely as he regarded them; but then he dismissed the matter from his mind, and set off on a new course, deliberately keeping low so that the men on the aerodrome could not mark his direction. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted with satisfaction that the other two machines were following in their proper places.

  It was nearly dark, and he was running on the last of his petrol, the gravity tank3, when a main road appeared ahead. He followed this a little way, and then, choosing a field large enough for a safe landing, he glided in and came to a standstill in the heavy shadow of a belt of trees on the far side. He switched off, and jumped down as the other machines landed.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ cried Algy, as he and Ginger ran up.

  ‘The field was trapped,’ Biggles told him shortly.

  It was not necessary to explain to Algy what a ‘trap’ was; his face expressed his horror and consternation. ‘Phew!’ he whistled. ‘The dirty dogs.’

  ‘How was it trapped?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘It was wired to catch our wheels and throw us over as we glided in
,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Do you mean to say there are people in the world who would do a thing like that?’ cried Ginger incredulously.

  Biggles laughed bitterly. ‘That’s nothing to what some people would do; maybe you’ll discover that one day.’

  Algy was looking concerned. ‘Now we are in a nice mess,’ he muttered. ‘We can’t go on without juice, and I was down to my last pint when you dropped in here. How do you propose to get umpteen gallons of petrol without attracting attention?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that you think you can?’

  ‘I made provision for that before I left England.’

  ‘You did? You didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. When I did it, it was merely a precautionary measure.’

  ‘When you did what?’

  ‘I sent a cable to Jerry Banham, in Weisheim. He used to be in 40 Squadron, you remember; he’s the Shell Company’s agent in this part of the world now. I asked him to bring a load of petrol along this road to-night, and if he saw three machines flying low to follow them as fast as he could. I saw a lorry parked beside the road as we came along; it started off in the same direction as we were going, so I’m hoping old Jerry hasn’t let us down. This is him, coming down the road now, I’ll bet. Come on.’

  With one accord they all ran down the hedge and reached the main road just as a lorry came abreast of them. Biggles let out a yell. The lorry stopped with a grinding of brakes, and a well-dressed man jumped down from the driver’s seat.

  ‘What cheer, Jerry?’ grinned Biggles.

  ‘Not much,’ was the instant reply. ‘What do you think you’re trying to do – get me the sack?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Biggles assured him. ‘We’re in a jam, old lad.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘We’ve got a contract to deliver these machines to Maltovia. Unfortunately, there are some nasty people who don’t want them to get there – never mind why. We had a landing-ground fixed up not far from here, but as I was gliding in I noticed that some one had been thoughtful enough to trap it with cross-wires.’