Biggles In Australia Read online

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  1 See Biggles Works it Out.

  2 See Biggles in the Blue.

  CHAPTER II

  Wide Open Spaces

  The arrangements made by Biggles for his Australian assignment were rather more involved than usual on account of the peculiar conditions in which they would have to operate. Where the quest would eventually lead them was an unknown quantity, and, as he told the others, it was as well to be prepared for anything. They were going to a continent, not a country, and while it was now well provided with aerodromes the distances between them was a factor that would have to be considered in conjunction with refuelling. They didn’t want to spend half their time flying to distant points for fuel and oil, much of which would be exhausted on the return journey, thus hampering their mobility and putting them in a constant state of anxiety.

  The matter was complicated by the employment of a marine aircraft, although the machine, a Sea Otter, being an amphibian, could operate from both land or water. The Otter was an ideal craft for investigating the islands, and it would be able to refuel at the several landing grounds strung out along the coast between Perth and Darwin; but it hadn’t the endurance range of the Halifax, with its special tanks, which would in many ways be more suitable for long-distance overland flights.

  Biggles admitted that this question of refuelling worried him, because people would wonder what they were doing and perhaps ask questions. Word of them might be carried by the regular airline pilots to the cities on which they were based, and so reach the ears of von Stalhein or his confederates, who might be anywhere. In order to avoid being seen too often, should the exploration of the islands turn out to be a long business, Biggles had an idea of using the Halifax as a refuelling tender. Working from Port Darwin, it should, he thought, be able to land anywhere on Eighty Mile Beach, which, according to their information, was ‘eighty miles of sand without a pebble’. The Otter could refuel from the Halifax and proceed with its work while the Halifax returned to Darwin for a further load of petrol and oil. Whether this would work out as well in practice as in theory could only be ascertained by trial and error. As things turned out this did not arise.

  The airfield chosen for a base in the first instance was Broome, a port on the coastal route developed by West Australian Airways. Not only was this the nearest available petrol supply to the area in which von Stalhein’s party had first been sighted, but Biggles had a vague hope that he might pick up some information from the crews of the pearling luggers that made the town their home port.

  Little news had come to hand, except the information for which Biggles had asked, since his first interview with the Air Commodore. The names given by von Stalhein’s party had been checked, and it came as no surprise that they were unknown in Western Europe. The See Taube was not known in Hamburg, either.

  Biggles had written a personal note to West, one of the control officers he had met on a previous occasion at Port Darwin, asking him to check up on the aircraft in which the ‘shipwrecked sailors’ had left the town. From where had it come and to where had it gone? He, Biggles, would be along shortly to speak to him about it.

  It had been learned that the spot where von Stalhein’s boat had first been spotted was about twenty miles seaward from the southern end of the barren stretch of coast, south of Broome, known, and shown on the map, as Eighty Mile Beach, to which reference has already been made. As willie-willies, with their hundred and twenty miles an hour fury, come in broadly from a northerly direction, it was possible to form a rough idea of the most probable direction of the island on which von Stalhein’s ship had been cast away. A close study of the chart revealed no lack of islands, and Admiralty Sailing Directions gave descriptions of some of them. Mostly uninhabited, they varied in composition between stark coral reef and the shallow, blown-sand and sea-grass type, like the Lacepedes. Many bore the names of the early explorers or forgotten sea captains. As to the coast of the mainland, Ginger regarded with some concern the thousand miles of sand dunes backed for the most part by desert, with an occasional lonely mine or sheep station. There were towns, but they were few and far between. Ginger’s eye followed them round — Derby, Broome, Hedland, Roebourne, Onslow.... He was relieved to note that most of them were served by air.

  The Otter arrived first at Port Darwin. Biggles did not go ashore at once, for although his proposed excuse for being there was nothing more romantic than an equipment test in varying overseas conditions, he was afraid he might be thought a fit subject by a press photographer. Publicity was the last thing he wanted.

  After dark, taking Ginger with him, he made his way to the airport buildings and reintroduced himself to West, and reminded him of his letter.

  ‘What is it this time — another gold swindle?’ inquired West, smiling.

  ‘Nothing like it,’ answered Biggles. ‘Strictly between ourselves, we’re looking for somebody, and we thought he might be in that party I told you about in my letter.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I haven’t much news for you,’ was the disappointing reply. ‘The machine was a Quantas Airways Lockheed. Came up from Brisbane. I can give you the registration letters if that’s any use to you. It went back to Brisbane, but Jimmy Alston, who was flying it, has an idea the people didn’t stay there, because he saw them hanging about the airport some time after he’d booked in. He’s been here since and I spoke to him about it. He hasn’t been able to find out where they went after he unloaded them.’

  ‘Who paid for the flight? It must have been an expensive trip and it’s unlikely the passengers had any money.’

  ‘Apparently a fellow named Smith. He paid in ready money. Nobody knew anything about him. Didn’t matter much who he was, I reckon, as long as he had the cash.’

  ‘He didn’t give any address?’

  ‘If he did no one seems to have made a note of it. All Jimmy could get from the booking clerk was he spoke like a foreigner.’

  ‘Useful name, Smith,’ murmured Biggles. ‘And that’s all you’ve been able to find out.’

  ‘That’s the lot. Do you want me to ask Jimmy, if he comes up again, to try to find out more about this chap Smith?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘No thanks. It might do more harm than good. Of course, if he should see any of these people again, and that includes Smith, he might let you know and you could tell me. I expect to be around for a while. Is Alston on a regular run?’

  ‘As a relief. He does most of the charter work. Must know his way round Australia better than anyone.’

  ‘I see. Well, many thanks. We’ll get along.’

  ‘How long do you reckon to be here?’

  ‘Not more than a day or two actually in Darwin, but I may be back later on. I’m waiting for a friend of mine to arrive. He’s on the same job as I am, in a Halifax. We’ve arranged to meet here.’

  At this point of the conversation the door opened and a man in a captain’s uniform came in. ‘I’m looking for Bigglesworth,’ he announced. ‘They tell me he’s in the building.’

  ‘That’s me,’ returned Biggles.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you. I’m just in from Singapore. There’s a friend of yours there, named Lacey, with an old Halifax. He told me to tell you he’s hung up with a spot of engine trouble. Nothing serious; but it may be a day or two before he can get away. At the moment everyone’s busy on a nasty crack-up on the airfield.’

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘Are you going back that way?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, if he’s still there when you get there you might tell him not to get in a flap. There’s no hurry. If I’m not here when he gets here he’d better wait.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The pilot departed and Biggles turned to West. ‘If Lacey arrives and I’m not here you might tell him to concentrate on getting his machine a hundred per cent airworthy. This is no country to take chances.’

  West grinned. ‘Glad you’ve
realized that. Are you thinking of pulling out right away now?’

  ‘As I’ve nothing to do here I shall probably take a run down the coast to have a general look round. Oh, and that reminds me. Do you happen to know what became of the lifeboat in which those fellows came ashore?’

  West shook his head. ‘It was never mentioned in my hearing. I gather it had been knocked about so it’s unlikely that anyone would trouble to fetch it. I could probably find out for you. Len Seymour, one of our chaps was with the relief party. He’ll have gone home now but I could ring him.’

  ‘I wish you would. It’s only a detail, but every little helps.’

  West put through the call.

  ‘It was left on the beach,’ he announced, as he hung up. ‘Len says they pulled it high and dry in case it was wanted, and left it there. There was nothing else they could do with it. It wasn’t worth much, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘Well, we’ll get along now. See you later, maybe.’

  Leaving the building they returned to the Otter.

  ‘Pity about Algy,’ observed Ginger, on the way.

  ‘If he’s having trouble it’s a good thing he’s where he is, and not in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Are we going to a hotel for the night?’

  ‘No. We’ll sleep on board, then there will be no difficulty in making an early start.’

  ‘You’re going straight on to have a look at the islands?’

  ‘We might as well. I don’t feel like sitting here doing nothing for perhaps a week. We’ll have a wash, get a bite in the town and come back. It’s under four miles so if we have to walk it won’t do us any harm.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Ginger.

  So they had a meal in Darwin, the little town which, practically unknown forty years ago, was ‘put on the map’ by aviation, and is now the focal point for planes arriving in, or leaving, Australia. A modest monument was erected to the memory of Ross Smith, the airman who, in his Vickers Vimy, first touched down on what was to become the first airport in Australia, with hangars, oil tanks, workshops, and a beacon that can be seen for a hundred miles to guide machines making the night crossing of the Timor Sea.

  Early to bed, morning saw Biggles and Ginger deflating their pneumatic mattresses while the stars still gleamed in the sky; and before the town was awake the Otter was droning down a south-westerly course on its six hundred mile run to the scene of its first investigation. To starboard lay the open sea, an indigo plain stretching to infinity in the light of the new-born day. To port, a few feathers of mist were drifting over the purple smudge that was Australia’s lonely north-west coast — perhaps the most forsaken stretch of coast in the world.

  Ginger knew that Biggles had no clear-cut plan of campaign. Islands, numbers of islands and atolls, any one of which might be the one they sought, were scattered far and wide. They were mostly small and uninhabited, but size was no indication. Biggles had admitted frankly that all they could do was take in turn each square that he had marked on the chart and fly low over any islands that fell within it. This, of course, meant a good deal of dead reckoning navigation for Ginger. The immediate objective was the spot where the rescue pilot had pinpointed the boat. Biggles had not bothered to look him up, feeling sure that he would not be able to tell them more than they already knew. The direction from which the boat had come could only be guesswork, and their guess was as good as his.

  It was just after nine o’clock when Ginger announced that they were as near the pinpoint as he would be able to estimate it. The mainland, with its miles of untrodden sand, was a silvery streak on the horizon. The rest was open sea, without a ship, without an island, without a mark of any sort to break its sparkling surface.

  Biggles turned the bows of the machine to the north and the search began.

  To narrate in detail the hours that followed would be monotonous reiteration. Suffice it to say that several islands were examined without result. Biggles’s method was to cruise low over the foreshore while Ginger watched for signs of wreckage. This was really easier than it may sound because most of the islands were low-lying, small and treeless, either coral atolls or banks of sand not more than eight or ten feet high at the highest point. These, Biggles felt sure, would be overwhelmed in severe hurricanes. Once in a while there would be an island worthy of the name, boasting an odd breadfruit tree or a few wind-torn coconut palms.

  There were several false alarms when what looked like wreckage was sighted. On one occasion Biggles landed on the tranquil surface of a lagoon; but the wreck turned out to be barnacle and seaweed encrusted remains of an unlucky lugger, lost, no doubt, in one of the notorious willie-willies. They took the opportunity to have a rest, and some food.

  ‘These islets must be death-traps for ships in bad weather,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘We should have taken into account the possibility of sundry wreckage, apart from what we’re looking for,’ replied Biggles. ‘More than once, I believe, the entire pearling fleet has been wiped out. From November to April, when a hurricane can blow up in an hour, pearling must be an anxious business.’

  ‘I imagine you’ll go to Broome for the night, and top up the tanks?’ supposed Ginger.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ answered Biggles. ‘It may not be necessary. I don’t want to be seen there too often. It struck me that we might carry on until near sundown. Then, if we could find a safe anchorage we could sit down for the night and finish this particular area in the morning before heading for Broome. We’re still all right for juice.’

  Ginger agreed there was no sense in waffling a hundred miles to the coast, only to come back in the morning, if it could be avoided.

  It was about four o’clock when Biggles pointed out a lagoon that he thought should suit them. The time was still on the early side, but, as he said, they had had enough flying for one day.

  The lagoon was part of a typical coral atoll formation. That is to say, the land that formed the island, at no point more than twenty feet above sea level, was the shape of a horseshoe. The open ends dwindled to mere points, and then, continuing on as reefs of varying width, without quite meeting, encompassed the flat sheet of water that was the lagoon. This might have been half a mile in diameter. The beach, the only beach, was a strip of sand on the inside of the horseshoe. On the outer side, and, indeed, all round the encircling reef, the ocean swell broke in showers of sparkling spray to the accompaniment of a dull continuous rumble. The only vegetation the island could produce was a little sparse scrub and a group of perhaps a dozen palms, their fronds torn and tattered, presumably by the recent willie-willie.

  Ginger, who had seen atolls before, was not impressed. He was merely concerned with the safe anchorage it provided, and would provide while the weather remained calm. Ripples surged in through the opening in the reef, but for the most part the lagoon lay like a sheet of glass under a sky serenely blue.

  As Biggles made a false run to check the surface for possible obstructions Ginger noticed several small white spots, scattered about the land, that he could not identify. Without being more than mildly curious he noted them in passing, recalling that he had seen similar spots on the last island they had surveyed. They hadn’t landed, so he had had no opportunity of finding out what they were. The swish of the keel as it kissed the water, cutting a V-shaped ripple, put the objects out of his head; and for the next few minutes, after Biggles had taxied close inshore, they were busy making everything snug.

  After that there was nothing more to do. Biggles took the Primus from its locker. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and then go ashore to stretch our legs,’ he suggested.

  ‘Are you going to sleep on board?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’d rather sleep on the beach under the stars. We seem to have the place to ourselves and we’re not likely to have visitors.’

  The only signs of life were, in fact, a few gulls that wheeled around the aircraft mewing their disapproval of it.

&nb
sp; Under the water it was different, and although he had seen similar pictures before Ginger hung over the side gazing at that most fascinating of all spectacles, a coral garden. Through it, moving from one growth of coral to another, their shadows falling on the bottom, swam schools of brilliantly coloured fish. Most of these were small, but occasionally a big one would drift lazily into the picture, sending the little fellows darting for their lives.

  At Biggles’s call of tea-up he turned away reluctantly. ‘I’m having a swim when I’ve had my tea,’ he announced.

  ‘That’s a pleasant thought,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ll keep watch for sharks while you’re in; then you can keep watch for me. These seas are stiff with the brutes, but there shouldn’t be anything of a dangerous size inside the lagoon. All the same, I’d rather not take a chance.’

  Tea finished, Ginger had his dip. Biggles followed, with Ginger standing in the centre-section, watching. But of the dreaded triangular fin he saw no sign.

  By the time preparations had been made to spend the night ashore the sun was dropping like a ball of fire beyond the horizon.

  CHAPTER III

  An Uncomfortable Night

  There are few things on earth more beautiful than an atoll on a still, moonlit night. The sunset dies. The colours fade. The palm fronds bow their heads and come silently to rest. Silver stains the eastern sky. The rim of the moon appears, and climbing, broadens, to cast an ethereal radiance across the ocean, the motionless lagoon, and the beach, which seems to float in space. A distant nightgull cries. A land-crab, emerging from its burrow, rattles his shelly legs on a pebble, interrupting for a moment an atmosphere that has taken on the solemnity of a cathedral.