Biggles WWII Collection Read online

  As there was no further point in remaining, Biggles returned to the street. He found a café still open, and sat at a side table over a cup of coffee to ponder his position, which he felt was getting desperate. Brandt and von Stalhein were now looking for Hendrik, all because the quick-witted Brandt had unfortunately caught a glimpse of him. Still, this did not necessarily mean that either he or von Stalhein now believed Hendrik to be Bigglesworth, but the very fact that they were anxious to interview Hendrik proved that they were suspicious. Once they saw him the game would be up, so if he remained in Oslo it was certain that sooner or later they would find him.

  For a little while he could not make up his mind what to do for the best. There were moments when he felt inclined to devote his entire energy to getting out of the country, for which Colonel Raymond could hardly blame him, for when he had agreed to remain the position had been altogether different. At that time he had been simply a renegade Norwegian, and in no immediate danger. He was not suspected of being Bigglesworth, and von Stalhein had not been in the country. Yet, on the other hand, he felt that with his Gestapo pass in his pocket, never before had he been in such an admirable position to gather information, information that might well be of vital importance to the Allies. In short, he felt it would be insane to remain, yet despicable to run away – even if he could. But he would certainly have to get out of Oslo. That, of course, would make von Hymann suspicious, and perhaps start a hue and cry. What excuse could he give for leaving the city?

  Sitting there alone in a quiet corner he worked out a plan; a plan which, if successful, might answer a lot of questions for him. The weakness of it lay in his abandoning – at least for the time being – the aerodrome at Boda, for it was clear from what Colonel Raymond had said that he was going to get in touch with him there, presumably by means of a secret agent. In the end Biggles decided that this could not be avoided. He got up, paid his bill, and went along to the garage at the corner of the street. It was, of course, owned by a Norwegian, so the wretched man was in no case to resist German demands. Biggles said he was a member of the Gestapo and demanded a car.

  The proprietor raised no objection. He pointed to an Opel saloon. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yes. Are the tanks full?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without another word Biggles got in the car and drove slowly out of the city. He was stopped several times, but his pass always carried him through. Reaching the suburbs, he pulled up outside a telephone call box and rang up the Hotel Port, giving his number and asking for Oberleutnant von Hymann.

  He was told that von Hymann had been in, but had gone out again.

  Having ascertained that he was speaking to a Gestapo operator, Biggles then asked if he could leave a message, and was told that he might.

  ‘Take it down,’ he ordered. ‘My number is 2001. Say that I have located Bigglesworth. He has left the city in a car, heading northward. At the garage where he got the car he asked how far it was to Narvik, so that is presumably where he is bound for. I’m following him, and am not far behind. I’ll report again at the first opportunity. Got that?’

  The operator read over the message.

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Biggles, and hung up. He went back to the car. For a minute or two he studied the map which he always kept in his pocket; then he drove on, heading northward, whence came the sounds of battle.

  1 German rank equivalent to Lieutenant in the army or Flying Officer in the Air Force.

  2 In making this statement Biggles was stating the truth. See Biggles Flies North.

  3 Captain von Stalhein. For Biggles’s first contact with von Stalhein see Biggles Flies East.

  CHAPTER 5

  UNEXPECTED ALLIES

  IN ACTING AS he did, Biggles was actuated first and foremost by the obvious necessity for getting out of Oslo; also he wanted time to think, to muster the many features and various aspects of his position. And this, presently, he did, having turned into a by-road for the purpose. He stopped the car so that he could concentrate on the problem.

  Slowly the situation clarified itself into a number of issues, all governed by the outstanding fact that not only was it known to the Gestapo that Squadron Leader Bigglesworth was in Norway, but von Stalhein was also in Norway for the purpose of finding him. Von Stalhein and Brandt knew him by sight, so it would be merely foolish to hope that he could continue to move about the country without being spotted. To carry on espionage work in such conditions would impose a strain not lightly to be borne, a strain that would certainly impair his activities as well as his efficiency. He felt that if Colonel Raymond knew this, he could hardly fail to ask him to leave the country. The trouble was that he had no means of getting in touch with the Colonel except by again crossing the frontier into Sweden. Yet, apart from the obvious risks involved in such a procedure, such a course would be letting Colonel Raymond down, for the Colonel, acting under the assumption that he was in Norway, might be making all sorts of plans, the success of which depended on his being at Boda. Raymond was even then taking steps to get into touch with him at the aerodrome, and would expect him to be there. If the secret agent arrived at the aerodrome and failed to find him, the consequences might be tragic. All of which meant that he ought to return to the aerodrome. But now, apart from Oslo, the aerodrome was the most dangerous place in the country. Von Stalhein and Brandt were interested in Hendrik, whose failure to return to the hotel would only deepen their suspicions. They would continue their search vigorously, and it could only be a question of time before they – or someone – discovered that a Norwegian named Hendrik had joined the Nazi Air Force at Boda. Von Stalhein’s agile brain would instantly perceive what had happened, and that would be the end.

  A further point not to be overlooked was this. He was supposed to be acting under von Hymann’s orders, and while his telephone message might be sufficient to allay suspicion for the time being, unless he showed up pretty soon, or reported again, von Hymann, too, would start wondering what had happened to Hendrik.

  Now in introducing the town of Narvik into his message to von Hymann Biggles was prompted by one reason only. From scraps of conversation overheard he had gathered that a British force was landing there. British troops might be landing at other places as well for all he knew, but owing to the suddenness of the German attack the whole country was in a state of confusion. Nobody seemed to know what was happening.

  At the back of Biggles’ mind, when he had rung up to speak to von Hymann, was a vague idea of getting ‘Bigglesworth’ out of the country. That is to say, if he could lead von Hymann to believe that Bigglesworth had fled the country, via the British-held port of Narvik – a not unreasonable possibility – then the hue and cry would die down. Von Stalhein would be informed and would probably return to Germany. Brandt might go, too, leaving Biggles to do his work in a less unhealthy atmosphere. So, if this could be brought about, it would be a useful stroke of work. But could it? Obviously, it was not going to be easy to get to Narvik, or anywhere else for that matter, for not only were more and more German troops arriving in the country, but the Norwegians themselves were mobilizing and putting up a stiff resistance. So it seemed that he would have to pose as a Gestapo agent when talking to the Germans, and as a Norwegian when intercepted by Norwegians. He would have to adopt a dual personality. He still had a Norwegian passport as well as his Gestapo ticket, so he could use either as circumstances demanded, and as he was still in civilian clothes he felt that this ought to be possible.

  There was one final point that worried him. In Oslo he had picked up information which the British authorities would be glad to have, but this information would be of no value unless he could pass it on immediately, for the position was changing every few hours. Could he reach the British forces? He did not know, but he could try. If he succeeded in getting into the town of Narvik he would get a message through to von Hymann from there, to the effect that Bigglesworth had escaped. At the same time he would ask permission to return to Boda
, and stay there until he got Colonel Raymond’s permission to leave the country. He was anxious, desperately anxious, to get out, not so much on account of the danger of his task as his dislike for the work he was doing. Spying as a profession had no appeal to him, although more than once he had been forced to do it. In the present case only a sequence of unforeseen circumstances had combined to thrust him, against his will, into the unenviable position in which he now found himself. He much preferred the straightforward life of a fighting pilot, which, really, was what he was.

  He looked again at his map, noted the shortest way to his objective, started the car, and set off on his long journey.

  Biggles covered fifty miles in fair time, although, as was inevitable, he was stopped several times by German patrols, but on the production of his pass he was allowed to proceed. Once he found himself near some brisk fighting and took refuge in a peasant’s cottage – posing, of course, as a Norwegian. The peasant told him of a detour by which he could avoid the battle, and he lost no time in taking it. Now, having passed the extremity of the German forces, he started to run into Norwegian patrols, who also stopped him. But when he showed his Norwegian passport, and said that he was on his way to Narvik to offer his services to the British, no obstacle was put in his path. The noise of war died away behind him, but progress was slow on account of the state of the road, particularly in the passes where the snow was still deep. Naturally, the farther north he got the more arctic the conditions became, and once he was compelled to wait for a snow-storm to blow itself out before he could go on. He was desperately tired, but matters were too urgent for him to rest – at least, for the time being.

  On and on he drove into the darkness of the night. He passed a signpost pointing to Trondheim, away to the west. There was firing there, too, but who was responsible for it he did not know, for he was still unaware that Germans had landed at several places on the coast. Leaving Trondheim far behind, and reaching a village called Stol, he halted. He was so weary that he was beginning to sway in his seat. To proceed farther in his present state would be to court disaster by accident, so he went to the inn. The landlord and his wife were still up; several villagers were there too, all discussing the calamity that had befallen their country. Biggles introduced himself – as Hendrik, of course – said that he was on government service and was on his way to Narvik. He was worn out, so could he have a bed for the rest of the night?

  The kindly souls assured him that he might, but would he please tell them what was happening in Oslo? They had a wireless set, but they knew it was in German hands and they were anxious to know the truth. Biggles told them as much as he thought was good for them. Afterwards he fell on his bed and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  As soon as it was daylight he had a good breakfast and continued his journey. The scenery had always been wild, but now it grew rugged in the extreme, far more savage than it had seemed from the air. On all sides towered mountains, gaunt, still white with snow. The lower slopes bristled with countless conifers. For the most part the road ran through valley or gorge, but not infrequently it followed a cornice round the mountain side so that sheer cliff rose on the one hand and a fathomless void dropped away on the other. The surface of the road got worse and worse.

  But Biggles was not concerned with these details. He was concerned only with reaching his objective, which had become a sort of mania. Once, from an eminence, he caught a distant view of the sea far away to the left, and he knew that he was now in the narrow northern end of Norway. Shortly afterwards the road struck a fiord, one of the many deep-thrusting arms of the sea for which Norway is famous, and thereafter it more or less followed the coast. He breathed a sigh of relief when, from the top of a hill, he saw a town in the distance that he knew could only be the port for which he was bound.

  He might not have seen the sailors had not one of them deliberately exposed himself, making strange signals. Biggles stopped at once. As the man drew near – he was little more than a lad – Biggles saw that he wore the uniform of an officer of the British Mercantile Marine. It was dirty and torn.

  The man came nearer. ‘Me British sailor,’ he said, pointing to the braid on his sleeve. Then he pointed to his mouth. ‘Me hungry – no food,’ he continued.

  That he was telling the truth was obvious for his face was pinched and pale. It was apparent that he assumed Biggles to be a Norwegian, and therefore a friend.

  Said Biggles, coolly, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  The sailor started violently. ‘Great Scott! Are you a Britisher?’ he asked joyfully.

  Biggles did not answer the question. ‘What are you doing here?’ he repeated.

  ‘We were torpedoed off the coast – the trawler Sea-goer.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. Me and some of the ship’s company managed to swim ashore. That was two days ago. We’ve been on the run ever since – without a bite of food.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘In my party – seven.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to Narvik?’

  The sailor stared. ‘To Narvik? That’s the last place we’re likely to go – unless we’re caught and taken there.’

  Biggles sensed a disturbing implication in the statement. ‘Why, what’s wrong with Narvik?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘The Germans have got it.’

  Biggles was speechless while this staggering piece of information sank in. ‘But – but I thought the British had landed there?’

  The sailor laughed harshly. ‘There was talk of them landing there, but they’re not there yet, you can take that from me. The fiord is stiff with Jerry destroyers. They’ve got the town.’

  Biggles’ scheme crashed to the ground. ‘What are you trying to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Find someone to hide us until our fellows arrive, or else find a ship to pick us up. That’s why we’re sticking near the coast.’

  ‘Do the Germans know you’re ashore?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. They’ve been chasing us.’

  ‘Where are the rest of you?’

  The sailor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Hiding in a little dell.’

  Instinctively Biggles glanced in the direction indicated, and as he did so a movement caught his eye. He looked again and saw that he had not been mistaken. A German soldier was creeping towards them, taking cover between the rocks. Others were there too, to left and right. Quickly Biggles looked behind him and saw more Germans advancing stealthily through the trees that cloaked the side of the hill.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the sailor sharply, taking alarm from the expression on Biggles’ face.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck, old man,’ returned Biggles quietly. ‘We’re surrounded. Are you armed?’

  ‘We haven’t a weapon between us.’

  ‘Then you’d be wise to give yourselves up. There’s no sense in throwing your lives away uselessly.’

  ‘You’re talking about us. What are you going to do?’ asked the sailor suspiciously.

  Biggles could already see a plan by which the incident might be turned to good account, but it depended largely on the courage and fortitude of the sailor. He drew his automatic.

  ‘What the—’ began the sailor aghast, but Biggles cut him short.

  ‘Answer my questions quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m a British spy, and I’m going to put my life in your hands. I’ve got to get back to England with vital information. Got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped the sailor.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Evans – Bill Evans.’

  ‘It’s in your power to help me – and the country. Will you do it? You’ll be taken prisoner, anyway, so it won’t make things any worse for you.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘First, put your hands up. That will lead the Jerries to think I’ve captured you.’

  The sailor raised his hands.

  Biggles went on quickly, for he could see the Germans fast closing
in.

  ‘They think I’m a German agent,’ he said. ‘After you’re taken I shall come to question you. I shall ask if you had anyone else with your party. At first you will refuse to answer, but under pressure you’ll admit that a Britisher named Bigglesworth attached himself to you. When I ask what’s become of him you’ll say he left you – stole a dinghy and rowed out to a steamer. Got the name right?’

  ‘Bigglesworth.’

  ‘That’s it. Actually, I’m Bigglesworth, and I’ve got to make it look as if I’ve escaped out of the country – understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. That’s all. Act as you never acted before. Remember, however tough your plight may seem, mine is a lot worse. One slip and it’s a firing party for me.’

  ‘By gosh! You’ve sure got a nerve,’ muttered the sailor admiringly. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Thanks, pal. If you get back home and I don’t, find Colonel Raymond of British Intelligence and tell him that you saw me, and that I did my best. Prime your friends about Bigglesworth, but don’t tell them more than you need, and on no account let them know it’s me. Simply tell them to remember that Bigglesworth got away on a ship – a slim fellow with fair hair. Now take me to the others.’

  Still with his hands up, Biggles walked close behind him with the pistol raised, the sailor marched stiffly into the dell. The others sprang up in dismay when they appeared.

  ‘Hands up, everybody,’ ordered Biggles curtly. ‘March out into the open in single file.’

  ‘Do what you’re told, boys,’ said Evans tersely.

  Slowly the weary sailors raised their hands, and at the expression on their faces Biggles nearly weakened. He would have much preferred to fight side by side with them.

  ‘Out you go,’ he said shortly.