Biggles - Air Commodore Page 5

  Tearing it open, he glanced swiftly as the signature at the end. ‘Why, it’s from Tom Lowery,’ he cried. ‘Lowery is an old friend of mine; he’s a squadron leader in the R.A.F. stationed at Singapore,’ he explained for the benefit of the naval officers. ‘Pardon me; I’ll see what he has to say.’

  “My dear Biggles,” he read, “This may reach you or it may not. If it doesn’t there’s no harm done, but having seen about your flight to Australia in the papers I thought it was worth trying. By the time you get this I shall be flying over the same ground on the way to Singapore. My leave is up, so I’m flying back the first of the new Gannet flying boats with which my squadron is to be equipped, and I thought there was a chance that we might meet somewhere. If you go straight on without trouble you’ll be ahead of me, of course, but if you get hung up anywhere keep an eye open for me.

  “By the way, I’ve been thinking about that conversation of ours at Simpson’s. There’s probably nothing in it, but a Chinese store-keeper in Singapore for whom I once did a good turn told me a funny yarn not long ago about something fishy going on in the Mergui Archipelago. Said something about certain people who don’t like us very much having a wireless station there. I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but lately I’ve been wondering if there was any connection between that and the message Ramsay picked up. Curiously enough, we were in that district when he picked up the message. Anyway, I mention it because, instead of flying straight down the coast, I shall probably fly down the Archipelago keeping an eye open for anything that’s about, so if we miss each other that may be the reason. Still, we may meet at Alor or Singapore. Cheerios and all the best,

  Tom.”

  ‘Have you seen or heard anything of an R.A.F. flying boat?’ Biggles asked Sullivan casually. ‘Tom is flying down to Singapore.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen anything like that,’ replied Sullivan.

  ‘Never mind. Judging by the date on the letter he’ll be in Singapore by now, so no doubt I shall see him there. For the moment we’ve more important things to attend to. Now this is my plan. I shall fly down to Singapore today and come back tomorrow. While I am away I want you to find a quiet creek where you can hide up, on the coast, opposite the Mergui Islands.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because if the submarine stuck to the course it was on when Ladgrove last saw it, it would make a landfall somewhere in the Archipelago. Anyway, that’s where I’m going to start looking for it; and I shall go on looking while you have any petrol left. You may find it a bit dull just sitting in a creek with nothing else to do but keep me going with food and fuel, but I can’t help that. Keep out of sight as far as you can; once the enemy know you’re here our task will be twice as hard. That’s all. If you can make a better suggestion I shall be pleased to hear it.’

  Sullivan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I can improve on that. Looking for a submarine from sea level in this part of the world would be looking for a needle in a haystack, but with an aeroplane it becomes a different proposition. I have been here before, and I think I know a place where I can lie up with small chance of being seen. Here it is.’ He got up and indicated a spot on the chart that lay on his table. ‘If you don’t get a signal from me you’ll know that’s where you’ll find me.’

  ‘Fine!’ exclaimed Biggles, rising. ‘All right, then; we’ll get along to Singapore, and all being well we’ll rejoin you to-morrow evening.’

  The sun was sinking like a blood-red ball into the Malacca Strait when the Nemesis landed at Singapore, and Biggles, leaving the others in charge, wearing his new uniform for the first time, made his way to Station Headquarters, where he found a group captain in command, the air commodore being in hospital with an attack of fever. The group captain, who was still working in his office, looked at him curiously as he entered, and Biggles, rather self-conscious in his unorthodox appointment, lost no time in explaining the situation.

  ‘My name is Bigglesworth,’ he began, knowing that the other would perceive his rank by his uniform. ‘You may have seen notification of my appointment in the Gazette, or you may have been told of it expressly by the Air Ministry.’

  ‘Yes, I had a secret minute from the Air Ministry,’ replied the other quickly.

  ‘Good, then that makes things easier for me,’ went on Biggles. ‘No doubt you will wonder what is going on and what I am doing here. Well, I’m going to tell you. Frankly, if I obeyed my instructions to the letter, I shouldn’t, but I think it’s better that you should know because the knowledge will help you to silence any rumours that may get about the station. It may also help you to act with confidence and without hesitation if, in the near future, you get a message from me asking you to perform a duty so unusual that you might well be excused for hesitating, or even refusing to carry it out. Is that all clear so far?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ replied the group captain, still looking at Biggles with an odd expression.

  ‘Very well, then. This is the position. I’m on special duty. You probably know that, but what I’m going to tell you now you must never repeat except to the air commodore if he returns to duty. Somewhere in these seas an enemy submarine base has been established. Already it has sunk five British ships, three of which were carrying ammunitions. One, incidentally, was bringing you some new engines. I’m looking for that base, and when I find it I’ve got to wipe it out of existence. If I can find a way of doing that single-handed I shan’t trouble you, but if I can’t I shall send you a signal, and you’ll have to do it for me with as many machines as you can get into the air. This is no case for half measures. You served in the war, I suppose?’

  The other nodded, a light of understanding dawning in his eyes. ‘Good,’ continued Biggles. ‘You remember the old Zone Call that we used to use to turn every gun in the line on to a certain target? If you get a Zone Call, beginning with the usual ZZ and followed by a pin-point, you’ll act on it immediately. To make quite sure there is no mistake, the message will conclude with a password, which will be “Nomad”. On receipt of such a signal you will put every aircraft you can into the air with a full load of bombs or torpedoes, and blot the pin-point off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Have you any idea where it’s likely to be? I only ask because I must consider the endurance range of my machines.’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think it will be one of the islands in the Mergui Archipelago.’

  ‘That’s a long way; I don’t think we could get there and back, with war loads, without refuelling.’

  ‘That’s a matter I shall have to leave you to arrange, but in emergency you can refuel at my supply ship. It’s a destroyer, the Seafret. Sullivan is in command; and I’ll tell him to signal his position to you so that you’ll know where to find him. He’s got about eight thousand gallons of petrol on board which you can have with pleasure, for by the time you’ve done your job we shan’t need it. Have I made myself perfectly clear?’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  ‘Then that’s that. On, and by the way, if it becomes necessary for me to call you out you’ll have to warn all your officers about secrecy. I need hardly tell you that no one except those taking part must know what happens. I shall spend the night here and go back to Mergui in the morning. Is Tom Lowery about? I’d like a word with him.’

  The group captain raised his eyebrows. ‘You haven’t heard, evidently,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Lowery is missing.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Missing!’ he ejaculated.

  ‘Well, he’s four days overdue. No one has seen or heard a word of him since he left Rangoon a week ago.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘We’ve made a search for him, but I am afraid he’s down. If he’s down in the jungle on the mainland there is just a chance that he may turn up, but there seems to be no earthly reason why he should fly overland in a flying boat. No, I’m afraid he’s down in the sea.’

  Biggles looked out of the wind
ow, thinking swiftly. ‘I wonder,’ he breathed. Then he turned again to the group captain. ‘Perhaps your mess secretary1 can fix us up for the night?’ he suggested.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the other promptly. ‘I’ll speak to him right away.’

  ‘Good; then I’ll be seeing you at dinner. Meanwhile I’ll go and see my aircraft put to bed,’ answered Biggles, turning to the door.

  * * *

  1 An officer responsible for the running of the Mess - the place where officers eat their meals and relax together.

  Chapter 5

  A Desperate Combat

  Five days later, from twenty thousand feet, cruising on three-quarter throttle, Biggles and his companions gazed down on the sun-soaked waters of the Bay of Bengal. To their left, in the far distance, lay the palm-fringed, surf-washed beaches of Southern Burma, behind which a ridge of blue mountains marked the western boundary of Siam. To their right lay the ocean, an infinite expanse of calm blue water stretching away league after league until it merged into the sky. Below, the islands of the Mergui Archipelago lay like a necklace of emeralds dropped carelessly on a turquoise robe.

  It was the fourth day of their search. Starting at the northern end of the long chain of islands, they had worked their way slowly southward, scrutinizing each island in turn, sometimes making notes of likely-looking anchorages, and sometimes taking photographs, which were developed on the Seafret and examined under a powerful magnifying glass. As each island was reconnoitred it was ticked off on their chart in order that they could keep a check on the ground covered, for with the number that awaited inspection it was by no means easy to commit them all to memory. Each day for eight hours they had remained in the air, but without result; and although they took it in turns to fly the machine, they were all beginning to feel the strain.

  On this, the fourth day, they had seen nothing worthy of note except a junk that was moving slowly northward, leaving a feather of wake behind her on the flat surface of water to reveal that she had an auxiliary engine. Still proceeding on their way south, they reached the next island, a small one, unnamed on their chart, the first of a group of several, some large, but others no more than mere islets. Ginger was flying at the time, so Biggles and Algy were left to play the part of observers. Alp was using binoculars and, with these held firmly against his eyes, he gazed down at the irregular, tree-clad area of land which, from the altitude, looked no larger than a fair-sized wood.

  Suddenly he shifted his position, readjusted the glasses, and looked again, while a puzzled expression crept over his face.

  ‘Biggles,’ he said sharply, ‘can you see something—a speck of white, almost in the middle of the island?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t make out what it is.’

  ‘Try these.’ Algy passed the glasses.

  Biggles looked at the object for a long time with intense concentration. ‘What did you think it was?’ he asked at last, taking down the glasses.

  Algy hesitated. ‘The broken wing of an aeroplane,’ he said. ‘I thought I could just make out the ring markings on the end of it.’

  ‘I’m inclined to think you’re right,’ replied Biggles quickly. ‘We’d better take a closer look at this. Put her nose down, Ginger.’

  Biggles studied the island inch by inch through the glasses as the machine glided down towards it, but there was no sign of life anywhere; in fact, the island was precisely the same as a hundred others they had already looked at, consisting of a few square miles of heavily timbered slopes rising to a cone-shaped hill in the centre, the seaward side ending in steep cliffs, and the inland, or mainland, side shelving down gently to numerous sandy coves and bays which suggested that the island had once formed part of the continent of Asia. For the most part the timber was the fresh green of palms, casuarina, camphorwood, and broad-leaved trees, but in several places dark patches marked the position of mangrove swamps that are common features in tropical waters. One, larger than the rest, occupied the entire southern tip of the island.

  At a little more than a thousand feet there was no longer any doubt; a crashed aeroplane was lying in the jungle about half-way between the eastern side of the island and the elevation in the middle, and the mutilated tree tops showed how tremendous had been the impact. One wing had been torn bodily from the machine and, impaled on the fractured crown of a palm, presented its broad side uppermost. But for this the wreck might have been passed over a hundred times without being seen.

  Biggles now took over the control of the machine and landed smoothly in a beautiful little bay that lay at no great distance from the crash, afterwards dropping his wheels and taxiing up on to the clean, silver beach.

  With firm sand under their feet they looked about them expectantly, hoping to hear or see some sign of the pilot whose accident had brought them down; but a significant silence hung over everything, and Biggles shrugged his shoulders meaningly.

  ‘I think you’d better stay here, Ginger,’ he said quietly. ‘We may find something—not nice to look at. We shall have to leave a guard over the machine anyway. Keep your eyes open and fire three quick shots if you need help, although I don’t think it will be necessary. Come on, Algy.’ Without another word he set off in the direction of the crash.

  Before they had gone very far they found it necessary to draw the knives they carried in their belts, so thick was the undergrowth, and although it could not have been much more than a quarter of a mile to their objective, it took them nearly an hour to reach it.

  At the edge of the clearing made by the falling plane they stopped, glancing furtively at each other, half fearful of what they knew they would find.

  ‘I should say it’s Tom,’ said Biggles in a strained voice, pointing to the wreckage of a boat-shaped hull with the red, white, and blue ring markings of the Royal Air Force painted on it.

  A cloud of flies arose into the air as they advanced again, and the details of the tragedy were soon plain to see. The pilot was still in his seat, held by the tattered remains of his safety belt, helmet askew, goggles smashed and hanging down. Biggles took one swift look at the face and then turned away, white and trembling. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s Tom.’

  A second body, in air mechanic’s overalls, lay a short distance away where it had been hurled clear, and Biggles pushed his way through the tangled wires, torn fabric, and splintered struts, towards it; the noise he made seemed like sacrilege, but it could not be avoided. A sharp cry brought Algy to his side, and he pointed an accusing finger at the dead man’s forehead, where a little blue hole, purple at the edges, told its own grim story.

  ‘That’s a gunshot wound,’ he said harshly. ‘Tom was shot down. That is something I did not suspect. By heaven, if ever I get my hands on these swine they’ll know about it. They’re using aircraft besides submarines, evidently. Poor old Tom! Well, I suppose it comes to us all at some time or other,’ he concluded heavily.

  ‘What are we going to do? We can’t leave them here like this.’

  ‘Of course we can’t, but it’s no use our trying to do anything by ourselves. I feel we ought to take them to Singapore, but we can’t do that without completely upsetting our arrangements. Perhaps there is really no point in it. I think we had better fetch the Seafret here and ask Sullivan to send a burying party ashore. Frankly, it’s a task beyond me. I tell you what—you go down and join Ginger; take off, and as soon as you are in the air send a signal to Sullivan asking him to come right away. I’ll stay and collect the things out of their pockets for evidence of identification, and then join you again on the beach as soon as you have got the signal off. How does that sound to you?’

  Algy nodded. ‘Yes, I think that’s the best plan,’ he said moodily. ‘I imagine it has struck you that poor Tom must have gone pretty close to their headquarters—might even have spotted it—for them to shoot him down this way. I suppose he wasn’t killed by a shot from the ground?’

  ‘The bullet that killed the mechanic came out a lot lower than it went in; it could only h
ave been fired from above.’

  ‘Then that settles it. It’s a good thing to know that the enemy have got a machine here somewhere. I’ll go and get that message off to Sullivan; we’ll see you on the beach presently. Don’t be long; I’ve got a nasty feeling about this place.’

  ‘I’m not feeling too happy about it myself,’ replied Biggles as, with a nod in answer to Algy’s wave, he set about his gruesome task.

  Some time later, after he had recovered all the things from the dead airman’s pockets, he made them up into neat bundles in their handkerchiefs with the log books and maps that he had found in the wreck. He heard the engines of the Nemesis start up, and, subconsciously, heard the machine take off; and half regretting the necessity for sending it into the air simply in order to use its radio, he was in the act of covering the bodies with as much loose fabric as he could find when he heard another sound, one that caused him to spring to his feet and stare upwards in alarm. Above the subdued hum of the ‘Kestrel’ engines came the sound of another, and the scream of wind-torn wings and wires that told a story of terrific speed.

  He saw the Nemesis at once, climbing seaward on a steady course, just having taken off and clearly unaware of its danger. Behind it, dropping out of the eye of the sun like a winged bullet, was another aircraft, a small single-seat seaplane not unlike the Supermarine of Schneider Trophy1 fame, painted red.

  Breathless, he stood quite still and watched. There was nothing he could do... absolutely nothing. Except watch. And as he watched he realized that the end was a foregone conclusion, for the Nemesis, flying serenely on, was a mark that not even a novice at the game could miss.

  In a sort of numb stupor he watched the pilot of the seaplane half pull out of his dive, swing round on the tail of the amphibian, and align his sights on the target. Indeed, so intense was the moment that he could almost feel him doing it.