Biggles Defies the Swastika Page 6
Biggles affected a start. ‘Oslo! What was his name?’
‘He told me his name was Bigglesworth. He seemed in a mighty hurry to get home. That’s all I know about him.’
Biggles turned a grim face to the Colonel, who was watching the scene with intense interest.
‘You heard that?’ he said in a low voice. ‘That was my man without a doubt. He must have left the road and gone down to the rocks; that was how I came to miss him. It looks as if he’s got clean away. I’m afraid there will be trouble about this. I trust, sir, that you will confirm that I did everything possible in the time at my disposal? The man had gone before I got here. I’d better ring up my head-quarters at once. As you are the senior officer here perhaps you would be good enough to speak to my chief?’ Biggles glanced at the escort. ‘All right; I shan’t want these prisoners again.’
As they filed away Biggles’ eyes met those of Evans and flashed his thanks.
The Colonel had already picked up the telephone. He handed it to Biggles who put a call through to Gestapo head-quarters, at the Hotel Port, Oslo. When the operator spoke he asked for Oberleutnant von Hymann, and in a moment he was speaking to him.
‘This is 2001, speaking from General Head-quarters, Narvik,’ he said. ‘I have to report that I tracked Bigglesworth to here, but he had left in a steamer before my arrival. I obtained this information from a party of British prisoners with whom Bigglesworth had for a short time been keeping company. One moment, sir, the Commanding Officer will speak to you. I am telephoning from his office.’ Biggles handed the instrument to the Colonel.
There followed a long conversation in which the Colonel confirmed in detail all that Biggles had said, and added details of how the information had been obtained, remarking that he had been a witness of it. He asserted that everything possible had been done to apprehend the wanted man, but as he had left the country before steps could be taken to arrest him no fault could be attached to anyone. The conversation was concluded and the Colonel hung up the instrument. He turned to Biggles. ‘Oberleutnant von Hymann says that you are to return to Boda at once,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir,’ Biggles saluted and withdrew.
His plan had succeeded to the fullest possible extent, and but for one fly in the ointment he would have been elated. It was Algy.
What Algy was doing in Narvik, and how he had come to be taken prisoner, Biggles, of course, had no means of knowing; nor dare he risk arousing suspicion by making inquiries; but from the fact that he was in R.A.F. uniform Biggles could only conclude that, in accordance with his request to Colonel Raymond, Algy had been sent to Norway in an aeroplane with a view to getting into touch with him. If that were so, what had happened to Ginger? It seemed certain that they would start together. One fact was significant, and Biggles did not overlook it. Algy had come to Narvik, and that at once suggested that Narvik was to be the scene of British operations, otherwise he would not be so foolish as to land in territory held by the enemy. Again, if he, Algy, had come to Narvik, then there was good reason to suppose that something was in the wind, that some plan had been evolved to bring Biggles to the same place, in order that they could make contact. But it was a problem no amount of reasoning could answer; the facts could only be obtained from Algy himself. The point paramount in Biggles’ mind was that von Hymann had ordered him to return to Boda, and to Boda he would have to go or lay himself open to dangerous questioning when he next saw the Gestapo chief. Yet he could not contemplate departing from Narvik leaving Algy a prisoner in German hands.
He was still standing near the wharf pondering this difficult problem when a German flying-boat appeared round a bend in the fiord, flying very low and at terrific speed. It was obvious that the pilot’s mission was an urgent one. With professional interest Biggles watched the machine land and taxi quickly to the wharf where the other machines were moored. Even before the aircraft had stopped moving the pilot had scrambled out, shouting something in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. Instantly all was confusion.
Biggles hurried forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked a soldier, for he had not caught the pilot’s words.
‘British destroyers are coming up the fiord—five of them,’ shouted the soldier as he dashed towards headquarters.
Biggles’ pulses began to race. Things were going to happen in Narvik, that was certain. What part was he to play?
His first thought was not for himself nor for Algy; it was for the destroyers. Was the Commander of the flotilla aware that six German destroyers lay in the fiord? If so, did he know where they were? They were not all in the open water. Some were hidden behind promontories of rock, where their presence would not be suspected. The British destroyers might be steaming into a trap, and if so his first duty ought to be to warn them, regardless of anything else.
These were the thoughts that flashed through Biggles’ mind in that tense moment, and it did not take him long to reach a decision. The Dornier flying-boat from which the German had landed was still floating on the water where its pilot had left it. Nobody was bothering about it, which was hardly surprising, for everyone was much too engrossed in other affairs. Sailors were rushing back to their ships. Pilots were running to their moorings; some were already taxi-ing higher up the fiord to get out of the way of the storm which they guessed was coming. Anti-aircraft gunners were hurrying to their posts. Troops were taking up positions, mounting machine-guns at points overlooking the fiord.
Biggles walked calmly down to the Dornier. A German pilot getting into a near-by machine had time to notice him, possibly because he was in civilian clothes.
‘What are you going to do?’ he shouted.
‘Have a look at these Englander,’ answered Biggles promptly.
‘Can you fly?’
Biggles laughed. ‘Watch me! I’ve just brought a message up from Oslo.’
The German had no further time to waste on idle curiosity so he turned away. Biggles got into the Dornier and started the engine. Then, sitting quietly in his seat, he tore a page out of his notebook and wrote a message. On another sheet he made a rough sketch-map of the inner fiord, showing where the German destroyers were waiting. This done, he put both pages in his silver cigarette case and slipped it back in his pocket. A quick glance round revealed that the position ashore remained unaltered, so he eased open the throttle and surged towards the open water. Another moment and his keel was cutting a line of white foam across it. As soon as he was in the air he turned, and, flying low, raced down the fiord.
He saw the British destroyers at once, for they were only about three miles away, steaming at high speed. They saw him, too—or the anti-aircraft gunners did, for instantly the air around him was filled with smoke, lacerated with flame and hurtling metal. With white face and set lips he swerved, dived and zoomed, anything to spoil the gunners’ aim; but he still held on towards the ships.
His plan was to drop the cigarette case, with its message, on the deck of the leading destroyer, but such was the inferno that had broken out around him that he felt it was attempting the impossible. Apart from the ack ack fire, he knew it was no use trying to achieve his object by dropping the case while travelling in the opposite direction to the destroyers, for he would pass over them in a split second; his only chance was to overshoot them, turn, and then, travelling as slowly as possible, drop the message while going in the same direction.
For the next two minutes he became a machine, a part of the aircraft. His brain concentrated on one thought only, but it was not easy. Shells burst in front of him, beside him, above and below him, causing the Dornier to rock like a leaf in a gale. It quivered and shuddered as pieces of flying metal ripped through wings and fuselage. Pieces of fabric streamed aft, and he fully expected the machine to break up at any moment. He had never known an aircraft to stand up to such punishment.
He had a brief respite after he had flashed past the ships, for he was flying nearly on the water, and the gunners had not had time to turn their weapons.
In a sort of hazy dream he counted the destroyers as he flashed over them, for his obective was the leader. One—two—three—four—the stern of the fifth came into view. With savage determination he jammed the joystick forward and dived into the very muzzles of the guns. His arm, with the cigarette case clutched in his hand, projected over the side. His fingers jerked open. The silver case flashed down. He saw it hit the deck, bounce, and slide to a standstill. Then he was past. But not unscathed. His port wing was wobbling and his engine was back-firing furiously. Black, oily smoke spurted out of it. Hot oil drove against the wind-screen, blinding him. The stench of petrol vapour struck his nostrils, and he pushed the joystick forward, tilting his nose towards the water. The engine coughed, and stopped. Leaning over the side, he saw that he was almost on the water; he jerked the joystick back, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The hull struck the placid surface of the fiord with a crash, and the machine bounced high. For a moment it hung in the air, wallowing like a wounded seagull, then it stalled. There was another crash as it struck the water. The Dornier at once began to sink as water poured through a score of holes.
Half dazed, Biggles scrambled out of the cockpit on to the back of the splinter-riddled hull. But in his heart he felt that his case was hopeless, for the leading destroyer was within a hundred yards, bearing straight down on him at a speed that would drive the knife-like bows through the flimsy aircraft like an axe. There was nothing he could do except hang on with one hand and wave with the other, although it seemed futile.
As it happened, it was not. The destroyer altered her course a fraction, revealing a party of sailors crowding near the rail. The vessel was, of course, too close to stop, even if the Commander had wished to do so—which in the circumstances was hardly likely. But a rope coiled out. Well and truly thrown, it fell across the fuselage, now half submerged by the bow-wave. Half smothered with spray, Biggles grabbed the line and gave it two quick turns round his waist. He had no time to do more. The next instant he had been whipped off his perch and was being dragged through the water. But he clung to the rope with both hands, for he felt it was likely to cut him in halves unless something was soon done to relieve the strain.
What happened after that he didn’t know. He never did know. All he knew was that he opened his eyes to find himself gasping like a stranded fish on the deck of the destroyer. Several sailors were looking at him curiously. Then an officer hurried forward and bent over him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘We got the case—and your message. But who the devil are you?’
Biggles saw that the officer was staring at his swastika armlet, which for the moment he had completely forgotten. ‘Oh, that,’ he laughed weakly. ‘Don’t take any notice of that. I’m a British agent. Take me to your skipper at once.’
Half supported by two sailors, for his legs were a bit groggy, he was taken to the bridge, where he was at once the cynosure of all eyes.
He looked at the captain. ‘You got my message?’
‘Yes—but who —’
Biggles broke in, and in a few crisp sentences told who he was, what he had done, and why he had done it. Naturally, he was able to go into more details than had been possible in the written message, with regard to the disposition of the enemy forces. ‘If you shoot at the shore batteries, try not to hit the schoolhouse—it’s full of British prisoners,’ he concluded. ‘Phew, I’ve had a hot five minutes.’
‘Hot!’ The captain permitted himself to smile. ‘I’d call it something worse than that. It’s likely to be hot on this ship, too, when we get round the next bend. You’d better get below.’
Biggles tried hard to think. Had it not been for Algy he would have been quite content to remain where he was, but he felt that somehow he ought to get back to the schoolhouse. Algy had come out to help him, so he could not leave him now.
‘I’ve got to get back on shore,’ he said at last.
The captain stared. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you know your job,’ he said simply. ‘All I can say is I’d rather have my job than yours. I’m much obliged for the information. I’ll remember it. By the way, what’s your name?’
‘Bigglesworth—Squadron Leader, R.A.F. If you get home safely you might notify Colonel Raymond of M.I.5. that you saw me. I won’t waste any more of your time. I fancy the balloon is about to go up.*1 So long and good luck.’
Biggles left the bridge. He was determined to get ashore, but how this was to be done was not easy to see unless he swam for it, and the shore was nearly a quarter of a mile away. Normally he would be quite able to swim that distance, but he doubted his ability to do it in ice water, fully dressed; yet he could not discard his clothes. Still, he saw that he had just a chance. The Narvik fiord, like most fiords, was not straight; not only did it bend like a dog’s leg, but there were places where cliffs jutted far out into the water. They had already passed one or two; another was just ahead, and Biggles saw that the captain had for some tactical reason altered his course to pass very close to it. Much as he disliked the idea, he decided that if the destroyer passed within a hundred yards of the rock he would go overboard. Beckoning to a chief petty officer who was standing near, he made him aware of his intention in order that it might not be thought that a man had accidentally fallen overboard. Then, standing tense, he waited for the crucial moment.
The rocky promontory, beyond which lay the town of Narvik, seemed to float nearer as the destroyer raced towards it. Beyond lay the enemy ships. Within a minute the battle would start. To his great satisfaction Biggles saw that the captain had edged even nearer to the rock than he had dared to hope. The intervening distance was not more than sixty yards or so. The time had come: it was now or never. Bracing himself, he took a running dive to get as far from the vessel as possible in order to clear the churning screws.
By the time he had come to the surface the destroyer’s guns were roaring. The enemy ships had also opened fire and shells were dropping into the water. With his eyes on the rock, he put every ounce of strength he possessed into his stroke, and reached the point with greater ease than he had expected. Dragging himself ashore, he paused for a moment to wring as much water as possible out of his clothes, and then ran towards the town.
As he had hoped, he found everything in the wildest confusion, which was hardly to be wondered at, for until the German pilot reported their presence in the fiord, the arrival of the destroyers on the scene had not been expected. On the fiord itself a terrible battle was raging between eleven destroyers. Several German store-ships were also firing, and shore batteries added to the din. Nobody took the slightest notice of Biggles as he dashed towards the schoolhouse; indeed, very few people, either soldiers or civilians, were in sight. No doubt the troops were all at their stations, and the civilians had taken cover. The din was indescribable.
At the schoolhouse Biggles found a curious state of affairs. Only two elderly German soldiers remained on guard, and they were trying vainly to quieten the prisoners, who were cheering hysterically.
He went straight to the guards. ‘Are the doors locked?’ he asked tersely, indicating the schoolhouse.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll take charge here.’ Biggles showed his Gestapo pass. It was wet, but that didn’t matter. ‘Give me the keys. You’ve got to get down to the shore,’ he added. ‘The British are going to land marines.’
The two soldiers did not question the order. There was no reason why they should, for it seemed highly probable that a landing would be attempted. Indeed, Biggles really hoped that a landing would be made. He watched the two Germans out of sight and then unlocked the school
door. He was greeted with cheers, but by holding up his hands he managed to quell the clamour.
‘You’ll have to bolt for it,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything more for you. You’ll have to take your chance. Get as far down the fiord as you can and hide. If our destroyers withdraw signal to them, and there is a chance that they may pick you up. That’s all.’
The prisoners wasted no time. With the exception of Algy they made for the door.
‘What had I better do?’ asked Algy.
‘You go with them.’
‘And leave you here?’
‘Yes, but only for the time being. I shall follow you,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘Believe me, I’ve had about enough of this. But it wouldn’t do for us to be seen together. Where’s Ginger?’
‘He’s somewhere off the coast in an aircraft carrier—at least, he ought to be. That’s where I left him.’
‘I see. We can’t stop to talk now. You get along. I’ll try to rejoin you outside the town. If the Boche see us together they’ll guess what has happened. Cheerio—see you later.’
Algy dashed off after the sailors.
Biggles watched him go. He was by no means happy over the state of affairs. He would have much preferred to remain with Algy, but the reasons he had given for not doing so were genuine. If he was seen with the escapees the Germans would realize at once that he was not what he pretended to be. It was better that he should go alone. Later, perhaps, he would be able to join the fugitives and get away with them. He wished now that he had asked Algy a few questions about his movements, and about Ginger. The trouble was, the situation really demanded serious thought, but there had been little or no time to think. Things had happened—and were still happening—so fast that there was no time for lucid reasoning. Shells were now dropping into the town. Several buildings were alight and small parties of Germans were dashing about. A mighty cloud of smoke hung over everything, making it impossible to see what was happening on the fiord. Yet he felt he ought to know, for unless he knew who had won the battle he would not be able to judge if there was any chance of being picked up by one of the destroyers. Then, of course, there was always a chance that the British sailors would attack the town and capture it, in which case it would be safe for him to remain where he was. On the other hand, if the British destroyers were beaten off he would find himself isolated with the Germans. When things settled down there would be inquiries. The prisoners would be remembered, and if he were found going down the fiord it would look suspicious. In the end he decided that before doing anything else he would find out what was happening.