Biggles Defies the Swastika Read online

  He went straight to the German head-quarters, and was not questioned until he accidentally ran into the Commandant.

  The Colonel frowned. ‘I thought you had orders to get back to Boda?’ he queried sharply.

  ‘Quite right, sir,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘Believe me, I wish I was on my way.’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘I started back in a ‘plane, but by a bit of bad luck we were shot down by British anti-aircraft guns. We crashed in the fiord and I had to swim ashore. What is happening here?’

  ‘The British are sinking our ships.’

  ‘Will they try to land do you think?’

  ‘No. I’ve just heard that they’re going back down the fiord.’

  At that moment a German pilot in Air Force uniform came running up. He saluted the Colonel.

  ‘I’m getting away now, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ The Commandant started. ‘Just a minute. Have you got room for a passenger?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The Colonel turned to Biggles. ‘Here’s your chance,’ he declared. ‘Schaffer is flying down to Oslo immediately. You can go with him and go on to Boda afterwards; you might not get another chance.’

  ‘I can drop him at Boda if he likes,’ offered Schaffer. ‘I shall pass over the aerodrome on my way to Oslo.’

  This didn’t suit Biggles at all. He didn’t want to go back down south, either to Boda or anywhere else. Now that he had learned that the British destroyers were going back down the fiord he wanted to rejoin Algy, get aboard one of them, and go back to England. But he daren’t refuse the offer. All he could do was make excuses in the hope that Schaffer would go without him.

  ‘I’m soaked to the skin,’ he protested. ‘I can’t fly in these wet clothes—I shall be frozen stiff.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ put in Schaffer quickly, with irritating generosity. ‘I can lend you some kit. My suitcase is in the machine; you can change in the cabin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ cried the Commandant. ‘You’d better obey your orders.’

  Biggles saluted. ‘Very good, sir.’

  He followed Schaffer down to the wharf, to where a big flying-boat floated.

  ‘You can’t land me at Boda in a flying-boat,’ Biggles pointed out.

  Schaffer smiled condescendingly. ‘She’s an amphibian.’

  ‘Ah! I understand.’ A new hope sprang into Biggles’ mind. Schaffer was unaware that he was a pilot, so he might overpower him in the air and take charge of the machine. If he could succeed in doing this he might fly straight on to England.

  He followed Schaffer into the flying-boat, and his hopes instantly collapsed. There were already three German officers in it.

  Schaffer pulled a suitcase off the rack. ‘Here you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ll find a spare uniform inside.’ Then he went through to the cockpit.

  In five minutes the flying-boat was in the air, heading south. Astern, from the fiord, a great pillar of smoke was rising.

  Chapter 7

  What Happened at Stavanger

  It was late in the afternoon when Schaffer landed Biggles at Boda. He was still wearing the German’s spare uniform, for his suit was not yet dry. He arranged with Schaffer that he would send the uniform on when his own things were dry, although as the German was by no means certain of his movements he would have to let Biggles know where to send them.

  As soon as Biggles was on the ground, carrying his wet things in Schaffer’s suitcase, the German pilot took off again, leaving Biggles standing on the aerodrome, now a scene of considerable activity.

  Alert for danger, Biggles walked towards the officers’ quarters. His position was, he knew, perilous in the extreme, but he couldn’t remain standing on the aerodrome. What he feared was that he might run into Brandt, the man who knew him by sight. If von Stalhein happened to be with him, as seemed probable, then all deception would be at an end. All Biggles could do was mark down a Messerschmitt not far away, this offering the only possible means of escape if the worst came to the worst. To complicate matters, he would have to let von Hymann know that he was back, otherwise the Gestapo chief would start looking for him. He would learn that Schaffer had flown him back to Boda from Narvik, so should he, Biggles, fail to report, it would look most suspicious.

  He dumped the suitcase in the room that had been allotted to him, and subjecting everyone he met to the closest scrutiny, he began making his way towards the station head-quarters. In doing so he met Kristen, who greeted him cordially but with surprise.

  ‘Hello!’ he cried. ‘Where the deuce have you been?’

  Biggles smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t talk about it,’ he said sadly. ‘I had to go up to Narvik on a special job. I was just starting for home, by air, when a flotilla of British destroyers arrived and we were shot down. We fell into the fiord, but I managed to swim ashore. Himmel*1! Was it cold!’

  Kristen laughed. ‘All in a day’s work. Where are you bound for now?’

  It struck Biggles as odd that Kristen did not mention his uniform. He wondered why.

  ‘I’m just going to station head-quarters to report,’ he answered. ‘By the way, how do you like my uniform?’

  ‘It fits badly. Also, I didn’t know you had been promoted to Oberleutnant.’

  ‘It isn’t mine,’ laughed Biggles. ‘I got wet through, so these things were lent to me by a fellow named Schaffer—the chap who flew me back here.’

  ‘I see. Some uniforms have now arrived here, so I thought, naturally, that you’d been and got yourself one. You can get one as soon as you like, but don’t be too long or you may find them all gone. See you later.’

  Biggles went on to head-quarters and reported to the Commandant, Baron von Leffers. He asked permission to use the telephone.

  ‘Yes, you’d better report to von Hymann right away,’ returned the Commandant sourly. ‘There have been a lot of inquiries for you. Two fellows were here yesterday asking where you were.’

  ‘What were their names?’ inquired Biggles casually.

  ‘Brandt and von Stalhein—a fellow in the Secret Service.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I was expecting them,’ he announced calmly, and put a call through to the Hotel Port.

  In a minute he was speaking to von Hymann. Wasting no words, he reported that he was back at Boda, and was going on to report with more detail what had happened at Narvik when von Hymann stopped him.

  ‘We know all about that,’ said the Gestapo chief. ‘After you had left I had a long talk with the Commander of the Narvik garrison, and he told me how Bigglesworth had got away—as he had learnt it from the British prisoners. Von Stalhein was very upset. He seems to hate this fellow Bigglesworth like poison, and he, too, had a long talk with Narvik. Pity this fellow Bigglesworth didn’t remain with the party you captured, then we should have got him. Still, it’s no use crying over split milk.’

  Biggles’s muscles tightened as his chief went on. ‘Von Stalhein is here with me now. He says that this Bigglesworth is a tricky customer, so he wants all the particulars from you that he can get. He’s coming along to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  There was a brief delay, presumably while the chief spoke to von Stalhein.

  ‘Now,’ answered von Hymann. ‘He says he’ll come along right now. He’ll be with you in less than an hour.’

  It was the answer Biggles dreaded. ‘Very good, sir.’ Trying not to let his face reveal what he felt, he hung up the receiver.

  ‘Everything all right?’ inquired the Baron coldly.

  ‘Right as rain,’ returned Biggles.

  Dusk was closing in as he left the office and started walking back towards his quarters. He had got to move quickly, that was certain. He had got to get away before von Stalhein arrived—but how? He felt that he was in a net, a net that was slowly but surely closing round him, and he could not even find respite, much less a way of escape.

  So engrossed was he with his thoughts that he saw no one ne
ar him. He was hardly conscious of the light touch that fell on his arm. Something—it felt like a slip of paper—was pushed into his hand. Then the man was gone, faded into the shadows. Biggles caught no more than a glimpse of a grey uniform. He glanced around swiftly and then walked on slowly; and as he walked he unfolded the slip of paper. There was a message on it, printed in small block letters. It read:

  ‘What is happening at Stavanger Airport? Particulars of planes and anti-aircraft defences urgently wanted. Also particulars of damage done. Get your report to Fiord 21, where messenger awaits you. If you are unable to land there, put message in a bottle and drop in fiord. R.’

  Biggles memorized the message; then he put the slip in his mouth and chewed it to pulp. He could have laughed had his position not been so desperate. As if he hadn’t got enough on his mind already! Now, in the middle of all his worries, was a message from Colonel Raymond, asking him to undertake a mission which bristled with difficulties. There was this about it though, he thought on reflection. His position was already so alarming that it could hardly be worse. Colonel Raymond, as promised, had got into touch with him. The man who had delivered the message, obviously a secret agent, must know him by sight—but (Biggles reasoned) he could have learned to recognize him from a photograph.

  It gave him strength to know he was not alone within the enemy lines. Other men were doing the same thing. The fellow who had so cleverly slipped the paper into his hand was one of them. It was cleverly done because he had not even seen the man’s face. He would not recognize him if he saw him, so he could never betray, either by accident or intentionally. They were all playing a dreadful game in which no one took a risk that could be avoided. He tore the chewed-up message to pieces and threw the pieces away.

  Reaching the officers’ mess, he stood still for a moment staring into the gathering gloom, trying to get his racing thoughts into some sort of order. Colonel Raymond’s message was clear enough. He wanted him to go to Stavanger. Obviously he could not remain at Boda once von Stalhein had arrived on the scene, and since he had got to go somewhere, Stavanger suited him as well as anywhere. But after that he would not be able to return to Boda. Von Stalhein would be furious, not to say suspicious, when he arrived and found that the man whom he had come to see had gone off without leaving a message. What would von Stalhein do then? Biggles wondered. Most likely he would return to Oslo and voice his suspicions to von Hymann, who would start a hue and cry for him. Still, there was no way of preventing that. He couldn’t let Colonel Raymond down. He would do his best to obtain the required information, and get it to Fiord 21. He knew the fiord well. Indeed, the number 21 was the one he himself had given it. It was one of the fiords he had marked down during his survey flights, and as it was a possible landing-place he had given particulars of it in the reports he had sent home. No doubt the Colonel had used the number, instead of the fiord’s proper name, in order to convince him that the message was genuine. Further, should the message fall into wrong hands the recipient would not know to which fiord the number 21 referred. As far as Stavanger Airport was concerned, there was only one way he could get to it, and that was by air. The only aircraft available was a Messerschmitt—there were now several standing on the aerodrome. It meant flying in the dark, but he didn’t mind that. The greatest danger would come when he tried to take the plane. However, he could but try.

  Biggles went round to the back of the canteen, found a small empty bottle with a well-fitting cork and put it in his pocket. It was all the equipment he needed. He then returned to the aerodrome and reconnoitred the part where the planes were standing. Most of those which had been operating during the day had now returned, and were parked at intervals along the edge of the aerodrome—an anti-bombing precaution which suggested that a raid was feared. However, Biggles was not concerned with that. All he wanted was a machine, and as few people were about there did not appear to be any great difficulty in getting one. There might be an alarm when he took off, but by that time he would be in the air, so it wouldn’t matter.

  Unhurriedly, and without being accosted, he walked over to the nearest Messerschmitt and laid his hand on the engine cowling. It was still warm. A glance round revealed no sign of danger, so he climbed into the cockpit. Still no alarm was raised. He examined the instrument board carefully, and perceiving that the controls were of orthodox design, he decided to start. He had no flying kit, but that did not worry him; the journey, not more than a hundred miles, was too short for him to get really cold.

  He wasted no more time. The engine spluttered as it sprang to life, and in another minute the machine was racing across the turf. He had taken off in the direction of his destination, so he could keep straight on towards the western coast, keeping low so that his identification markings could be seen easily if he were challenged. He was, many times. Searchlights leapt up along his line of flight, only to fade again as the operators found him and identified the aircraft for one of their own.

  In less than half an hour he was gliding down through a perfect maze of searchlight beams that surrounded the airport of Stavanger. He made a mental note of the number of them, for they formed an important part of anti-aircraft equipment, about which Colonel Raymond was anxious to have particulars. Some of the beams followed him down, so as soon as the machine had finished its run he taxied straight on to the aerodrome buildings. A working-party under an N.C.O. ran out to meet him and to guide him in.

  ‘I thought single-seaters were not to fly after dark unless there was a raid?’ said the N.C.O.

  This was evidently a new order, and Biggles knew nothing of it. ‘Quite right,’ he said smoothly. ‘It happens, though, that the order does not apply to the special communication squadron to which I belong. I have a message for the Commandant.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have been telephoned, or radioed?’ queried the N.C.O., who was evidently of an inquisitive nature.

  ‘So that the enemy could pick it up, too?’ sneered Biggles sarcastically. ‘Not likely. Where is the Commandant’s office?’

  The N.C.O. pointed. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Biggles walked on, leaving the working-party to continue its duties. He had no intention of seeking an interview with the Commandant. There was no reason why he should. He thought he could learn all there was to know about the place without asking pointed questions, either of the Commandant or anyone else. Which, in fact, he did. He went into the canteen, and, lingering over a coffee, listened to the conversations going on around him. After that he walked round outside, noting everything of interest—the number of machines, types, position of guns, &c. Only one man, a police corporal, challenged him, but the Gestapo pass worked as usual and the corporal said no more. Finally, Biggles returned to the canteen and, sitting quietly in a corner as though writing a letter, committed all the information he had gathered to writing. He was well aware of the danger of doing this, for should he for any reason be searched it would provide conclusive evidence against him. When it was done he returned to the aerodrome, and in the darkness inserted the paper into the bottle, afterwards corking it tightly.

  Now all this had occupied more than an hour, and Biggles was just moving towards his machine with a view to going straight on to Fiord 21 when he became aware of a commotion. There was nothing definite about it; it took the form of a slightly increased activity. A messenger ran along the concrete apron in front of the hangars, shouting to another man. Small parties began to collect, talking excitedly. One such group stood near his machine. He walked quickly towards it but kept in the background.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked a simple-looking soldier who stood near by.

  ‘They say this machine was stolen from Boda,’ was the startling reply.

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘All I know is, a friend of mine in the orderly room told me that a message has just come through by telephone from Boda saying that someone had made off with the machine. They gave the number of it, and it has just been discovered that
this is it. They’re looking for the pilot who brought it here.’

  Biggles did not doubt for one moment the truth of this alarming information. Nor did he waste time asking who was looking for the pilot. Obviously it would be fatal for him to go near the machine now. He would have to borrow another. Having reached that decision, he was turning away when there was a general stir. The searchlights switched on again, sweeping the heavens, whence came the noise of a gliding plane. A silver spark gleamed against the sky, and a minute or two later the machine, a two-seater, glided in and landed. As soon as it was on the ground it taxied quickly to where the Messerschmitt stood. A man jumped down, and Biggles had no need to look twice to see who it was. It was Erich von Stalhein. The German walked quickly towards the Commandant’s office.

  ‘It’s getting time I was moving on,’ Biggles told himself, and turned quickly towards the machines that lined the boundary of the aerodrome. In doing so he came face to face with a man whom he had no wish to see at that moment. It was the N.C.O. in charge of the working-party, the man who had accosted him on landing.

  ‘Here! They’re looking for you,’ cried the N.C.O. sharply.

  ‘Looking for me?’ queried Biggles foolishly. ‘Who’s looking for me?’

  ‘Everybody. You’d better come with me to the office and see the Commandant.’

  Had the man been alone, Biggles might have been tempted to make a break for it, but during the conversation several soldiers and airmen had gathered round until he and the N.C.O. were in the centre of a circle. Nevertheless, he had not the slightest intention of walking unprotestingly to his doom—for that was what the Commandant’s office amounted to now that von Stalhein was there. What he would have done had things remained normal will never be known. For once he was at a loss to know how to act for the best. And while he stood there staring at the N.C.O., trying to make up his mind, he heard a distant sound that set his pulses racing. It was the choking whoof-whoof-whoof of anti-aircraft gunfire, and it was drawing rapidly nearer.