Biggles Defies the Swastika Page 8

  ‘D’you know who I am?’ Biggles asked the N.C.O., simply to gain time.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Biggles produced his Gestapo pass.

  The corporal’s manner changed; he became more respectful, but he did not retract. ‘All the same, sir, I think you’d better report to the Commandant,’ he insisted. ‘There seems to be some trouble over your —’

  The N.C.O. broke off, staring at the sky, while the soldiers and airmen dispersed like mist on a summer morning; for, from overhead, there came a sudden burst of aero engines. Apparently the machine, or machines, had been gliding. Almost simultaneously with the roar of the engines came an even more sinister sound. It was a shrill whine, increasing swiftly in volume until it sounded like the whistle of an express train.

  The N.C.O. knew what it was. So did Biggles, for once heard there is no mistaking the sound of falling bombs. No longer concerned with Biggles, the N.C.O. ran for his life. Biggles, too, bolted, for he had an idea of what was going to happen to the aerodrome. From one point of view the British bombers had done him a good turn, but he had no desire to be blown to pieces by their bombs. He started to follow the N.C.O. and his men, assuming that they would know the nearest way to cover, but before he could overtake them the first bombs were bursting. The searchlights were raking the sky. Anti-aircraft guns roared. Bombs thundered. In short, pandemonium broke loose.

  Biggles flung himself flat, his hands over his ears to prevent himself from being deafened. Bombs were falling all around. Some fell on the buildings and set fire to them, and in the lurid glare he could get a rough idea of the damage that was being done. The first wave of bombers passed, but he could hear more coming, and then, suddenly, he knew what they were doing. Apart from destroying the aerodrome buildings, they were churning the aerodrome itself into a sea of craters, thus putting it out of action.

  Biggles caught his breath as he realized what this implied. If the bombers were going to make it impossible for machines to land, then they would also make it impossible for machines to take off, in which case he would be stranded at Stavanger—with von Stalhein. He perceived that if ever he was to get away it would have to be now, before any further damage was caused. Already it would be a risky business taking off, for if he got a machine and struck a crater while travelling at high speed, he would certainly break some bones. Furthermore, some of the machines were ablaze, and it seemed likely that they would set fire to the rest.

  In a flash Biggles was on his feet, racing towards a machine which had so far escaped damage. He could hear another salvo of bombs coming down; guns flashed, and lines of tracer bullets streaked through the air. The noise was deafening. With one thing and another, he felt that he had suddenly gone mad in the middle of an inferno. There was this about it though, he thought, as he tore towards the machine: everyone would be too busy doing something, or taking cover, to pay any attention to him, even if he were seen.

  Panting for breath, he reached the machine he had selected, and he laughed aloud when he recognized it for the one in which von Stalhein had arrived. Then he flung himself flat again as another lot of bombs rained down.

  ‘Go to it boys!’ he yelled, giving way to a fierce exultation as the bombs exploded. While the last report was still ringing in his ears he clambered into the machine.

  In all his long flying career, with its many breathless incidents, he had never made a more fantastic take-off. Fantastic only half describes it. It was, he felt, the act of a madman—but then it would have been lunacy to remain.

  To start with, it was neither light nor dark. It was both. Pitch darkness alternated with vivid flashes of blinding orange light as bombs exploded and guns flashed—not that it would have made much difference had the light been constant, for the aerodrome was now blanketed in a pall of smoke. As if this were not enough, several bombs had fallen on the landing field, leaving yawning craters.

  For a moment, with his hand on the throttle, he blinked in a sort of daze through the windscreen, trying to make out something, anything, as long as it would give him a line to fly on, and help to keep him straight*2 But there was nothing—nothing but smoke. Again, the noise was indescribable, and sufficient in itself to prevent coherent thought.

  In sheer desperation Biggles jerked the throttle open, and in a moment was tearing blindly through the turmoil. There then followed twenty seconds of such strain that his nerves seemed to be stretched like elastic; but at the end of that brief period of time—which, in fact, seemed longer than the bare figure suggests—he could tell by the ‘feel’ of the controls that the machine was ready to lift. He eased the joystick back. Instantly the cessation of vibration, caused by the wheels running over the ground, told him that he was air-borne. He could still see nothing, but as he climbed the smoke thinned, and a vague misty world began to take shape around him.

  The first substantial object that he saw was another machine coming straight towards him, and only by a spasmodic jerk of the controls did he avoid a head-on collision. As the other machine flashed past he made out the dim silhouette of a Blenheim. Dry-lipped with strain, he held the stick forward for a moment or two and then zoomed high into a blue-black world torn by jabbing flame and hurtling metal. Below, the aerodrome was an inferno. The risk of collision with the British bombers or of flying into the bombs that were raining down was still imminent, but he could do no more than hold on a steady course and hope for the best. Another anxious minute passed, each second of it reducing the risk, and then his taut nerves began to relax.

  ‘Holy smoke! What a picnic,’ he gasped, and then swung round to the north towards Fiord 21. He could see the sea below him now and the deeply indented coast-line, so his immediate mission became nothing more difficult than straight-forward flying, or so he thought.

  His destination lay about fifty miles away, and he had covered half that distance in a few minutes when he detected a faint reek of petrol. He was unable to see anything, so he could only feel about with his hand, and in doing so he made the disconcerting discovery that the floor of his cockpit was wet with petrol. He guessed what had happened. Either while the machine had been standing on the ground, or after it was in the air, it had been hit by a piece of shrapnel, and the tank had been holed. There was nothing he could do about it, of course, except switch on the instrument-board light and look at the petrol gauge. One glance told him the worst. The tank was practically empty. He at once looked at his altimeter, which told him that he had climbed to four thousand feet. That gave him a chance. If only the engine would hold out for another five minutes he would be within gliding distance of the fiord.

  It did—nearly. He could see the fiord in the distance, for he had flown over the district several times for the purpose of making his reports, and had it not been for this he would have been in a worse case than he was. He was still by no means certain that he would reach the fiord, but he could only hold on in an endeavour to do so. He switched off the ignition, for the engine was back-firing, and anyway it could serve no useful purpose. In dead silence he glided on towards the fiord, losing height slowly but steadily. And as he glided he made up his mind what he would do when he reached the water. Not that there was really any choice, for the aircraft was a land machine, without any adaptations for landing on water. This at once meant that he would have to pancake*3 on the surface of the fiord, for a landing on the jagged rocks that surrounded it was out of the question. Still, he thought that with judgement, and a little luck, the machine would remain afloat until—until what? He wondered. Someone would be there waiting for him—or at any rate for the bottled message. It seemed unlikely that Colonel Raymond would order a message to be dropped into the fiord unless he was positive that someone would be there to collect it. Indeed, his message said that someone would be there. In that case he, Biggles, would be picked up. If there was no one there, then he would have to swim ashore, and with the possibility of this in view he decided to pancake as near the rocks as possible.

  And that is what he di
d. Skimming the towering cliffs that bordered the fiord with only a few feet to spare, Biggles turned up the long narrow stretch of water, losing height, and keeping as near to the cliffs as he dared. He knew that a short distance ahead this cliff had partly collapsed in a mighty landslide, and this, if he could reach it, would provide the easiest place to get ashore.

  As soon as the landslide came into view he side-slipped steeply to lose height. Ten feet above the surface of the black water he flattened out, and as the controls began to go ‘sloppy’, telling him that the machine was about to fall out of his hands, he kicked the rudder hard to bring the nose towards the sloping mass of boulders that thrust outward like a promontory and ended at the water’s edge.

  He was well satisfied with his landing. There was a terrific splash as the aircraft flopped bodily on to the water, but it floated, and surged forward to within a few yards of the rocks. By climbing along the wing he would be able to jump ashore, which pleased him immensely, for he fully expected a ducking, and the idea of spending the rest of the night in wet clothes was not pleasant to think about. He was kneeling on the centre section preparatory to climbing along the wing to the shore when a voice spoke.

  ‘D’you always land like that?’ asked someone evenly, in English.

  Biggles nearly fell into the water. His hand flew to his gun, and half drew it. Then he stopped dead, staring. Slowly he pushed the pistol back into his pocket.

  ‘Christopher Columbus!’ he gasped. ‘Ginger! How in the name of all that’s miraculous did you get here?’

  Ginger stood on a rock with his hands thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets. ‘I shouldn’t call it a miracle,’ he answered calmly. ‘Raymond sent me along to meet you. Mind you don’t slip—the water’s colder than the tip of an Eskimo’s nose.’

  Chapter 8

  Explanations and Decisions

  Biggles scrambled ashore. He was just in time to escape a ducking, for the aircraft was sinking fast.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.

  ‘Since last night.’

  ‘Great Scott! You must be hungry.’

  ‘Not me,’ grinned Ginger. ‘For all I knew it might have been a week before you turned up, so I brought some grub along.’

  ‘Lead me to it,’ returned Biggles promptly. ‘I need some nourishment. We can talk as we eat—and there seems to be a lot to say. I assume you’ve got a machine here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. After we’ve eaten we’ll push off home—and I don’t mind telling you I shall be mighty glad to get out of this.’

  Ginger looked up sharply. ‘Home?’

  ‘Of course—why not?’

  ‘But what about Algy?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s gone to Boda.’

  Biggles swayed. Then he sank down on a rock. For a moment or two he was speechless. ‘Gone to Boda?’ he managed to get out. ‘What in heaven’s name for?’

  ‘To find you.’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Get the grub,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s time we got this straightened out.’

  Ginger led the way to a tiny cove where, under an overhanging cliff, a seaplane rested on the water. From behind a rock he produced a heavy bag. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, dropping the bag in front of Biggles. ‘There’s bread, cheese, sardines, and a flask of cold tea. That’s all I could manage.’

  ‘That’ll suit me,’ Biggles assured him. ‘Now let’s try to untangle things. I’ll start. I got a message from Raymond asking me to get information about Stavanger and bring it here. I was told if necessary to drop the information in a bottle. Instead, I dropped myself—I’ll tell you why presently. The bottle is still in my pocket. I’ve got the information and we’ve got to get it to Raymond. That’s all I have to say except that the last time I saw Algy he was a prisoner at Narvik. I helped him to get away—at least, I hoped he’d got away.’

  Ginger nodded. ‘That’s right, he did.’

  ‘Before we go any farther, d’you reckon this is a safe spot?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘I should say not; but nowhere in Norway is safe, and this is as good as anywhere. We can’t be seen—except, of course, by a vessel coming up the fiord, and only then in daylight.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me about Algy.’

  ‘Well, what happened was this,’ explained Ginger. ‘To start with, Colonel Raymond brought us back home from France; he told us what you’d been doing and how you were fixed. I may say we were both pretty fed up about it, but that didn’t cut any ice. Naturally, we felt that we ought to be helping, but it wasn’t easy to see what we could do, or how we could get into touch with you. Raymond soon fixed things up though. He said a British force was on its way to Norway, but he wasn’t allowed to tell us where the landings would be made. The force would be supported by the Navy, and machines of the Fleet Air Arm, which would operate chiefly from aircraft carriers. Raymond was able to arrange for us to fly out to a carrier; he told us to keep an eye on Narvik, as if possible he would get a message through to you asking you to fly up to Narvik Fiord. If you could then make a smoke signal we might be able to pick you up. I must say it seemed a pretty wild hope, but it was all Raymond could do.’

  ‘I didn’t get any message asking me to go to Narvik,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘We suspected that—in fact, we knew it, because the agent sent a signal back to Raymond to say that you’d left Boda. At least, he couldn’t find you there. Obviously, if the fellow couldn’t get into touch with you he couldn’t give you the message.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘Well, we joined the carrier off the coast of Norway,’ continued Ginger. ‘We were flown out, but being supernumeraries we couldn’t get machines of our own; consequently we could only get trips in other fellows’ machines. I did a trip, but saw nothing. Mind you, we were still hoping that the agent would find you and send you up. Algy then went off straight away as a gunner in a Shark. It got its engine shot up and was forced to land on the fiord. That’s how he came to be taken prisoner. Naturally, I didn’t know anything about it at the time. All I knew was that the Shark failed to return, and I reckoned poor old Algy was a goner. Dash my wig if he didn’t turn up with a tale that I found pretty hard to swallow.’

  ‘You mean—he got back to the carrier?’

  ‘Yes, he was picked up by a destroyer. He told me a fantastic tale about being taken prisoner, and with some other fellows being shoved into the schoolhouse at Narvik. Then who should blow along, as large as life but you, acting as though you’d bought the whole outfit. You inspected the prisoners and went off again. Shortly afterwards our destroyers barged into the fiord and had a crack at the enemy. Upon this you came back and set the prisoners free. Algy said he kept with the crowd, expecting you to follow, but he didn’t see you again. He didn’t know what your game was, so when our destroyers steamed out, and the party had a chance of being picked up, he went aboard with the rest. There were three fellows off the carrier among the prisoners, so the destroyer dumped them back on board. That’s how Algy got back, and how I learnt all about this.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t know what to do for the best, and we were still scratching our heads when Raymond got another message through to us. He said his man was still trying to make contact with you at Boda, because he felt certain that you’d return there sooner or later. If the agent did make contact with you he was to ask you to go to Stavanger and collect information, and then come on here, to Fiord 21. Raymond suggested that we should get an aircraft and come down here to wait for you. If you turned up we were to fly you home.’

  ‘That sounds as if Raymond has given me permission to leave the country.’

  ‘That’s pretty obvious.’

  ‘But how did Algy —’

  ‘Just a minute—I’m coming to that. There was a snag, and it was this. There was no great difficulty in our flying down here, but we didn’t know, a
nd had no means of finding out, if you’d got the message asking you to come here. If you hadn’t got the message, then we might have sat here for the duration waiting for you. The result was that Algy, who knew you must be in a pretty tight spot and anxious to get away, got one of his bright ideas. It was that he should go to Boda to find you, and so make certain of getting you here.’

  ‘But how the dickens did he propose getting to Boda?’

  ‘His idea was to get one of the fellows on the carrier to fly him over, at night. He would step out with his parachute.’

  Biggles stared aghast. ‘But he must have been crazy!’

  Ginger shrugged his shoulders. ‘He always was, wasn’t he?’

  ‘And d’you mean to tell me that’s what he did?’

  ‘That, chief, is what he did.’

  ‘But surely not in his own uniform?’

  ‘More or less. He’d picked up a German great-coat from somewhere, and he simply wore that over his uniform. The last I saw of him he was getting into the machine, bound for Boda. I was to come here and wait, and here I am.’

  ‘And you don’t know what’s happened to Algy?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. I haven’t heard a word since he took off. Of course, I hoped you’d arrive together.’

  Biggles squatted on the rock with his chin in the palms of his hands. ‘Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish, I must say,’ he muttered. ‘Here am I, at last able to get out, only to find that Algy has got himself stuck inside.’