Biggles Makes Ends Meet

by W E Johns

  “You think they’ve got him?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case we’ve about had it.”

  “Let’s get to where we can see who gets out.”

  They scrambled back to the highest point, a mass of rock, the summit of which commanded a view of the airfield. By the time they were there the Dakota had landed and was taxiing to the tarmac where the Colonel stood waiting for it.

  “That settles any questions about Ginger being at the stick,” said Algy. “He wouldn’t go there.”

  No one answered.

  The Dakota stopped. The engines were switched off. The airscrews came to rest. The door opened. One man stepped down. He walked towards the Colonel. The Colonel walked forward to meet him. They met, and stood talking.

  “So Ginger isn’t there at all,” observed Algy.

  “Can’t be. That pilot must have been flying solo. Anyone else there would be out by now.” Biggles shook his head. “I must say this is a queer business, although there’s probably a simple explanation if we knew it.”

  “We’re never likely to know it unless we get cracking on something.”

  “On what?”

  “Well, the machine, for instance.”

  Biggles smiled lugubriously. “What a hope! You can get away with that sort of thing once, but the Colonel will take jolly good care it doesn’t happen twice. There you are. You see what I mean?”

  The Colonel had called over some men, four, to be precise. Armed with rifles they took up positions round the Dakota.

  “That seems to settle that,” admitted Algy, in a resigned voice.

  “Perhaps the Colonel will push off now he has the means,” suggested Bertie hopefully.

  “And leave us here? Not on your life. He needn’t do anything in a hurry. That confounded Dakota has strengthened his position. He can go when it suits him.”

  It was soon apparent that Biggles’ prediction was correct. With the Dakota heavily guarded the hunt was resumed.

  “What on earth can Ginger be doing,” muttered Algy.

  “I may be wrong, but I don’t think we can reckon on help from Ginger at this stage,” said Biggles. “At least, we should be silly to rely on it. If they’ve got the Dakota back from him, as obviously they have, they’d hardly be likely to make him a present of the Otter.”

  “True enough—true enough,” murmured Bertie, toying with his monocle.

  “Of course, if he’s still alive, he’ll be doing something, or trying to,” averred Biggles.

  “I don’t like that word if,” said Algy, frowning.

  “It boils down to this,” declared Biggles. “ We’re as we were an hour ago, no better no worse. The beaters sound as if they’re coming on. If they comer us here, with our backs to the sea, we’ve had it. I suggest we try to outflank their line and get to the other end of the island. By the time they’ve discovered that we’re not at this end it’ll be dark. They’ll have to call off the search then, so we shall at least have gained time.”

  “Fair enough, laddie,” agreed Bertie. “Anything you say.”

  They began making their way towards the beach, and thus, from lower ground, lost sight of the airfield. Indeed, hemmed in by rocks and jungle they could see nothing beyond a few yards.

  “Get your guns handy,” advised Biggles. “We might bump into a prowler in advance of the general line.”

  However, they saw no one, and a quarter of an hour later, filthy and dishevelled, they arrived at the beach, although they did not show themselves in the open.

  “We’re beginning to look a bit scruffy,” observed AIgy.

  “Disgusting. Positively disgusting,” growled Bertie. “I absolutely stink. If I don’t soon get a bath it’ll need a curry-comb to scrape the muck off me.”

  “Now what?” said Biggles sharply, as to their ears came the sound of aero engines.

  “I suppose that couldn’t be Ginger, by any chance,” said Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. “No. That isn’t a machine in the air. It’s the Dakota’s engines being run up.”

  “That could mean the Colonel’s decided to push off, after all.”

  “It could, but I don’t think so. It’s more likely he’s going to use the Dakota to help find us. Why not? He’d be a fool if he didn’t—and he’s no fool.”

  “That won’t make things any easier for us,” remarked Algy.

  “It will not,” agreed Biggles. “No matter. The tougher the going the more satisfaction shall we get out of nailing up this bunch of renegades.” He ducked low as the Dakota swung suddenly and unexpectedly into view, skimming the tree tops. It was gone in a flash.

  They waited.

  “Here he comes again,” said Algy. “ We shan’t get far at this—”

  He broke off, diving for the ground as above the roar of engines came an unmistakable scream. An instant later the earth shook and the air was filled with flying debris as a stick of bombs fell across the jungle-covered hill.

  “Here I say, that’s a bit steep!” complained Bertie.

  “Good thing we didn’t stay on top,” said Biggles calmly. “The Colonel certainly has got the lot. More war stores, I suppose. Tidore was right when he said his enemies had enough stuff to fight a war.”

  “Did that chap spot us, do you think?”

  “No. He was travelling too fast. He’s going to plaster the hill haphazard hoping either to get us or drive us out. Here he comes again.”

  Algy half raised his gun.

  “Don’t waste your bullets,” advised Biggles. “You may need ‘em presently.”

  Another stick of bombs thundered, flinging high mutilated trees and rocks.

  “There is this about it,” observed Biggles, after the debris had rained down. “While they keep up this racket the beaters will have to stay where they are. Let’s start working our way along a bit. If that pilot’s wise he’ll realize we’ll try to get off the hill, so he may try a stick or two round the beaches presently.”

  They began a cautious approach to the low headland which, running across the beach and into the sea, separated the beach they were on from the next one.

  “Just a minute,” said Biggles, as they neared the top.

  He peeped over, through the tangle of tropical vegetation that all but blanketed the rocks. He dropped back. “No use,” he reported. “The Colonel is still doing his soldier stuff. He’s posted a couple of men on the far side to see we don’t slip along that way.”

  “Let’s rush ‘em,” suggested Bertie. “I’d sooner bullets than bombs.”

  “They’d see us as soon as we showed ourselves over the top,” answered Biggles. “This is no place to get hit. We’re better where we are as long as we can keep in one piece. The Dakota is giving us a rest, anyway.”

  “Gone back for another load of cookies,” suggested Algy.

  “Probably. We’ll dig in where we are and let them come for us. It’ll be dark in an hour. If we can hold out till then we shall have a better chance. Anything might happen tomorrow.”

  Biggles spoke confidently, but it must have been clear to all of them that the situation was critical. Against the bombing there could be no defence.

  “Oh for an old Spit, with some lead in its pencils, to show this cocky blighter a thing or two,” lamented Bertie, as bellowing engines announced that the Dakota was about to make another run.

  They all ducked instinctively as a bullet whanged against a rock not far away.

  “Where did that come from?” muttered Biggles as, gun in hand, his eyes scanned the higher ground around them.

  “They’ve got the edge on us. We’d better shift to another position,” said Algy.

  They moved on a little, and crouching against a mass of rock awaited the next onslaught from the air.

  When it did not come they risked a peep, and saw the Dakota turning out to sea, climbing steeply.

  “What’s the big idea now?” queried Algy.

  “Trying to fool us into showing ourselves, or e
lse give the other end of the island a crack,” conjectured Biggles.

  The behaviour of the Dakota became still harder to understand when, still heading out to sea, it unloaded its bombs, which fell harmlessly in the water. “I don’t get it,” said Bertie.

  For a minute nobody spoke. Then Biggles remarked, in a puzzled voice. “That Dakota is making a lot of noise for one machine.”

  “Sounds as if there’s another one somewhere,” was Bertie’s opinion.

  “Sounds more like half a dozen,” asserted Algy.

  “It isn’t Ginger. The Otter couldn’t make all that din,” declared Biggles. “Something’s happening. We’d better get to the top and see what it is. Watch how you go. That sniper may still be on the job.”

  Panting from exertion, with sweat pouring down their faces, they forced a passage through interlacing palms and bamboos to the top of the bank. There they stopped, speechless, staring unbelievingly at two four-engined aircraft, displaying United States military markings, that were coming in with the obvious intention of landing on the airstrip.

  At last Biggles said, in a voice pitched high with wonder: “American Globemasters! What in the name of all that’s fantastic are they doing here?”

  “Must be on some sort of exercise,” guessed Algy, looking slightly dazed.

  “What ho! The Colonel’s bright boys don’t like the look of ‘em, anyway,” put in Bertie. This was apparent, for men were running in all directions.

  “We’d better stay where we are until we see what this is all about,” decided Biggles. “If there’s going to be a fuss we’re liable to be shot.”

  They waited. The big machines landed side by side. Before they had stopped running the doors had opened. From these sprang out troops in full war kit, to form line and advance swiftly on the huts.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Biggles simply. “It isn’t true.”

  “There’s Ginger,” suddenly shouted Algy.

  “This gets crazier and crazier,” muttered Biggles.

  “Blow me down!” breathed Bertie. “How could he have got mixed up with that lot?”

  “Ask me something easier,” requested Biggles.

  By this time. Ginger, taking no part in what was obviously a military operation, was sprinting towards the beach.

  “He’s going to look for us,” snapped Biggles. “Come on.”

  They broke out of the jungle, shouting.

  Ginger saw them at once, threw a wave of greeting, and still running, altered course towards them. Grinning, he came up. “How about that for a surprise packet?” he cried.

  “How did you work that miracle?” inquired Biggles.

  “Nothing miraculous about it,” stated Ginger.

  “Where, and when, did you join the U.S. Air Force?”

  “At Kuala Lumpur, this morning.”

  “You arrived in what they call the nick of time, old boy,” declared Bertie.

  “Who are these people?” Biggles wanted to know.

  “United States marines, under General Cotter.”

  “Did you find them or did they find you?”

  “They found me.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Collect the Colonel. Apparently they want him badly.”

  Biggles sat down. “Tell us about it,” he requested, weakly.

  There, on the edge of the airfield, while the troops went about their business, Ginger explained. He told of his landing at Kutaradja, and how, leaving the damaged Dakota, he had gone on to Kuala Lumpur in the Otter, to find there the signal from the Air Commodore.

  “I hadn’t a clue as to who this General Cotter was, how he came into the picture or what he intended to do. I suppose there was no need for the Chief to go into all that. I just obeyed orders and waited. He arrived this morning, with these machines and a small army. I introduced myself and he put me wise. It was all really straightforward. Your guess wasn’t far out.”

  “What guess?”

  “About the Colonel being a soldier. He was a major in the U.S. Army in the Pacific War against the Japs. Later, he became a paymaster in the Korean War. It seems he got in some sort of mess over money and skipped with the regimental pay. After a while, when he couldn’t be found, it was thought he must have slipped through the Iron Curtain. But they hadn’t forgotten him, and when the Air Commodore sent those snapshots round to the American Embassy, in London, they must have really got cracking. Apparently a radio signal was sent to American Headquarters in Formosa to pick up the Colonel, collecting one of us at Kuala Lumpur to act as guide. I happened to be there and that was that. The General pushed me in with his lot and we came straight on. Is the Colonel still here? I know he didn’t get away in the yacht because as we came in I could see it had been burnt out. Was that you?”

  “Bertie.” Biggles pointed. “There’s the Colonel now. They’ve got him. They’re taking him over to the General. Where did you leave the Otter?”

  “Kuala.”

  “In that case we’d better ask the General to give us a lift out of this and drop us off there. Let’s go over.”

  Together they walked across the blackened airstrip to where the General was giving orders.

  * * * * *

  That, as far as Biggles and his party were concerned, was the end of the story.

  Leaving a party on the island to check up on the stores and equipment which by an oversight had been left there, the Globemasters returned to their base, taking the Colonel with them and dropping Biggles at Kuala Lumpur on the way. After a clean up, some food and a night’s rest, it only remained to fly home and report.

  The Colonel was sent home for trial, and now has ample time to reflect on mistakes which, it was his boast, he never made. With his removal from the scene, the gang, as Biggles had predicted, broke up and dispersed its several ways. The stores were removed from the island, which soon reverted to its original state, the only indications of its sinister occupations being some mouldering hutments, two metal airframes fast becoming overgrown, and the rusty skeleton of a yacht in the cove.

  As the matter had passed out of the hands of the Air Police, and the true monsoon set in shortly after their departure, Biggles was not called upon to return to the island for evidence, so the opium he had been at pains to hide was allowed to rot. Nothing more was heard of the junk which presumably brought the drug to the island.

  Some time later it was learned that Mr. Vandershon had recovered from his knife wound, so, as Biggles remarked, they had managed to make ends meet without any cause for self reproach.

  THE END