by W E Johns
Work on the runway had stopped. It was large enough for all practical purposes now that every member of the squadron knew where it was, and as residence on the island seemed likely to be curtailed Biggles decided that there was no point in going on with it. He advised Ayert to keep the men employed on the junk which, he said, might be needed earlier than was expected. Reconnaissance sorties—most of them made by himself, for all pilots employed on the trans-ocean run were showing signs of fatigue—revealed that the Sumatran was out of danger unless she fell foul of a remote-operating enemy submarine. Arrangements had been made by Algy, during one of the operational flights, that she should now be safeguarded by India-based aircraft.
Biggles had two worries. The first was, of course, the troop transports, which were drawing near. He had seen them and watched them from a great height. There was nothing he could do to stop them unless he called for special equipment for the purpose, and this, in view of his orders, he would not do. The other was the embankment at Shansie which the Japanese were repairing. This had first been reported by a spy and later confirmed by air reconnaissance. He had no bombs left, or—as he told the others—he would have felt inclined to hinder the work in order to keep the destroyers where they were. Once afloat they would, he felt sure, be used against the island. Yet a request for more bombs would certainly be met with the question, for what purpose did he want them? Should he return a true answer—and he would not return any other—he would be told to get on with his job, which was the transport of rubber. He fretted with impotence. The end seemed to be approaching fast and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. By evening of the following day the transports would arrive. Should they be supported by aircraft it might be difficult to get away. One bomb or shell on the runway would be sufficient to put it out of action.
The failure of Air Commodore Raymond to make any sign that would relieve the tension strained his confidence. He could not understand it. He had never let the Air Commodore down. The Air Commodore had never let the squadron down. Was he on leave? Was he working on another operation? If not, why didn’t he do something? The Air Ministry wanted rubber, wanted it badly. Pure rubber was a bottle-neck in industry. He had sent across nearly three thousand tons, but unless there was a radical change in the situation in the next twelve hours the remaining two thousand tons would be lost, for he had determined to burn it rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the enemy. Tomorrow would be the last day. He would begin with the evacuation of the native workmen to other islands, in the Lotus, which could then be scuttled.
As the sun went down one by one the Liberators came in. They could not return to India that night. The pilots, every one of them, was dead on his feet. Presently one of them would fall asleep over the controls, the inevitable outcome of over-weariness aggravated by strain. As the sun sank into the western ocean he took a last look at the runway, on which three of the Liberators were parked. The Lightnings were there, too, and the Gosling, all in the open, for there was no room for them in the shelter. True, they had been camouflaged, more or less, with such materials as were at hand; but this, he knew, was not enough to deceive an efficient reconnaissance pilot. It was a situation he had always tried to avoid, for the war had proved that without air superiority it was impossible to maintain aircraft within striking distance of land-based enemy bombers. Every instinct in him recoiled from having his machines out in the open, but here again there was nothing more he could do except get the aircraft off the ground, en route for India, before daylight. He welcomed the darkness, but it would not last long enough to give the weary pilots the rest they needed.
He found Algy, Bertie and Angus sitting in cane chairs on the verandah talking in low tones. Ginger and Tug lay on the bamboo floor, asleep. Algy said the others had gone inside to sleep—they could not stand the mosquitoes. Not that it was much better inside.
Biggles evacuated a six-inch centipede from the verandah with a vicious kick, and pulling up a chair lit a cigarette and sat down.
“I had a look at the transports about an hour ago,” he remarked evenly. “They should be in sight of the island about dawn. If nothing happens in the meantime I reckon they’ll arrive here before noon. With plenty of daylight in front of them the troops will probably land right away.”
“What do we do—try to stop them?” queried Algy.
“With what?” asked Biggles. “If we turned out with all Li Chi’s men we might kill a few Japs, but it would be the end of Li Chi’s crew and he might not like the idea of our inviting them to commit suicide. That’s what it would mean. It’s no use kidding ourselves. We couldn’t stop the landing so why try? It would be better to burn the rest of the rubber and give Ayert and his gang a chance to slip away. In the long run they’ll do more good alive than dead. I wish Li Chi was here. It’s his rubber. He might be able to suggest an alternative to burning it. But I’m not leaving it for the Japs.”
“We could get a few more tons across tomorrow morning, old boy,” suggested Bertie.
“A mere fleabite, but we’ll do that, of course. Our last orders were to go on shipping rubber so we shall go on doing that as long as it is possible. I still can’t help feeling that Raymond will see us through. It isn’t like him to let a unit down.”
“Aye, but he’s leaving it mighty late,” put in Angus.
“Sure there were no fresh orders for me at Madras, Algy?” queried Biggles.
“Not a word. Station Headquarters was my last call before I took off.”
“I see. Well, we shall just have to carry on. There’s nothing more we can do without disobeying orders.”
Tug sat up and stepped into the conversation. “I reckon we should be justified in pulling out,” he opined. “If we wait till tomorrow we may wait too long. Those transports are bound to carry guns, and with the rest of the island covered with jungle they would be bound to open up on the lake. It only needs one shell to tear up our landing strip and we’re here for keeps.”
“I think you’re quite right, Tug,” admitted Biggles. “But it so happens that our orders are to carry on.”
“Until we’re knocked out by enemy action?”
“Exactly. We can’t say that the enemy has knocked us out—yet. He isn’t even in sight.”
“He’ll be in sight tomorrow morning.”
“A lot of things could happen between now and tomorrow morning. To lose faith in the High Command is bad, Tug.”
“Haven’t you lost faith in ‘em?”
“No.”
“If they’re going to do anything why don’t they tip us off?”
“For security reasons probably. If the enemy got to know what was cooking we should be the first to suffer. But talking won’t get us anywhere. You fellows had better grab some sleep. Angus, you’re on the roster for the first show tomorrow. Who are the others?”
“Taffy, Henry, Tex and Tug.”
“I see. Ginger and Ferocity will cover you in the Lightnings while you get off. I’m going to roost.” Biggles went into the bungalow, kicked off his shoes, lay down on a mat and was soon asleep.
He was awakened by the roar of a low-flying aircraft. He was up in a flash. He had no idea of how long he had been asleep, but a glance at his watch told him that dawn was not far distant. Pulling on his shoes, but without stopping to lace them, he ran out. The others, too, were astir, asking each other what was happening. Nobody knew. They all gathered on the verandah.
It did not occur to Biggles that the aircraft could be anything but hostile and his first thought was for his machines. “Stand by to get off,” he ordered crisply, and then stared upward, trying to pick out the machine against the star-strewn sky. He could not see it, but the sound told him that it was circling. Grey light beyond the mainland told him that dawn was about to break.
“I should say things have started,” he said. “Get the Liberators off, you fellows who are going to India. Don’t show lights. No—wait!” he corrected himself as the machine overhead switched on its navigat
ion lights, which of course revealed its position. A signal light winked.
“He wants to come in,” said Ginger.
“More likely it’s a Jap who wants to know just where we are,” grated Tug, and then ducked as the aircraft skimmed low overhead.
“It’s a Marauder!” shouted several voices together.
“Get the flares out,” ordered Biggles, and there was a rush for the runway.
Five minutes later the machine landed. With his torch Biggles guided it on to the shelter end of the runway. The engines were cut. Two passengers climbed down. One was Air Commodore Raymond, and the other Li Chi. A curious hush fell when Biggles’ torch revealed the Air Commodore, his uniform as immaculate as if he was arriving at an Air Ministry conference.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” greeted the Air Commodore. “Hope I didn’t give you a fright?”
“‘Matter of fact, sir, you did,” returned Biggles. “We’re getting into the way here of thinking all machines are hostile. How did you get hold of Li Chi?”
“The Navy has taken over the Sumatran. They brought Li Chi into Madras in an aircraft. I found him waiting there for a lift back so I brought him along. I was coming over. Here are some of the latest newspapers—I thought you’d like to see them.”
“Er—thanks,” answered Biggles.
“Everything all right here?”
“So far,” replied Biggles cautiously.
“The Ministry is satisfied with the way things are going,” went on the Air Commodore. “You’ve done well. Getting hold of the Sumatran wasn’t on the schedule and the Admiralty were inclined to be a bit uppish at first about airmen playing at sailors, but I smoothed things over by pointing out that it had saved you a lot of work. How about a cup of tea? I could do with one.”
Li Chi called for the cook and ordered tea for all.
“I’m glad to hear that the Ministry is satisfied with the way things are going,” said Biggles softly, but with a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice. “They are far enough away to get a comfortable view of the operation.”
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy here?”
“Not entirely,” admitted Biggles. ‘We had a feeling that within the next few hours things might get a bit difficult.”
“I gathered that from your report. I shouldn’t worry. The great thing is to keep up the flow of rubber.” The Air Commodore looked at his watch. “By the way, can we see Victoria Point from here?”
“You can see it from the hill, but not, of course, with any detail.”
“Then let’s go up the hill,” suggested the Air Commodore. “We should be able to see what I came over to watch.”
“Hadn’t I better get my crews off to India?” questioned Biggles.
“No desperate hurry. They can go presently. They might like to stay and see...” The Air Commodore broke off, gazing towards the west, from which direction now came a faint drone which, rising and falling, increased swiftly in volume.
“Let’s go on up the hill or we shall miss the fun,” said the Air Commodore.
Biggles picked up his binoculars and the whole party walked briskly to the top of the hill. By the time they had reached it the first rays of the rising sun were lancing the eastern sky with shafts of blue, pink and gold. All the time the drone in the west had been growing until now it was not so much a drone as a deep, vibrant roar.
“There they are,” said the Air Commodore. He looked again at his watch. “Right on time,” he added.
The others had already seen to what the Air Commodore had referred—a swarm of aircraft flying in two perfect formations at a tremendous height. With the new-born sun lighting their metal fitments with sparks of fire the aircraft forged on through the crystal clear air, with the majesty of battleships, towards Victoria Point.
“Forts,” breathed Tex.
“Thirty-six,” counted Ginger.
“I asked for enough—to make a proper job,” murmured the Air Commodore.
“Strewth!” exclaimed Tug.
The Air Commodore threw him a glance. “You seem surprised to see them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t see why you should be. We received the report about the destroyers. You didn’t suppose we should throw away a chance like that, did you?”
“No, sir.”
Biggles smiled faintly.
There was no more talking, for the Fortresses were now approaching their objective. Faintly across the water came a sound, a thin, long-drawn-out whine. The ground beneath the leading formation seemed to rise up in a mighty cloud of smoke and fire. The earth continued to erupt for a full minute. Across the Strait came a sudden gust of wind, bearing on it a long rumble as of distant thunder.
Biggles was watching through his glasses. “Right on it,” he reported.
“Here comes the next lot,” said Tug, in a voice slightly hoarse from excitement.
Again the earth erupted in columns of smoke and flame. Again came the wind, and the roar.
“What a packet!” breathed Tex.
“Yes, I don’t think you’ll be troubled by those destroyers any more,” said the Air Commodore quietly, watching the Fortresses turn for home.
“We’re likely to be troubled by those, though,” said Ferocity, pointing down the straight to the south, where two big ships had emerged suddenly from a distant belt of haze.
“I don’t think so,” answered the Air Commodore. “Let’s wait a little while and see.”
Biggles took out his cigarette case. “Cigarette, sir?”
“No thanks. I’ll smoke my pipe.” The Air Commodore filled his pipe, watching the transports. “I don’t see any air cover, do you, Bigglesworth? They must be pretty sure of themselves.”
“No, I can’t see any aircraft,” answered Biggles, exploring the sky with his glasses. “Apparently they thought they could do without.”
“That’s a mistake that will cost them dearly,” returned the Air Commodore, looking again at his watch.
“You’re expecting something, sir?” prompted Biggles.
“‘Matter of fact I’m expecting a friend of yours—Squadron Leader Crisp. He should be here in two minutes.”
“But I understood Johnny was flying Beaufighters, and Beaus haven’t the range?” asserted Biggles.
“For the purpose of this operation they are carrier borne,” explained the Air Commodore. “Sounds like them coming now.”
Drowning the drone of the Fortresses came the strident bellow of low-flying machines.
“Yes, here they come,” confirmed Biggles, again raising his glasses.
“The Japs call the Beau ‘The Whispering Death’,” remarked Henry.
“If that’s their idea of a whisper they must be deaf,” declared Tug, grinning, as with a shattering roar twelve Beaufighters, each with a torpedo slung below its fuselage, swept over Elephant Island and raced on towards the transports. A few puffs of flak appeared, most of it well above the aircraft.
“That’s nervous shooting,” observed Biggles.
“Do you wonder,” said the Air Commodore dryly. “The gunners can see what’s coming.”
The Beaufighters changed their position to line ahead. The ships were too far off for details to be seen, but the Beaufighters appeared to dip a little, and following this, first one transport, then the other, was enveloped in smoke. When it cleared the ships were no longer there. The Beaufighters zoomed, reformed, and headed back over their course.
“Pretty to watch, by Jove,” remarked Bertie.
“Well, that’s that.” The Air Commodore tapped out his pipe and moved towards the slope of the hill. “I’ll be pushing along back,” he announced. “I’ve a lot to do. Think you’ll be able to manage the rubber?”
“It should be easy—now,” returned Biggles, smiling.
“That’s what I thought.”
The party walked down the hill. Li Chi departed to speak to Ayert. The Air Commodore took off and the duty Liberators followed soon afterwards. After
seeing them out of sight Biggles turned to those who were staying. “Now, thanks to the Higher Command, we can relax,” he decided.
* * * * *
The rest of the story of Elephant Island is no more than a report of a routine operation. In the month that followed the bombing of Victoria Point and the sinking of the enemy transports all the rubber immediately available was shipped to India. As there was then no reason for remaining on Elephant Island, Biggles’ squadron was recalled to Home Establishment.
Up to that time no further offensive action had been taken by the enemy, although it was learned by Intelligence that Tokyo was making preparations for a major assault on the island, being under the impression that Allied forces were being concentrated there for an attack on Lower Burma. This, as Air Commodore Raymond asserted later, was all to the good, for it demanded the employment of enemy troops that were badly needed elsewhere. Neutral correspondents in Japan reported that Admiral Tamashoa had been killed in action in the Mergui Archipelago. Tokyo said nothing, presumably still trying to save the Admiral’s “face”; but British authorities did not doubt the truth of the report, for it was known that Tamashoa had been picked up by the transports at Penang before they were sunk by Johnny Crisp’s “Whispering Deaths.” And there were no survivors. Refugee Chinamen and Malays hiding on the islands saw to that.
There was only one event to break the monotony of flying between the Archipelago and India before the withdrawal of the transport team. One night, a fortnight after the bombing of Victoria Point, who should turn up at Elephant Island, in a canoe, but Lalla. He reported that his father’s guerilla forces, to which hundreds of tribesmen had flocked, had made life so precarious for the Japanese at Shansie that they had abandoned the post. It was now possible for an aeroplane to land there. A considerable quantity of rubber was available should it be required. The High Command decided that it was required, and Biggles was to fetch it. It was expected that there would be some trouble over this, but little opposition was encountered, and the Liberators, escorted by Lightnings, brought the rubber across without any adventure worth recording.
