Another Job For Biggles

by W E Johns

  At this juncture Zahar broke into the conversation. For once he seemed almost excited. Jabbing with a brown finger in a south-westerly direction he cried: “Sahib! Sahib! That is the place.”

  Ginger stared, but could see no conspicuous feature except a glittering streak which he took to be water. Near it there was a vague suggestion of low buildings, but nothing definite.

  Biggles, also looking hard, sheered away from the spot Zahar had indicated.

  “Try to get a picture of the country in your mind,” ordered Biggles. “Aerodrome 137 should be a little to the north. I’m going to try to find it. We shall have to make a landing sooner or later because, as I said before, there’s a limit to what we can see from up here. If we can prove that hashish or gurra is being cultivated we should be justified in taking any steps to stop it. But we must see the stuff first, or we may find Ambrimos going for us in the courts for heavy damages if we injured his property—or his reputation.”

  Chapter 7

  Nature Intervenes

  THE finding of the old war-time aerodrome 137 turned out to be a more simple job than Ginger expected. He had supposed that after the lapse of time all signs of it would have disappeared, except of course the actual landing area, which, as much of the surrounding country was flat anyhow, would not be conspicuous. He was more than a little surprised, therefore, when he observed a labyrinth of zigzag lines that quite obviously had been military trenches. Following the general direction of these with his eyes he picked out a line of old gun-pits, and some way beyond them, near some scrub, three temporary hangars of camouflaged fabric which appeared from the distance to be as sound as on the day they were erected. He pointed them out to Biggles who at once turned towards them.

  As the machine, losing height, drew near, it became evident that the first appearance of good condition was an illusion caused by distance and overheated air. They were in fact in just such a state as might have been expected after years of exposure to sun and storm without any attempt at repair. One had collapsed, and another had a definite list. From all three, much of the canvas, in easy reach of the ground, had been removed, presumably by natives who must have regarded as a god-send this ample supply of material from which tents could be made.

  Twice Biggles flew round the site examining the ground closely for possible obstructions. Then he remarked: “I think we might have a closer look. That hangar might suit us as an advanced base from which to make a sortie on Ambrimos’s plantations. This is no country in which to leave a machine standing too long in the sun—moreover, for all the world to see. I’m going down.”

  Suiting the action to the word, he glided in and landed, afterwards running on to the dilapidated sheds. He made a brief examination of them from where he sat and then taxied slowly into the shade provided by the one in reasonable repair. He then switched off, and in a sultry, depressing sort of silence, Ginger followed him to the ground.

  Signs of the purpose for which the structure had been used were at once apparent on all sides. Anything portable or of value had of course been salvaged by natives, but there was still a fair amount of junk lying about—empty oil drums, flattened petrol cans, torn canvas, scrap metal, waste packing material, and even a rusty Bofors gun. Signatures and remarks, mostly of a sarcastic nature, had been daubed on the canvas that still clung to the metal girders—the inevitable result of military occupation. The writing was in French, Italian and English, revealing the nationalities of the troops who had fought their way through the land during the war. There was an amusing caricature of the ill-fated Mussolini.

  Biggles smiled wanly. “Time marches on,” he murmured. “Troops have fought over this ground since history began. This is the debris left by the last who passed by. Another year or two and it will be gone with the rest. No matter; for the moment it suits us. We could make a camp here and walk over to El Moab. I reckon it can’t be more than ten or twelve miles away.”

  He turned to Zahar, who had followed them out of the machine and now stood regarding the dismal picture without emotion. “Have you been here before?” he asked.

  The Arab replied that he had not.

  “But you could find your way to El Moab?”

  “Without doubt, Sahib, God sparing me,” answered Zahar. “But such a journey should be made by night when the air is cool and the Danakils in their villages.”

  “These Danakils you think are really dangerous?”

  “They are a misbegotten race whom God will one day hold to the reckoning,” asserted Zahar earnestly. “But they are good fighters, and should they see us they would try to deprive us of our lives.”

  “We could perhaps discourage them,” observed Biggles, drily.

  “What is written will come to pass,” averred Zahar, resorting to his fatalistic philosophy.

  “Very well,” decided Biggles. “In that case we will return to Aden and make preparations.” He turned to Ginger. “I shall have to let Raymond know what we’re doing.”

  He was about to climb back into his seat when a low cry from Zahar brought him to a stop, and he turned, as did Ginger, to ascertain the cause. The Arab was gazing with shaded eyes through the open end of the hangar at something in the distance. At first Ginger could see nothing for the blinding white glare; but presently he made out a line of heat-distorted figures moving in the form of a column across the arid waste.

  “What people are those?” Biggles asked Zahar.

  “From the direction they have come, and as they travel with donkeys, they will be Danakils taking slaves to the sea for shipment to the other side of the water,” announced Zahar. “It is an old trade which the English have tried to stop, but it goes on all the time,” he added casually.1

  “Where are they making for?” questioned Biggles. “For Marsa Mekel, doubtless,” was the answer. “The Sahib will remember there was a dhow there. It will take them across the water if Allah delivers them from evil.”

  Half closing his eyes to reduce the glare Biggles gazed at the distant column. Ginger, too, watched it with some apprehension.

  “They seem to be in a great hurry,” observed Biggles.

  “You have taken the words from my lips,” declared Zahar in a curious voice. “Wallah! They must have received evil tidings.” He climbed onto an oil drum for a better view. “Now here is something I do not understand,” he went on. “The caravan has stopped.”

  “So I see,” confirmed Biggles. “Isn’t that a strange thing to do in the heat of the day?”

  Zahar did not answer. Suddenly catching his breath he jumped off the drum and running outside turned to look at the sky behind the hangar. “There is no God but God,” he cried.2

  “What is it?” asked Biggles sharply.

  “A haboob is upon us, Sahib,” answered Zahar calmly. “It is from Allah—may he be glorified! Now the behaviour of the Danakils is explained.”

  Biggles joined him and Ginger followed. For a few seconds neither spoke.

  There was no need to remark on what was plain to see. From out of the north-east, racing towards them from the direction of the coast, and cutting them off from it, came a dark brown wall of sand, thousands of feet high. Above it the sky was no longer blue, but yellow.

  “If Bertie got, caught in that, he’s had it,” said Biggles grimly.

  “Couldn’t he get above it?” asked Ginger.

  “Not a hope. That grit may go up to twenty thousand feet. An engine sucks it in through the air intake—and if there’s one thing an engine won’t stand for it’s sand.”

  “What are we going to do about it?” enquired Ginger anxiously.

  “We can’t run away from it, that’s certain,” answered Biggles. “It would mean going west, in which case we should probably end up in the Sahara. That sandstorm may travel hundreds of miles before it peters out. We can’t travel hundreds of miles; we haven’t the petrol. I’d rather take my chance here, where Bertie at least knows where we are. He may not have left the ground yet. If he has, he’ll see what’s in
front of him and turn back.”

  “It is the season of haboobs,” put in Zahar without emotion.

  “It’s a bit late to remind us of that,” returned Biggles.

  “They come and go quickly.”

  “Let’s hope this one goes quickly,” muttered Biggles. “Meanwhile, we’d better start getting ready for it. Hark! What the...”

  All eyes switched upward as the distant hum of an aero-engine came through the quivering air. It was soon located, a tiny speck that moved against the background of infinite blue some way to the west of the approaching storm. The machine was heading southward, nose down, tail high.

  “ That must be Bertie, trying to run out of the dirt,” opined Ginger.

  Biggles did not answer for a minute during which time he kept his eyes focused on the speck. “That isn’t Bertie,” he announced at last. “That kite looks to me like an old Gipsy Moth.”

  “But who—?”

  Biggles broke in. “That must be the Sultan’s plane. I imagine that the fellow flying it is making flat out for his usual landing-ground at El Moab—trying to reach it before the sand gets there. He’ll probably do it. He hasn’t far to go. But come on. Get cracking. Collect all the old canvas that you can find. The important thing is to get the engine covered. Then we’ll make a shelter for ourselves or we shall be grinding grit between our teeth for a week.”

  Ten minutes of feverish activity followed, with Zahar, who probably knew better than the others what was in store, slashing away long strips of canvas from the walls with his dagger. These were at first dragged over the nose of the aircraft and secured with thongs of the same material. Then more canvas was thrown over some oil drums so that a space was left in the middle. Sand was piled on the edge of the canvas to hold it down.

  The work went on until the first gust of air, travelling on the front of the storm, came moaning across the wilderness. Another gust sent sand flying and set the canvas flapping. Ginger gasped, for the air might have been coming from a blast furnace.

  “Inside, everyone,” ordered Biggles, and they scrambled into the cavity they had prepared. Zahar was better off than the others for he was able to wind his voluminous gumbez about his face. Ginger, following Biggle’s example, tied his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. This done they lay flat and waited for the worst.

  It arrived a few minutes later, and it lasted, at its height, as far as Ginger could tell, about an hour. He had no clear recollection of anything that happened. He certainly did not see anything for he did not dare to open his eyes. The heat was appalling, and breathing a matter of no small difficulty. So he simply lay still with a great noise in his ears while a thousand shrieking demons seemed to clutch at the flimsy shelter. The world appeared to have turned to sand. It scoured his skin; it trickled down his neck; it got into his ears, his nose, and his mouth, in spite of all efforts to prevent it. It dried his lips and grated between his teeth.

  Thirst consumed him. The desire to drink became a mania. But at length the roaring tide of sand and grit and dust passed on, and after a moaning aftermath gave way once more to the brooding silence of the wilderness.

  He fairly gasped in his relief, although he knew there had never been any serious danger provided the hangar did not collapse on top of them, to choke them. But it was all very unpleasant.

  After a while he felt Biggles stirring, so he, too, began to move, carefully, for at every turn more rivulets of sand ran down his neck.

  However, he crawled out of the shelter and followed Biggles’s example of shaking the worst of the sand from his person. The air was, of course, still laden with sand, and they looked at each other through a gloomy yellow twilight. The sun was a misshapen orange globe. Zahar simply took off his gumbez and shook the sand out of it as if the storm had been no more than an ordinary passing incident—which to him, no doubt, it was.

  Biggles fetched a water-bottle from the aircraft. They all rinsed sand from their mouths and drank with relief and satisfaction.

  “And now what?” asked Ginger, when their personal comfort had been more or less restored.

  “Do you mean what are we going to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s easily answered,” asserted Biggles. “We’re staying here.” He jerked a derisive thumb upwards. “I’m not asking any engine to plough its way through that muck. We shouldn’t get far, anyhow. We shall have to wait for the sand to settle, which means that we’re going to be here for some time and there’s just nothing we can do about it.”

  Ginger regarded the outlook moodily, for what Biggles had said was obviously true.

  “Bertie will probably fly out to look for us,” went on Biggles. “But if he’s got any sense he’ll wait for the atmosphere to clear. Somehow I don’t think he’ll have got caught in the storm. It must have been plain to see from a long way off and he’d keep clear of it. He’ll be worried about us, no doubt, and he’ll be out to look for us as soon as it’s possible. Actually, I hope he stays where he is until we get back. Meanwhile, we might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible. We’re all right for water, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” He turned to Zahar. “What do you think about it?”

  “It was ordained, Sahib,” was all Zahar had to say.

  * * *

  1 The modern slave trade is not like the old. In north-east Africa natives often sell their children when about nine or ten years old, knowing that they will find life easier in wealthy Arabian households than in their own primitive settlements. They are rarely slaves in the sense that they are forced to do hard labour under a taskmaster. On the contrary, some are well cared for and often rise to important positions.

  2 This is the usual expression of astonishment employed by Arabs. It is not said in a blasphemous sense. The name of God is ever on the lips of the desert Arab who, from the life he lives, is constantly reminded of the power of the Almighty, and the futility of pitting his own puny strength against it.

  Chapter 8

  Ginger Falls Out

  THE day passed slowly, with the air clearing somewhat as the storm-tossed sand settled again on the desert from which it had been wrenched.

  Visibility improved, almost imperceptibly, as the result. When at length the sun sank into the distant jagged peaks of the Ethiopian Highlands it was in such a riot of colour, due to the dust particles that still hung in the atmosphere, that Ginger could only stand and marvel at it. Zahar, to whom the spectacle was nothing new, accepted it, as he accepted everything, with calm indifference. If Allah wanted such things as haboobs,well, it would be blasphemous to wish otherwise.

  The cover remained on the engine cowling, making it evident that Biggles had no intention of flying. Apart from the risk of a forced landing with the prospect of a long march home across dangerous country, there was, he observed, no sense in ruining a perfectly good engine, by scouring its cylinders with grit, for no particular reason. The return flight could be deferred until the following day, by which time conditions would have returned to normal.

  Bertie did not put in an appearance. He had, presumably, decided to stay on the ground for the same reason as Biggles—a decision with which no fault could be found. As Biggles remarked, for the moment he was better where he was, assuming that he was still at Aden. There was nothing he could do if he flew out, anyway.

  When the moon, a monstrous globe of burnished copper, swung up over the horizon, Biggles served out water and iron rations from the store carried in the machine. While these were being consumed with a certain amount of sand—which appeared to have got into everything—he opened a conversation with Zahar which revealed to Ginger the lines on which he had been thinking during the period of inaction.

  “There seems to be no reason why we should sit here doing nothing,” he began. “Sooner or later we shall have to make a reconnaissance from ground level to give this hashish factory the once over. As you say, Zahar, it would be silly to attempt such a trip in daylight, so it might as well be done to
night, while we’re within striking distance. Could you find your way to El Moab without great difficulty?”

  “Without doubt, God willing, O Sahib,” answered Zahar without hesitation. “But,” he added, “if the men of Ambrimos see us, they will fall on us and despoil us.”

  “But you will go?”

  “It is good hearing that you will take me with you,” returned Zahar. “For at El Moab I hope to meet Abu bin Hamud, who, under God, I shall hold to the reckoning.”

  “It is not my intention to throw away our lives for the sake of a personal grievance,” warned Biggles.

  “But if I kill him, it will be a thing to be remembered,” argued the Arab.

  “Should you fail, it will be Hamud who will have the joy of remembering,” retorted Biggles.

  “It will be as God wills,” averred Zahar, with his indisputable logic.

  Ginger put in a word. “What are we going to do when we get to El Moab?”

  “That will depend entirely on what we find,” replied Biggles. “Frankly, I’m not concerned overmuch with the hashish racket. That wasn’t in our assignment, although, no doubt, the authorities will be glad to know about it. We were sent out here to stamp on the gurra traffic before it could get any worse; before it can grow to the size of the hashish trade, which would be bad for everyone except those employed in the business. Someone, probably Ambrimos, has spotted the possibilities, and has set himself out to grow the stuff at a convenient spot with a view to establishing a monopoly. At any rate, that’s how I see it. The only clue we have points to Ambrimos as the man, and El Moab, where he already has interests, as the source of supply. We may be barking up the wrong tree, and if that turns out to be the case we shall have to try somewhere else. One thing is certain. Ambrimos has made it clear that he wants us—and that includes Zahar—out of the way. That may merely be on account of the hashish racket. We shall see—tonight, with luck. To get down to brass tacks, I’m hoping to find a nursery bed of young plants—they can’t have grown to full-sized bushes yet.”