by W E Johns
‘There they are,’ said Biggles, pointing.
‘Five of ‘em,’ muttered Algy, following the direction of Biggles’s outstretched finger. ‘We’d better push off.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Biggles tersely. ‘Von Stalhein must have sent a messenger on ahead, or somehow got in touch with an aerodrome. From the way they’re flying, these big boys are looking for us. Let’s go!’
Later on Biggles felt that he made a mistake in taking off as he did, for had the machine remained stationary there was a good chance that it would not have been seen. But it is easy to be wise after an event. The truth of the matter was — and Biggles in his heart knew it — that with the menace drawing swiftly nearer, he took off in too great a hurry.
He did not fail to survey the line of his take-off before opening the throttle, for this was automatic, but instead of his usual intense scrutiny, he gave the surface of the lake no more than a cursory glance. It may have been that as, during the last twenty-four hours, he had made a dozen landings and take-offs from frozen lakes without seeing anything in the nature of an obstacle, he subconsciously took it for granted that this one would be no different from the rest. Be that as it may, Algy was no sooner in his seat than he opened the throttle, for by this time the bombers were nearly overhead.
It was not until the Blenheim was racing tail up across the ice at fifty miles an hour that he saw the little pile of snow directly in his path. For an instant he stared at it, trying to make out what it was, hoping that it was only soft snow; then, in a flash, he knew the truth, and it was the shape of the snow that revealed it. A floating branch or log had been frozen in the ice, and against it the snow had drifted.
Now to change the course of an aircraft travelling at high speed over the ground is a highly dangerous thing to do at any time; the strain on the undercarriage becomes enormous, and is transmitted to the whole machine. The designer cannot make allowances for such strains, and stresses the machine on the assumption that it will take off in a straight line.
As far as Biggles was concerned, it was one of those occasions when a pilot has no time to think. His reaction is instinctive, and whether or not he gets away with it depends a good deal on luck as well as skill. Thus was it with Biggles. To stop was impossible. To try to lift the machine over the obstacle before he had got up flying speed would be to invite disaster. Yet, at the same time, to touch either of his brakes would be equally fatal; so he pressed the rudder-bar lightly with his left foot, hoping that it would give him just enough turning movement to clear the obstacle. Had the machine been on a normal aerodrome he might have succeeded, but on ice it was a different matter. Instantly the Blenheim started to skid, and once started there was no stopping it. It did what would have been impossible on turf. Propelled by the sheer weight it carried, the machine kept on its course, but in a side-ways position.
Knowing that a crash was inevitable, and with the fear of fire ever in the background of his mind, Biggles flicked off the ignition switch, and a split second later one of the wheels struck the log. The result was what might have been foreseen. The undercarriage was torn clean away, while the machine, buckled under the force of the collision, was hurled aside. There was a splintering, tearing series of crashes; the metal propellers bit into the ice and hurled it into the air like the jet from a fountain; the fuselage, flat on the ice, with one wing trailing, spun sickeningly for a hundred yards before coming to a stop.
No one moves faster than a pilot after a crash — that is, of course, assuming he is able to move. He is only too well aware that a fractured petrol-lead and one spark kicked out of a dying magneto can result in a sheet of flame from which nothing can save him.
Biggles flung Algy off his lap, where he had been hurled by the collision, and yelling to the others, fell out on to the ice. Algy followed. Ginger, wiping blood from his nose with his sleeve, tumbled out of the centre turret. Biggles dashed to the tail seat. Smyth was in a heap on the floor. They dragged him out, moaning and gasping for breath.
‘He’s only winded, I think,’ said Biggles tersely, kneeling by the mechanic and running his hands over him.
Smyth, still gasping, tried to sit up. ‘I’m all right,’ he panted. In the panic of the moment they had all forgotten the bombers, even though their roaring now seemed to shake the earth.
Ginger was the first to turn his face upwards. ‘Look!’ he screamed.
From each of the bombers men were falling, one after the other, turning over and over in the air. Then their parachutes started to open, and a swarm of fabric mushrooms floated earthward. The sky seemed to be full of them. Biggles calculated that there were at least fifty.
For a moment nobody spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. The awful truth was all too plain to see, for already the parachutists were dropping on to the ice and, freeing themselves of their harness, were converging on the crash.
CHAPTER IV
A Grim Ultimatum
Biggles’s first thought was of the papers in his pocket. He remembered Colonel Raymond’s words, ‘At all costs they must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.’ Yet even then he hesitated to destroy them, for once burnt they were gone for ever, and with the professor dead, the vital information they contained could never be recovered. He realized, too, that the papers would directly affect their own fate. Once they fell into von Stalhein’s hands his first precaution would be to silence those who might, if they escaped, say what had become of them. On the other hand, without the papers von Stalhein would hesitate to destroy the only people who knew where they were.
Yet where could they be hidden? All round the ice lay flat and bare, and to attempt to hide them in the wreck of the machine would be as futile as if he had retained them on his person. There seemed to be only one way, and Biggles seized upon it. In the crash one of the wings had collapsed, with the result that the engine had broken loose from its bearers; the manifold exhaust, had snapped off, and had slid some thirty or forty yards from the machine, where, being hot, it had already half buried itself in the thick ice which, of course, had partly melted. It was obvious that in a few seconds the manifold would disappear from sight altogether; but as it grew cold the water would quickly freeze again and entomb it.
In a moment Biggles tore a piece of loose fabric from the damaged wing, wrapped the papers in it, and hastening to the pool of water that marked the spot where the manifold was swiftly disappearing, he threw the manifold aside and into the water-filled cavity it had created he dropped the packet, forcing it to sink under the weight of his automatic, which would in any case, he knew, soon be taken from him. This done, he marked the spot by taking a line on landmarks on either bank, and then rejoined the others, who were still standing by the crash waiting for him to give them a lead.
Resistance was clearly out of the question. It would have been suicidal, for they were completely encircled by the Russians who had dropped from the sky and were now closing in on them. It is true that they could have put up a fight, for they were well armed, but the end of such a one-sided affair would have been a foregone conclusion.
Even if the Russians were driven off they would only have to line the banks of the lake to starve them into submission.
Biggles was anxious to avoid being killed, if it were possible, for more reasons than one; and one reason was the papers. He alone knew where they were hidden, and if he failed to return, that would be the end of any chance of their ultimately reaching home. While he was still alive, whatever the Russians might do, there was still a hope — a slender one admittedly, but even that was better than no hope at all — that he might one day return and recover the papers. A bullet whizzing over the ice decided him, and he put his hands up.
‘It’s no use,’ he told the others. ‘We can’t fight this mob. We shall have to surrender.’
Algy looked surprised, for the decision was not like Biggles; however, he did not question the order, but slowly raised his hands. The others did the same, including Smyth, who wa
s now nearly normal. The Russians closed in, and Biggles, looking round the circle, saw that von Stalhein was not with them.
‘What have you done with the papers?’ asked Algy.
‘I’ve hidden them,’ returned Biggles.
‘Where?’
‘Never mind. If you don’t know, the information can’t be got out of you,’ replied Biggles evenly. ‘I may tell you later on.’
The Russians now came up and crowded round the prisoners, who were quickly disarmed. Their pockets, too, were emptied, everything being put into the leader’s haversack. Whether this man was an officer or an N.C.O. Biggles could not make out, for as they had no common language conversation was not possible. However, he didn’t seem badly disposed towards them; in fact, after looking at the crash, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled sympathetically at the British airmen. Several of the Russians gathered round the log that had caused the disaster, for they, as parachutists, knew a good deal about flying, and understood exactly what had happened.
While this had been going on the five bombers had circled, slowly descending, and now they landed one after the other on the ice, afterwards taxiing into position for a take-off near the crashed Blenheim. There was a fairly long delay while the Blenheim was searched from end to end, the maps going into the Russian leader’s haversack. There then appeared to be a discussion between him and the pilots of the bombers as to the disposal of the stores, armament, and equipment; from their gestures Biggles was able to follow the debate fairly well, and he formed the opinion that the pilots were unwilling to carry so much extra weight — a supposition that was confirmed when they all moved off, leaving the crash exactly as it lay.
Night had now fallen, and while it was not really dark, Biggles hoped that camp would be made and the take-off postponed until the next morning, for this would give them a chance to escape — not a very good chance perhaps, but a better chance than they would have once they had been handed over to von Stalhein, who would, he felt sure, claim them when he heard of their capture.
In this hope, however, Biggles was to be disappointed, for the whole party moved over to the big machines, where the British airmen were separated, presumably to distribute the weight. The bombers then took off and roared away in an easterly direction.
The flight, as near as Biggles could judge, lasted only about twenty minutes, in which time he estimated that they had covered about fifty miles. They then glided down and landed. Looking through a window, Biggles could see landing lights put out to guide them, from which he supposed that they were not at a regular aerodrome. This, he presently saw, was only half correct. The place was evidently used as an aircraft base, but canvas hangars suggested that it was only a temporary and not a permanent aerodrome. For the rest, in the short time he had to survey the scene after he had got out of the ‘plane he saw that the landing-ground was, in fact, yet another lake, but one so large that the extremities were lost in the distance. He thought it might be Lake Onega, which, next to Lake Ladoga, was the largest lake in the district.
At the point where they had landed the bank rose steeply for a hundred feet or more, and it was at the base of a rocky hill that the hangars had been erected. A short distance to the right the lights of a village, or a small town, glowed dimly, and above, silhouetted against the sky, he could see an imposing fort or citadel.
He could not make out the details, but at any rate it was a massive building of considerable size, and this, he suspected — correctly, as he soon discovered — was their destination.
He was relieved when he was joined by the others, for he was afraid they might be separated, and under an armed guard the party moved forward between the hangars to a road that wound a serpentine course upwards towards the fort. A march of some twenty minutes brought them to it, when it became possible to see that it was a medieval-looking structure rising sheer out of rock which had obviously been used in its construction. At a gloomy portal they were challenged by a sentry, but after a brief halt they moved forward again. Heavy gates clanged behind them.
‘I know now what it must feel like to be taken into Dartmoor,’ murmured Algy.
‘Judging from the outside of this place, Dartmoor is a luxury hotel compared with it,’ growled Ginger. ‘If we can crack our way out of this joint we need never fear being locked up anywhere.’
The Russian leader made it clear by gestures that they must not talk, a command that was obeyed, for the man had not treated them badly.
Their way now lay through a series of stone corridors, cold and depressing, lighted by an occasional lantern. Another sentry met them and conducted them on, their echoing footsteps adding to the atmosphere of gloom. The sentry halted before a heavy, iron-studded door; he knocked on it and, in answer to a command from within, opened it. A shaft of bright yellow light fell athwart the corridor. The leader of the party that had captured them beckoned to the prisoners and entered the room, carrying in his hand the haversack containing their personal belongings. This he placed on a great, antique table; he then saluted and withdrew, closing the door behind him
There were three men in the room — two, judging from their uniforms, being Russian officers. The third was von Stalhein. He eyed Biggles with a whimsical smile, in which, however, there was more triumph than humour.
‘I told you the game was only beginning,’ he said with a sneer, in his perfect English.
Biggles nodded. ‘Go ahead,’ he invited. ‘It’s your lead — but don’t get the idea that this is the end of the game.’
‘Nearly — very nearly,’ said the German softly. ‘This is the last hand. It was unfortunate for you that I had the foresight to send a man on ahead of my party to fetch the bombers.’
Von Stalhein pulled the haversack towards him and emptied the contents on the table. He went through them quickly, but without finding what he sought. Again he raised his cold blue eyes to Biggles’s face. ‘Where are the papers?’ he demanded curtly.
‘What papers?’ returned Biggles blandly, using the same words that von Stalhein had used earlier in the day.
The German smiled grimly. ‘I get your meaning,’ he said. ‘But don’t forget I was polite enough to hand the papers over.’
‘So would I — if I had them,’ answered Biggles evenly.
The Russian who had captured them was brought back into the room and closely questioned for some time. As soon as he had gone von Stalhein turned again to Biggles.
‘Where did you put them?’ he demanded in a manner that was now frankly hostile. ‘They weren’t on your person and they weren’t in the machine. What did you do with them?’
‘That’s a fair question so I’ll give you a fair answer,’ countered Biggles. ‘I hid them. They now repose in a place where — unless I am flattering myself — you will never find them.’
The German’s eyes switched to Algy, and then to Ginger.
‘It’s no use looking at them,’ remarked Biggles quietly. ‘They don’t know where they are. Such a vital piece of information I kept to myself.’
Von Stalhein toyed with his monocle for a moment. He fitted a cigarette into a long holder, lit it, and sent a cloud of grey smoke curling towards the ceiling. ‘You know, Bigglesworth, in the past you’ve had a lot of luck,’ he said reflectively.
‘Now don’t try to do me out of what little credit my efforts have brought me,’ protested Biggles.
‘But luck,’ continued von Stalhein imperturbably, ‘can’t last for ever, and I think you’ve about come to the end of it. You’ve given me more trouble than the rest of the British Intelligence Service put together, and I find you irritating. Still, there are qualities about you that I, who try to be efficient, admire, and for that reason I’m going to give you a chance. Tell me where the papers are and I will see that you are handed over to the authorities as ordinary prisoners of war. Refuse, and I’ll see to it that you’re shot for carrying arms against a nation with whom you are not at war.’
‘We seem to have had this argument before,’ repli
ed Biggles. ‘We are British subjects — yes; as such we are volunteers in Finland, a fact that is born out by the Finnish uniforms we are wearing. Among those papers on the table you will find our commissions in the Finnish Air Force; by International Law they make us belligerents, and in the event of capture we claim the privileges or prisoners of war.’
Von Stalhein picked up the documents in question. He rolled them into a ball and deliberately dropped it into the fire. ‘They are easily disposed of,’ he said quietly. ‘Let us now assume that you are not fighting for Finland, but are acting as spies for the British Government.’
‘Have it your own way,’ murmured Biggles. ‘But I still hold the trump card. Shoot us, and you’ve lost the papers for ever.’
Von Stalhein stroked his chin. ‘I wonder,’ he said softly. It rather looks as if I shall have to employ more persuasive methods. I am going to give you until eight o’clock tomorrow morning to remember where you put those papers; if by that time you have not recovered your memory, then your companions will be taken into the courtyard and shot. Since they don’t know where the papers are there is really no point in my keeping them here. I will see that you get a room overlooking the courtyard, so that you will be able to watch the proceedings. I think you know me well enough to appreciate that when I say a thing I mean it. In effect, you will sign your friends’ death warrants. Think it over. That’s all — until eight o’clock.’
‘You might see that we get a respectable dinner,’ requested Biggles. ‘We’ve had a busy day and we’re hungry.’
‘I’ll attend to it,’ promised von Stalhein. ‘By the way, where are the rest of your men?’
‘What men?’
‘The crowd you had with you when you took the papers from me.’
