by W E Johns
‘Oh, those! There weren’t any men — just the four of us. The rest of the rifles were sticks.’
Von Stalhein started. A pink flush stained his pale cheeks and his lips pressed themselves together in a straight line. It was clear that, being entirely German and lacking in sense of humour, he hated the manner in which he had been tricked. ‘Very clever,’ he sneered. ‘But not clever enough. We’ll see who laughs last.’
‘Yes, we shall see,’ agreed Biggles.
The Russian guard was called and the prisoners were led away. After traversing several corridors, slowly mounting, they were shown into a large, sparsely furnished apartment with a number of trestle beds arranged round the walls, with blankets folded at their heads. It seemed that the place had been used before as a prison cell, but there were no other prisoners. A deal table stood in the middle of the room, and on it an iron bowl and a can of water. There was only one window; it was heavily barred, and it overlooked a paved courtyard enclosed within high walls. In fact, the fort was built round the courtyard, but a flight of steps gave access to ramparts with which the whole was surrounded. So much the prisoners saw at a glance.
Biggles sat on one of the beds. ‘It looks as if we’re in a jam,’ he announced.
‘You’re telling us!’ muttered Algy.
‘What’s the matter? It isn’t the first jam we’ve been in, is it?’
‘No, but from what I can see you’ll be a bright lad to get out of this one. It would have put the tin hat on Jack Sheppard’s career as a prison-buster. What are we going to do?’
‘Obviously, I’m going to show von Stalhein where the papers are hidden.’
‘What?’ There was a chorus of dissent.
‘But don’t be silly,’ argued Biggles. ‘You heard what von Stalhein said about bumping you off at eight o’clock? He’ll do it too, as sure as fate, unless I tell him what he wants to know.’
‘Well, let him,’ declared Algy desperately.
‘And you think I’m going to stand here and watch you lined up against a wall? Not if I can prevent it,’ declared Biggles. ‘I’m going to tell that rattlesnake that I shall have to show him where the papers are hidden, for I can’t describe the place to him. I shall have to go myself — get the idea? That will give me a little longer to do something — perhaps a chance to get away.’
‘For sheer cold-blooded optimism you certainly take the cake,’ remarked Algy.
‘Well, try to think of something better,’ invited Biggles. ‘Meanwhile we may as well get some sleep while we can.’
Reluctantly the others agreed.
CHAPTER V
Biggles Takes a Trip
They were up and washed, sitting on their beds the following morning when the door opened and von Stalhein, followed by two Russian guards, entered. Von Stalhein, as usual, was immaculate, and his monocle gleamed coldly. He addressed Biggles.
‘Well?’ was all he said.
Biggles nodded. ‘All right, I agree,’ he answered. ‘You’ve got me in a tight spot and I can’t refuse — you know that.’
The German smiled frostily. ‘Where are the papers?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ answered Biggles. ‘Just a minute,’ he went on quickly, as von Stalhein’s face darkened with anger. ‘Let me explain. I know where the papers are because I hid them, but I couldn’t possibly describe the place to you because there was no feature, no landmark, to mark the spot. In the circumstances I can only suggest that you take me to the place, and then I’ll show you where the papers are.’
‘How far away is this place?’
‘About fifty miles — quite close to where we were picked up. The best thing would be for you to fly me back to the lake where we crashed yesterday. From there it’s a short walk through the snow. We ought to be able to get the papers and return here in a few hours.’
For a moment von Stalhein regarded Biggles suspiciously. ‘Very well,’ he agreed slowly, will order an aeroplane immediately. But if you try any tricks—’ His eyes narrowed.
‘I’m not a madman,’ protested Biggles. ‘By the way, have I your word that if I hand you the papers you will treat us as prisoners of war?’
‘That is what I said,’ announced von Stalhein curtly.
In half an hour Biggles was getting into the machine – one of the big Russian bombers.
In spite of his protests that it was unnecessary – for the German had provided an escort of six Russian soldiers – he had been handcuffed. But von Stalhein was taking no chances, and he refused to take them off. A small hand-sled, lightly loaded with what Biggles supposed to be food, was lifted aboard, and the machine took off.
Twenty minutes later, under a leaden sky, it landed on the lake where the Blenheim still lay, a twisted wreck.
Biggles’s brain had not been idle during the journey. He had no intention of taking von Stalhein straight to the spot where the papers now lay frozen in the ice, which was, as we know, only a short distance from the crash; but what had upset his plan was the handcuffs. With steel bracelets on his wrists he was absolutely helpless, so the first problem that exercised his mind was how to get rid of them.
‘Well, where are they?’ demanded von Stalhein as they got out.
The Russians followed them, leaving the pilot sitting in his seat.
Biggles had, from the air, made a swift survey of the landscape.
To his right, from the edge of the lake, the ground rose in a steep, snow-covered slope perhaps a hundred feet high. Beyond the ridge the ground dropped away into a valley nearly a mile wide, with an even steeper range of hills beyond, a formidable barrier that rose for several hundred feet, the whole being covered with smooth, untrodden snow.
Von Stalhein was waiting.
Biggles nodded towards the nearest ridge. ‘That’s the way we shall have to go,’ he said.
‘Good,’ answered von Stalhein, and the party moved off, Biggles and the German walking in front, followed by two Russians dragging the sled, and then the remaining four guards with rifles over their arms.
Handicapped as he was by the handcuffs, Biggles had a job to get up the first slope; actually he made it appear much more difficult for him than it really was, floundering in the deep snow and sometimes falling, so that he had to be helped to his feet by the Russians, who seemed to sympathize with his plight, for even they found the going by no means easy. The consequence was, by the time they got to the ridge Biggles was puffing and blowing, and generally affecting all the symptoms of exhaustion.
Von Stalhein, now that they were so near their objective, got more and more impatient at every delay, particularly when Biggles insisted on resting before going on. ‘Can’t you see that I’m nearly all in?’ he said plaintively. However, after a short spell he got on his feet, and after descending the far slope, set off across the valley.
‘Where are we going?’ demanded von Stalhein.
Biggles nodded towards the towering hills ahead. ‘Just over the other side,’ he answered.
Von Stalhein said no more, but stalked on, curbing his impatience as well as he could — which was not very well.
They crossed the valley, in the bottom of which the snow had drifted in places to a depth of three or four feet, and while the crust was frozen hard enough in most places to support their weight, sometimes it broke through, when Biggles had to be extricated. As a matter of fact, his frequent stumbles were deliberate in the hope that repeated delays would cause von Stalhein to release his hands. He took care not to suggest this himself, however, for fear the suspicions of the German were aroused. But still von Stalhein refused to take the bait.
The valley traversed, the ascent of the big hill commenced, and here Biggles was seriously handicapped. However, he puffed along, apparently making a genuine attempt to keep up with the party, which, naturally, had to lag back for him. Nearing the top the snow became harder, so hard, indeed, that it was little better than a sheet of ice, and the climbers had to dig their heels into it to get a foothold. Progress becam
e little more than a snail’s pace, and von Stalhein began to lose his temper. Twice Biggles slipped, and glissaded wildly for thirty or forty yards; on such occasions he lay gasping until the Russians came back, helped him to his feet, and literally dragged him up the slope to where von Stalhein was waiting.
Biggles knew that something had got to be done pretty soon, for all this time they were getting farther and farther away from the papers, and he could not keep up the deception much longer without von Stalhein becoming suspicious. They were now nearly at the top of the hill, and as he had no idea of what was going to happen when he got there, he determined on one last attempt to get his hands free. He slipped, and after staggering for a moment like a drunken man, he fell heavily and began to slide backwards. This time he really could not stop, so he covered his face with his arms and allowed himself to slide, thankful that there were no obstacles against which he might collide. He went halfway down the hill before he was brought to a stop by a patch of soft snow, and there he lay, exhausted — but not so exhausted as he pretended to be. He made no attempt to get up, so the party halted while two of the Russians came back and tried to get him on his feet. But Biggles flopped like a sack of flour, and since it was only with the greatest difficulty that the Russians could get him along at all, they shouted something to von Stalhein. What they said he did not know, but his heart gave a lurch when one of the guards smiled and hurried up to von Stalhein.
Presently he returned, bringing with him the key of the handcuffs, which were removed.
On the face of it, there was no real point in keeping them on, for he was one unarmed man among seven, six of whom carried rifles and the other an automatic.
Still playing for time, Biggles dragged himself wearily up the steep slope, and after a considerable delay reached the others who, with the exception of the German, were squatting on the snow, having turned the sled sideways on so that it could not run down.
The men had leaned their rifles against it.
Reaching von Stalhein, Biggles collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath; but his eyes were taking in every detail of the situation, for the moment for which he had been waiting had arrived. Slowly, as if it were a tremendous effort, he began to get up. Then, suddenly, he moved like lightning. He jerked to his feet, slammed his right first against the German’s jaw, knocking him over backwards, and dived at the sled. It took him only a split second to drag the nose round so that it was pointing down the hill. The rifles, except one which he grabbed, he kicked aside. Then, flinging himself on the sled in a flying leap, he tore away down the hill.
In an instant he was travelling at a speed that alarmed him; but apprehensive of the shots that he knew would follow, he eased his weight a little to one side so that the sled swerved slightly. He was only just in time, for bullets zipped into the snow unpleasantly close to his side; but a small mark travelling at nearly sixty miles an hour is not easy to hit, and he made it more difficult by altering his weight so that his course was anything but straight. He did not attempt to look behind; he was much too concerned with where he was going, for a spill at such speed might have serious consequences. He took a small mound like a ski jumper, and grunted as he came down flat on his stomach; but the sled still tore on at dizzy speed, which ultimately carried him three parts of the way across the valley. His great regret was that the others couldn’t see him, for it was the most exciting ride he had ever had in his life, and he made a mental note that he would take up tobogganing when he got too old for flying.
At last, as it met the gentle slope on the far side of the valley, the sled began to lose speed. He remained on it while it made any progress at all, but as soon as it had stopped he picked up the rifle, and smiling with the thrill of the mad ride and at the satisfactory outcome of his trip, he looked back across the valley. Von Stalhein and the Russians, looking like black ants, were slipping and sliding down his track more than a mile away.
He abandoned the sled that had done him such good service and hurried on.
His one fear now was that the Russian pilot who had remained in the ‘plane would have heard the shots, and reach the ridge in front of him first, to see what the shooting was about. Actually they arrived at the ridge together, but the Russian was unarmed — or at least, no weapon was visible. Almost colliding with Biggles, he merely stared in astonishment, evidently wondering, not without reason, how the miracle had been accomplished.
Biggles tapped the rifle meaningly, and then pointed to the opposite hill.
The pilot took the tip; he was in no position to argue. In any case, he did not seem particularly concerned about the affair, feeling, perhaps, that it was not his business to worry about a prisoner. He nodded pleasantly and walked on to meet his comrades.
Biggles watched him for a little while to make sure that there was no hanky-panky, but seeing that he did not even look back, he turned towards the lake and, reaching the ice, made for the spot where he had hidden the papers. There was no difficulty in finding it, for the ice was a slightly different colour where it had been melted.
Getting the papers out, however, was not such a simple matter, and in the end he achieved it by shattering the ice piecemeal with the butt of the rifle. He recovered his automatic at the same time, so having no further use for the rifle, he sent it spinning into the wreck of the Blenheim. Both the canvas-covered bundle of papers and the automatic had pieces of ice adhering to them, so he went over to the Russian bomber and laid them on one of the still warm engines to melt. He then went into the machine and examined the cockpit; he did this unhurriedly, knowing that von Stalhein and the Russians could not possibly get back to the ridge overlooking the lake in less than half an hour. What pleased him still more was the realization that without an aircraft it would take von Stalhein and the Russians at least two days to cover the fifty miles that lay between the lake and the fort.
Satisfied that the flying of the machine presented no difficulty, he fetched the papers and the pistol from the engine on which he had laid them, and was glad to see that they were now free from ice. He looked hard at the sky, which, from a dull leaden colour, had deepened to almost inky black.
Subconsciously he had been aware of the fading light for some time, but now, with a flight before him, he regarded it with a different interest, and some apprehension. ‘There’s snow coming, if I know anything about weather,’ he told himself. For a moment, but only for a moment, he was tempted to fly the papers straight back to Helsinki, but the idea of abandoning the others to the tender mercy of von Stalhein, who would, in view of what had happened, be more than usually vindictive, was so repugnant to him that he dismissed the thought instantly. He knew that none or all must be saved, or the rest of his life would be spent in remorse.
His plan, briefly, was to fly back to within a few miles of the fort, land the machine where there was little chance of its being found, and then, in some manner not yet decided, attempt to rescue the others, after which they would make for the ‘plane and fly home together. Yet now even the elements seemed to be conspiring against him, for should snow begin to fall he was likely to lose himself. The machine was not equipped for blind flying, and in any case the country was absolutely unknown to him. He was about to get into the pilot’s seat when he saw, lying under a wing, the parachute that had evidently been dropped by the rightful pilot of the machine. Having no definite purpose in mind, but neglecting no precaution, he put it on, and then got into his seat.
The watch on the instrument board told him that it was now nearly three o’clock. It began to snow just as he took off, not the small driving flakes of a blizzard, but big, heavy flakes that dropped like white feathers straight down from the darkening sky. He might well have cursed it, but knowing that this could serve no useful purpose, he merely regarded it with thoughtful brooding eyes.
In a minute he was in the air, roaring eastward, keeping low so that he could watch the ground, for once he lost it he might have a job to find it again — without colliding violently with it. T
hicker fell the snow as the minutes passed, and by the time he was halfway back to the fort the ground was no more than a dark grey blur. Still he roared on, hoping for the best. There was nothing else he could do. But the snow fell even more thickly, until it seemed that the heavens were emptying themselves over the desolate land.
He was down to a hundred feet when he got back over the aerodrome; he could just see the giant hangars and the hill that rose behind them. He cleared the fort by only a few feet.
The position now seemed hopeless, for he knew that once he lost touch with the aerodrome he would be utterly lost, and landing would be a matter of extreme danger. He had one stroke of luck. It seemed that the ground staff at the aerodrome had been alert, and assuming that the machine would want to land, they had turned the beam of a searchlight into the sky, and to this Biggles clung as a drowning man clings to a plank.
Yet to land on the aerodrome was out of the question, for the second he was down the mechanics would be certain to run out to him, when he would instantly be discovered.
Desperately he racked his brain for a solution to the problem. He could think of only one, and that was not one that would have appealed to him in the ordinary way. However, his plight was so desperate that he was in no position to choose.
Turning the bomber, he headed back towards the beam, at the same time climbing up to a thousand feet. The earth of course had disappeared; all he could see was the beam, and that only faintly. With professional skill he adjusted the elevators so that the machine would fly ‘hands off’ on even keel; and opening the emergency tool kit under the seat, he took from it a file and a pair of pliers, which he thrust into his jacket pocket. Then he opened the door, and when he judged that he was over the fort, he launched himself into space. Instinctively he counted the regulation ‘one — two — three’ and then pulled the ripcord.
He had made many parachute jumps, but none like this. He could see nothing; he could feel nothing except the harness taut round his limbs, telling him that the brolly had opened; all he could hear was the drone of the bomber as it ploughed on untended through the murk. One thing only he had in his favour — there was no wind. A dark mass loomed below him. Bending his knees and folding his arms over his face, he waited for the shock.
