by W E Johns
Biggles agreed, so they all took off their jackets and sat on them while they got their breath preparatory to tackling the last climb, which, as is usually the case, was the hardest part. Refreshed, with their jackets over their arms, they went on, and after a sharp tussle reached the top.
Biggles was first on the ridge; he gave a cry and pointed triumphantly, for the ground fell away again to another lake, and there, no great distance away, lay the twisted remains of the Blenheim. Sliding and slipping, and sometimes jumping over difficult places, they hurried on down the steep bank towards the ice, anxious to secure the food which they hoped was still in the Blenheim.
Suddenly Biggles remembered something; in fact, it was a patch of loose snow that slid away under his feet that recalled to his mind what he had often heard, but of which he had so far had no personal experience — that a sharp thaw is liable to cause an avalanche. ‘Steady!’ he cried urgently. ‘Steady, everybody.’ When first he spoke he only sensed the danger, but now he saw it, for in several places the snow was beginning to slide. Unfortunately Algy was poised on an awkward-shaped piece of rock; he slipped, and to save himself he jumped clear.
‘Stop!’ yelled Biggles — but it was too late.
Slowly at first, but with ever increasing momentum, the whole slope on which they were standing started to slide, and once started there was no stopping it. Biggles did not waste time trying to stop it. ‘Run!’ he shouted, and began running sideways along the slope to get clear of the danger area.
The others looked up, and went deathly white as, too late, they realized what was happening. With a mighty roar a thousand tons of snow and rock broke loose. Tearing up trees as if they had been so much brushwood, the mass thundered down the slope towards the ice.
Now it happened that Biggles was some distance to the right of the others and, naturally, he took what appeared to be the shortest cut to safety. The others went in the opposite direction — anyvvhere to escape the awful thing that was happening. In their wild rush they took the most desperate chances, jumping over obstacles which in the ordinary way would have made them pause. Algy practically got clear. So did Smyth, although he was bowled over. For a moment it seemed that Ginger, too, might escape the terrifying wave of death that was roaring down the slope; but he was outflanked; he had been nearest to Biggles and consequently had farther to go. Caught in the fringe of the tumbling mass, in a flash he was whirled away. For a moment Algy and Smyth could see him rolling over and over amongst the snow; then he disappeared from sight.
Algy stared like a man stunned, gazing blankly at the confused jumble of snow, ice, rock, and timber as the avalanche swept past them, swirling and tossing like water in a ravine flooded by a cloudburst. Dimly he was conscious of a great noise without actually hearing it. He reeled under the suddenness of the calamity. The scene was engraved on his mind like a photograph.
Slowly the avalanche exhausted itself, the lip far out on the ice. Silence fell. Snow which had been flung high into the air began to fall silently on the bare bedrock.
Algy turned a stricken face to the side of the slope where he had last seen Biggles. There was no sign of him. Nor could he see Ginger. He turned to Smyth. ‘We’d better look for them,’ he said in a hopeless sort of voice. ‘You try to find Ginger — I’ll look for the Skipper.’
Before he had reached the place where Biggles had disappeared Smyth was yelling to him to come back. Shaking like a leaf from shock, he hurried to the spot, to find Smyth clawing frantically at a great pile of loose snow from which projected a leg. It took them only a few minutes to drag Ginger clear. He was unconscious and bleeding from the nose, but a quick examination revealed no broken bones.
‘We shall have to leave him where he is for the moment’ muttered Algy. ‘Let’s see if we can find the Skipper.’
They made their way over the lacerated ground to where Biggles had last been seen.
For some minutes they hunted in vain, and then Smyth saw him. Either he had just escaped the avalanche and then fallen, or had been overwhelmed by it and flung clear, for he lay motionless, face downwards, among the debris of rocks and uprooted trees which had surged far out on the ice of the lake. Half sick with dread, Algy turned him over and got him into as comfortable a position as could be arranged. He was unconscious.
Algy caught his breath when he saw a livid bruise, seeping blood, on the ashen forehead.
‘My God! That looks like concussion’ he whispered through lips that were as white as Biggles’s. ‘This is awful. What are we going to do? We’ve got to get him off the ice, both of them, or they’ll die of sheer cold.’
Algy spoke in a dazed voice. He was, in fact, half stunned by the shock of the catastrophe. Their position had been difficult enough before, but now, with two casualties on their hands, it seemed hopeless, and he was in a fever of dismay. The ghastly part of it was that there was so little they could do.
As they stood staring down at Biggles’s unconscious form a weak hail made them look up, to see Ginger reeling down the hill.
‘Stand still, you fool!’ yelled Algy. ‘You’ll fall and break your neck.’ He raced up the hill, for the warning went unheeded. He caught Ginger and dragged him back from the edge of a steep rock on which he was staggering, and forced him to sit down.
‘Did Biggles — get clear?’ asked Ginger weakly.
‘Yes, but he’s knocked out. How do you feel?’
Ginger shut his eyes and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘My legs are a bit groggy — but I don’t think I’ve done myself — any real — damage. Great Scott! What a dreadful mess.’
Smyth came up. ‘We’d better get them under cover, sir, until we see how badly the Skipper’s hurt,’ he said seriously.
‘Under cover?’
Smyth pointed to the fuselage of the Blenheim lying flat on the ice. ‘Let’s get them inside,’ he suggested. ‘That will be better than lying out here. Otherwise they’re liable to freeze, particularly as the Skipper hasn’t got a jacket. He was carrying it, wasn’t he? I wonder what happened to it.’
Algy looked around. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said dully. ‘I suppose it’s buried under all this snow. Well, we haven’t time to look for it now — we’ll get them into the Blenheim. Now I come to think of it, there’s a first-aid outfit there — or there should be.’
They helped Ginger out on to the smooth ice, where they found that he was able to walk unaided, although, in spite of his assurances to the contrary, it was obvious that he had been badly shaken, if nothing worse. Biggles was still unconscious, and as he was a difficult load on the slippery ice, they made a rough bed of fir branches and, taking the thick ends in their hands, began to drag him towards the Blenheim.
They were just about halfway, in the most open part of the lake, when, faintly at first, but developing swiftly, came the roar of an aircraft; and the beat of the engines told them what it was even before it came into view — a Russian heavy bomber. Algy, realizing how conspicuous they were, threw up his hands in dismay. ‘We’re sunk’ he cried bitterly.
‘Algy!’
Algy started as if he had been stung, for the word came from the improvised stretcher.
He saw that Biggles’s eyes were open.
‘Listen’ went on Biggles. ‘Do exactly as I tell you. There’s a gun in my hip pocket — get it out. You’ve no time to get under cover, so lie down, all of you, as if you were dead. Don’t move a muscle. There’s just a chance that if the pilot spots you he’ll land to see what’s happened. If he does, stick him up and grab the machine. It’s our only chance.’
Biggles tried to get up, but his face twisted with pain and he fell back again. His eyes closed.
It took Algy only a moment to secure the pistol. ‘You heard what he said,’ he told the others tersely. ‘Lie down and don’t move.’
They all collapsed on the ice just as the bomber swept over the trees. The pilot saw them at once, as he was bound to, and Algy, whose eyes remained open, watched
the movements of the machine with breathless suspense.
Three times the bomber circled, coming lower each time; the third time his wheels nearly brushed them. A white face, fur-rimmed, evidently that of the second pilot, projected from the cockpit and stared down from a height of not more than twenty feet. The bomber went on, reached the end of the lake, turned, and then, cutting its engines, glided back, obviously with the intention of landing.
‘Don’t move, anybody’ hissed Al ‘Wait till I give the word.’
The bomber’s wheels rumbled as they kissed the ice, and the massive undercarriage groaned as they trundled on, the machine finishing its run about fifty yards from the fugitives. There was a brief delay; then a door in the cockpit opened; two men descended and began walking quickly over the ice towards the bodies. Algy’s nerves tingled as their footsteps drew nearer. He half closed his eyes.
The Russians were talking in low tones, evidently discussing the situation. Then one of them must have noticed the avalanche, for he pointed to it. They both stopped, held a brief discussion, and then came on again In short, their reaction to the situation was perfectly natural. There was no reason for them to suppose that they were walking into a trap.
To his joy Algy saw that neither of them carried a weapon; their hands were empty — except that one carelessly swung his gauntlets. They went first to Biggles. The leading pilot knelt to examine him while his companion looked on, a position in which their backs were turned to the others.
Very quietly Algy stood up, pistol at the ready. ‘Don’t move,’ he said curtly.
It is unlikely that the Russians understood English, but they knew the meaning of the squat black weapon that menaced them, for the message it conveys is universal. Their eyes opened wide in amazement. Slowly they raised their hands.
As Ginger and Smyth joined the party Algy stepped nearer to the two Russians and tapped their pockets; then, satisfied that they were unarmed, he indicated that they were to start walking towards the bank. A pilot himself, he felt a certain sympathy for them, and realizing that they had a long walk in front of them before they could get home, he pointed first to the crash and then to his mouth in the hope that they would grasp what he was trying to convey — that there was food to be found there.
The Russians looked at each other, and then back at Algy. One nodded; the other waved his hand in a manner that suggested that he understood.
All the same, Algy watched them as they walked on, while Ginger and Smyth got Biggles to the bomber and lifted him inside. They called out that they were ready.
Algy hastened to join them. The engines were still ticking over. He climbed into the pilot’s seat and slammed the door. His hand closed over the throttle. ‘We’re away!’ he cried jubilantly.
The propellers swirled as he opened the throttle and turned the machine to face the longest run that the lake provided. His eyes explored the surface of the ice, for he didn’t want a repetition of the Blenheim disaster; but there were no obstructions. The engines bellowed. The bomber surged forward; its tail lifted, and in a minute it was in the air heading westwards.
Grinning all over his face, Ginger joined Algy in the cockpit. ‘This,’ he declared cheerfully, ‘is something like it. We ought to be home in a couple of hours.’
Algy nodded, but without enthusiasm, for he was still a trifle worried. He was wondering what would happen when they came to the Finnish anti-aircraft batteries.
CHAPTER VIII
A Bitter Blow
Algy breathed a sigh of relief when they roared across the frontier, for now, he thought, if the worst came to the worst, they could at least land with reasonable promise of security. In his heart he was aware that he was taking a risk in remaining in the air, and that in order to be quite safe he ought to land, perhaps near an outlying homestead where they could lie snug until a relief party came for them. Yet every minute they remained in the air took them three miles nearer home, and the temptation to fly on and get as near to their base as possible was irresistible. He flew with one hand on the throttle, every nerve alert; not for a moment did he abandon his attentive scrutiny of the sky or the white landscape that flashed underneath.
Ahead lay a wide bank of indigo cloud, and he eyed it suspiciously, only too well aware of the perils that might lurk in it, for in war, unless he is driven into them by force of circumstances, a wise airman gives clouds a wide berth; they provide cover for prowling scouts. He was now within a hundred miles of home and his common sense warned him to take no chances, so he decided to run under the cloud and then land at the first reasonable landing-ground that he could find, preferably one near a house or village.
He left it just a minute too long. Where the Gladiator came from he did not see; but a wild yell broke from Ginger, and simultaneously a slim grey shape carrying Finnish markings seemed to materialize out of nothing. In a flash the Gladiator was on him, its guns rattling like demoniac castanets.
Algy flicked back the throttle and made for the ground; he would have done so in any case, but he spotted the number 13 painted on the Gladiator’s nose, and he knew the man to whom it belonged — Eddie Hardwell, an American volunteer from their own aerodrome, and perhaps one of the most deadly fighter pilots on the front. He had already shot down five Russian bombers.
Ginger, too, saw the number, and threw up his hands in impotence, for although he had a gun he could not, of course, use it.
The Gladiator’s first burst made a colander of the bomber’s tail; it swept up and past in a beautiful climbing turn, and then came back, a spitting fury.
Ginger’s presence of mind saved the situation. He knew that this time the Gladiator would rake them from prop-boss to tailskid, in which case only a miracle could preserve them. Breathless from suspense, he climbed out on a wing, scrambled on to the back of the great fuselage, and raised his hands in the air in an attitude of surrender.
The fighter pilot swerved, suspecting a trick, but as no gun was brought to bear on him he flew closer and, leaning out of his cockpit, jabbed his hand downwards in an unmistakable signal that the bomber was to land.
Algy did not need telling to go down; he was already going down as fast as safety permitted. He had half a dozen lakes to choose from, for from the centre to the southern end of Finland there is as much water as land. He chose the largest, and as soon as he maw that he was in a satisfactory position for landing he switched off his engines to prove to Hardwell that he was in earnest. A minute later the bomber was trundling over the ice.
The Gladiator circled it once or twice while the occupants, with the exception of Biggles, got out and stood with their hands up. After that the Gladiator made a pretty landing.
Revolver in hand, the pilot climbed down and walked over to the party. Suddenly he stopped dead. He blinked, passed his hand over his eyes and looked again.
‘Suffrin’ coyotes!’ he cried. ‘What’s the big idea?’
‘Easy with the gun, Eddie,’ returned Algy. ‘We’re all here.’
The American put the revolver in his pocket and came on. ‘You guys are sure aimin’ ter spill yerselves over the landscape, barn-storming in that Russky pantechnicon. What’s the racket?’
‘No racket, Eddie. We crashed our Blenheim the wrong side of the frontier, and borrowed this kite to get home in.’
‘Okay — I get it.’
‘What are you doing around here, anyway? It isn’t your usual beat,’ inquired Algy.
‘I was looking for you,’ replied Eddie surprisingly.
‘Looking for us?’ Algy was incredulous.
‘Yeah. There’s a guy arrived from England asking for you. We told him you hadn’t come back, which seemed to upset him, but he asked one or two of us to have a look round to see if we could spot you. The guy he was most anxious to find seemed to be Bigglesworth. Where is he?’
‘He’s inside. He got knocked about a bit. What was the name of this fellow from England, did he say?’
‘Sure — said his name was Raymond.’
>
Algy gasped. ‘Great Scott! Look, Eddie, this is serious,’ he said confidentially. ‘We’ve been on a special mission — to get something for Raymond. He’s one of the heads of British Intelligence. Well, we’ve got what we went for, and he ought to know about it right away. Will you do us a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then fly back to Oskar, get hold of Raymond and tell him that we’re here. At the same time you might ask somebody to fly out in a Blenheim and fetch us home.’
‘Okay, buddy; I’ll get right along.’
Eddie returned to his machine. It raced across the ice, swept into the air and nosed its way into the western sky. In a minute it was out of sight.
The others returned to the bomber. Ginger was now practically normal, but Biggles was still in a bad way, and seemed only semi-conscious. The others did what they could to make him comfortable. Some peasants, seeing the Finnish uniforms, went off and came back with a doctor. A woman brought a can of hot soup.
The doctor examined Biggles thoroughly, and finally announced that apart from the blow on the head he was suffering only from shock. At least, no bones were broken. The blow on the head had been a severe one, and had it not been for the fact that Biggles’s skull was exceptionally hard, it would certainly have been fractured. He dressed the wound, bandaged it, and gave the patient a pick-me-up. The effect of this, followed by a bowl of soup, was instantly apparent, and Biggles’s condition improved visibly. In two hours he was able to sit up and announce that, except for a splitting headache, he was all right.
It was at this moment that the roar of aircraft overhead announced the arrival of the relief party — Eddie’s Gladiator followed by a Blenheim. Eddie, it transpired, had come back to show the Blenheim just where the Russian bomber had landed. In a few minutes Colonel Raymond could be seen walking over the ice. He nodded a greeting to Algy, but was too perturbed for conventional pleasantries. He went straight to Biggles.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked quickly.
