by W E Johns
‘I suggest that we all go and jump into the nearest lake and put ourselves out of our misery,’ suggested Algy gloomily. ‘If anyone ever mentions papers to me again I’ll—’
‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘We all feel that way. Let’s rest for a minute or two and get hold of ourselves. Maybe I can think of something.’
Biggles cupped his chin in his hands and gazed unseeingly across the dreary landscape that they had just traversed.
CHAPTER XIII
Von Stalhein Again
For some little while Biggles sat still, deep in thought, while the night slowly grew darker; but at last he drew a deep breath.
‘Well,’ he said evenly, ‘we may as well face the facts. Let’s get them in order. To start with, we can wash out all idea of flying home in Ginger’s Gladiator. The camp extends right down the valley, so it would be foolish to suppose that it hasn’t been discovered. Even if it were just as Ginger left it, we couldn’t hope to get a wheel off it without being discovered, and even if we did we couldn’t get it off the ground because the tents are in the way. That means we’ve got to walk home. Point number two is, we must try to get the papers. It’s dark enough to prevent our uniforms being recognized, so it shouldn’t be impossible to get to the tree, recover the papers, and get away without being spotted. It depends largely on what’s happening in the trees. There’s a tent pitched there, and as it stands apart from the others we may presume that it belongs to the commanding officer. If that is so, we shall have to keep an eye open for messengers and orderlies. Another point which should not be overlooked is this. I may be wrong, but I don’t think these troops are concerned with us. It looks more like a concentration getting ready to attack the Finns in a new theatre of war. The Finns ought to know about it, and it’s up to us to get the information to them. After all, until we started this scatterbrain business of chasing a bunch of papers our job was reconnaissance, to spot just such troop movements as this.’ Biggles paused for a moment.
‘This is my scheme,’ he continued. ‘I’m going down to get the papers, and since delay won’t make the job any easier I’m going right now. Ginger will have to come with me to show me where they are, otherwise I might be groping round on my hands and knees for an hour or more. Algy, you’ll stay here. If by any chance we fail to come back, abandon us and the papers; make your way back home as fast as you can, tell the Finns about these troops, and explain to Raymond what’s happened. If after that you feel like snooping back here in the hope of finding out what has become of us, do so, but if you take my tip you’ll keep the right side of the frontier. That’s all. Are you ready Ginger?’
‘Ay, ay, sir.’
Biggles took out his pistol, which he had recovered after the bear incident, and examined the mechanism to make sure that it was working properly. ‘Leave your rifle here with Algy,’ he told Ginger. ‘It’ll be in the way. In any case, he’s more likely to need it than you are. Let’s go.’
There was no great danger in approaching the camp, for although it was not absolutely dark, visibility was reduced to a short distance, and it was unlikely that they would be seen. Even if they were, it appeared probable that they would be mistaken for Russians, for a number of troops were wandering about outside the camp, apparently fetching wood for the fires.
With the coppice between them and the main camp, they went slowly down the hill, keeping sharp watch for sentries. However, they saw none, and presently stood within a score of paces of the group of pines wherein Ginger had hidden the papers. It was now possible to see more clearly what was happening inside the coppice. A tent had been erected, and yellow light penetrating through the fabric proved fairly conclusively that it was occupied. Close to the tent a fire smouldered between two pieces of stone on which stood a soup-kettle.
‘Now, which is the tree?’ said Biggles quietly.
Ginger grimaced. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain,’ he whispered. ‘There are so many trees so much alike that whatever I said might refer to any one of them. Once in the trees I could go straight to the spot. You’d better let me go — or let me come with you.’
The wisdom of this was so apparent that Biggles did not dispute it. He looked round cautiously to make sure that nobody was near. ‘Come on,’ he said softly.
Like Indians, taking advantage of every scrap of cover, they made their way into the trees. Nobody saw them — or if they did they took no notice. Yet within hailing distance were several hundred enemy troops; the babble of their voices drowned all other sound.
Biggles smiled grimly at this example of slack discipline, but he was not surprised, for he had heard something of Russian military methods from the Finns. On the face of it, the recovery of the papers appeared now to be only a matter of seconds.
Ginger went straight to the tree under which he had hidden them, then stopped abruptly with a quick intake of breath.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘The stone I put over the hole has been moved.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. It was a big one. I should see it if it were here.’
‘But who would move it, and for what? Are you positive this is the tree?’
Ginger pointed to the stones that flanked the cooking fire. It was one of those,’ he said.
‘Never mind, get the papers.’
Ginger dropped on his knees and thrust a hand into the hole. He turned a distraught face upwards. ‘They’ve gone!’
‘Impossible!’
‘But I tell you they have.’
‘You must be mistaken in the tree.’
‘No. This was the one. The hole is here to prove it.’
‘How far inside the hole did you put the papers?’
‘Only just inside. I was afraid to push them too far in in case they slipped farther — too far for me to get my hand in.’
Biggles clicked his tongue. ‘The fellow who moved the stone must have seen them and taken them out. He probably lit the fire with them, not realizing their importance. Few of these Russians can read.’
Ginger stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. ‘Well, that settles that,’ he said. ‘Unless you’re going to walk into the camp looking for the cook, we might as well go home.’
Biggles stood still, staring down at the empty hole. And as he stood there a laugh burst from the tent. It seemed so close and so unexpected that he spun round, gun raised. Then he turned a startled face to Ginger. ‘You heard that?’
‘Did it — remind you — of anyone?’ Biggles’s voice was hard.
‘Who?’
‘Von Stalhein.’
‘You’re right. He’s in that tent. But he doesn’t often laugh. What’s he got to laugh at?’
‘I should say he’s got the papers.’
Biggles nodded. ‘That’s about it. He’s here with the Russian Commander. The cook found the papers and had the wit to take them to the tent. Von Stalhein would recognize them at once. No wonder he’s laughing. That’s twice he’s tumbled on them by accident. He certainly has had all the luck this time. Have you got a knife on you?’
‘Yes.’ Ginger took it out — a small pen-knife — opened it and passed it to Biggles.
Biggles crept up to the back of the tent.
Ginger crouched back against a tree just behind him. ‘Look out!’ he hissed.
Biggles dropped flat. He was just in time. A Russian soldier appeared out of the gloom carrying a long butcher’s knife in his hand; he went straight to the fire, thrust something into the pot and then sat down, presumably to wait for the stuff, whatever it was, to cook.
Biggles rose to his feet like a shadow and crept up behind the Russian. He was in no state to wait there for perhaps an hour until the dish was ready. At the last moment he trod on a twig. It snapped. The Russian turned sharply, saw Biggles, and with a startled exclamation half rose to his feet. But Biggles moved like a flash. His arm swung down.
There was a thud as the butt of his pistol struc
k the Russian’s head. With a grunt the man fell across his own fire. Biggles dragged him clear and returned to Ginger.
‘I hate doing that sort of thing, it’s so primitive,’ he said disgustedly, ‘but there was nothing else for it. We couldn’t squat here for an hour or more while he was making a stew — or whatever he was doing. Stand fast.’
With the pen-knife now in his right hand Biggles went again to the tent. Very slowly he forced the point through the fabric, and then withdrew it. He put his eye to the slit. For a moment he stood motionless, then he returned again to Ginger.
‘Von Stalhein is there with a Russian — he looks like a general. They’ve got a table between them and the papers are on it. Stay here.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Get the papers — what else? You look after things outside.’
Before Ginger could express the alarm he felt at this drastic step, Biggles had gone, and there was no longer anything furtive about his manner. He went straight to the flap that covered the entrance, threw it aside, and went in, his pistol held just in front of his right hip.
The two men looked up sharply at the intrusion. They half moved forward, but the tone of Biggles’s voice halted them — or perhaps it was the expression on his face.
It was one of the few occasions when Biggles saw the German look really surprised. ‘Keep still,’ he rasped. To von Stalhein in particular he added, ‘Tell your pal that one squeak from either of you will be the signal for me to start shooting — and keep your hands in sight. I’m in no mood for monkey business and you’d be wise to believe that.’
Grim-faced, his eyes as hard as ice, his lips pressed in a straight line, Biggles stepped forward, collected the papers with his left hand into a heap, and rolled them into a wad. ‘I’ll take care of these,’ he said. Then he called Ginger.
Ginger appeared in the tent doorway looking somewhat shaken.
Biggles thrust the papers at him ‘Take these,’ he said. ‘Get going.’
Without a word Ginger put the papers in his pocket, turned about and disappeared.
‘Now listen, von Stalhein,’ said Biggles quietly, ‘and listen carefully. A little while ago you accused me of outplaying my luck. You’ve had more than your share of luck in this party, but don’t overdo it. I’m going outside now. You’ll stay here. Try leaving this tent and you’re apt to meet a slug coming the other way.’ Biggles backed out.
The moment he was outside he went quickly round the tent loosening all the guy ropes except two; he then went to the fallen Russian, snatched up his knife, and slashed at the remaining cords. There was a startled cry from within, but before the occupants could get out the tent collapsed. Two jerking humps showed where von Stalhein and his companion were struggling to free themselves from the heavy canvas.
Biggles waited for no more. Turning, he dashed through the trees and raced up the hill to where he had left Algy. He found Ginger waiting; they were both in a state of agitation and uttered exclamations of relief when he appeared.
‘Come on,’ snapped Biggles, ‘jump to it. We’ve got to get all the start we can before von Stalhein gets his mob on our heels, and that won’t take very long. I’m going to make a dash for the frontier.’ With that he set off at a steady run towards the west. There was no road, no path, not even a track, so all he could do was to set a course in a westerly direction.
‘Here, you’d better have these papers,’ said Ginger.
Biggles took them and put them in his pocket.
It was not long before a clamour in the camp told them that von Stalhein was mustering all his forces for the pursuit, but this was only to be expected and it left Biggles unperturbed. Endurance would now decide who reached the frontier first, and in this respect he felt that, in spite of all their handicaps, they ought to be able to hold their own with the Russians. None of them wasted breath in conversation; with their elbows against their sides they ran on, up hill and down dale, through woods, splashing through swamps formed by the melting snow, round unclimbable masses of rock, and sometimes making detours to avoid lakes. Later they struck a lake that lay right across their path, forcing them to turn to the north seeking a way round it. That there was a way Biggles knew, for he had marked the lake from the air.
They were still running, following the bank, when, unexpectedly, they came to a lonely farmhouse, or the house of a charcoal burner - they didn’t stop to inquire which. A dog rushed out at them, barking furiously. Biggles snatched up a clod and hurled it at the animal, whereupon it retired, growling furiously.
‘This way!’ he cried, for he had spotted something that pleased him more than a little. It was a boat, a rough, homemade dugout moored to a tree-stump. A man was shouting, but he took no notice. ‘In you get,’ he told the others, and they tumbled into the primitive craft. Biggles untied the painter and picked up the oars - such as they were. The boat surged out on the placid water, leaving its owner raging on the bank.
‘This is better,’ declared Algy. ‘I always did prefer to do my travelling sitting down.’
‘You can have a turn at the oars in a minute,’ grunted Biggles. ‘You won’t find that so funny. They’re as heavy as a couple of barge sweeps, and the boat feels as if it had a ton of bricks hanging on the bottom.’
‘How far is it across the lake, d’you know?’ asked Algy. ‘You must have seen it from the air.’
‘I’ve seen hundreds of lakes from the air — which one is this?’
‘I think I know. I reckon it’s about two to three miles across, which should help us a lot, assuming that there isn’t another boat in which the Russians can follow us. They’ll have to make a detour of seven or eight miles to get round to the far side.’
‘By the time we get home we shall have employed pretty nearly all the methods of locomotion known to mankind,’ grinned Ginger. ‘If we could finish up on roller skates we ought to be able to claim the record. When should we get to the frontier?’
‘If we can average three miles an hour, in about six hours,’ replied Biggles. ‘It can’t be more than twenty miles — I fancy it’s rather less.’
The boat surged on across the water making a wide ripple on its tranquil surface. The only sound was the soft splash of the oars and the gurgle of the wake.
Presently Algy looked down. ‘Great Caesar!’ he ejaculated. ‘I thought my feet felt cold. Water’s coming in somewhere.’
‘I’m not surprised at that,’ answered Biggles. ‘The thing is only tacked together with bits of wire. Look for a bailer — there ought to be one.’
‘I can’t find one,’ muttered Algy, a tinge of alarm creeping into his voice.
‘Then use your hat.’
Algy was, in fact, still wearing his flying cap with the earflaps rolled up. ‘My hat! That’s a bit thick,’ he grumbled. However, he took it off and started bailing out the water.
The boat forged on. In front and behind the land showed only as a dark grey shadow.
CHAPTER XIV
Slow Progress
In spite of Algy’s efforts more and more water seeped into the boat. Ginger joined in the work of bailing, and although the ingress of water was very slight it still gained on them.
‘Can’t you pull a bit harder, Biggles?’ pleaded Algy, staring at the still distant shore. ‘The idea of swimming in this perishing water gives me the horrors.’
‘You wouldn’t swim very far in it,’ returned Biggles. ‘You’d be frozen. Here, take a turn at the oars.’
They changed places, and while Biggles bailed, Algy threw all his energy into the rowing. For a while the boat made better progress, but Algy soon used up all his strength, after which the pace became slower than ever. Biggles returned to the oars.
‘Either we’re going slower than I imagined or else the lake is wider than I thought,’ he remarked. ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’
‘It’s probably a bit of both,’ put in Ginger.
‘We’ve got to get to the other side before daybrea
k, that’s certain, or we shall be seen by everyone from one end of the lake to the other,’ declared Biggles.
In spite of all they could do, and they worked feverishly, the water in the boat rose still higher, and it soon became clear that, far from reaching the bank before dawn, they would be lucky to reach it at all. Biggles’s efforts at the oars became desperate, for as the boat filled it became more and more sluggish. At last grey light began to steal up from the eastern horizon, and it revealed something that they had not suspected. For some time past Biggles had noticed a piece of land which, from its more definite outline, appeared to be closer than the rest, and taking it to be a promontory, he had pulled towards it. But in the growing light he now saw that it was not a promontory but an island. It was quite small, embracing perhaps two acres of ground, covered for the most part with bulrushes, but with a clump of trees at one end. This suited them nearly as well, if only because it would enable them to rest and empty the water out of the boat, and so make a fresh start; and for this reason Biggles put his last ounce of strength into the task of reaching it before the boat sank under them.
It was touch and go. Ginger and Algy bailed for all they were worth and Biggles pulled as hard as he dared, but he had to be careful, for the gunwales were only a few inches above water. As the keel touched the shelving bottom Biggles called to the others to follow him, and stepping out, he hauled the boat up as far as he could. As soon as its safety was assured they tilted it on its side and so got rid of the water, after which it was an easy matter to pull it up high and dry.
‘Phew!’ gasped Biggles as he made the boat fast. ‘That was a close thing. We’d better get under cover or we may be seen from the shore.’
Three wet, cold, and hungry airmen made their way to the stunted pines that crowded together at the far end of the islet. ‘D’you know,’ murmured Algy sadly, ‘I remember the time when I used to do this sort of thing for fun. We called it a picnic.’
‘Don’t grumble — we were lucky to get here,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘How far do you think we are from the shore?’
