Biggles' Combined Operation

by W E Johns

  The black bulk of the two ships dwarfed everything else. They lay side by side, the larger almost touching the wharf to which it was connected by a gangway. This ship had apparently been there when the Saphos had arrived, for the smaller vessel, lying alongside, had taken the outer berth.

  After a glance around Biggles walked to the bows of the larger ship and tried to read its name, but the letters were cyphers unknown to him. However, a faded flag hanging limply from the peak told him what he wanted to know. It bore a single star. He rejoined the others who had remained in the shadow of a wooden shed that might have been a boathouse.

  “She’s an Iron Curtain job,” he told them. “Could be Russian, Bulgarian or Rumanian, although if her home port is Odessa, she’s probably Russian, as Alfondez said. I saw no sign of a watch on board although there must be one.”

  “So what do we do about it?” asked Eddie. “We can’t set fire to her with a match.”

  “We may be able to do better than that,” returned Biggles. “The one to go for is the Saphos. Lying beside the big job as she is, if anything happened to her the other wouldn’t be able to move.”

  “To get to the Saphos means crossing the other,” said Ginger.

  “Not necessarily. We could get out to her by borrowing one of those rowing boats.”

  “You’ve got it,” agreed Eddie. “What do we do when we get to her.”

  “Cutting her adrift, if that was possible, which I doubt, would be no use. Fire’s the only thing. Look across the street. Can you see what I see?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “To me,” went on Biggles, “the word Shell means petrol. Some of these small craft must have petrol engines. There’s hardly likely to be a pump here so the stuff must be sold in cans. A can of petrol would do the job.”

  “How are you going to get it, laddie, that’s the thing?” asked Bertie.

  “Buy it, of course. I have some Greek money.”

  “The shop’s shut,” Ginger pointed out.

  “I’ll knock ‘em up. There’s bound to be somebody there.”

  “But you can’t speak—”

  “Leave it to me,” cut in Biggles. “Wait here. Keep out of sight.”

  With that, without making any attempt at concealment, he walked boldly across to the shops and then along to the one bearing the sign in which he was interested. A dim light showed at a window. He knocked.

  The door was opened and a boy of about twelve appeared on the threshold to gaze enquiringly at the face of the visitor.

  “Petrol?” said Biggles.

  The boy shook his head as if he did not understand.

  “Essence?” said Biggles, trying French.

  Again the boy shook his head.

  Biggles took him by the arm, led him outside and pointed to the Shell sign.

  That did it. The boy smiled broadly and nodded. Leaving Biggles standing there he went down a lane, apparently to the rear of the shop, to reappear after a few anxious minutes carrying an old-fashioned two-gallon can. Biggles took it, set it down and held out some Greek notes. The boy took two of them and nodded, still smiling. With the can in his hand Biggles walked back to the others.

  “Here’s the petrol,” he said.

  “That boy’s still watching,” observed Ginger.

  “Mere curiosity,” returned Biggles. “Nice kid. He probably thinks I’m just a crazy foreigner.”

  “He wouldn’t be far wrong, at that, I guess,” said Eddie, jokingly.

  “Let’s get cracking,” advised Biggles. “The people will be coming back from the fire, presently. There’s no need for everyone to go to the Saphos. You’ve been on her before, Bertie, so you’d better be one. Eddie, would you like to row him out? That should be enough.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Then get on with it. We’ll wait here.”

  Bertie picked up the can, and with Eddie walked to the slipway.

  Biggles and Ginger, watching, saw them pick up a small boat and put it on the water. Eddie fetched oars from another boat and a minute later was paddling quietly towards the objective. There was not far to go for the harbour itself was tiny. A matter of perhaps fifty yards. Another two or three minutes and the little craft disappeared behind the black shape of the Saphos.

  Ginger looked at the street. The three men who had been talking had gone, but two more came out of the tavern and walked towards the nearer vessel. They crossed the gangplank and disappeared.

  “Phew,” breathed Biggles. “This is nervy work. I’m afraid I’m getting a bit old for this commando drill. I hope you realize that this is sabotage in a big way. If we’re caught at it—”

  “I think like Eddie,” broke in Ginger. “We’ve fought against chaps who probably never did anyone any harm, so I see no reason to jib at having a crack at these swine, who are a menace to—”

  Biggles caught him by the arm. “By thunder! They’ve done it,” he exclaimed, as a smudge of smoke coiled up from the Saphos amidships.

  A few seconds later the saboteurs reappeared, Eddie driving the little boat through the water with furious strength. From one of the ships, it was not possible to tell which, came a shout.

  “Stand by in case they need help,” snapped Biggles. “If there’s going to be trouble this is where it’ll start.”

  “Listen!” said Ginger tersely. “Instead of climbing back over the hill where we’re likely to meet people what’s wrong with getting in the boat and going round to the Otter by sea?”

  “Nothing that I can see,” declared Biggles. “Sound idea. We’ll try it. We could get nearer that way, anyhow. Come on.”

  He ran to the slipway and reached it at the same time as the boat. “Don’t get out,” he said. ‘We’re coming in. We’ll try getting back to Marcel by water. It should be safer than going overland. Will the boat hold us?”

  “Just about,” said Bertie.

  By the time Biggles and Ginger had stowed themselves in there was not much freeboard, but with the water dead calm there was enough.

  “Okay, Eddie,” said Biggles. “Get round that headland and out of the harbour as fast as you can—but don’t swamp us.”

  There was now a good deal of noise coming from the ships where the smoke was reflecting a ruddy glow from below. There were also shouts of alarm from the shore.

  “Let the blighters shout,” said Bertie. “It’ll take more than shouts to put out a couple of gallons of you know what.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No. I didn’t see anybody. I dumped the stuff in the cabin where they locked me up. Laid a trail in the corridor. Even so I lost my front hair, confound it, when I set her alight. Oh here, I say, what’s this coming?”

  There was no doubt about what it was. They had reached the harbour entrance just in time to meet several caïques coming in.

  “Take no notice, Eddie,” rapped out Biggles. “Keep going. If we stop we’ve had it.”

  Eddie ploughed on. There were hails from one or two of the little ships, busy dropping their sails. Biggles made some incoherent noises in return and this must have satisfied the callers, for no attempt was made to stop the rowing boat.

  “They’re too interested in what’s happening to the Saphos to take much notice of us,” said Biggles. “They’ll remember us later, no doubt, but by that time, with any luck, we should be away.”

  The boat rocked a little as it met the open sea but the slight swell was nothing serious.

  “We’ll keep close inshore in case they come after us and we have to run for it,” decided Biggles, as they rounded the headland which cut off their view of the harbour.

  The last picture Ginger had of the Saphos she was blazing furiously, with the reflection lighting up the hill.

  “The kids here should remember tonight,” remarked Bertie, cheerfully. “They must think the ghost of old Guy Fawkes has got loose. First a fire on the hill, now one in the harbour—yes, by Jove! what fun they must be having.”

  “We shan’t think it’
s so funny if we fail to make the Otter before the storm hits us.”

  “What storm?” asked Ginger.

  “Look at the moon.”

  Ginger looked. More and more clouds were racing across the sky.

  “Say when you’ve had enough, Eddie, and someone else can take over,” said Biggles.

  “I’m good for a long time yet,” Eddie assured him.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE FINAL EFFORT

  A RIPPLE, as yet no more than a cat’s-paw, ruffled the surface of the classic sea.

  “Here it comes,” said Biggles. “And it won’t be long a’ coming, if I know anything. It’s these sudden storms, which have a different name according to where you happen to be, that make the Mediterranean so treacherous. The ancients knew all about ‘em. They kept close to land. We’d better do the same. Pull closer in, Eddie. Following the coast may mean a bit farther to go but it would be safer if we should have to swim for it.”

  “How far have we to go?” asked Ginger, anxiously.

  “For a rough guess, something like two or three miles.”

  Eddie, who was of course facing astern, said something carrying a light had just come out of the harbour. “It may be after us. From the rate the light is moving, the boat or whatever it is must have a motor.” While speaking he had been pulling hard towards the black mass of the rocky coast. When within a hundred yards he began to row parallel with it.

  Even from that position they could still see the reflection of the fire in the harbour catching the top of the hill behind it. Ginger remarked that he thought it was getting brighter.

  A few minutes later the light from the sky, which had become intermittent, was cut off completely by a great bank of cloud.

  “That’s not going to make things any easier,” said Biggles.

  “The water’s nice and warm, old boy,” remarked Bertie, trailing his hand in it.

  The slight swell which had been noticeable now became more pronounced, and presently the overloaded boat shipped a little water over her bows as she stuck her nose into a wave.

  Said Biggles, “It’s no use. Let’s get ashore. We can’t be all that distance away from the machine. It would be advisable anyway, if that motor-boat was following us. It won’t dare to come close in, in the dark, for fear of bumping into something solid.”

  The wisdom of this suggestion was made evident when a wave struck the boat broadside on and nearly capsized it. Ginger started baling with his hands and Eddie grunted as he put his weight behind the oars.

  Biggles was peering into the gloom trying to see the shore when it happened. With a jar the bows struck what must have been a submerged rock. The boat overturned, and in a moment they were all in the water, swimming.

  “Try to keep together,” called Biggles.

  Fortunately, as a result of Biggles’ precaution, they hadn’t far to go. The outline of the iron-bound coast hardened, towering above them, but a nasty backwash made landing difficult. Bertie, who was a strong swimmer, was first out, and called continuously until the others joined him. He gave Ginger a hand and hauled him out.

  “Are we all here?” asked Biggles, wringing water from his hair.

  “All present and correct,” reported Bertie.

  “That’s something, anyway,” rejoined Biggles. “If we can get a bit higher maybe we’ll be able to see where we are.”

  They clambered a little way up what turned out to be a steep slope that went straight down into the water without a beach. Even this was difficult, not to say dangerous, for there were cracks and holes between the boulders which could not be seen for the jungle of shrubs that flourished wherever they could gain a foothold.

  “From the sea it didn’t look as rough as this,” remarked Eddie.

  “It never does,” answered Biggles, finding a seat on a ledge of rock. “We shall make nothing of it while it’s as dark as this. If we try it one of us is going to break his neck. We shall have to wait for daylight so we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

  They found a reasonably level place and sat down to wait for dawn. The rocks, giving up the heat they had absorbed during the day, were still warm.

  “These coasts are all alike,” remarked Biggles. “They look all right from a distance. It isn’t until you get on ‘em that you realize what they’re really like—socking great boulders and herbage as tough as wire—barbed wire, too, some of it.”

  “My cigars are pulp,” complained Eddie.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” returned Biggles. “If you dropped a lighted match on this stuff we’re sitting on you might set the whole island on fire. It happens constantly. You must have read in the papers about the frightful fires they have along the French Riviera, and less often in Italy and Spain.”

  To Ginger the night seemed interminable. They saw no more of the motor-boat. Biggles was of the opinion that it had put back into the harbour to escape the storm.

  Dawn broke at last, to reveal a dull-red, cloud-riven sky over a grey, storm-tossed sea. There was not a vessel of any sort in sight.

  “Those caïques knew what they were doing last night when they made for the harbour,” said Biggles, as he got up and stretched himself. “Let’s go.” He started picking his way across the shoulder of the slope, climbing diagonally.

  It did not take them long to realize how impossible the climb would have been in the dark. Progress was difficult enough in daylight. There was no question of travelling in anything like a straight line. Movement could only be made by weaving about between the huge boulders and forcing a passage through the shrubby lavender, rosemary and arbutus, that filled the air with their aromatic fragrance. However, after a stiff climb of about three hundred feet they struck a goat track, much overgrown but just discernible, and after that they made faster time.

  The sun was well up when, reaching the sky line at the top of the shoulder they saw below them the creek, and, on the sheltered water, the Otter riding where they had left it. Marcel could also be seen, standing on the hull, gazing at the hillside.

  “Look!” exclaimed Biggles, pointing. “We shall have to move fast or we may be too late.”

  Fighting its way along the coast was a black, rakish-looking craft about the size of a pinnace. It carried no sail, but a foaming wash at the stern showed that it was under power.

  The descent of the hill became a race, a mad obstacle race, in which risks were taken that normally would have been considered foolish. Jumping, sliding and grabbing at shrubs or the branches of olives to steady themselves, they tore on. Once Biggles let out a hail. Marcel heard it. He saw them and waved.

  Scratched, bruised, dishevelled and panting, they reached the ancient “stables” where the Otter was moored. There was no time for explanations. All Biggles said to Marcel was: “They’re after us, in a boat coming along the coast. Start up.”

  Marcel dived into the cockpit.

  “Is there room in here for us to get off?” cried Ginger.

  “There’ll have to be,” returned Biggles, grimly. “She’d break up in the sea that’s running outside.” He joined Marcel in the cockpit.

  The others scrambled into the cabin. Ginger cast off. The door was closed. “Okay,” he yelled.

  The engines came to life.

  For two or three minutes the aircraft did not move as Biggles gave the engines time to warm up. Then he taxied slowly to the inner end of the creek for the longest run possible and turned to face the sea.

  “You won’t be dead into the wind,” Marcel pointed out, looking worried.

  “There isn’t enough in here to matter.”

  “Will she do it?”

  “I don’t know. We shall only find out by trying. That won’t take long. Here comes the boat. They must have known where we were. Hold your breath.”

  The engines roared. The Otter surged forward, swiftly gathering speed. There was only one way out, and that was straight over the boat. The steep sloping sides of the creek ruled out any question of turning.
/>   The Otter ‘unstuck’ as Biggles jerked her off. For a few seconds, until it seemed that collision with the boat was inevitable, he held her down. Only at the last instant did he pull the stick back to send the aircraft shooting up in a wild zoom. Then, in an instant, the danger was past, with the machine in a steep bank sweeping over the open sea.

  Biggles looked at Marcel’s face, pale under its tan, and grinned. “I can now give you your answer,” he said. “She did it. Frankly, I thought she would. That’s the advantage of knowing the precise performance of one’s aircraft.”

  Marcel moistened his lips, smiling weakly, and settled back in his seat. “I can’t stand these shocks any more,” he murmured sadly. “When I was young and crazy, yes. Now, hélas, my heart stops. Where do we go?”

  “Malta, for petrol, I think is our best bet. You might ask Bertie to give me a course and the approximate distance.”

  Presently Bertie brought the information. “You’ve got a headwind, old boy,” he remarked.

  Looking serious Biggles glanced at the petrol gauge. “Okay,” he said briefly.

  “Going to carry on?”

  “We shan’t get petrol anywhere nearer without letting people know we’ve been operating in this area. I’d rather not do that.”

  An hour passed. Two hours. Biggles’ eyes went more and more often to the petrol gauge. “I doubt if we shall quite do it,” he said at last. “There is this about it. We’re out of the storm area so we have calm water under us if we have to go down.”

  A few minutes later a formation of three jets, flying high, roared past, leaving their trails behind them.

  “I wonder where they’ve come from,” said Biggles, casually, without any real interest. He maintained his course.

  Half an hour later a big ship came up over the horizon a little on the starboard bow.