by W E Johns
“Porte-avions,” murmured Marcel.
“It’s an aircraft carrier all right,” agreed Biggles. “I wonder who she belongs to? Let’s have a look.” He altered course a trifle.
Bertie was the first to identify the carrier. “It’s one of ours, the Ark Royal,” he announced. “I’d know her anywhere.”
A strange smile crept over Biggles’ face. “Make a signal to her and ask if she could spare us a drop of petrol.”
Bertie went aft. He came back laughing. “You can have some petrol but they’re not having you land on deck.”
“Afraid I’ll make a mucker of it and set ‘em on fire,” conjectured Biggles. “All right. Tell ‘em I’ll touch down alongside.”
To Ginger the rest bordered on fantasy. Biggles put the Otter down almost directly in front of the huge ship, which, with stately majesty, crept up to the aircraft. Whistles blew. Bluejackets ran. The arm of a crane swung cans of petrol over the side—all this with drill-like precision. With the cans came a chief petty officer. “Sorry sir, but I shall have to ask you to sign for this,” he said, unsmilingly.
Biggles signed the paper.
“If you’ll fill up I’ll take the cans back,” said the sailor, who appeared to see nothing remarkable in an operation which must have been unusual, even for him.
The petrol was poured into the Otter’s main-tank. The empty cans were reloaded. The petty officer took his place on them. He waved a signal to the operator and was swung back to his own ship.
“Much obliged,” shouted Biggles.
“Get clear or we may swamp you,” called an officer.
Biggles started his engines, which had been cut for the operation, and moved off to a safe distance.
On the big ship a bell rang. Water churned, and the carrier, a picture of tremendous power, resumed its interrupted journey.
“Nice work,” murmured Eddie.
“Magnifique,” said Marcel, in an awed voice.
Biggles chuckled. “After all, that’s what the navy’s for.” He took the Otter off. “There’s no need now for us to go to Malta,” he told Marcel. “We’ll make straight for Corsica, which will save us a lot of time. As we go I’ll tell you what happened on the island, then you’ll understand why I wanted to get away from it in a hurry.”
The Otter reached Corsica shortly after noon, and having been refuelled at Marcel’s request, went on to Marseilles, touching down at Marignane marine airport the same evening.
“I think a bath and a square meal are indicated,” said Biggles, wearily. “What’s everyone going to do after that?”
Marcel said he’d fly his own machine to Paris, where he had a little business at the Laughing Horse. Eddie, anxious to get back home to report, decided to stay with the Otter as far as London and from there cross the Atlantic by one of the regular services.
So it fell out. The night was spent at the airport. Morning saw them on their way.
Arriving in England, goodbye was said to Eddie, who managed to get a seat on the first plane leaving London Airport for the United States, Biggles, Bertie and Ginger going on by car to the office at Scotland Yard.
“I’d better go and let the chief know we’re home,” said Biggles on arrival.
Air Commodore Raymond looked up from his desk when he entered. “So you’ve managed to find your way home!” he greeted.
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you been doing?”
“As a combined operation it was most instructive. On the whole we had quite an interesting trip, and a profitable one, I hope; but if I were you, sir, I wouldn’t ask too many questions,” was the reply Biggles made.
“Why not?”
“Because if you don’t know anything, you would, without telling lies, be able to plead ignorance of certain matters that may reach your ears.”
“I see,” returned the Air Commodore slowly, looking at Biggles suspiciously. “So it was like that?”
“Just like that, sir,” said Biggles, evenly.
“You’d better tell me this. Did you catch up with the dope runners?”
Biggles took a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand. “We did, sir, and without going into details I think I can say that the action we took should discourage them from further activities for quite a long while.”
The Air Commodore smiled. “One of these days you’re going to get me into trouble.”
“One of these days, sir, it’s more likely that I shall get myself into trouble,” returned Biggles, smiling wanly as he walked to the door and went out.
THE END
