Biggles' Special Case

by Captain W E Johns

  ‘What difference would he make?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘A lot. If he were here I’d feel inclined to make a run for it. I’m pretty sure we could show our tail to that lumbering crate. But it’s no use talking about that. The sheikh said he’d be coming here, so we can count on it. We can’t just push off and leave him. Besides, there’s the girl. She complicates matters. We can’t bolt and leave her here. If we did that and anything happened to her we’d be called some ugly names. If we took her with us and things went wrong it’d come to the same thing. We’d be blamed for putting her in the machine.’

  ‘If anything does start she’ll be in just as much danger here,’ Ginger pointed out practically. ‘That palm-frond shelter she’s in wouldn’t be any protection.’

  ‘You’re right. It wouldn’t.’

  Bertie spoke. ‘Well, what are we going to do? If we’re going to do anything it’s time we were getting on with it. I’m all against sitting here in the middle of what may presently be a target area.’

  Biggles made up his mind suddenly. ‘Let’s get back to the machine for a start. Whatever happens we must save it or we’re likely to be here for keeps. Those papers are in it and they’re precious. Where did you put ‘em, Bertie?’

  ‘Under the seat where we hid the pistols.’

  By this time they were hurrying back to the camp. With the unknown machine nearly overhead it could be seen from almost any position.

  Biggles spoke tersely. ‘Listen, Ginger. You get in the cockpit, start up and be ready to move fast. Just keep ticking over so as not to raise a dust.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘If there’s trouble I shall put the girl in the cabin with one of the guards and you’ll make a dash for Suwara. If you don’t meet the sheikh on the way you may find him there. Hand the girl over to him. If there are no MIGs about you can come back here and have a look at the place. If you can’t see us head for home with those papers. Don’t on any account land unless you get an okay signal from me. If everything is all right I’ll show myself in the open.’

  ‘I get it.’

  Bertie stepped in. ‘But look here, old boy; without knowing their language, how are you going to tell the guards what you’re going to do? I mean to say, if you try touching that lass you’re liable to get a scimitar in the neck.’

  ‘Zorlan can explain. Where the devil is he?’ Biggles looked around. The guards stood on duty, but Zorlan was not to be seen. ‘Zorlan!’ he shouted. ‘Zorlan! Where are you? Come here.’

  There was no answer. The man did not appear.

  ‘Confound the fellow. What’s he up to?’ raged Biggles.

  By this time the air was filled with the roar of aero engines overhead.

  ‘You get started up,’ Biggles told Ginger brusquely. ‘Watch me for a signal. Don’t move until you get one. I shall have to try to make the guards understand.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ginger ran to the machine.

  Biggles strode to where the guards were standing in a group by the palm-shelter calmly watching what was going on. Reaching them, he used his hands in an effort to explain what he wanted, first pointing up, then at the shelter, then at the Merlin. He thought the urgency with which he did this would be enough to make them understand that danger threatened; but each man merely looked at the others as if seeking inspiration.

  Still struggling with the problem, he heard the Merlin’s engines spring to life. A moment later this was followed by a wild yell from Bertie. He was pointing up. Biggles’ eyes followed the direction and what he saw settled any doubts he had had about touching the girl.

  Dropping from the aircraft were not the bombs he half expected, but a line of men on parachutes. Seven or eight were on their way down. He didn’t wait to see how many there were altogether. For a second he hesitated. So that was why the big machine had held its altitude! Naturally, his first thought was to bundle everyone in the Merlin and run for it, confident that the troop-carrier would not be able to catch him. Then he remembered the sheikh. By this time he would be well on his way to the ruins. When he arrived he would ride straight into the hands of the enemies. Or so Biggles could only assume. He had no idea who the parachutists were, but they could hardly be friends of the sheikh. He shouted again for Zorlan, but there was no response.

  He could wait no longer. Grabbing a guard by the arm, he pointed at what was dropping from the sky. Surely, he thought, the man would understand that. He pulled him towards the shelter making signs by pointing at the Merlin and repeating ‘Suwara — Suwara.’

  The problem was more or less solved for him when the girl herself appeared, pushing aside the fronds that covered the entrance to the shelter. She was still veiled, but he caught a glimpse of a pair of dark, startled eyes, through a two-inch slit in the head covering. He beckoned desperately, stabbing a finger towards the aircraft. To his great relief she appeared to understand, for she walked towards it. The guards followed in a group, but Biggles held them back except one.

  They reached the machine. Bertie had opened the door. The girl took her seat. The selected guard got in with her. Biggles touched his rifle, a modern weapon, and bandolier, making pantomime gestures that he needed them to shoot at the parachutists. The man looked doubtful but handed the things over. Biggles slammed the door and fastened it on the inside. He went through to the cockpit to Ginger.

  ‘Okay. Get weaving. Dump the passengers at Suwara. Never mind about us. If you come back and can’t see us press on regardless for home and hand those papers to the chief.’

  ‘Right.’

  Biggles jumped down, waved a hand and the Merlin sped away across the wilderness. He watched it until it was clear and then, satisfied that the pilot of the unknown aircraft hadn’t noticed it, or if he had he had chosen to ignore it, he turned to find Bertie waiting. The four remaining guards were standing by him. They, understandably, were looking perplexed, although Biggles had no doubt they would grasp the situation when the shooting started.

  ‘Seen Zorlan?’ he asked laconically.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s he up to? He must have seen what was happening.’

  ‘Taken cover or gone into hiding somewhere, I imagine.’

  ‘Could you see how many men were dropped?’

  ‘I counted twelve.’

  ‘Let’s try to find out what they’re doing. Keep your head down. We don’t want them to see us.’ Biggles walked quickly up the slope to a vantage point and dropped behind some crumbling stumps of stone- masonry that had once been the wall of a house.

  The unknown aircraft was now droning overhead in wide circles. The parachutists had of course landed over a fairly large area of the open ground rather than risk injury on the ruin-strewn hill. Discarding their parachutes, they were converging in open order towards the rising ground under the direction of a man who obviously was the leader. They wore dun-coloured battledress and with two exceptions were armed with what looked like ordinary service rifles. The other two carried light machine guns. Their faces gave no indication of their nationality. They were dark, but in the Middle East or Western Asia they might have been called white. They were something less than a hundred yards away.

  ‘What do you make of ‘em?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘I haven’t a clue. If that machine’s carrying nationality marks I can’t see them.’

  ‘What’s the drill?’

  ‘We could pick some of ‘em off now, while they’re in the open. It’ll be more difficult when they get under cover.’

  ‘Then why not give ‘em a rattle?’

  Biggles frowned. ‘I don’t like opening fire on men who may turn out to be — well, if not friends, not enemies. That would be the quickest way to make them enemies.’

  ‘If we let ‘em get too close we’ve had it.’

  ‘I’ll fire a shot over their heads to see what effect that has.’ Biggles did so.

  This told them all they wanted to know, for the effect of the shot was to produce a burst of machine-gun fir
e, the bullets spattering all over the place, as was to be expected since the man carrying the weapon had not stopped to take proper aim.

  This in turn had an effect Biggles had not anticipated. The guards, who had lain down behind the same wall, did not wait for orders. This was something they understood and they did not wait for a second invitation from the enemy to take part in the proceedings. They opened a ragged fire; but apparently they knew how to shoot for three men fell in quick succession. The others broke into a run, swerving away towards a different part of the hill.

  ‘That’s done it,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Well, having started, we might as well carry on.’ He fired, and another man stumbled into the sand.

  ‘That’s thinned ‘em out a bit,’ observed Bertie. ‘Eight left.’

  ‘That’s plenty for us to hold off. Keep your gun for close work.’

  The guards were still shooting. Another man fell.

  ‘Seven,’ said Bertie.

  ‘It’ll be a different matter when they get into cover,’ predicted Biggles. ‘It’ll be a stalking and sniping proposition.’

  Then an extraordinary thing happened. To Biggles, and no doubt to Bertie, it was so unexpected that for a moment neither spoke. With the enemy not more than thirty yards from the hill and the cover they needed, out of a group of palms ran a figure waving a white flag — or to be more correct, a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick.

  ‘That’s Zorlan,’ gasped Biggles. ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’

  ‘He’s decided to change sides, that’s all,’ sneered Bertie.

  Zorlan did not get far. Whether the attackers did not understand the western meaning of a white flag, or perhaps suspected a trick, was a matter for conjecture. There was of course the possibility that they had been ordered not to take prisoners. Be that as it may, shots were fired. Zorlan crumpled and rolled over and over to the bottom of the hill. He did not move again.

  ‘Serves him right for ratting on us,’ observed Bertie without emotion. ‘He reckoned to be on the winning side to get his own back.’

  A few more shots were fired just before the attacking force reached cover and disappeared from sight.

  ‘D’you know something?’ queried Bertie in a curious voice.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Just before he disappeared I had a good look at the chap who seemed to be in charge. I had a second look because he was the first to fire at Zorlan. If I haven’t seen him before I’ll swallow my eyeglass. He’s changed his togs since I last saw him.’

  ‘Who do you think he was?’

  ‘Alfondari. The man was his build and walked like him. Moreover, his face wasn’t as dark as the rest of ‘em.’

  Biggles whistled softly. ‘Well, I suppose that would be possible. He was always on the other side. I don’t see how it can make any difference — except that he has a personal grudge against us. He’d no time for Zorlan, either. We know that. But never mind him. This is where the serious business starts. Let’s get into a better position, facing them.’

  This was done, the guards going with them. Far from looking alarmed, they appeared to be enjoying themselves. Probably used to tribal warfare, this was obviously a game they had played before.

  The unidentified aircraft had now come down and landed on the open ground nearly half a mile away, presumably to be out of range of the defenders, yet ready to pick up the paratroops when they had finished their work. The engines were switched off. To Biggles’ relief it did not unload reinforcements for the men already on the ground.

  Silence fell, a brittle, attentive silence.

  ‘Are we going to winkle ‘em out?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Not likely. Let them come for us.’

  Five minutes passed. Nothing happened. There came no sound to indicate where the attackers were or in which direction they had gone. Biggles, knowing the folly of impatience in such circumstances, did not move a muscle. Nor did Bertie. But it seemed that one of the guards, who should have known better, did not share this view. Before Biggles could stop him he moved to what apparently he thought was a better position, and as if that was not taking enough risk he peeped over the parapet formed by the broken wall. Tragedy came like a flash of lightning. A rifle cracked. He collapsed and slid down the slight slope to end up face downwards almost at Biggles’ feet. Biggles turned him over. There was a little hole in the centre of his forehead. There was no need to say anything. The faces of his companions were inscrutable.

  Bertie picked up the dead man’s rifle, and removing one of his bandoliers, slung it over his shoulder. He opened the breech to make sure there was a cartridge in the chamber.

  For half an hour, a taut, nerve-straining period, the scene remained unchanged. Once Biggles dragged himself a little way to get a view of the wilderness, hoping to see the sheikh coming with a strong escort; but there was not a movement. The only object to catch the eye was the dark-painted plane standing at a safe distance. He wormed his way back to Bertie. ‘No use looking for help from the sheikh,’ he breathed. ‘He isn’t even in sight. If he appeared now, riding tired horses, the party would be some time getting here.’

  Bertie did not answer. He merely grimaced to show that he had heard. Rifle to shoulder, only his eyes moved as he continued to scrutinize the ruins and other possible cover around them — wind-blown palms, camel-thorn, and the like. There might not have been a living creature within miles for any sound that came to prove otherwise; yet it would have been stupid to suppose the enemy was sitting still. It would be something to know from which direction they were approaching. Finding the strain intolerable, he inched his way to Biggles and suggested that he made a reconnaissance.

  Biggles would not consider it. ‘Wait,’ he whispered. They’ll come.’

  The three remaining natives were watching, too, their dark eyes alert. They lay like logs.

  The day wore on. The heat as the sun climbed over its zenith became a torment, dehydrating the body to leave the mouth and lips parched. There were some bottles of soda water down at the camp. In the rush of events they had been left there. The temptation to fetch one or two was not easy to resist, but convinced the enemy could not be far away, Biggles did not succumb. Even to move to a new position out of the sun would probably be fatal. The enemy might be waiting for just that.

  The end, when it came, was sudden.

  Machine guns chattered and bullets raked the broken wall, sending sand and fragments of masonry flying. The shooting ended abruptly, to be followed instantly by shouts as the enemy sprang up and charged from so short a distance that Biggles was shocked that they had been able to get so close. They were met with a volley that was more hasty than accurate. One at least fell. The guards, in their enthusiasm to get to grips at last, dashed forward, also yelling, shooting indiscriminately, or so it seemed to Biggles, who had to hold his fire for fear of hitting his own men. The result was inevitable. Two of the guards went down, although one continued shooting. The other dodged behind some stonework from where he kept up a rapid fire. The enemy, not liking this, dived for cover, and the charge ended as quickly as it had begun. The shooting stopped. How many of the enemy had been hit Biggles did not know. What upset him was the loss of two men, leaving only one of the guards on his feet; and just where he had gone he was by no means sure.

  He turned to see Bertie holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his face.

  ‘Only a splinter — bit of stone or something,’ explained Bertie in answer to Biggles’ expression of alarm. He went flat as another burst of machine-gun fire sprayed the ground in front to kick more debris into the air.

  Biggles tied the handkerchief over what turned out to be a nasty cut on Bertie’s cheek. He was looking grave, for it was evident the enemy knew exactly where they were and with only three of them left — assuming the one remaining guard was still alive — the end could not be far off. Nothing could be done. They couldn’t face machine-gun fire with any hope of survival and to retire down the hill behind them would ga
in no advantage. The enemy would follow and eventually drive them on to the open ground.

  Minutes passed.

  Then through the lull came a sound. It was the hum of an aircraft, rising as it came nearer. Biggles wriggled a yard or two until he could see it. ‘It’s Ginger,’ he told Bertie grimly. ‘He’s flying low. I hope to heaven he isn’t thinking of landing. I told him to keep clear unless I made a signal.’

  ‘He won’t land,’ declared Bertie confidently. ‘He’s bound to see that machine standing in the open.’

  ‘Then why is he losing height?’

  ‘Maybe he just wants to have a look round.’

  ‘He must be crazy to risk coming so low. It’s those papers I’m thinking about. If they’re lost the whole stinking business will have been a waste of time.’

  The Merlin, still losing height on half throttle, made a tight circuit of the hill. Then, with engines idling, it began what was clearly an approach run towards the usual landing ground.

  ‘He’s coming down,’ fumed Biggles. ‘Cover me as far as you can.’

  Jumping to his feet, he raced down the hill.

  CHAPTER 13

  HOW IT ALL ENDED

  BY the time Biggles had reached the bottom of the hill the Merlin was on the ground, taxiing tail up towards the camp. He ran towards it waving his arms in desperate signals, hoping Ginger would interpret them correctly and take off again. The aircraft came on regardless. Reaching the camp site it swung round, its tail cutting a circle in the sand, to bring the cabin door into view. The engines died with a gasp as they were switched off. The cockpit exit was opened and Ginger jumped down.

  Biggles, white with anger, strode towards him; but what he intended to say was never spoken, which may have been just as well, for the cabin door was now pushed open and out came the sheikh, rifle in hand, closely followed by six men, also armed.

  Unprepared for this, Biggles came to a skidding halt. All he could think to say was: ‘Didn’t you see that enemy plane standing there?’