Biggles Goes Home

by W E Johns

  Biggles’ eyes opened wide. “You don’t know?”

  “All I know is, he’s hiding in the jungle.”

  Biggles looked incredulous. “And I’m supposed to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, have a heart, sir,” protested Biggles. “The jungle you’re talking about covers five thousand square miles. An army could blunder about in it for years without finding a place the size of this building. There’s nowhere to land, anyway. The only spots of open ground are tea gardens and millet fields. I believe there is now an airfield in the province, at Moradabad, but what’s the use of that?”

  The Air Commodore raised a hand. “All right. Don’t get in a flap. Things are not quite as bad as they may seem. Sit quietly with a cigarette while I tell you all about it. This is the story. The name of the man with whom we’re concerned is a Mr. Poo Tah Ling. We can call him simply Mr. Poo.”

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Chinese?”

  “Correct.”

  “A British agent?”

  “No.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “That’s what I’m going to tell you if you’ll let me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “There was a time, before the Communists took over China, when Mr. Poo was one of the most important merchants in Shanghai—or, for that matter, in China. In that capacity he knew personally many British merchants trading with the Far East. To some he was a close friend. He was one of those Chinese who are a hundred per cent trustworthy. His word was sacred and he was never known to break it. Talking yesterday to a man who knew him well he told me that although some of the deals he put through involved a great amount of money there was never a contract. Nothing was put in writing, for to Mr. Poo that would have implied distrust. What he said he’d pay, he paid, and that was that.”

  Biggles nodded. “I’ve heard of such Chinese. Pity some of our people can’t take a leaf out of Mr. Poo’s book.”

  “As you say. Well, the troubles of Mr. Poo began when the country fell to the Communists. He was a rich man, and that of course was enough to put him on the spot as a detestable capitalist. The fact that he had made his money by honest trading in imports and exports made no difference. Knowing what his fate would be he put a few of his most treasured possessions in a sack—he was a collector of rare jade— and dressed as a peasant he set off, on foot, up the Tsangpo river for Thibet. For a man of sixty that was no light undertaking. However, he made it and settled down, as he thought, to spend the rest of his days in quiet retirement on the plateau which is sometimes called the top of the world—Thibet.”

  “Why did he go to Thibet? Why not Formosa, where so many refugees went? He’d have been safe there.”

  “We know that now, since the Americans have occupied the island; but it was not so obvious then. He was a proud man and apparently decided to go it alone.”

  “What was wrong with Hong Kong?”

  The Air Commodore shrugged. “I don’t know. He may have thought it would embarrass the British Government if he asked for political asylum. After all, he was, or had been, a rich man, and the Communists would be after him for his wealth. But why he went to Thibet is not important. He probably thought it was the safest place. Well, you know what has happened there. The Chinese Communist armies have marched in and occupied the country, making themselves secure by liquidating half the population. Again the unfortunate Mr. Poo, to save his life, had to flit. He made for the Himalayas and the frontier of India. That’s how he got to Garhwal.”

  “A lot of Thibetans got to India. Why didn’t he follow the Dalai Lama’s party?”

  “He couldn’t very well do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think! They were Thibetans. He was a Chinese, and the Chinese Communists were the invaders. He might have been taken for a spy. It’s unlikely that he would have been tolerated. His position would have been that of a German retiring with the French before Hitler’s hordes. Realizing this he went his own way. With the help of a Thibetan servant who had remained loyal to him he made his way down the mountain slopes into Garhwal where he collapsed from exhaustion and fever. No doubt he would have died where he fell, deep in the forest and far from anywhere, had not his servant, looking for food, struck the camp of an Englishman, a retired Indian army officer named Captain John Toxan.”

  “That was a slice of cake. What was Toxan doing there?”

  “Digging. He’d been digging there for six years.”

  “For the love of Mike! Digging for what?”

  “Rubies. It seems that some years before, while he was still a serving officer, out on a hunting trip during his furlough he had picked up some stones in a dry river bed. They turned out to be rubies. But they were no good. Exposed to the weather they had become friable. He knew that somewhere not far away was the main source from which they had been thrown up, or exposed by erosion, ages earlier. He was digging deeper hoping to find good stones, flawless and valuable. He’d been at it for six years without finding anything but duds. That’s how things were when Mr. Poo arrived. Toxan’s original bearers had all packed up long ago with the exception of a couple of Gurkhas, old soldiers who had served in the British Indian army. They had the guts to see the thing through. Toxan took care of Mr. Poo.”

  “Did he know him?”

  “No. He’d never even heard of him. But as far as he was concerned here was an old man down on his luck, so he took him under his wing. Mr. Poo, who speaks English like you or me, told him his story.”

  “He recovered?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he still stayed on with Captain Toxan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Why didn’t he go on down into India like the other Thibetan refugees ?”

  “For two reasons. In the first place he wasn’t sure he had the strength to travel any distance and he was afraid of getting a recurrence of fever. Secondly, as I said before, he was not a Thibetan. He was a Chinese, and as feeling in India was running high against the Chinese for what they’d done in Thibet, their northern neighbour, he was worried about the sort of reception he’d get. He was certain to be unpopular, so rather than put the Indian Government to any trouble he decided to stay where he was.”

  “What’s going to happen if Toxan gets browned off with digging and pulls out?”

  “That’s the trouble. He’s thinking of doing that. But he and his two Gurkhas couldn’t carry the old man and they can’t just abandon him there.”

  “They might get help from a native village.”

  “Toxan says that would be dangerous. He says the natives don’t mind helping the Thibetans but they’d probably kill a Chinese if they got their hands on him.”

  “How does Toxan know this? And how, for that matter, do you know all these details?”

  “Because we’ve had a long letter from Toxan in which he explains the position. He says the old man has told him he has money in England if only he could get there. Could we do anything about it?”

  “How did Toxan get the letter through?”

  “He had to send his men to Chini with money for stores, as he was nearly out. They took the letter and posted it. It’s a three weeks’ trip each way from his camp.”

  “In asking us for help, Toxan is expecting rather a lot, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so. Poo would have done as much for us had the position been reversed. He’s that sort of man. And Toxan knows that whatever our enemies may say about us we can’t be accused of abandoning old friends when they’re in a spot. That goes on more often than people imagine, but we don’t make a song and dance about it.”

  “So boiled down the position is this: somewhere in the bharbar, the belt of jungle that divides the mountains of the north-east frontier and the plains, there’s a party of five men, one white, one Chinese, two Gurkhas and a Thibetan; and you want to get the Chinaman here.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re asking me to go to fetch him.”


  “That is correct.”

  “Now tell me how you expect me to do that?”

  “I leave it to you.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I suggest you haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re asking me to do.”

  The Air Commodore smiled. “I’ve a rough idea. But the thing is possible, and that being so, you, having the advantage of knowing the country, are the man to do it. If you fail—” the Air Commodore held out his hands “—well, we can at least say we tried.”

  “That won’t be much comfort to Mr. Poo, who will probably be dead by the time we get there. I’m thinking more of Toxan, who must be a stout feller to do what he’s doing. All the same, I don’t think he can be very bright in the uptake or he’d have left one of his men at Moradabad, or some place where I could get down, to lead us to his camp. Without a guide we shall never find it.”

  “Why is this so difficult? You’ve tackled jungles before. What about South America.”

  “That’s a different matter. You can usually get about up the Amazon because the density of the big timber prohibits much in the way of undergrowth. This Indian jungle is real jungle, practically solid. You can cut a way through the bamboo but when you come to rhododendron forest, as it grows there, a mass of intertwined branches as thick as your leg, you’ve had it. With axes a squad of pioneers might do a mile in a month. And look at the size of the bharbar. As I remember it it’s anything from fifty to a hundred miles deep and hundreds of miles long. Native cultivation ends at about six thousand feet; then you’ve nothing but jungle till it begins to thin out at ten thousand. Remember, this isn’t level country. Not only is it on a slope, the foothills of the Himalayas, but it went into convulsions when it was created. It’s ridged and furrowed by gorges, some of them hundreds of feet deep with precipitous sides and water, tributaries of the Ganges, that tear like a mill-race, at the bottom. The only way you can get about is for a guide to take you up one of the tracks cut by our Forestry people when we were there. It’ll surprise me if they’re not all overgrown by now. That doesn’t take long. There are a few native tribes, mostly nomadic, woodsmen who live by hunting, but for all practical purposes you can call the country uninhabited.”

  “All right. Having said all that will you go?”

  “Of course I’ll go. I’ve simply tried to give you an idea of what we’re up against. There should be no difficulty in getting to Moradabad, but where do we go from there? How do we set about finding Mr. Poo?”

  “By aerial survey you may see the smoke of Toxan’s camp fire.”

  “And having spent a month on foot getting to the smoke we find a party of Gond hunters cooking their dinner. It’s no use saying I should be able to see Toxan’s tent from the air because the trees are so thick you can’t see what’s underneath. Toxan must realize this. Did he give any indication at all of where he was?”

  “Here’s his letter, written in pencil on pieces of mouldy paper. Make what you can of it. He says his camp is at about eight thousand feet a few miles east of, and a little below, a lake called, he believes, Timbi Tso. I’ve checked that with the Indian Survey Department and there is such a lake.”

  “That’s a fat lot of use; but I suppose it’s better than nothing. The name of that lake, although I was never anywhere near it, rings a bell. I think it must be the one I sometimes heard referred to as the Blue Lake, or the Blue Water. Why on earth didn’t Toxan make a sketch map showing the exact position of his camp, noting some salient feature, nearer than the lake, as a landmark.”

  “Maybe there wasn’t one.”

  “Yes, that’s more than likely. From the ground the country all looks very much alike, and no doubt it does from the air. And, of course, Toxan wouldn’t be thinking of an air rescue. Pity we can’t get hold of one of his men to act as guide. That would have simplified matters. They must over a period of years have been down to the low ground many times for stores, so even if there isn’t a track they’d know the way. But it’s no use talking of what Toxan might have done. The bearers who left him have probably forgotten all about him by now.” Biggles got up. “All right, sir. Let me think about this.”

  “Don’t think too long or you’ll be too late.”

  “Did Toxan date his letter?”

  “As you’ll see, he says he didn’t know the date. But as the rains had just stopped he thought it must be November. The letter came air mail, so allowing three weeks for the overland journey to the post office we can reckon it about a month since it was written.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll get on with it.” Biggles walked to the door.

  “Is there anything I can get you that might help?” inquired the Air Commodore.

  Biggles stopped and thought for a moment. “Yes, there is something you might do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Get us permits to carry firearms, at all events, our pistols. I’d also like to take a rifle. In the jungle one never knows what one is going to bump into, and no man in his right mind would wander about without some means of self-protection. After all, this is big game country. You could explain that the firearms are strictly for defence should we have to make a forced landing in some out-of-the-way place with the prospect of walking to civilization.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A camera might be useful. Indian customs might be sticky about an air camera.”

  “What reason could I give for that?”

  “You can say the camera’s for taking shots for a projected T.V. series.”

  “Very well. I’ll have a word with the India Office and if possible get you a Firearm Certificate and a permit for aerial photography.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Biggles went out.

  * * *

  1 A small but very deadly snake.

  2 This is a not uncommon practice in India. The hamadryad or king cobra can grow up to thirteen feet. Its colour is yellow with black crossbands.

  CHAPTER III

  As Biggles walked back along the corridor to the operations room he became aware of a curious thrill at the thought of returning to the country where he had been born. The thought struck him, and he wondered why, he had never been back to look at the places of which he had clear and happy memories —marred somewhat, it is true, by the fever that had sapped his strength. He found his assistant pilots waiting for him expectantly.

  “Well, what’s the drill?” questioned Ginger, when he walked in.

  “Do I remember someone saying he liked his climates hot?” inquired Biggles, flippantly.

  “Absolutely, old boy,” answered Bertie, promptly. “That’s me. Every time a coconut.”

  “I can’t promise you coconuts,” returned Biggles, lightly. “There’ll be more monkeys in the trees than nuts, where we’re going.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “India.”

  “What part?”

  “Garhwal.”

  “But I say! Isn’t that where you gave your first bleat?”

  “That’s the place.” Biggles sat at his desk.

  “What ho! What fun.”

  “You may not think it’s so funny when I tell you what we’ve been asked to do.”

  “Cough it up, old boy. I can’t wait. Do we go before the chilblain season sets in?”

  “Right away.”

  “Lovely. Tell us about it.”

  With pensive deliberation Biggles lit a cigarette. Having spent his boyhood in Northern India he knew much more about the country than he had had time to tell the Air Commodore. Now, thinking about it, memories of half-forgotten incidents poured in on him.

  “Somewhere in the jungle, on the slopes between the plains of India and the frontier of Thibet, there is an elderly Chinese gentleman by the name of Mr. Poo Tah Ling. We’re going there to find him and bring him here,” he announced.

  Algy looked incredulous. “Are you serious?”

  “Very much so, and with good cause.”

  “But why—”

  “If you’ll stop askin
g questions and pay attention for a few minutes I’ll give you the complete gen.” Biggles settled back in his chair and recounted the conversation he had had with the Air Commodore. “That’s the position,” he went on. “On the face of it the job looks simple enough; and so it would be but for one big snag, and that’s the almost complete absence of landing facilities. As far as I know there’s no airfield nearer to the objective than Moradabad, and that’s some distance away. Outside that I can’t visualize a flat patch of ground large enough, or level enough, to put an aircraft on without risk of a crack-up. There could be no question of landing anywhere in the jungle area, although in an emergency one might avoid a bad crack by gliding down to the lower ground and doing a belly-flop on a tea estate or a field of grain.”

  “What about this lake Toxan mentions?” suggested Algy.

  “That, I imagine, will be our one hope of getting down within marching distance of Mr. Poo. I’m not even sure about that. It might be choked with weeds. I’ve never seen the place, but as I told the Chief, I’ve a vague recollection of having heard tell of it. There’s a piece of water—I don’t know how big it is —which the natives used to call the Blue Lake. I think this must be it. It shouldn’t be hard to locate, provided there’s just one lake and not a dozen. Having got there we’re then faced with the job of finding Toxan’s camp, and having spotted it, of getting to it. That means walking, and I can tell you right away it won’t be easy. In fact, it may turn out to be impossible.”

  “If we spotted Toxan’s camp we could drop a note to him saying we were waiting for him at the lake,” offered Ginger.

  “The old man may be too feeble to make the journey to the lake. That would probably depend on the distance, which is something we don’t know. The trouble is, assuming we were lucky enough to spot Toxan’s camp from the air he’d have no way of communicating with us. We wouldn’t even know if Mr. Poo was dead or alive. If he was dead it would be pointless to go on with the operation. If Toxan started walking to the lake, and we started walking to his camp, we should certainly miss each other in the jungle and be in a worse mess than ever.”