by W E Johns
“I’m afraid—they’ve got him.”
Ginger unloaded his medical kit, glad that he had brought it. “Is that wound in your shoulder the only one?”
“Yes. I got a bullet through it.”
“While I’m having a look at it you can tell me what happened, if you can manage it.”
“The yellow devils came on us out of the blue,” began Toxan. “We hadn’t a hope from the start. I’ve been here for years and never had a scrap of trouble with anyone. We’d just come in from digging and were having a rest outside the tent when we saw a couple of men who I took to be Rishis coming down the nullah. They’re a queer lot, mostly nomadic, but I’d seen some of them before so I thought nothing of it. They’d never been hostile. They stopped, had a good look at us and went back. I’m pretty certain they showed the Chinese where we were, probably in ignorance, not realizing what they were doing. The next thing we knew a bunch of Chinese troops were on us. There wasn’t much we could do. One of my Gurkhas who stood in the way was shot dead. They grabbed poor old Poo. I shot one of ‘em, shouting to Poo to bolt and hide in the jungle. He went off with his man while I, with my other Gurkha, Hamid, fought a rearguard action. He was hit in the head and I went down with a bullet through the shoulder. Perhaps they thought we were dead. Perhaps they were only interested in getting their hands on Poo. Anyway, they went off after him, and Hamid, like the good fellow he is, got me here. That’s all there was to it.”
By this time Ginger had removed the blood-soaked puggari and examined the wound. He found the bullet had gone right through the shoulder. There had been a lot of bleeding but this had nearly dried up. “If the bullet didn’t touch a lung you should be all right,” he said, as he plugged the hole, covered it with lint and rolled on a bandage. “Does that feel more comfortable?”
“Much, thanks.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“About a couple of hours. How did you get here?”
“I dropped in by parachute. We’ve an aircraft on the lake. What’s all that smoke? It was seeing that brought us over.”
“Hamid Khan, my man, says the Chinese lit the fire. He was watching them.”
“What’s the idea of setting the nullah on fire?”
“They’re obviously trying to smoke him out.”
“Smoke who out?”
“Poo. It was into that scrub that Poo bolted with his Thibetan servant while Hamid and I tried to hold ‘em back.”
“Why smoke them out? Why didn’t they go in after them?”
“I imagine they didn’t like the bears. That scrub is full of ‘em. They live in caves in the rocks. I suppose the caves are the attraction.”
“I saw two bears bolt as I came here.”
“I’m not surprised. I don’t interfere with them and they’ve never troubled me.”
“I feel I ought to do something about Mr. Poo.”
“What can you do, single-handed, against that lot?”
“Is he still in that scrub?”
“Hamid thought they were both still in it a short time ago. There has been no shooting, or shouting, as probably there would have been had they broken cover.”
Ginger was examining the Gurkha’s head and was glad to find only a scalp wound. He put a piece of adhesive plaster on it.
“It isn’t the first time he’s been wounded,” said Toxan. “He served in the 2nd Gurkha Rifles and hasn’t forgotten his drill.”
Ginger looked at the man and saw that he was typical of his breed, alert, keen-eyed, small and lean, but obviously as tough as a piece of bootleather. Ginger knew, of course, the reputation of the Gurkha as a fighting man.
Wondering why he hadn’t seen the Chinese, he asked: “Where are these Chinese soldiers now?”
Hamid explained they were standing in a line along the top fringe of the belt of scrub. With the fire coming towards them Poo and the Thibetan would have to come out or be burnt alive.
“Why didn’t I see them from the air?” asked Ginger, puzzled.
“They stand just inside the scrub where they cannot be seen by Poo if he looks out to see if the way is clear. When he comes out they will catch him, sahib.”
“We’ll see about that,” declared Ginger, grimly. “You don’t like these Chinese, eh?”
Hamid showed his white teeth in a smile in which there was little humour. He touched his kukri significantly, in a way that told Ginger all he needed to know.
Ginger turned back to Toxan. “May I borrow your rifle?”
“Certainly. What are you going to do?”
“If I can have your rifle I’ll go and see if I can help Mr. Poo.”
“Do. Poor old man. He’s a dear old chap. A real gent.”
“All right. You he low here. Hamid can take care of you. It won’t be for long. Two other members of our party, by name Bigglesworth and Lissie, are on their way here with some Gond guides. They should arrive about sundown. They don’t know I’m here— in fact, I’m not supposed to be here—so you can tell them if I’m not back before they turn up. Hamid had better watch for them and bring them here, or they may bump into the Chinese. We’ve an aircraft on the lake to fly you home.”
“Wonderful. What exactly do you intend to do?”
“If I can get hold of Mr. Poo I’ll bring him here.”
“Be careful. If those devils see you they’re liable to shoot you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll do what I can. Don’t move more than you must or your wound may start bleeding again.”
“Won’t you take Hamid with you. He’s a fine scout and as brave as they make ‘em.”
“No thanks. He’d do better to stay here with you, to watch for my friends when they come. If I run into trouble that kukri of his wouldn’t be much use against rifles.” Ginger looked at the Gurkha. “You understand what you’re to do?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Keep watch. You might fetch some water. If you hear whistling or calling you’ll know my friends have arrived. Tell them I’m here. Bring them along and explain what has happened and what I’m doing. If they ask how I came here you can tell them I dropped in by parachute having seen smoke and bodies in the nullah.”
“Yes, sahib.” The Gurkha saluted.
Toxan was looking hard at Ginger’s face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Right as rain—why?”
“I thought you looked a bit flushed, that’s all.”
Ginger forced a grin, for in fact his head was aching abominably. “Must be the heat,” he said, casually. “See you later.”
CHAPTER X
WITH Toxan’s rifle, an old-fashioned but serviceable double-barrelled Rigby, in his hand, and some cartridges in his pocket, Ginger set off, keeping low, heading for the direction of the fire. From his position in some rough jungle he could not see it, but he could hear it crackling, and a rising cloud of smoke revealed the approximate area. His big fear was that he’d be too late, for when he had last seen the fire it was nearly half-way through the scrub.
There was plenty of cover so he could make good progress. What he was going to do when he reached the fire he did not know; he had not thought as far ahead as that; he simply felt he had to do something. It went against his grain to sit and do nothing while an unfortunate old man was carried off to slavery, or worse. He had a vague idea that if he could put himself in a commanding position he would be able to open a delaying fire on the invaders when the old man bolted, as he would have to sooner or later, and so give him a chance to reach a fresh hiding place.
He took into account the possibility of Mr. Poo taking his own life rather than fall into the hands of enemies from whom he could expect no mercy, and this did nothing to ease the burden of his anxiety.
Still on the slope above the floor of the ravine he reached a spot that gave him a view of the burning scrub; but he could see no Chinese soldiers or anyone else. In view of what Hamid had told him he did not expect to. Sure now that he must have arrived too late he moved
a little higher in order to be able to see along the top fringe of the scrub. This was the place where something might be expected to happen, if it had not already done so.
To his surprise, and certainly to his satisfaction since it indicated that the fugitives were still in cover, he saw that the troops had moved back into the open. The reason for this was plain to see. They themselves had been forced to retire by low drifting smoke.
Ginger now had a clear picture of the scene of operations. Five Chinese were there, rifles ready, strung out in a line clear of the smoke, twenty or thirty yards apart. The fire now had not more than thirty yards to burn, so it could only be a matter of minutes before Mr. Poo and his faithful companion were choked by the smoke or burnt by the flames unless they broke cover. Ginger assumed Mr. Poo would then be seized, for he would be no good to his captors if he were dead. They wanted to make him talk.
Another bear bolted. One of the troops shot it, apparently from sheer wantonness, as it tried to get away. The unlucky beast, only wounded, set up a howl that made Ginger flinch. It spun and rolled about until more shots drove it back into the scrub.
This animal, Ginger noticed, had chosen the best place to leave the death-trap, which was not from the top in front of the soldiers, which it may have known were there, but out of the side, the thirty yard interval of unburned bush. Had it gone downhill it might have got away without being seen, for the view of the nearest soldier was blocked by a certain amount of bush and a good deal of smoke. Unfortunately for the poor beast it went uphill, apparently hoping to find safety on high ground, and so, coming within sight of the end soldier of the line, met disaster.
This lesson was not lost on Ginger, who perceived that if Mr. Poo came out at the same place, and went downhill into the smoke of the smouldering ground that had already been burnt, he would have a fair chance of getting clear. That is, unless the soldier moved his position to cover this obvious exit. At least, it was obvious to Ginger, who thought it should also be obvious to the men inside. This, he felt sure, was the way they would come—if they came at all. Why the troops did not cover this weak spot in their arrangement he could not imagine. They were either a simple lot, he concluded, or a cowardly bunch who preferred not to lose sight of each other. Thankful that the fugitives had not yet been caught he waited, tense, knowing the end could not long be delayed.
A few minutes later he saw that his judgement had not been at fault. Some bamboos were parted cautiously and a face looked out, the owner of it apparently surveying the open ground in front of him. This was the piece of rough hillside between the burning scrub and the beginning of the bushes from which Ginger was watching.
There was nothing Ginger could do. To run across, thus exposing himself to the nearest soldier in whose view he would be, was to invite being shot. He dare not shout advice, for if he did the same soldier would hear him. Again, a shout might drive back into cover the man who was evidently contemplating making a break. He would assume the shout came from one of his enemies. So all Ginger could do was watch events, ready to take a hand if and when an opportunity came.
A second face appeared, that of an old man with a long wisp of grey beard. This, Ginger did not doubt, was Mr. Poo. After a pause to make sure the coast was clear the two men emerged and started scrambling across the rough slope. For a minute it looked as if they might get clear without being observed, but when they had gone a dozen yards, by the cruellest of bad luck a sudden slant of wind lifted the smoke and the soldier saw them. He let out a yell and came pelting after them. To make calamity worse, Mr. Poo, unsteady on his legs, stumbled and fell. Shaken, he seemed to have some difficulty in getting up. The Thibetan, who must have realized that all was lost, instead of running on alone as he might have done, and so succeeded in getting away, gallantly stood his ground with his arms folded across his chest to await the end.
Mr. Poo rose painfully to his feet. Neither man carried a weapon. They made no attempt to defend themselves.
The soldier slowed his pace, and on reaching the fugitives, for no reason at all that Ginger could see, struck the Thibetan in the face, knocking him down. He then stood looking down at him, laughing.
This, Ginger perceived, was the chance for which he had waited. It was obviously a case of now or never, and equally obviously no occasion for gentle methods. Nor, for that matter, after what he had seen was he in a mood for half measures. Taking careful aim at the soldier he fired. At such short range he could hardly miss. Nor did he. The man staggered a few paces and slumped down in a heap. In a flash Ginger had jumped into the open waving his arms and shouting: “This way. Run.”
The two refugees, seeing help so close as if it might have dropped from heaven—as in a way it had— moved with alacrity. The Thibetan helped Mr. Poo to his feet and they started across the gap, the old man stumbling on the loose stones and generally making heavy weather of it. Ginger retired into cover, paying more attention to the top of the scrub, knowing that his shot would bring more enemies along to see what was happening. It did.
Before the two were half-way across the open ground another soldier appeared round the corner. He saw them, and with a yell came bounding down the slope to cut them off. This offered a difficult shot and Ginger held his fire, waiting for him to stop. This he did when he intercepted the runners just before they reached the cover from which Ginger was watching. The man wore on his face a frozen grin so diabolical that he might have been about to kill an enemy who had done him a mortal injury instead of an old man who had harmed nobody.
His whole attitude and expression reminded Ginger of one of those hideous ceremonial masks sometimes worn by oriental dancers. His feverish condition may have been partly responsible, but the spectacle filled him with such horror and loathing that he might have been looking not at a human being but at a monster from another world. The soldier, showing his teeth, behaved like one. He struck the Thibetan with the butt of his rifle, knocking him down.
To Ginger the scene was no longer real. For the last few seconds he had stood like a man stricken with paralysis. Now, actuated by fury, life and movement returned to his limbs. From a range of ten yards he deliberately shot the man. He had no more compunction about it than if he had been destroying a venomous snake. The man dived into the ground, the rifle flying from his hands, and rolled, slowly at first but with gathering impetus, over and over in a little avalanche of stones and rocks to the bottom of the slope.
Ginger did not wait for the stones to stop rattling. Seizing Mr. Poo by the arm he pointed at the bushes behind him. “Run!” he panted. “Keep going. Hamid is in there somewhere with Captain Toxan. If you can’t find them hide until help comes.”
“Won’t you come with us?”
“No. I shall stay here to prevent the other soldiers from following you. Don’t argue. Go!”
Swaying and gasping for breath the old Chinaman went on, his servant helping him as far as he was able, for he, too, was well past his prime.
Ginger sank down on a rock behind a bush with the rifle across his knees. The whole thing was fast assuming the nature of a nightmare. Now that the vital moment had passed he became aware that his head was so splitting that he hardly knew what he was doing. His eyes were burning and his skin felt hot and dry. He had a consuming thirst and moments of dizziness.
It’s the heat, he told himself. I must have got a touch of sun. The question was, would it pass or would it get worse? At all events he had got Mr. Poo, and that was enough to go on with.
Watching the top corner of the burning scrub, where he knew the rest of the enemy to be, he saw a third soldier emerge from the smoke, apparently looking for his companions. Seeing nobody he called out to those behind him. After waiting for a little while, whistling and calling, he retired, presumably to discuss the situation.
Ginger did not move. What they thought he didn’t care. With his elbows on his knees he held his head in his hands in the hope of relieving the throbbing.
Time passed. How long he did not know.
No more soldiers had appeared. That suited him, for by now, he thought, Mr. Poo should be with Toxan and Hamid. All seemed strangely, unnaturally quiet. The only sound was the occasional crackle of the fire as it burnt itself out. But still there was plenty of smoke, hiding what was behind it. The sun, by this time well down, glowed like a disc of molten metal, and shining directly in his eyes, hurt them. He felt desperately tired, yet questions perplexed him. Where was Biggles? According to Mata Dhinn he should be here by now. Where were the rest of the Chinese troops? What were they doing? Why didn’t they show themselves?
Presently they appeared from behind the smoke, for which he was very glad, for he would rather have them where he could see them than out of sight. He had been afraid they had crossed above him without him seeing them and were now between him and Toxan. For a few minutes they stood together looking down the hill; then they began to walk down it in a manner so casual that it dawned on Ginger they were unaware what had happened to their comrades. He realized they must have heard the shots he had fired but apparently assumed they had been fired by their own people at the fugitives.
Their careless attitudes changed, however, when they came upon the body of their comrade, the one Ginger had shot close to the burning scrub. More alert now they held a short conference over it and then went on down the slope, at the bottom of which they saw the second casualty. There was another debate, and then, to Ginger’s surprise, they sat down. What were they doing? From the way they kept looking down the nullah it looked as if they were waiting. For what? For whom?
Ginger suddenly remembered the two natives who, it was supposed, had guided the party to Toxan’s camp. He hadn’t seen them. What had happened to them?
The answer came as dusk was dimming the scene.
For some minutes Ginger had been aware of a curious chirping sound, as if a number of sparrows were having an argument. In fact, without giving the matter serious thought he had believed the noise to be caused by birds. Now, with a shock, he saw he had been mistaken. The three Chinese soldiers stood up as round a shoulder of rock near them appeared two native Indians, wearing only loin-cloths, leading the way for another squad of six soldiers.
