Biggles Goes Home

by W E Johns

  This was the line as the party set off, keeping close to the rim of the nullah where the undergrowth was not as dense as in the jungle proper.

  Progress was necessarily slow, but there were few halts, and these only brief, wherefore, as Bira Shah had promised, nightfall found them in the open, much-trampled track, made by wild elephants in their quest for food and water.

  Here the party stopped and settled down to pass the night.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE march was continued, after a quick breakfast, at the dawn of what was obviously going to be another blazing day. The Gonds carrying the stretcher were wonderful. Far from making any complaint they seemed proud of the task that had been allotted to them. Mr. Poo stood up to the journey better than his frail appearance would have led anyone to expect. The recovery of his little treasure may have lent strength to his old limbs. Ginger, still taking his medicine regularly, had no recurrence of fever.

  The going on the elephant track was of course less arduous, but that is not to say it was easy, particularly in wet places where the soft earth had been trampled into a bog. But, against that, the elephants, forest-wise, had an unerring instinct for taking the best way round obstacles. Biggles kept the time by his watch, and being aware that a forced march could sometimes defeat its object, called for a ten minute halt and rest every hour.

  At such times one of the Indians would usually scout ahead, for while nothing had been seen or heard of the enemy invaders their existence was not forgotten. In fact, although he did not reveal his anxiety, Biggles thought about them a lot, wondering where they had gone, and realizing that as they, too, would probably follow a game track, there was always a chance they might be on the same one as themselves; in which case they would come into collision. In the event, however, this did not happen, and while good progress was made, fading daylight made it evident that they would have to pass another night in the jungle. Everyone was cheered when Bira Shah said they were now close to the lake and would reach it early the following morning. Biggles was for pushing on, but the Gond insisted it would be unwise to travel, or try to travel, through the jungle in the pitch dark. Even when the moon rose little light would penetrate the heavy foliage of the trees. In his heart Biggles knew he was right.

  So more rations were issued and another night was passed in the forest. Biggles explained to their Indian friends what he intended to do when the lake was reached. There they would have to part. He would have to fly Toxan sahib to hospital and would not come back. Would they, with food, be able to find their way home? The Indians assured them there would be no difficulty about this; but they were sad, they said, having had such good hunting together, that the time for parting was near. Biggles pressed on them most of the money, in rupees, he had in his pocket, and said they could have the tent and anything left in it when they flew away.

  It was barely daylight when, the next morning, the party set off on the last stage of the journey. Naturally, everyone—except perhaps the Indians—was agog to see the end of what had been a strenuous operation in conditions that were both hot and difficult. When blue sky appeared ahead the pace increased as everyone hurried forward to gaze once more on open ground —or to be more correct, water.

  Bira Shah, still leading, was the first to reach it. The others saw him look, stare, duck, and hurry back, holding up a warning hand.

  “What is it?” asked Biggles, quickly.

  “The Chinese, sahib. They are at your camp.”

  Biggles spun round. “Halt, everyone,” he ordered. “Don’t try to see or you may be seen.” Then, with Bira Shah and Hamid he crept forward to the edge of the lake to survey the scene.

  He saw at once that they had reached the water some distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile, from the actual site of the tent. He had never been to the particular spot on which he now stood, having no reason to do so. The tent, with the aircraft moored near it, was in plain view across the open water. Standing in a group near it were the Chinese soldiers.

  “What are they doing?” asked Ginger, looking very worried indeed, as he had reason to be.

  “Nothing at the moment, except that they appear to be trying to carry on a hand-signal conversation with Algy. I don’t think they can have been there very long.”

  “I say, old boy, this is a bit of a bone-shaker, isn’t it?” said Bertie, earnestly.

  “It may not be as bad as it looks.”

  “It couldn’t look much worse to me. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to fetch the aircraft and bring it over here.”

  “You and who else?”

  “No one else. This job will be best handled solo. Here, take my rifle.”

  “You’re going without it?” Bertie looked dumbfounded.

  “I am. I shan’t need it. What could I do with it, anyway, against that lot, if they did cut up rough? I think the whole situation has got them foxed. Having seen the machine over the nullah they must have a feeling it is in some way concerned with them, but they don’t know how, which isn’t hard to understand. Of course, if they saw Mr. Poo with us it would be a different proposition. But we’re wasting time. Take over and don’t on any account let anyone show himself. Be ready to get aboard smartly when I arrive.”

  “What about the tent. Are you going to abandon it?”

  “I am. There’s nothing in it of any value. Most of our stuff is in the machine. Stand by.” Saying goodbye Biggles shook hands with the Indians who had been so helpful and strode away along the side of the lake. He made no attempt to conceal himself. On the contrary, he struck up a cheerful whistle to make sure everyone near the machine saw him, the purpose of this being to give the Chinese something else to think about and so cause them to delay hostilities if they were so inclined.

  In this he succeeded. At all events, the troops did nothing, and when he strolled into the camp, looking as if he had merely been for a walk round the lake, they stared at him with blank, bovine expressions. He went on past them as if they did not exist and greeted Algy as if nothing unusual was happening.

  “Am I glad to see you,” muttered Algy.

  “What are these chaps doing?”

  “So far they’ve done nothing. I fancy they need food. They keep looking around as if they’re wondering if I’m alone, and why. Did you know they were here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why come by yourself, without a rifle?”

  “It’s better that way. It wouldn’t do to let ‘em think we’re afraid of them.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “At the far end of the lake.”

  “Poo with them?”

  “He is.”

  “What’s the drill.”

  “I’m going to take the machine over and pick them up.”

  “Do you think they’ll let you do that?”

  “I’m going to try it. I’d bet it doesn’t occur to them that we’re going to abandon the tent. Watch this for another line of bluff.”

  Biggles turned back to the Chinese and with raised eyebrows pointed to his mouth, unmistakably asking if they wanted food.

  The leader began to take interest and signified assent.

  Said Biggles to Algy: “Okay. Pull the machine in and bring out a box of biscuits. Don’t come ashore yourself. Hand them to me, cast off and then get into the cockpit ready to start up.”

  “I get it.”

  The Chinese did not move as Algy hauled the machine close in, went aboard and reappeared with a large tin of biscuits. Biggles took it and handed it to the leader who tore off the lid to see what was inside. With all eyes on the box it was unlikely that anyone saw Algy slip his cable; and if anyone did notice this it obviously had no significance.

  With the Chinese leader doling out the biscuits, without any show of haste Biggles walked to the aircraft, entered it by the cabin door and called to Algy: “Okay. Let her go.”

  The enemy troops stopped what they were doing to stare at the machine as the engines came to life.
They did not move. As Biggles had anticipated it is likely that with the tent still standing it did not occur to them that the aircraft, now moving, was not coming back.

  Biggles joined Algy in the cockpit. “I’ll take over; I know where they are,” he said. In the reflector he could see the Chinese still standing in the same place, watching as they munched their biscuits.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” Algy told Biggles, in a curious voice.

  Biggles grinned. “Nothing to it. Our yellow friends haven’t a clue as to what we’re up to, but they’ll come to with a jolt when they see the others getting aboard.”

  “We shall still be in range.”

  “Pretty wide for accurate shooting even for people who can handle a rifle. From the way those chaps handle their arms I’d wager they couldn’t hit a haystack at a hundred yards.”

  Biggles was still taxiing slowly over the tranquil water. There was of course no necessity to take off. Only when he was level with those waiting for him did he give the engines a little more throttle and swing towards the shore. Close in he turned again to bring the aircraft broadside on, both to have the cabin door on the right side and in the hope of preventing the enemy from seeing what was happening, their view of the shore being cut off by the hull.

  Algy jumped out into a couple of feet of water shouting “Come on.”

  With everyone waiting no second invitation was necessary. Toxan, on his improvised stretcher, was carried in first and settled on the floor as comfortable as circumstances permitted. His rifle, he told Biggles, he had given to Hamid for a present. Mr. Poo came next and was found a seat. The rest followed. Goodbyes were called. Under Biggles’ orders Bertie threw to those remaining ashore all the foodstuffs left in the machine.

  By this time the troops, if they didn’t realize exactly what was happening must have become suspicious that they were in some way being tricked, for they were coming along the border of the lake at the double. Observing this Biggles shouted a warning to the Indians, who had of course remained ashore, telling them to make themselves scarce or the Chinese would catch them.

  “Not in my own jungle, sahib,” answered Bira Shah.

  Hamid fingered the edge of his kukri, his lips parted in a mirthless smile.

  “Better get going,” said Algy, for some of the Chinese had stopped and were shooting; but they had been running and their aim was wild, as was indicated by little spurts of water, none of them close to the machine. However, it was clearly time to be off. Ginger slammed the door. Biggles advanced the throttle. The machine raced across the surface of the blue lake for the last time and swept into the air on the first leg of its journey home, two hundred miles to Delhi.

  There, while the aircraft was being refuelled, Captain Toxan was put off to go into hospital for treatment, the reason for his condition, the authorities were told, being a shooting accident, which was as near the truth as made no difference. The home-made stretcher supported the story. He left his rubies in Biggles’ charge, saying he would collect them when he was well enough to return to Britain. This saved explanations that might have been difficult.

  * * *

  That, really, was the end of Biggles’ brief visit to the country in which he had been born, for the rest was straightforward routine. On arrival in Britain the rubies and Mr. Poo’s jade, being dutiable, were left with the Customs for valuation, the way being smoothed by Biggles’ official position.

  From the airport, taking Mr. Poo with them, they went by car to their London flat, where before doing anything else Biggles called Air Commodore Raymond at Scotland Yard on the telephone.

  “Bigglesworth here, sir,” he reported. “I thought you’d like to know we’re home. Yes, we have Mr. Poo with us. We brought him here pending you finding accommodation for him. Trouble? No trouble at all, sir. Right away. Okay, sir.” He smiled as he hung up. “The Chief’s coming straight round,” he told the others.

  “Excuse me, but did I hear you say there had been no trouble?” inquired Mr. Poo.

  “You may have done. What else would I say? Why bore people with details that are of no importance. You’re here, that’s all that matters.”

  Mr. Poo shook his head, gravely. “What strange people you are,” he murmured.

  “Well, I suppose that’s how we happen to be made,” returned Biggles, reaching for a cigarette.

  THE END