Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  Far away on the horizon he could just make out a dull shadow that might have been an oasis, but he was too uncertain of his actual position to know which of the two it was, if indeed it was either of them. Perhaps Mayer had a map; if so, he would borrow it. He reached forward and tapped the German on the shoulder, and then sprang back in affright as the shrill chatter of a machine-gun split the air from somewhere near at hand. A shower of lead struck the Halberstadt like a flail. There was a shrill whang of metal striking against metal, and a ghastly tearing sound of splintering woodwork. The stricken machine lurched drunkenly as the engine cut out dead and a long feather of oily black smoke swirled away aft.

  Instinctively Biggles grabbed his gun, and squinted through his slightly open fingers in the direction of the sun whence the attack had come. The blinding white orb seared his eyeballs, but he caught a fleeting glimpse of a grey shadow that banked round in a steep stalling turn to renew the attack. He turned to warn Mayer, and a cry of horror broke from his lips as he saw him sagging insensible in his safety belt; a trickle of blood was oozing from under the ear flaps of his leather helmet.

  As in a ghastly nightmare, Biggles heard the staccato clatter of the guns again, and felt the machine shudder like a sailing ship taken aback, as the controls flapped uselessly. Its nose lurched downwards; the port wing drooped, and the next instant the machine was spinning wildly earthward.

  Biggles, cold with fear, acted with the deliberation of long experience, moved with a calmness that would have seemed impossible on the ground. He knew that the machine was fitted with dual controls, but the rear joystick was not left in its socket for fear of the observer being hit and falling on it in a combat, thus jamming the controls. It was kept in a canvas slot in the side of the cockpit. Swiftly he pulled it out, inserted the end in the metal junction and screwed it in. Without waiting to look out of the cockpit, he pushed the stick ‘forward and kicked on full top rudder. The machine began to respond instantly; would it come out of the spin in time? He dropped back into his seat, and snatching a swift glance at the ground, now perilously near, knew that it was going to be touch and go. Slowly the nose of the machine came up as it came out of the spin.

  With another five feet of height the Halberstadt would just have managed it; she did in fact struggle to even keel, but still lost height from the speed of her spin, as she was bound to for a few seconds. Biggles pulled the stick back and held his breath; he had no engine to help him, and the best he could hope for was some sort of pancake*2 landing. But luck was against him, for the ground at that point was strewn with boulders, some large and some small, and it must have been one of the large ones that caught the axle of his undercarriage. The lower part of the machine seemed to stop dead while the upper part, carried on by its momentum, tried to go forward; then several things happened at once. Biggles was flung violently against the instrument board; the propeller boss bored into the ground, hurling splinters of wood and rock in all directions; the tail swung up and over in a complete semicircle as the machine somersaulted in a final tearing, rending, splintering crash. Then silence.

  Biggles, half blinded by petrol which had poured over him when the tank sheered off its bearers and burst asunder, fought his way out of the wreck like a madman, regardless of mere bruises and cuts. The horror of fire was on him, as it is on every airman in similar circumstances, but his first thought was for his companion. ‘Mayer’ he croaked, ‘where are you?’ There was no answer, so he tore the debris aside until he found the German, still strapped in his seat, buried under the tangled remains of the plane. Somehow–he had no clear recollection of how it was done–he got him clear of the cockpit, and dragged him through the tangle of wires and struts to a spot some distance away, clear of fire should it break out. Then he sank down and buried his face in his hands while he fought back an hysterical desire to burst into tears. He had seen stronger men than himself do it, and knew that it was simply the sudden relaxation of nerves that had been screwed up to breaking-point.

  Then he rose unsteadily to his feet, wiped a smear of blood from a cut in his lip, and turned to his partner-in-misfortune, for the cause of the trouble was already a tiny speck in the far distance. So swift and perfectly timed had been the attack that he hadn’t even time to identify the type of machine that had shot them down.

  He took off Mayer’s helmet, and a long red weal across the side of his head told its own story. As far as he could see the bullet had not actually penetrated the skull, but had struck him a glancing blow that had knocked him unconscious, and might, or might not, prove fatal. He could find no other bullet wounds, although his clothes were badly torn about and his face bruised, so he made him as comfortable as possible in the shade of the rock and then went to see if he could get a little water from the leaking radiator. It was hot and oily, but it was better than nothing, so he soaked his handkerchief and returned to Mayer. Had it been possible, he would have tried to save some of the precious liquid that was fast disappearing into the thirsty ground, but he had no receptacle to catch it, so he went back to the unfortunate German and cleaned the wound as well as he could. His efforts were rewarded, for after a few minutes Mayer opened his eyes and stared about him wonderingly. Wonderment gave way to understanding as complete consciousness returned, and he smiled weakly.

  ‘What happened?’ he whispered through his bruised lips.

  ‘An Engländer dropped on us out of the sun and hit us with his first burst,’ replied Biggles. ‘A bullet hit you on the side of the head and the box*3 spun before I could get my gun going. I managed to get her out of the spin with the spare joystick before she hit the ground, but the engine had gone, so I had to get down as well as I could—which wasn’t very well, as you can see,’ he added dryly. ‘There are too many rocks about for nice landings; but there, we were lucky she didn’t catch fire.’

  Mayer tried to move, but a low groan broke from his lips.

  ‘I should lie still for a bit if I were you,’ Biggles advised him. ‘You’ll be better presently.’

  ‘You’d better go on,’ the German told him stolidly.

  ‘Go on? And leave you here? No, I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ inquired Mayer, bitterly.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘We’re fifty miles from our lines, and it’s fifty miles of waterless desert, so you’d better be starting.’

  ‘No hurry, I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘It’ll be no use waiting for me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I shan’t be coming.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do. My leg is broken.’

  Biggles felt the blood drain from his face as he realized just what Mayer’s grim statement meant. ‘Good heavens,’ he breathed.

  The German smiled curiously. ‘The fortune of war,’ he observed calmly. ‘Before you go I would like you to do something for me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Go and look in my cockpit and see if you can find my pistol. I shall need it.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Biggles told him tersely, for he knew well enough what was in the other’s mind.

  ‘You wouldn’t leave me here to die of thirst—and the hyenas,’ protested Mayer weakly.

  ‘Who’s talking about leaving you, anyway,’ growled Biggles. ‘Just you lie still while I think it over.’

  ‘If you’ve any sense you’ll go on. There’s no need for us both to die,’ said Mayer, with a courage that Biggles could not help but admire.

  ‘I’m not talking about dying, either,’ he declared. ‘We’ll find a way out; let me think a minute.’ Then he laughed. The idea of an Englishman and a German each trying to save the other’s life struck him as funny.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ asked Mayer suspiciously.

  ‘No joke—but it’s no use bursting into tears,’ returned Biggles brightly. He walked across and examined the machine. There were still a few drops of water in the radiator, but it was poisonous-looking f
luid and he watched it drip away into the sand without regret. He dug about in the wreckage until he found Mayer’s map, when he sat down and plotted their position as nearly as he could judge it. As Mayer had said, they were a good fifty miles from the German lines, and farther still from the British lines, but to the south and east there were two or three oases, unnamed, from which he guessed they were very small, not less than fifteen and not more than twenty miles away. Fifteen miles! Could he do it in the heat of the day? Alone, perhaps, but with a wounded companion, definitely no. ‘Suppose he left Mayer, and tried to find the oasis where he had seen von Stalhein; could he fly back in the Halberstadt, assuming that it was as he had left it? No, he decided, for the German would certainly have died of thirst in the meantime.

  The idea of leaving Mayer to perish did not occur to him. In the desperate straits in which they found themselves, he no longer regarded him as an enemy, but as a brother pilot who must be supported while a vestige of hope remained. He regarded the crashed machine with a speculative eye, and half smiled as a possibility occurred to him. Near at hand was one of the undercarriage wheels, with the bent axle still attached; the tyre had burst, but otherwise it was undamaged. The other wheel lay some distance away in the desert where it had bounced after the crash. He retrieved it and then set to work, while Mayer watched him dispassionately.

  At the end of an hour he had constructed a fairly serviceable two-wheeled trailer from the undercarriage and remains of the wing spars. He had found plenty of material to work with; in fact, more than he needed. Finally he hunted about in the wreckage for the seat cushions, smiling as he caught sight of his unshaven, blood-stained face in the pilot’s reflector. He found them, threw them on the crazy vehicle, and picking up some pieces of interplane struts and canvas, approached the German.

  Mayer regarded him dubiously. ‘You’ve wasted a lot of time,’ he said irritably.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Biggles imperturbably. ‘Help me as much as you can while I get this leg of yours fixed up.’

  ‘Do what?’ ejaculated Mayer. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Tie your leg up in these splints, so that it won’t hurt more than can be helped while I get you on the perambulator.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool—’

  ‘If you don’t lie still, I’ll fetch you a crack on the other side of your skull,’ snarled Biggles. ‘Do you think I want to hang about here all day? Come on–that’s better.’

  Not without difficulty he bound up Mayer’s leg in the improvised splints, and then lifted him bodily on to the trailer. He handed him a piece of fabric to use as a sunshade, and without another word set off in the direction in which he judged the oasis to be.

  Fortunately the ground was flat and fairly open, but the punctured wheel dragged heavily through the patches of loose sand that became more frequent as he went on. The sun climbed to its zenith and its white bars of heat struck down with relentless force.

  Nowhere could he find rest for his eyes; in all directions stretched the wilderness, colourless and without outline, a vast undulating expanse of brown and grey that merged into the shimmering horizon. The land had no definite configuration, but was an eternal monotony of sand and rock, spotted here and there with the everlasting camel-thorn. There was no wild life—or if there was he did not see it. Once he straightened his back and looked round the scene, but its overwhelming solitude made him shudder and he went on with his task doing his best to fight off the dreadful feeling of depression that was creeping over him.

  The demon thirst began to torture him. Another hour passed, and another, and still he struggled on. His lips were black and dry, with a little ring of congealed dust round them. He no longer perspired, for the sun drank up every drop of moisture as soon as it appeared. Mayer was more fortunate, for he had lapsed into unconsciousness. At first Biggles had tried to keep the fabric over his face, but he soon got tired of picking it up and struggled on without it. A feeling crept over him that he had been pulling the trailer all his life; everything else that had ever happened was a dim memory; only the rocks and the sand were real.

  Presently he began to mutter to himself, and eyed the sun malevolently. ‘I’d give you something, you skunk, if I had my guns,’ he grated through his clenched teeth. It did not occur to him to leave his companion; the fixedness of purpose that had won him fame in France kept the helpless German ever before his mind. ‘Poor old Mayer,’ he crooned. ‘Tough luck, getting a cracked leg. Why the dickens isn’t Algy here; I’ll twist the young scallywag’s ear for him for leaving the patrol like this.’

  Mayer began to mutter in German, long meaningless sentences in which the word Rhine occurred frequently.

  ‘When we wind up the watch on the Rhine,’ cackled Biggles. ‘Your watch is about wound up, old cock,’ and he laughed again. He stumbled on a rock, and swinging round in a blaze of fury, kicked it viciously and uselessly. He reached the top of a fold in the ground and stared ahead with eyes that seemed to be two balls of fire searing his brain. A line of cool green palm trees stood up clearly on the skyline. ‘Ha, ha, you can’t catch me like that,’ he chuckled. ‘Mirage; I’ve heard about you. Thinks it can catch me. Ha, ha!’

  A big bird flopped down heavily not far away and regarded him with cold beady eyes. He dropped the handle of the trailer, snatched up a stone, and hurled it with all his strength. The bird flapped a few yards further away and settled again. ‘You Hun,’ he croaked. ‘You dirty thieving Hun. I can see you sitting there; I’ll knock the bottom out of your fuselage before I’ve finished with you.’ He picked up the handle of the trailer and struggled on.

  He began to sway as he walked. Once he fell, and lay where he had fallen for a full minute before he remembered his burden, whereupon he scrambled to his feet and set off with a fresh burst of energy. He topped another rise and saw a long group of green palm fronds against the blue sky above the next dip. At first he regarded them with a sort of detached interest, but slowly it penetrated his bemused mind that they were very real, very close, and very desirable. He broke into a drunken run, still dragging the trailer, and breathing in deep wheezing gasps; the palm trees seemed to float towards him, and presently he was amongst them, patting the rough boles with his hands. The place was vaguely familiar and he seemed to know exactly where to go, so he dropped the handle of the trailer and reeled towards the centre of the oasis, croaking as he saw that he was not mistaken. In front of him was the well and the hut where, the afternoon before, he had seen von Stalhein. He had returned to his starting point. He staggered to the well, seized the hide rope in his shaking hands, dragged up the receptacle attached to it and drank as he had never drunk before. Then he refilled the makeshift bucket and ran back to where he had left Mayer. He rolled him off the trailer and with difficulty got some of the water between his parched lips, at the same time dabbing his face and neck with it. He continued giving him a little water for some time, occasionally drinking deep draughts himself; but when he felt that he could do no more for the sick man, he returned to the well and buried his face and arms in the cool liquid.

  He still had the remains of the chocolate ration in his pocket, so he munched a little and felt better for it. Then he walked up to the hut, but it was empty, so he returned to Mayer with the idea of making him as comfortable as possible before going to the spot where he had left the Halberstadt, to make sure it was still there and undamaged. But suddenly he felt dreadfully tired and sat down near the trailer to rest. The shade, after the heat of the sun which was now sinking fast, was pleasant, and he closed his eyes in ecstasy. His head nodded once or twice, and he slipped slowly sideways on to the cool sand, sound asleep.

  Chapter 11

  A Night Flight

  I

  He awoke, and sitting up with a start, looked around in bewilderment, for it was night, and for a moment or two he could not recall what had happened. The moon was up; it hung low over the desert like a sickle and cast a pale blue radiance over a scene of unutterable loneliness. Th
en, in the hard, black lattice-like shadows of the palms, he saw Mayer, and remembered everything. The German’s face was ghastly in the weird light, and he thought he was dead, but dropping on his hands and knees beside him, was relieved to hear faint but regular breathing.

  Then he sprang to his feet as a strange sound reached his ears, and he knew instinctively that it was the same noise that had awakened him; it reminded him of the harsh confused murmur of waves upon a pebbly beach, afar off, rising and falling on the still night air. For a little while he sat listening, trying to identify the sound, but he could not; it seemed to come from the other side of the oasis, so he made his way cautiously through the palms to a slight rise from which he could see the desert beyond. As he reached it and looked out he caught his breath sharply and sank down swiftly in the shadow of a stunted palm, staring with wide-open eyes.

  He did not know what he had expected to see, but it was certainly not the sight that met his incredulous eyes. Mustering in serried ranks was an army of Arabs; at a rough computation he made out the number to be nearly four thousand, and fresh bands were still riding in from the desert, gathering together for what could only be one of the biggest Arab raids ever organized—for he had no delusions as to their purpose. What ‘was their objective? Were they being mustered by von Stalhein to harass the British flank, or by Major Sterne to launch a crippling blow at the German lines of communication? Those were questions he could not answer, but he hoped that by watching he might discover. He was glad that whoever was in charge had not decided to use the oasis itself as a meeting-place, or he would have been found, but a moment’s consideration revealed the impracticability of such a course; a body of men of that size could only parade in the open.