Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  He passed the bush behind which he had lain hidden on the night when he had first seen von Stalhein disguised as an Arab, and gave a little muttered exclamation, of satisfaction when he saw a Halberstadt standing just where he expected to find it. Its pilot had not seen him, for he had his back towards him as he turned the propeller in the act of starting the engine. Biggles waited till the engine was ticking over and the pilot had taken his place in the front seat; then he walked up quickly, put his foot in the fuselage stirrup, swung himself up beside the pilot and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘The Count wants you urgently,’ he said in his best German.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the startled pilot.

  ‘The Count wants you,’ repeated Biggles. ‘There is a change of plans. I have been sent out to relieve you. Hurry up.’

  ‘But I have been –’

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Biggles desperately, for he was afraid that von Stalhein might turn up at any moment. ‘You are to go back at once. I am to fly to-night.’

  To his unutterable relief the man, a rather surly fellow named Greichbach, whom he had spoken to once or twice in the Mess, made no further demur, but climbed out of his seat and stood beside the self-appointed pilot.

  ‘What is the course to-night?’ asked Biggles carelessly. ‘They told me, but I had no time to write it down; I think I remember but I’d like to confirm it.’

  ‘Jebel Hind—Galada—Wadi Baroud—Pauta,’ replied the other without hesitation.

  ‘Where do you usually land?’

  ‘You may not have to land, but you will know in the air about that.’

  ‘Thanks. You’d better get back now. Don’t go straight across the aerodrome, though, in case I run into you taking off; go round by the boundary,’ Biggles told him, and a grim smile played about the corners of his mouth as he watched the German set off in the desired direction. At the same time he released his grip on the butt of his Mauser, for the moment had been an anxious one. If was fortunate for Greichbach that he had not questioned the instructions, for Biggles had determined to have the Halberstadt even if he had to take it by force. He saw the figure of the German disappear into the darkness, still taking the course he had suggested, for the last thing he wanted to happen was for Greichbach to meet von Stalhein on the way out.

  He buckled on his flying cap, pulled his goggles low over his face, removed the spare joystick from the back seat, took his place in the front cockpit, and waited. The seconds ticked by. Minutes passed and he began to feel uncomfortable, worried by the fear that Greichbach might get back to the station before von Stalhein left; but his muscles tightened with a jerk as a tall figure in Arab costume suddenly loomed up in the darkness close at hand, and without saying a word swung up into the rear cockpit.

  Biggles felt a light tap on the shoulder; the word ‘Go’ came faintly to his ears above the noise of the engine. With a curious smile on his set face he eased the throttle open and held the stick forward. The Mercedes engine roared; the Halberstadt skimmed lightly over the sand and then soared upwards in a steep climbing turn.

  Biggles saw the lights of the camp below him, and knew that whatever happened he was looking at them for the last time. Then he turned in a wide circle and, climbing slowly for height, headed for the lines.

  Chapter 20

  The Night Riders

  I

  For twenty minutes he flew on a straight course for Jebel Hind, the first landmark mentioned by Greichbach, crouching well forward in the cockpit and taking care not to turn his head to left or right, which might give von Stalhein a view of his profile. At first he could not dismiss from his mind the fear that the German would speak to him or make some move that would require an explanation, in which case exposure would be inevitable, and he wondered vaguely what von Stalhein would do about it.

  As usual in two-seater aeroplanes, the pilot occupied the front seat and the observer the back one, and in this case the two cockpits were not more than a couple of feet apart. Biggles would have felt happier if the German had been in the front seat, for then he could have watched him; it was unnerving to know that an enemy whom he could not see was sitting within a couple of feet of him; but, on the other hand, he realized that if von Stalhein had been in the front seat and had happened to turn round, he would have seen him at once and discovered that a change of pilots had taken place.

  ‘Suppose he does discover who I am, what can he do about it?’ thought Biggles. ‘Nothing, as far as I can see. If he hits me over the back of the head, the machine will fall and we shall both go west together, for he couldn’t possibly get into my seat and take over the controls without first throwing me out; and he wouldn’t have time to do that before we crashed. He’d be crazy to start a free fight in an aeroplane, anyway. The next thing is, what am I going to do? If he tells me to go down and land I should be able to handle the situation all right provided there isn’t a party of Huns or Hunminded Arabs waiting for him. But suppose he says nothing about landing? He’ll want to know what’s up if I try to land on my own account. It’s no use pretending that the engine has failed, because as soon as I throttle back he’ll know it by the movement of his own throttle lever. If I cut the switch and lose the engine altogether, we should probably crash trying to land, in which case I stand a better chance than he does of getting hurt. Well, we shall see.’

  The lifeless rocky country around Jebel Hind loomed up ahead, and the machine bumped once or twice as the change in the terrain affected the atmosphere. The mountains of rock, heated nearly to furnace heat by the sun during the day, were not yet cool, and were throwing up columns of hot air. Cooler air from the desert was rushing in to fill the partial vacuum thus caused, and the result was vertical currents of considerable velocity.

  Overcoming an almost irresistible desire to look back and see what von Stalhein was doing, he concentrated on correcting, the bumps, which now became more frequent as the country below grew more rugged. A solitary searchlight stabbed a tapering finger of white light into the starry sky some little distance ahead, and he knew he was approaching the British lines. Jagged flashes of orange and crimson flame began to appear around him, showing that the anti-aircraft batteries were aware of his presence; but the searchlight had failed to pick him up and the shooting was poor, so he roared on through the night until he reached the village of Galada, when he turned sharply to the right and continued on a course that would bring him to the Wadi Baroud, which, according to Greichbach, was the next landmark.

  They were flying over desert country again now, a flat expanse of wilderness surrounded on all sides by hills on which twinkled the many camp fires of troops who were being concentrated in preparation for the coming battle. ‘A sort of place he might ask me to land,’ thought Biggles, correcting an unusually bad bump, but the expected tap on the shoulder did not come and he roared on through the star-lit sky.

  He seemed to have been flying for a long time; the cockpit was warm and cosy and his fear of the man in the back seat began to give way to lassitude. ‘It’s about time he was doing something,’ he thought drowsily, wondering what the outcome of the whole thing would be. Strange thoughts began to drift into his mind. ‘Winged chariots! Some one on the ground down there had said something about winged chariots three thousand years ago. Or was it later?’ He couldn’t remember, so he dismissed the matter as of no consequence, and then pulled himself up with a jerk, for he realized with a shock that he had been on the point of dozing.

  The edge of the moon crept up above the rim of the desert; from his elevated position he could see it, but he knew that it was still invisible to people on the ground, which remained a vast well of mysterious darkness, broken only by vague, still darker shadows which marked the position of hills and valleys. Still he flew on, heading towards Pauta, his next landmark, which still lay some distance to the west.

  Then, far ahead over his port wing appeared a little cluster of yellow lights that he knew was the British aerodrome of Kantara; he thought for a moment, and then eased
the nose of the machine a trifle towards it. Would von Stalhein notice the move and call attention to it? No, apparently not, for nothing happened. Again he touched the rudder-bar lightly and brought his nose in a straight line with the aerodrome, and almost started as a new thought flashed into his mind. ‘What could he do if I decided to land there,’ he mused, quivering at the idea. ‘Nothing. I don’t see that he could do a thing; at least, not until we were actually on the ground. Then he’d probably try to pull a gun on me, jump into the pilot’s seat and escape. Well, I can act as quickly as he can,’ he thought. The more he toyed with the plan the more it appealed to him. It would end the whole business one way or the other right away. To march the German up to Major Raymond’s tent would be a fitting end to his adventures. Von Stalhein’s plans, whatever they were, would not—could not–materialize then. But whatever he did would have to be done quickly. ‘The moment I start to glide down he’ll know something’s wrong, and he’ll be on his feet in a jiffy,’ he thought. ‘And then anything can happen. No! When I go down I’ll go so fast that he won’t be able to speak, move, or do anything else except hang on. Maybe he’ll think that something has broken and we’re falling out of control; so much the better if he does.’

  Tingling with excitement, he held on to his course, watching the aerodrome lights creeping slowly nearer. They were nearly under the leading edge of his port wing now–still nearer they crept –nearer. Suddenly they disappeared from sight and he knew he was over the middle of the aerodrome. A glance at the luminous altimeter showed the needle resting on the five-thousand-feet mark. It was now or never. ‘Well, come on,’ he muttered aloud, and did several things simultaneously. With his left hand he cut the throttle; his left foot kicked the rudder-bar, while with his right hand he flung the joystick over to the left and then dragged it back into his right thigh.

  To any one in the back seat, experienced or otherwise, the result would have been terrifying –as indeed he intended it to be. The machine lurched drunkenly as it quivered in a stall; its nose flopped over heavily, swung down, and then plunged earthward in a vicious spin. With his eyes glued on the whirling cluster of lights below, Biggles counted the revolutions dispassionately. When he reached number five he shoved the stick forward, kicked on top rudder, and then spun in the opposite direction. At what he judged to be trifle less than a thousand feet he pulled out of the spin, and then pushed his left wing down in a vertical side-slip. A blast of air struck him on the side of the face, while struts and wires howled in protest –but still the machine dropped like a stone.

  Only at the last moment did he level out, make a swift S turn and glide in to a fast wheel landing. As his wheels touched the ground he flicked off the ignition switch with a sharp movement of his left hand while with his right he felt for the Mauser. The tail-skid dropped, dragged a few yards, and the machine stopped. Biggles made a flying leap at the ground, revolver in hand.

  ‘Stick up your hands, von Stalhein,’ he snapped.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Come on, stick ’em up; I’ve got you covered. One false move and it’s your last –I mean it.’

  Still no reply.

  Biggles stooped low so that he could see the silhouette of the cockpit against the sky, but he could not see the German. ‘Come on, look lively,’ he snarled. ‘It’s no use crouching down there on the floor. In five seconds I shall start shooting.’

  Still no reply.

  Biggles felt a thrill of doubt run through him. Had von Stalhein jumped out, too? He dodged round to the far side of the machine and looked around; he could see a hundred yards in all directions, but there was no one in sight. With his revolver ready, he put his foot in the fuselage stirrup and stood up so that he could see inside the back cockpit. One glance was enough. It was empty.

  He put the gun back into his pocket and leaned weakly against the trailing edge of the lower wing. ‘I’m mad,’ he muttered, ‘daft –dreaming. I’ve got sunstroke –that’s what it is.’ He closed his eyes, shook his head violently, and then opened them again. ‘No, it isn’t a dream,’ he went on, as he saw mechanics racing towards the spot. The reaction after the terrific strain of the last few minutes, when every nerve had been keyed up to breaking-point, was almost overwhelming. The unexpected anti-climax nearly upset his mental balance. He threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  ‘Hands up, there, Jerry!’ yelled the leading mechanic as he ran up.

  ‘What are you getting excited about?’ snarled Biggles.

  The shock to the unfortunate ack emma*1 when he heard a normal English voice was nearly as great as Biggles’ had been a few moments before. He stared at the pilot, then at the machine, and then back at Biggles.

  A flight-sergeant pushed his way to the front of the rapidly forming group of spectators. ‘What’s all this?’ he growled.

  ‘It’s all right; I’ve brought you a souvenir, flight-sergeant,’ grinned Biggles, indicating the machine with a nod. ‘You can take it, you can keep it, and you can jolly well stick it up your tunic as far as I’m concerned. And I hope it bites you,’ he added bitterly, as he realized that his well-laid plans, carried out at frightful risk, had come to naught.

  ‘Any one else in that machine?’ asked the flight-sergeant suspiciously.

  ‘Take a look and see,’ invited Biggles. ‘As a matter of fact there is, but I can’t find him. Just see if you can do any better.’

  The flight-sergeant made a swift examination of the Halberstadt. ‘No, sir, there’s nobody here,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ murmured Biggles slowly.

  The flight-sergeant eyed him oddly, and then looked relieved when a number of officers, who had heard the machine land, ran up and relieved him of any further responsibility in the matter. Major Raymond was amongst them, and Biggles took him gently by the arm. ‘Better get the machine in a hangar out of the way, sir,’ he said. ‘If people start asking questions I shall tell them that I’m a delivery pilot taking a captured machine down to the repair depot, but I lost my way and had to make a night landing. I’ll wait for you in your tent. Is Algy back?’

  ‘Yes; he was in the Mess having his dinner when I came out. He said something about not letting stray Huns interfere with his meals.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ replied Biggles bitterly. ‘Has he told you—’

  ‘Yes, he’s told me all about it.’

  ‘And Brunow?’

  The Major nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve got him where he can do no harm. You’d better trot along to the Mess and get something to eat, and then come and see me in my tent.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ Biggles started off in the direction of the distant Officers’ Mess.

  II

  An hour later he reclined in a long cane chair in Major Raymond’s tent. The Major sat at his desk with his chin resting in the palms of his hands; Algy sat on the other side of him, listening.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ Biggles was saying. ‘I think it was, without exception, the biggest shock I have ever had in my life—and I’ve had some, as you know. It was also the biggest disappointment. I’ll tell you straight, sir. I could have burst into tears when I landed and found he wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe it, and that’s a fact. When I think of all the trouble I went to, and risks I took—but there, what’s the use of moaning about it? I only hope he broke his blinking neck on a perishing boulder when he hit the floor.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there’s no doubt about what he did. When he was over the place where he wanted to get to he just stepped over the side with a parachute; there’s no other solution that I can think of—unless, of course, he suddenly got tired of life and took a running jump into space. Or he may have decided to go for a stroll, forgetting where he was, but knowing von Stalhein pretty well I should say that’s hardly likely. No! the cunning blighter stepped over with a brolley, and I can guess where it happened. I remember an extra bad bump. And for all I know he’s been getting into our lines like that al
l the time. After all, it’s no more risky than landing in an aeroplane in a rough country like this. The point is he’s still alive and kicking, and from my point of view, the sooner he makes his last kick the better. He’s not a man; he’s a rattlesnake. He’s somewhere over this side of the lines floating about in his Ali Baba outfit. How are we going to find him?—that’s what I want to know. By the way, Algy, how did you get on with Brunow?’

  ‘Right as rain, no trouble at all. I flew straight back and landed here. I dumped him in my room with a sentry on guard, slipped an overcoat over my Hun uniform, and reported to the Major. Brunow came round just as I got back and took off my coat. He started bleating a prayer of thanksgiving when he saw my uniform, and then told me in no uncertain terms just what sort of swine the British were and what he thought of you in particular. He asked me if you’d been arrested yet, and if so, when were you to be shot.’

  ‘Go on,’ put in Biggles interestedly. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I just broke the news gently, and told him he’d got things all wrong. He wouldn’t believe it at first, and I had to explain that since the last time he was awake he’d been on a long, long journey, and was now nicely settled in the hands of the British swines.’