Biggles Follows On

by W E Johns

  That he wasted no time was evident when, twenty-four hours later, he presented Biggles with a beautiful set of pictures, both vertical and oblique, that had been taken at his request by an American photographic reconnaissance unit.

  With these on the table in the cabin of the Scorpion the next phase had been planned. The photographs showed that wealth of detail for which modern photography is remarkable, but the most vital factors still remained an unknown quantity. The pylons, three of them, were plain to see from the shadows they cast; but among the several buildings which the pictures revealed, it was not possible to determine which one held the prisoners. For that the deserting soldiers would be treated as prisoners Biggles did not doubt. More information on this aspect was required before a raid could be made with any sort of confidence. This difficulty had been foreseen, and accounted for the presence of Wung Ling in the party.

  He was now called upon to assume the role for which, by reason of his nationality, he was ideally adapted. Ginger had rather wondered how the Chinaman would feel when confronted by the cold, hard facts of reality; but he need not have worried. Wung Ling, like most of his countrymen, was not demonstrative, but it was clear that he was deriving no small satisfaction from this opportunity of hitting back at the people who had robbed him of all he possessed.

  There were, Biggles explained, two ways of ‘putting him in.’ He could either be landed on the coast, a matter of some four miles from the actual objective, under cover of darkness, or he could be parachuted in.

  Wung Ling elected to use the parachute method, explaining, naïvely, that he had always wanted to experience the sensation of a parachute jump.

  This suited Biggles, as the drop could be made from a small machine, which again would save the flying-boat a journey into dangerous waters.

  One trip it would have to make before the final raid, and that would be to pick up Wung (as they now called him) at the end of his reconnaissance. There could be no question, Biggles declared, of putting down a land machine, in the dark, on ground which, from the photographs, appeared to be mostly bog or paddy-fields — either of which would probably throw the machine on its nose.

  It was decided that Wung should have three days in which to gather the information required. That is to say, the flying-boat would stand by, at a spot on the coast to be selected from the photographs, at midnight, on the third night after he had parachuted in. This, it was thought, would give him ample time to get the particulars that were wanted. There was practically no limit to these, stated Biggles. Every scrap of information that could be gathered would be useful. Most important of all was the location and construction of the prisoners’ sleeping quarters; the number of men occupying them; their routine, and the position, number and nationality, of sentries guarding them. Also, the number of troops at the station.

  Wung said gravely that he would find out about these things, and it was arranged that he should be put in that night, as the weather was favourable and nothing was to be gained by waiting. He went ashore with Biggles to acquire a suitable outfit from the Korean refugees, whose crowded camps could be seen outside the town. Biggles, on his part, went to the R.A.F. Liaison Officer to arrange for the loan of a small aircraft suitable for the sortie. He had brought a parachute with him.

  The flight was made as scheduled. Biggles flew the machine, and gliding at a great height unloaded his passenger between the coastline, plainly seen in the moonlight, and the cluster of lights that marked the position of the radio station. The last he saw of Wung was a fast-diminishing black dot below him. He continued his glide until he was far out to sea before opening up and returned to base without incident.

  The three days had now expired, and the next step in the programme, the operation of picking up Wung, was now in progress. Five members only of the party were briefed for it, as no more were required. Biggles, with Algy as reserve pilot, flew the Scorpion. From it a rubber dinghy was launched, putting ashore Bertie, whose duty it was to stand by it, and Ginger, who with Cub for company, had advanced to the top of the dunes in order to keep watch for Wung, in case he should fail to strike the exact spot where the dinghy was waiting. They would also be in a position to help him should he arrive hard pressed, which was unlikely, but possible.

  Ginger and Cub waited, watching, straining their eyes to pick out tangible objects in the miasma.

  The hour appointed for the rendezvous had passed by fifteen minutes, and Ginger was just becoming alarmed, when a single, ghost-like figure loomed up with startling suddenness in the mist, proving how deceptive it was.

  Making no sound, he watched it advance slowly towards the beach until recognition became possible. A low signal whistle, prearranged, brought an answer, and Wung made his way wearily to him.

  ‘Excuse me, please, for being late,’ apologised Wung. ‘It was the mud. I could not walk as quickly as I expected, and with the mist it was not easy to keep a straight line.’

  ‘Otherwise you’re all right?’ prompted Ginger.

  ‘Perfectly well.’

  ‘No trouble?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Great work,’ congratulated Ginger. ‘Come on, let’s get home. No doubt you could do with a square meal.’

  ‘What I need more than anything is hot water to remove this disgusting mud,’ said Wung.

  They made their way across the beach to where Bertie was sitting, hunched up, by the dinghy.

  ‘Come on, you blokes, it’s getting chilly,’ he complained. ‘How’s the boy Wung?’

  ‘Very dirty,’ replied the Chinaman.

  ‘That’s what comes of getting mixed up with a bunch of scallywags,’ said Bertie cheerfully. ‘Get aboard. Any more for the jolly old Skylark?’

  They took their places and, with paddles busy, soon picked up the aircraft where she rode at anchor on a gentle swell. The dinghy was deflated and hauled aboard. The engines growled, and the big machine taxied out towards the open sea. Not until the long low coastline had disappeared from sight did Biggles open up. Then the Scorpion tilted its nose towards the starry sky and swung round on a south-westerly course for its base.

  CHAPTER XII

  Wung Reports

  Six hours later, with the machine snug at her mooring, everyone foregathered in the cabin to hear what Wung had to say. Bathed, rested and breakfasted, he was back in his own clothes, and had obviously suffered no ill effects from his exploit.

  ‘Now, tell us all about it,’ invited Biggles, arranging the photographs on the table so that they could be used to demonstrate the report.

  ‘First of all,’ began Wung, ‘I can tell you that Ross is there.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Biggles sharply.

  ‘I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you recognise him?’

  ‘I was working in the compound when I heard a man call another by the name Ross. I worked my way over to him and, without looking, told him to be ready because friends were near. You should have seen his face!’ Wung smiled at the recollection. ‘He could not think it was me, a dirty Chinese labourer, speaking in English, and he stared about him as if the voice had come from the air. He needed a tonic, poor fellow, for he looked so lonely and depressed.’

  ‘He didn’t speak to you?’

  ‘No. I walked on.’

  ‘What do you mean by the compound?’

  ‘Within the barbed wire fence that surrounds the prisoners’ quarters.’

  ‘How did you come to be there?’

  ‘I was working — emptying the garbage cans, and that sort of thing. I have been working all the time. I can’t say that I liked it, but it served my purpose well.’

  ‘How did this come about?’

  ‘I made my way to the camp shortly after daylight. Without any attempt at concealment, I approached with confidence, knowing that no one would suspect me of being anything but what I appeared to be. There were many others exactly like me m
oving about, miserable, poverty-stricken inhabitants of the village — one can hardly call the collection of hovels a town. The wretched people were being mustered into gangs for labour. There must have been nearly two hundred of them. A nasty-looking man, a North Korean I think, told me to get in my place, so I joined the nearest gang. No one took the slightest notice of me. We were given a miserable ration of rice to keep us alive and then we went to work.’

  ‘What sort of work are all these people doing?’

  ‘They’re doing many things. It is quite certain that the place is being enlarged, although for what purpose I could not find out. For one thing, a single track railway is being built. It is almost complete. From the direction it takes I would think it joins the main Trans-Siberian line farther north. An airfield is also under construction. There is already a landing-field of sorts. It is being improved. All transport comes by air, as one would expect, for there is no road worthy of the name. There is a temporary shelter for an aeroplane. An aeroplane is in it now, but I could not say what sort. There is also a petrol store. The first train, which came in while I was there, brought in a load of petrol, also some fuel oil for the engine that makes the electricity. There is also some ammunition, which is stored in the open under tarpaulins.’

  ‘Did you learn what this was for?’

  ‘No. Every gang worked under a foreman, and I joined a different gang each day in order to cover as much ground as possible. That is how I got into the compound. One of the duties was scrubbing the huts and taking away the rubbish. I am not quite certain how many men live in the compound because they come and go all the time. At present there are not more than twelve. I could judge their nationality by the language they spoke. I made out five British, four Americans, two Frenchmen and one other. At one time there were more than this, but some have moved on. I will tell you where, and why, presently. First I must deal with the compound as it is of most importance to you.’

  Wung pulled a photograph towards him and put a finger on the spot.

  ‘This is it,’ he continued. ‘First of all, you must understand, there is a barbed wire fence round the whole camp. It is of five strands and does not offer a serious obstacle. It is simply to keep the natives from wandering into the place, I imagine. Within this outer fence there is another, smaller one, also of barbed wire. It is higher and has eight strands. Inside are the prisoners’ quarters consisting of three wooden buildings, two large and one small. One is a dining and recreation room; another is the sleeping accommodation; the third one is a wash-house. They are all built of wooden planks.’

  ‘Tell us about the sleeping quarters,’ requested Biggles. ‘We shall make our raid at night, of course, so that is where we shall find the prisoners.’

  ‘It is one large room with trestle beds round the wall,’ explained Wung. ‘The end is partitioned off to make a small cubicle for the man in charge. At present this is occupied by an extremely unpleasant fellow who, I am sorry to say, is an Englishman. At least, he speaks English. The prisoners call him sergeant. He is a bad man, ugly of face and ugly of temper. It seemed to me that he took delight in making the lives of the prisoners unbearable, shouting at them with much beastly language. This man, by the way, keeps the key of the hut, although the door is seldom locked. It hangs on a nail in his room. Work stops at sundown, when the prisoners, after a meal, retire to the sleeping hut. There is only one way in and out of the compound. It is a gate, with a sentry box. A Chinese soldier is always on duty there. He is changed every four hours.’

  ‘Did you get the actual times?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Yes. A new guard comes on at midnight. The next one comes at four a.m.. There are about fifty Chinese soldiers altogether. There is a Russian officer, but what he does I do not know.’

  ‘From what you tell me, the place doesn’t seem very well guarded,’ observed Biggles.

  ‘Nor is it. I got the impression, from the casual way things are done, that the last thing the people in the camp expect is trouble. It would be a fairly easy matter for the prisoners to get out of their compound. They would merely need a tool to cut the wire. But even if they did this they would not get far. Where could they go? The land around is absolutely flat, and is either boggy or paddy fields. These stretch for miles, and are more efficacious than iron bars. From the camp one can see for miles. If a man tried to run away in daylight he would certainly be seen from the camp. If he tried to travel in the dark he would flounder about in the bogs and perhaps lose his life in one of them. He might also wander about in circles, for there is usually a mist at night. And as I have said, at the finish, where would he go?’

  ‘What do the soldiers do?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘They kick a football about, mostly. They take turns at guard duty, but it is all very haphazard. Apart from the people I have mentioned there is a fairly large population of men whom I took to be mechanics and engineers in charge of the wireless rooms and the power station. They live by themselves.’ Wung referred again to the photograph. ‘This is the power station, here. Among other things it provides the camp with electric light. I need say nothing about the village of Kratsen. As you can see, it is some little way away from the camp. Presently I will mark on this photograph the purpose of every building shown on it, so that it can be studied by everyone at leisure. After three days in the place I could find my way about even on a dark night.’

  ‘What is this building over here, standing by itself?’ inquired Biggles, pointing.

  ‘That is the bungalow of the overall commander of the station. I saw him only once, at a distance. I believe he is a Russian. At any rate, he is known as Commandant Kubenoff. It is said that he is usually the worse for drink.’

  ‘I suppose the camp is on the telephone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were going to say something about the prisoners who have been to the camp but are no longer there?’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘Oh yes. The talk is, these are the men who are trusted by the Communists. They are taken to Korea where, in captured uniforms of the United Nations, they are infiltrated through the lines to act as spies and saboteurs. A North Korean boasted to me of this. The headquarters of these renegades happens to be in his own village, a place on the coast called Fashtun, near the Russian frontier.’

  ‘We’ll bear that name in mind,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Anything else, Wung?’

  ‘That is all I can think of for the moment. No doubt other minor points will occur to me from time to time. I can tell you the names of most of the men in the camp should you require them. I often heard them being called. Every little while one is taken to the broadcasting room, where, I understand, he is made to read from a paper. There is much secret grumbling about this; but to refuse means death.’

  ‘Was one of the names that you heard Macdonald?’ asked Biggles.

  Wung thought for a moment. ‘No. I don’t remember hearing that name.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Biggles. ‘You’ve done a great show, Wung. With the information you have provided, the job of cleaning up the place shouldn’t be difficult. Personally, I see no reason why we shouldn’t get on with it right away. The governing factor is the weather. At the moment it’s fair. Should it change, we might have to hang about for weeks, and in that time alterations in the camp might throw our plan out of gear. I propose, therefore, that we should crack in tonight, and get the business over. Has anyone an objection?’

  Only Wung answered. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘I have no definite information, but when I left there was an atmosphere of expectation about the place, as if some change was contemplated.’

  ‘Very well,’ resumed Biggles. ‘Let’s get the thing into line. We have two tasks. The first, is the rescue of Ross, and any other British or foreign troops who have had enough of Communism. If they all decide to come we may find ourselves overloaded — but we’ll deal with that if and when it arises. The second part of the operation is the silencing of the propaganda factory. By dividing our force into t
wo parts I see no reason why both jobs shouldn’t be worked together. One part can work the rescue, and the other, the demolitions. As we have brought all the equipment likely to be required, and plenty of hands, that resolves itself into a matter of timing. I will lead the rescue party. Captain King will be in charge of the demolition squad. Has anybody anything to say about that?’

  ‘It seems the obvious way to go about it,’ observed Gimlet.

  ‘Then we’ll work out a time-table on those lines,’ asserted Biggles. ‘There is one other point that had better be settled here and now. The total force available will comprise eight bodies, but not all of them will be able to go to the objective. One of my party will have to stay with the aircraft. Someone else will have to stand by the dinghy to deal with possible interference. That means that six men will be available for the actual raid.’

  ‘But am I not allowed to come?’ put in Wung, in a disappointed voice.

  ‘You’ve already done your part,’ Biggles told him. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Biggles. ‘That suits me. Knowing the ground so well you’ll be useful as a guide. Algy, as second-in-command, I shall have to ask you to remain in charge of the machine.’

  ‘This being second-in-command does me out of all the fun that’s going,’ protested Algy.

  ‘I’m aware of it,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But in a military operation either the first or second in command should remain in reserve in case things come unstuck. Ross is a personal affair of mine so I intend to go to him. That means you’ll be in charge during my absence.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Algy.

  ‘A member of the demolition party will have to remain with the dinghy or I may find myself short-handed,’ went on Biggles. ‘That means that seven will go forward. That won’t be too many, either, because there will be a fair amount of stuff to carry. Wung, knowing his way about, will act as liaison between both parties. I shall try to time our arrival on the coast for midnight. Allowing an hour and a half for the march we ought to be at the objective by one-thirty. An hour should be enough for the job. That means we ought to be back at the aircraft by four. But I’ll work out the time-table with Gimlet. He knows how long it will take him to fix his fireworks. Now let’s have something to eat. After that we’ll see about getting ready.’