Biggles Follows On

by W E Johns

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Raid

  It was shortly after midnight, in the soft moonlight, when the Scorpion, after a long glide, brushed its keel gently on the sullen waters of the Yellow Sea within a short distance of the flat Manchurian coast. The anchor found bottom at six fathoms, and the aircraft swung gently to a flowing tide. Not a light showed anywhere, near or far, on land or sea.

  Without fuss or bustle the dinghy was launched, and Gimlet’s party, with its rather heavy equipment, moved off. In twenty minutes the squat little craft was back to take the remainder of the force ashore. Algy remained in the cockpit with a Thermos flask of tea for company.

  All was quiet on the beach. A quick reconnaissance was made from the top of the dunes, but nothing was seen, so loads were distributed, and with Wung leading, a prismatic compass in his hand, the party went forward in single file. It was Cub who, to his disappointment, had been allotted the task of mounting guard over the dinghy, for the reason that his older comrades were better able to carry the batteries, coils of wire, explosive charges, and other equipment. He remained at his post, a rifle across his knees.

  The march that followed was a matter of wearisome necessity. It was heavy going all the way, as from Wung’s experience they all knew it would be. The ground was sheer marsh. There was no actual standing water, but the earth was soft and treacherous under a blanket of spongy sphagnum moss. The only things to thrive in it were a coarse grass, which grew in awkward tussocks, and short rushes, apparently some sort of iris from the flowers it bore. The air was dank and chill. What it would be like when the icy hand of winter settled on it Ginger could only imagine. The prisoners, he pondered as they trudged on, would need their fur caps and heavy coats. They would also regret their folly when they found that this insalubrious area of the earth’s surface was to be their home.

  Over the vast plain hung a mist of varying intensity. For the most part visibility was limited to about a hundred yards. Beyond that everything was dim and vague. If it made the going uncomfortable, as it did, it made amends by screening their approach. At intervals long skeins of migrating geese could be heard passing overhead.

  Two rests were taken before Wung announced that the immediate objective was not far ahead. This was the ruins of a peasant’s hovel, built of turves, now crumbling. It stood about a hundred yards from the outer wire. Wung had come upon it, and used it, on his first sortie. He had drawn attention to it on one of the photographs as a useful place to make a dump from which to operate. The suggestion had been accepted.

  The dilapidated dwelling loomed up, a mere blob rising a few feet above the level ground in a featureless landscape. Some way beyond it two lights grew slowly in the mist. One of them, Wung stated, came from the commandant’s bungalow; the other from the radio station, which operated day and night. There was no sign of movement anywhere so loads were dropped while a general survey was made, Wung indicating the positions of the most important buildings. In the direction of the little township that gave the place its name all was dark and silent. It might not have been there for all that could be seen of it.

  After a short rest Gimlet said he would be moving on. In working out the details of the scheme it had been decided that, as he had the most work to do, he should have twenty minutes clear start. Both parties were to rally on the ruined hovel in the event of trouble, or, if all went well, on the completion of their respective tasks. The explosive charges would then be fired, to be followed at once by the retreat to the coast.

  Copper and Trapper were already on their knees arranging the batteries. This done, they moved off with their leader under Wung’s guidance, uncoiling wire from a drum as they went. In a few minutes they had disappeared in the darkness.

  Biggles, Bertie and Ginger squatted on mud bricks that had fallen from the walls until the twenty minutes’ grace had expired. Then Biggles rose to his feet. ‘Time’s up,’ he said softly, and walked on towards the outer fence of the camp. It could not yet be seen, but its position was known.

  There had been some discussion before the start as to how to make the best of Wung’s local knowledge. At the end it had been decided that he should go with Gimlet, who had several objectives beside the radio station and its pylons. It was intended, if possible, to deal also with the power house and the petrol and ammunition dumps. Trapper, too, was to cut the telephone wires. Thus it was hoped that by destroying all communications nothing would be known of the raid, outside the station, for some time — long enough, at all events, for the Scorpion to reach its base without fear of interception by enemy aircraft.

  Biggles had only one objective, which was to reach the prisoners’ sleeping quarters, and this, compared with what Gimlet had to do, appeared to be a fairly simple matter. There was only one snag. There was no cover of any sort. On the other hand, with one man only on duty at the gate — and he, in all probability, not very vigilant — there was reason to hope that the objective might be gained without a sound being made.

  It was agreed that the sentry would have to be put out of action, for even one man in the rear, armed with a rifle, might do a lot of mischief. Copper, the big Cockney ex-policeman, had offered to attend to this matter.

  Biggles’ party made contact with the fence some distance from the sentry box that marked the position of the gate. They all stared at it. There was no sign of the sentry, so it could be presumed that Copper had done his work. However, to be on the safe side, Biggles decided to confirm this. He sent Ginger along.

  Gun in hand, Ginger made a cautious approach, advancing on the sentry box from the rear. The man was there, unconscious, trussed up in a heap on the floor. Ginger returned to the others and reported this, whereupon Biggles, with powerful cutters brought for the purpose, in a couple of minutes had made a broad gap through the wire. The purpose of this, instead of using the gate, was to provide them with their own line of retreat in case of emergency.

  With eyes and ears alert the party moved forward quietly to the inner fence — the wire that surrounded the prisoners’ quarters. It was reached in a silence that was profound.

  Again came the crisp snick as Biggles’ cutters bit through the wire. The loose ends were dragged aside and the way lay open to the final objective. The two big huts were already in plain view, silhouetted against the sky. The nearer, thanks to Wung, was known to be the sleeping quarters. To the door, which was at the end, Biggles now made his way.

  It is not to be supposed that the apparent ease of these operations bereft them of any atmosphere of excitement. Far from it. Darkness is always a threat; and the very silence hung over the place like a menace. The knowledge that at any moment a shout or a shot might shatter it imposed a degree of suspense that kept all nerves at full stretch. Hearts and pulses, however, toughened by experience, increase their tempo at such times.

  Ginger’s eyes, striving to probe the surrounding gloom, were never still. They became fixed on a movement. Psst!’ he warned.

  In a moment they were all flat on the ground, worming round the nearest corner of the hut.

  ‘What is it?’ breathed Biggles.

  ‘Someone coming.’

  They lay motionless, waiting, listening, as approaching footsteps swished through the rank grass.

  Ginger allowed his breath to escape in a sigh of relief. ‘It’s Wung,’ he announced. ‘Something must have gone wrong.’

  They all stood up and Wung joined the party.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Biggles in a terse undertone.

  ‘There seems to be a conference going on at the Commandant’s house,’ reported Wung in a low voice. ‘Captain King asked me to look in when we were passing, Some men are talking about you. I heard your name mentioned. Captain King could not wait as he has much to do, but he thought you should know in case some sort of trap has been set.’

  ‘You actually looked in the room?’

  ‘Yes, through the window.’

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘The Commandant. With
him is a Chinese general whom they call Kwang-Sen. I have not seen him before, but he seems to be senior to the Commandant. There is also another Russian officer, who is, I think, an aeroplane pilot. He wears wings on his uniform. There is also a German. I think he does not speak much Russian or Chinese, because there is an interpreter.’

  ‘Did you see this German when you were here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What sort of man is he?’

  ‘Tall, clean shaven, well dressed. He stands and speaks like a soldier. He wears an eyeglass, and smokes all the time a cigarette in a long holder.’

  ‘Sounds as if von Stalhein has got here,’ remarked Biggles dryly, looking at the others. ‘I can’t say that I’m altogether surprised. After all, this is his affair as much as ours.’ He turned back to Wung. ‘Did you get any idea of what these men were talking about, apart from mentioning my name?’

  ‘From what I could make out the German was trying to convince General Kwang-Sen that you would come here, so there should be more soldiers. He seems to know that you have left London, and that British Intelligence now knows about the broadcasting station.’

  ‘What did the General say to that?’

  ‘He seemed disinclined to do anything. I have the impression that he was drinking with Commandant Kubenoff when the others arrived.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No. I did not stay long because Captain King was waiting for me.’

  ‘All right. You’d better get back to him. Tell him to lose no time because von Stalhein is here, and if he has his way things are likely to happen.’

  Wung went off and soon merged into the gloom.

  Biggles faced the others. ‘I’d better have a look at this in case it is decided to post extra guards right away. That might put Gimlet in a jam. Stand fast till I come back. If a flap should start, try to grab Ross and make for the ruined hut. I’ll join you there.’ So saying, he walked quickly in the direction of the bungalow, the position of which was clear from the light that streamed from one of its windows.

  A glance showed him that his surmise had been correct. Von Stalhein, as coldly austere and as immaculate as ever in spite of his long journey, was expostulating with a heavily-built Chinaman who, in a uniform decorated with medals, sprawled in an armchair with a glass in his hand.

  A man in Russian uniform — Kubenoff, Biggles presumed — was sitting opposite. Standing nearby was a man who, from his actions and the way he spoke, was evidently the interpreter. Von Stalhein spoke in German.

  ‘The matter is of importance to me, if not to you, General,’ he was saying. ‘Why do you think I have come all this way? For my own good, I admit, but for yours also. This man Ross is a spy, put in by the British secret agent, Bigglesworth. If it is learned in Moscow that a stool-pigeon has been introduced into the organisation it will be bad for me, and for you, too, if you do nothing about it. Stresser, one of my men in Europe, has made a complete confession. He was suspected, and has been made to talk. He now admits that in Prague he sold to Bigglesworth information about the destination of Ross, who was followed out from England.’

  ‘We will have this man Ross before us in the morning,’ said the General thickly. ‘He shall tell us all he knows.’

  ‘Why not now?’ argued von Stalhein.

  ‘Because I am tired. Nothing is likely to happen between now and daylight.’

  Biggles, with his eyes on von Stalhein’s face, could almost sympathise with him. It seemed to be the fate of the German that his own efficiency should be offset by the laxity of the people under whom he served.

  Another man stepped into the conversation. ‘It would be better to wait for a little while,’ he said. ‘Ross is to broadcast presently. It is important and will be relayed to all stations. He does not know this, of course. He has been told that it is only a rehearsal to test his voice, otherwise he would refuse. He is difficult. It would be better not to upset him just before the broadcast.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the General, reaching for a bottle that stood on a nearby table.

  ‘But, at least, it would be no trouble to put on extra guards,’ protested von Stalhein.

  Kwang-Sen yawned. ‘Very well, if it will satisfy you.’

  ‘Why not let me have a word with Ross?’ suggested von Stalhein. ‘He knows me. I would tell him that his being sent here was all a mistake and that I have come to take him back to Europe. That would put him in good heart. I would learn the truth from him. Afterwards, you can do what you like with him.’

  ‘That might be a good thing,’ conceded Kwang-Sen. ‘But don’t worry me again tonight. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Have a drink?’

  Biggles waited for no more. He hastened back to the others. ‘We were just in time,’ he informed them grimly. ‘We’d better get mobile. Von Stalhein is here. Stresser has spilt the whole can of beans, so von Stalhein has a pretty good idea of what’s likely to happen. He insists on the guards being doubled. The General is soaked with liquor, and can’t be bothered, but he has more or less agreed. What is worse, von Stalhein is trying to get to Ross. I left them all talking. But, whatever the others do, von Stalhein won’t go to bed. We don’t want him barging into the picture before we are finished, so we’d better get Ross and pull out right away.’

  ‘What’s the drill?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I shall have to switch on the light in the hut,’ answered Biggles. ‘We must see what we’re doing. When I do, you, Bertie, will slip along to the far end and deal with this sergeant fellow if he tries to make trouble, as no doubt he will. But no shooting unless the position becomes desperate. Okay. Let’s go.’

  Automatic in one hand, Biggles advanced to the door. At the same moment it was opened from the inside and a man in pyjamas stepped out. Half-asleep, it seemed, he had taken two paces towards the wash-house before he noticed that he was not alone. The shock brought him to life.

  ‘What’s the idea? Who are you?’ he demanded, in English, with an American accent.

  Biggles showed his gun. ‘Are you an American?’

  ‘Sure I’m an American.’

  ‘Do you like it here or would you rather go home?’

  The man stared. ‘Would I rather go home?’ he echoed incredulously. ‘That’s somewhere I didn’t reckon to see again. Serve me right for being a sucker. Who are you?’

  ‘British agents. We’ve come to fetch one of our fellows home. The name’s Ross.’

  ‘That’s right. The guy’s inside.’

  ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘Am I coming? Brother, wait till I get my clothes on!’

  ‘Stand fast for a minute.’

  Biggles went to the door. Inside all was in darkness. From it came the heavy breathing of sleeping men. A few seconds sufficed to find the electric light switch. It clicked, and the scene inside the hut was revealed.

  It was as Wung had described. Low trestle beds, about twelve on each side, were arranged round the walls. Not all were occupied. From those that were, men, awakened by the light, raised themselves on an elbow to ascertain the reason.

  Bertie walked quickly down the centre gangway to a door at the far end and took up a position beside it.

  From behind it a harsh voice shouted: ‘Put that light out!’

  ‘Put it out yourself,’ invited Bertie smoothly.

  A stream of threats well mixed with curses was the reply. An instant later the door was flung open and a man with tousled hair, and pyjamas awry, appeared, eyes glowering belligerently.

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Bertie. ‘Don’t move.’

  The man spun round and blinked at the muzzle of Bertie’s gun. By this time the occupied beds were astir. Some of the men sat up. Others flung off their blankets and sprang to their feet. ‘Take it easy, everybody,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Ross!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get your clothes on and make it snappy. We’ve come for you.’ Biggles went on: ‘Listen, everybody. Anyone who wants to go home will stand up. Those wh
o want to stay, lie down — and stay down. No tricks. This gun’s loaded.’

  The sergeant in charge found his voice. He took a pace forward, but, seeing Bertie’s gun move, stopped abruptly. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just a hold-up — just a hold-up,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Nothing to get excited about. Stand still unless you want to go bye-byes for a long time.’

  The man stood still, staring. There was in fact little else he could do in a situation that he could hardly have imagined.

  Biggles’ voice rose again above the babble of conversation that had broken out. ‘Not so much noise,’ he snapped. ‘One word of warning. Those who come with me will face a court-martial when they get home. Please yourselves. I don’t care whether you come or stay.’

  Practically all the men who were scrambling into their clothes continued to do so. Only two got back into their beds, and later on Biggles was to learn why. They, and the sergeant in charge, were wanted in their own countries for crimes more serious than desertion. The sergeant had, in fact, murdered a girl in Berlin while serving with the Forces of Occupation.

  The first man to be ready was, from his accent, an American. His bed was at the far end of the room. Still buttoning his tunic, he advanced purposefully towards Bertie. ‘Thanks for calling, pal,’ he said in a curious voice. ‘I was afraid I was in this dump for keeps. Show us your gun.’

  Smiling, Bertie half withdrew; but with a lightning movement the man snatched the gun from his hand and jumped back.

  ‘Nice work,’ said the sergeant, and started to move; but he stopped dead as the muzzle of the weapon jerked round to cover him. ‘What – what’s the idea?’ he faltered.