Biggles Follows On

by W E Johns

  The American’s eyes had taken on a queer glitter. His lips were parted and drawn back against his teeth. ‘You know the idea, Sarge,’ he grated. ‘Remember me? Clutson’s the name – Joe Clutson, from Arizona. You prodded me into this frame-up, didn’t you, me and my buddy, Johnny Briggs? You remember Johnny? You croaked him, didn’t you? Bashed him on the head with a hammer because he told you what you are – a dirty, lying, sneaking rat. I’ve prayed every night for this chance. Now I know that prayers are answered.’

  ‘Stop that!’ shouted Biggles from the far end of the room.

  ‘Now, wait a minute, Joe,’ quavered the sergeant, raising his hand.

  ‘Wait nothing,’ snarled Clutson. ‘Now it’s my turn, even if I fry for it. Hold this, you swine, for Johnny. You—’

  The rest was lost in the crash of the weapon as it spat a stream of sparks that ended at the sergeant’s chest.

  The sergeant, a look of horror and amazement frozen on his face, staggered back against the wall. His body sagged and he slumped slowly to the floor.

  In the shocked silence that followed Clutson handed the weapon back to Bertie. ‘Thanks, pal,’ he said simply.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Von Stalhein is Annoyed

  The silence was next broken by Biggles from the far end of the room. ‘You fool!’ he rasped, clipping his words in his anger. ‘You crazy fool! You’ve probably sunk us all.’

  ‘I’ve sunk the rat who killed my buddy, and that’s all I care,’ answered Clutson, speaking carelessly, like a man who is content and has no regrets. He lit a cigarette.

  In a way, Ginger could sympathise with him; but he was aghast at the price everyone was likely to pay for his revenge.

  ‘Get the key of the hut, Bertie,’ ordered Biggles. ‘According to Wung it hangs in the cubicle. Tell me when you’ve got it.’

  Bertie darted in. ‘Okay!’ he called.

  Biggles switched off the light, in the hope, presumably of delaying the inevitable investigation. The report must have been heard all over the camp, but that did not necessarily mean that it would be traced to the compound immediately. If the light was on, however, it would speak as plainly as words — certainly to the keen-witted von Stalhein.

  ‘Outside, everybody,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Come on, Ross. Any others who want to come will have to finish dressing on the way. This will be a hot spot inside five minutes. Give me the key, Bertie. Thanks. Now get these fellows through the wire and along to the hut. Ginger, you can go with them and take care of Ross if there’s trouble.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I shall try to cause a diversion. With everyone on the move, Gimlet is liable to be cut off.’

  Bertie mustered his flock. ‘This way, chaps,’ he ordered. ‘No more talking.’ He set off at the double, followed by a crocodile of men hugging various garments and other possessions.

  Biggles watched them out of sight and then, turning his attention to the camp, saw that the shot had done what he feared. The place was astir.

  Lights sprang up in several places and hurrying figures could be seen against them. Very soon three of these stood out clearly as they ran towards the compound. One of them, he saw without surprise, was von Stalhein.

  Still holding his gun, Biggles took a pace round the corner and, pressing his body against the woodwork, stood still. He could no longer see the figures, but he could hear them coming. They ran up, panting, and, as he was sure they would, went straight into the hut.

  The light clicked on. For a moment all was quiet as the men took in the scene. Then the prone figure of the sergeant must have been noticed, for the footsteps hurried on to the far end. The next move, Biggles knew, would be a general alarm.

  He walked round to the door and looked in. He saw what he expected to see. The three men were staring down at the prostrate sergeant, while the two prisoners who had stayed behind were telling them, incoherently, what had happened.

  Biggles reached out to close the door and lock it, intending to depart then without revealing himself; but the movement must have caught von Stalhein’s eye, for he looked round sharply and, of course, saw who was at the door. Biggles finished what he was doing, and hearing swift footsteps within, and guessing what they portended, stepped aside smartly as soon as the door was locked.

  ‘Bigglesworth!’ came von Stalhein’s voice.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ answered Biggles.

  A heavy revolver crashed, and splinters of wood flew from the door in line with where von Stalhein must have supposed Biggles to be standing.

  ‘Naughty!’ chided Biggles.

  ‘I’ll remember this,’ promised von Stalhein, an edge on his voice.

  ‘If your boss tries to give you a black, tell him it was his own fault for putting the camp in charge of a drunk,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll confirm it. You know my address? You’ll find a souvenir on the door.’

  He took off the spotted tie he was still wearing, hung it over the door handle, and walked away in the direction of the gap in the wire.

  By the time he had reached it von Stalhein and his companions must have discovered that they were locked in, for there was a good deal of banging on the door. There was also some shouting, This was followed by several revolver shots, as someone, Biggles thought, tried to shoot the lock out of the door. He walked on. That the shots in the hut had been heard was soon apparent from the way more figures began to converge on it.

  He paid little attention to them, and went on to the hovel without meeting anyone. Bertie and his party were there, a huddled, silent group; but Gimlet had not yet arrived.

  Biggles waited, staring in the direction from which they should come.

  Wung, alone, was the first to arrive. He reported that the others were on their way. There had been some delay, he explained, because so many people were now moving about.

  ‘Good enough,’ acknowledged Biggles, ‘As you know the way you can start off and get this gang to the coast. Bertie and Ginger will wait here with me in case Gimlet runs into trouble and needs help.’

  Telling the men to follow him Wung set off across the marsh.

  A few minutes later Gimlet and his two assistants arrived. ‘Everything all right?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Gimlet. ‘I was afraid at one time we might have to cut the programme short, but we managed to complete it. Did you get your man?’

  ‘He’s on his way to the boat, with some others.’

  ‘What was the shooting about? That sort of started things.’

  ‘Couldn’t help it. A crazy prisoner shot the sergeant. Said he had bumped off his pal, or something.’

  ‘Fool thing to do.’

  ‘People do fool things when they lose their heads.’

  ‘Shan’t keep you a minute,’ said Gimlet, and turned to watch critically while Copper and Trapper, with the aid of a small, shielded torch, made the connections to their batteries.

  Bertie spoke. ‘By the way, Gimlet old boy, I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time, have you still got that flea-bitten old grey mare you called Seagull?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got her.’

  ‘She could jump like a cat, that mare.’

  ‘She still can.’

  ‘Want to sell her?’

  ‘Not likely. I’m hoping to win next year’s Grand National with her.’

  ‘Riding her yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She might do it. She’s got brains, that old lady. I remember, out huntin’, how she watched for the rabbit holes.’

  ‘Here they go,’ came Copper’s voice from the ground. ‘What did I tell yer, Trapper old chum? Didn’t I tell yer we should be fox huntin’ ternight if these two got tergether?’

  Trapper clicked his tongue. ‘You said it.’

  ‘Not so much talking, you two,’ requested Gimlet. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’

  ‘We’re all set, sir,’ informed Copper, straightening his back.

  ‘Good. All right. You can
pull the plug.’

  Copper took the sparking plunger in both hands and thrust it home.

  Ginger was prepared for a certain amount of noise, but not for what actually happened.

  He nearly went over backwards as the earth erupted in a dozen places at once. Spears of flame leapt skyward, taking with them objects that could not be identified. Into the reverberations of the explosions came the crash of falling pylons, which gave a wonderful display of blue sparks as the electrical connections snapped and shorted.

  Small arms ammunition continued to crackle in spasmodic bursts from the direction of the ammunition dump. Black smoke began to roll up above a lurid glow.

  ‘Jolly good show, old boy,’ murmured Bertie.

  ‘Looks as if we got the fuel tanks after all,’ observed Gimlet thoughtfully. He turned to Biggles. ‘I wasn’t quite sure about them because, having got your message, I had to finish in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘If I’m any judge of this sort of thing you’ve made a pretty job of it,’ complimented Biggles.

  ‘Bent the old microphone somewhat, I’ll bet,’ said Bertie cheerfully.

  ‘Yes. I don’t think there will be any Music While You Work from this station for a day or two,’ agreed Gimlet.

  ‘In that case we might as well be getting back,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I don’t think we’ve much to worry about. Everyone seems to be busy trying to put the fires out. From what I can see from here the place is in too much of a flap for anyone to organise anything.’

  ‘Poor old Erich,’ said Bertie sadly. ‘He’ll get a kick in the pants from the boys who thought out this jolly little scheme. Serves him right. Yes, by Jove! absolutely.’

  ‘It’s his own fault,’ asserted Biggles. ‘He will play with the wrong sort of people. Still, I hope nothing serious happens to him. We should miss him. He keeps us on our toes. But let’s get mobile.’

  They set off, and making good time, overtook Wung and his party just before they reached the coast. There was no pursuit; or if there was, no sign of it was seen. Which was just as well, because the dinghy had to make several trips between the shore and the aircraft to get everyone aboard. However, it was only a matter of time. When the last journey had been completed the dinghy was deflated, and abandoned to save weight, and the Scorpion, loaded to capacity, with Algy at the stick, took off and set a course for its base.

  Biggles found Ross and congratulated him on his splendid work. ‘By the way,’ he went on, looking round. ‘Which of these lads is your friend, Macdonald?’

  ‘He isn’t here, sir,’ answered Ross.

  Biggles looked disappointed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He was shot some days ago, trying to escape,’ said Ross, in a tremulous voice. ‘He blamed himself for getting me into the business.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ consoled Biggles quietly. ‘I’m afraid that’s the sort of thing that happens only too often when fellows decide to take the bit in their teeth.’

  Bertie was sitting next to Gimlet. ‘You were telling me about old Seagull?’ he prompted.

  Copper breathed heavily and nudged Trapper in the ribs. ‘’Ere they go agin,’ he said plaintively. ‘This is where I snatch a spot of shut-eye. Strewth! Could I do with a nice plate o’ fish and chips? My oath I could. This stayin’ up all night always did make me peckish.’

  Ginger looked at Cub and smiled. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ he whispered. ‘I’m a bit weary myself.’

  The engines droned on under stars that were beginning to pale with the approach of another day.

  That really is the end of the story as far as it concerned Biggles and his comrades. The Scorpion reached its base without trouble of any sort, and after a day’s rest Biggles took off on the return flight home. He took Ross with him. The other repentant deserters were left behind, having been handed over to the proper military authority for disciplinary action.

  Guardsman Ross, it may be said here, was subsequently awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for the part he had played, much to the astonishment of his comrades in barracks who had supposed him to be absent without leave.

  It turned out that Ross knew the names of some of the renegades who had volunteered to act as spies behind the lines in Korea. Army Intelligence Officers, with this information, soon picked them up. Their fate remained a matter for conjecture. Nothing more was heard of them.

  The raid on the village of Fashtun, their headquarters, was made by a force of Marine Commandos with satisfactory results. Biggles knew no more about that than was published in the newspapers, except, of course, he knew why the raid was made. As he said to the others, when they returned to normal duties after a few days break, he had no further interest in Korea.

  But he had an interest in a letter that arrived some time later. A slow smile spread over his face as he read it. ‘You won’t guess who this is from so I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Smith, our friend in Prague. He’s home, and wants us to have a meal with him.’

  ‘Well, blow me down!’ cried Bertie. ‘How did he manage it?’

  ‘He doesn’t say,’ answered Biggles. ‘But it should be quite a story.’

  And it was. But this is not the place to tell it.

  THE END