by W E Johns
“I gather you’re not keen on the job?”
“You wouldn’t expect any man in his right mind to be wildly enthusiastic at the idea of flying over thousands of miles of salt water with no rescue service available. There’s still such a thing as structural failure and even the best engines do occasionally pack up.”
“You should be able to organise a rescue service of your own. You’ve done it before.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I take kindly to the idea of wagering somebody else’s life, apart from my own, against a piece of machinery functioning properly for umpteen hours on end. I like to have something solid within striking distance. Incidentally, I notice several of these islands—the Crozets for instance—are French.”
“Quite right.”
“Do our neighbours across the Ditch know anything about this scheme?”
“No.”
“I think they should. We should look silly if they jumped on us for trespassing, as they would have every right. With the Cold War keeping everyone’s nerves on the jump, it’s easier to land on the wrong side of a prison wall than it is to get out again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Both as a matter of courtesy to an ally, and efficiency in the operation, I’d like to invite Marcel Brissac, of the French Air Security Police, to come with us. Even if he declined he would at least know what was cooking in the event of questions being asked.”
“I see no objection to that.”
“Fair enough.” Biggles came back to the desk. “Is that all?”
“All for the moment.”
“Right you are, sir. I’ll go and bury myself in maps, charts, Pilot Books and Sailing Directions, to see how the thing looks when we get down to actual figures.”
“We’ll have another talk when you’ve digested what I’ve told you.”
Biggles smiled wanly. “And that’s enough to give any pilot indigestion. However, we’ll see what we can do about it. Come on, chaps.”
* * *
1 See Biggles’ Second Case.
II
A ROVING COMMISSION
THE weeks following the conference in the Air-Commodore’s office were some of the most tedious ever for those taking part in the operation. Biggles did not say so, but the others did, with increasing frankness as time wore on.
To Ginger it became a period of what he described as sheer drudgery, aviation brought to a state of such weary monotony that he could not have imagined. It would, he asserted, have been miserable enough had it produced any result; but for all they achieved they might as well have stayed at home. He prayed that something new, requiring investigation, might arise, to give them a respite from their long and fruitless hours in the cockpit over bleak, desolate seas, looking for scraps of land in the pitiless distances south of the fortieth parallel. Flying often through fog, bitter cold, and once in a howling blizzard, the long sorties were a matter of physical endurance, while the ever present possibility of engine failure, with its inevitable consequences if the sea was rough, had the usual irritating effect on the nerves.
Based mostly in South Africa, but for a little while in Western Australia, using marine aircraft fitted with special long range tanks, they had flown out day after day over grey seas, the surface of which was broken only by an occasional whaler or iceberg, looking for the islands that the Air-Commodore had named, islands which, Bertie swore, had been created for no other purpose than to wreck good ships. They had learned of the appalling record of shipwrecks in the region from books made available by the Hydrographic Office. The graveyard of ships seemed an apt description after they had read of the loss of vessels like the Strathmore, Adventure and Prince of Wales.
To narrate in detail the many flights made would be wearisome repetition. Sometimes they failed to find the objective island. More than once they went miles off their course to survey what turned out to be a mass of black ice that had broken away from the continent of Antarctica, far to the south. These great bergs, Biggles suspected, were the “lost” islands reported by mariners from time to time.
They had made actual landings on only three occasions. For the most part the weather, or the state of the sea, would have made any such project suicidal. The first was at the French island of St. Paul, at the request of Marcel Brissac. Some Breton fishermen had proposed to establish a lobster cannery there, he said. The island, as they were aware, was the crater of an extinct volcano, with part of the rim broken down to form a natural harbour of smooth water. They found the site of the cannery, a corrugated iron hut and some pathetic-looking graves, but of the pioneers there was no sign. Biggles did not stay long. The crater was too deep for an anchorage. Moreover, it was full of enormous fish, some of which took more interest in the aircraft than was good for his peace of mind.
The second landing was a risky one. Flying low over Amsterdam Island there was a moment of excitement when they had seen a flag fluttering in the wind. It turned out to be the rags of a shirt fastened to an oar planted in the ground. What wretched castaway had put it there remained a mystery, for he couldn’t be found. The rusty bones of a ship, which they supposed to be the Meridian, knowing it to have been wrecked there, did nothing to dispel an atmosphere of tragic melancholy.
The third landing was at Kerguelen, which they had cause to remember. They spent a night there in order to complete a photographic survey for Marcel. They saw no signs of human occupation.
Heard Island they found in eruption, so they wasted no time on it. On Prince Edward Island, or its neighbour, Marion Island, both British, they could see nothing. None of these islands could boast of a beach. Black perpendicular cliffs, rising sheer for thousands of feet and deeply eroded by the sea, presented a forbidding picture.
Twice they had looked for the notorious Crozets, but each time they had found the area shrouded in fog and had to return home without having made their landfall. As some of these rocks reared themselves five thousand feet out of the sea Biggles took no chances by flying low to look for them.
In a word, the whole business was, as Bertie put it, getting more than a bit of a bind. Biggles could only agree, and promised that as soon as they had seen the Crozets he would return home and make a negative report. As the Crozets were the largest group, he did not feel inclined to go home without at least having a look at them. But from the way he said this it was clear that he, like the others, had reached the stage of no longer expecting to find anything. The awful desolation of these islands was no doubt largely responsible for this attitude. Ginger remarked that it was hard to believe that anyone in his right mind would volunteer for service in conditions that were nothing less than a living death; to which Biggles replied, dryly, that some countries did not call for volunteers. Men went where they were sent—or else...
After waiting for some days for a promise of better weather they took off in two machines for what they supposed would be their final sortie. This employment of two machines flying in consort had from the start been a routine procedure. Its purpose was obvious. If one was forced down for any reason, the other, given reasonable conditions, would land to pick up the crew, either from the aircraft itself or from the dinghy carried for such an emergency. If landing was out of the question, the surviving machine would at least know where its fellow was, and what had happened. It was realised that this might well turn out to be cold comfort, but it was better than none at all, and provided a certain amount of moral support for both crews. Actually, there was little risk of a forced landing. The machines were four-engined Sunderlands made available by the R.A.F. Even with a war load they were efficient with one engine out of action. Lightly loaded as they were for the operation, tests had shown that they could hold their altitude on two engines, no small relief for those flying them over seas where, in the event of a forced landing, the chances of being picked up were practically nil. As a matter of detail, it was agreed before the outset that the Sunderland was a big machine for the job, larger than was actually necessary, but there
was nothing else available giving the required range.
In all the flights made in the course of the operation in the South Indian Ocean only two vessels were seen outside the usual course of coasters and similar small craft. One was a tramp heading east along the forty-fifth parallel, apparently on the five thousand odd mile run from the Cape to South Australia or Tasmania. The other, farther south, was taken to be a whaler, since no other vessel was likely to have business in that area of the globe.
Biggles flew one machine with Ginger as second pilot and navigator. Algy had charge of the other, with Bertie and Marcel Brissac for crew. Marcel, it should be said, had accepted Biggles’ invitation to accompany the expedition, to watch French interests.
The weather remained clear and the Crozets were spotted from a great way off. Following the method suggested by the Air-Commodore, Biggles flying at fifteen thousand feet, throttled back a little to reduce noise and put his nose down for a fast run in, with the object of catching intruders off guard, should any be there.
The islands grew larger and harder in outline as the two Sunderlands, flying together, closed the gap. Ginger, watching, turned over in his mind all the information they had gathered about them before starting.
This was not very much, for since they were discovered in 1772 by the French navigator Marion de Fresne, who was subsequently killed by natives in New Zealand, the number of ships that had called could be counted on the fingers; and these were almost all the old-fashioned whalers in search of seals or king penguins which they boiled down for oil, practically exterminating the harmless creatures in the process. As far as was known, the last time a steamer had passed close was in 1901. It saw no sign of life.1
Ginger could pick them all out. Possession, the largest; Hog; Penguin, a sheer rock rising a thousand feet that had never been landed on; East, a volcanic mountain top with curious jagged peaks rising to five thousand feet; and the Twelve Apostles, comprising two islands with ten pinnacle rocks near by. Hog Island had got its name in a curious way. Hogs put ashore by a Captain Distance in 1834 had completely overrun the island; yet when a Captain Nares had called in 1874 there was not one left. The mystery was soon solved. Rabbits had starved them all to death by consuming the entire food supply. How the rabbits had got there was not known.2
There was supposed to be a food depot on Possession Island, established to support shipwrecked sailors, of which the islands had an unenviable record. The survivors of the Strathmore had spent seven months there before they were picked up by a whaler that had chanced to pass within sight of the group. The crew of the sealing ship Adventure had waited for eighteen months before being rescued. The survivors of the Prince of Wales had endured a miserable existence on a diet of walrus and seagulls’ eggs for two years before being picked up.
As Ginger got a better view of the scene of these depressing experiences he prayed fervently that he would not become a modern Crusoe. Robinson of that name had been lucky, he decided, for he had at least a beach to walk on. As in the case of the islands already visited there wasn’t a single beach in the entire Crozet group.
Staring down at the harsh, treeless surface of Possession as they cruised over it, losing height, Ginger’s eyes detected a faint wisp of something that he thought looked more like smoke than mist. “Is that smoke down there?” he called sharply.
“It looks like smoke to me,” answered Biggles, turning towards the point of interest. “These islands are all volcanic,” he reminded, as if offering a possible explanation.
But the matter was not long in doubt. A solitary figure could be seen scrambling over the rocks towards the spot. Apparently it carried something of an inflammable nature, for a minute later a definite column of smoke rolled up.
“There’s somebody there, anyway,” said Biggles.
“What will you do?”
“We shall have to see about getting down. Make a signal to Algy and tell him to stand by while we investigate.”
Ginger went through to the radio compartment.
When he returned to the control cabin Biggles was flying low along the lee side of the island. There was still no sign of anything resembling a beach although there were places where the eternal onslaught of the sea appeared to have undermined the cliffs and brought them crashing down in tremendous screes of black basaltic detritus. There were some indentations in the coast line, but nothing in the way of a sheltered anchorage. However, here the sea was definitely smoother than on the side from which they had approached, where the waves were foaming against the rocks. Even so, although the water was comparatively calm for the region, there was still a certain amount of swell that Ginger eyed with askance.
“What are you going to do?” he asked anxiously, looking at Biggles’ face for an indication of his intention. “I’m going down,” answered Biggles.
“It doesn’t look too good to me.”
“Nor me. But what else can we do. Put yourself in the position of that wretched fellow stranded here. At least, I don’t see how he can be anything but a castaway. How would you feel if you saw salvation in sight, only to have your hopes dashed when your signals were ignored?”
“I should jump straight into the drink and drown myself,” confessed Ginger frankly.
“Precisely. That’s why we’ve got to take a chance on getting down.”
Nothing more was said.
Biggles flew a little way along the frowning flank of the island, turned into the wind, throttled back, and losing height gently, made what Ginger supposed would be a trial run.
That may have been Biggles’ original intention, but if so he must have changed his mind, for suddenly he said: “Hold tight! We may bump a bit.” By the time Ginger had braced himself the keel struck the water with a resounding smack that enveloped the machine in a cloud of spray.
Another moment or two and it was riding a long sullen swell which, while not steep enough to be dangerous, left Ginger in doubt as to the position of his stomach.
“If you stay here I shall be sick,” he gulped, as the aircraft slid into a trough.
“I’ve no intention of staying here,” returned Biggles, and using his engines cautiously took the machine closer in, to an area of comparative calm behind a mass of fallen rock that formed a natural breakwater.
“That’s better,” said Ginger. “Now what?”
“We’ll wait for the fellow to come to us. He won’t be long, I imagine.”
“You’re not going ashore?”
“Not unless it’s unavoidable. This is no place to dally. I doubt if we should find bottom with an anchor and I don’t feel inclined to take a chance on buckling a wing tip by making fast to those rocks.”
“Then how are you going to get this chap on board?”
“We shall have to use the dinghy. Unless there’s more current than there appears you should be able to manage single-handed.” Biggles smiled. “If I’m wrong I can always pick you up.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged Ginger, with biting sarcasm.
By the time the cumbersome dinghy was on the water he could see a wild, ragged, bearded figure, leaping from rock to rock towards them. “If he breaks his neck after all our trouble I shall say something,” he remarked.
“If you’d been stuck here for any length of time with only seals for company, you’d be in a hurry to get off,” declared Biggles grimly. “Get going.”
Ginger picked up the paddle. The aircraft had drifted to within thirty yards of the nearest point of rock, so no great feat of seamanship was required to reach it. Clinging to it, he saw the scarecrow figure approaching, wild-eyed and whooping like a maniac. Indeed, Ginger’s expression changed when the thought occurred to him that the man might indeed be crazy. “Take it easy!” he shouted.
The man made no reply, but reaching the last rock, took a flying leap into the dinghy that might well have capsized it. Ginger nearly went overboard. “Sit down and sit still, you fool!” he shouted furiously.
“Ah... Ah...” panted the man,
who was obviously in a state of nervous exhaustion.
“Ask him if he’s alone,” shouted Biggles from the machine.
Ginger put the question.
“Yus, I’m the lot,” answered the castaway, speaking with an unmistakable cockney twang.
Ginger sent the dinghy forging back to where Biggles was standing by the cabin door to help them aboard.
“Make it snappy,” called Biggles. “I’m drifting too close to these rocks for my liking.”
The castaway scrambled aboard. Ginger followed. Getting to his feet he saw the rescued man sitting on the floor with his hands over his face.
“Snap out of it and answer my questions quickly,” ordered Biggles. “Are you sure there’s no one else on the island?”
The man looked up, and for the first time Ginger was really able to see what a state he was in. Emaciated and hollow-eyed, a tangle of hair and beard so covered his face that it was impossible to judge his age. “I was here on me lonesome, guvnor,” he said shakily.
“How long have you been here?”
“I dunno, mister. I’ve lost count. Some of my lot might’ve got ashore on the next island. I ain’t bin there to see. There’s a fair anchorage there.”
“How do you know that if you haven’t been there?” asked Biggles sharply.
“A bloke told me.”
“What bloke?”
“Willy. He was a Jerry—you know, German. He died on me, poor little blighter. I buried ‘im.”
Biggles looked at Ginger. “I daren’t stay talking here. Give him a drink from the Thermos, and some biscuits, to go on with. I’m going over to look at Hog Island. As soon as we’re off, tell Algy to follow us.” He hurried through to the cockpit.
The take-off was a hair-raising affair, with Ginger and his companion lying flat on the floor while the aircraft bounded in a cloud of spray before unsticking. As soon as the machine was airborne, Ginger fetched a Thermos and biscuits, and then, going to the radio compartment, gave Algy the message. By the time he had done this and joined Biggles in the cockpit they were flying low over Hog Island.
