by W E Johns
“But where can we find an aeroplane, monsieur?”
Raban waved his cigar. “Don’t worry about that. The question is, rather, what are you going to do after you have left North Africa? That is where I may be able to help you. Oh yes, I’ll admit frankly that I have a personal interest in this matter. You see, I happen to have a financial stake in an air-line operating company, and we are always on the lookout for good pilots. When I say good I mean pilots who are willing to undertake operations that might strike them as—well, shall we say unusual, and even useless. Why we do these things is our affair. All we ask is that the work is done without a lot of questions which, in the circumstances, might be justified. We pay our men well, of course.”
“Let us speak plainly, monsieur. You pay not only for pilotage but for silence.”
“Exactly.”
“And what sort of pay should we get, monsieur?”
“A hundred thousand francs a month, in any currency you like, with full board, lodging and expenses. Are you interested?”
“Interested!” Biggles smiled. “After our beggarly few francs in the Legion?”
“You will each have a hundred thousand francs in your pocket when you leave here tonight.”
“A thousand thanks, monsieur.”
“You will not be sorry you have joined us,” declared Raban. “We take care of those who serve us well. We have influential friends in high places who can be relied on to see that they come to no harm.”
“Would you permit me to ask a blunt question, monsieur?”
“You have every right to any question you like. We don’t expect men to take a leap in the dark.”
“These operations of ours. Are they within the law?”
Raban looked shocked. “Certainly they are. We are not criminals. I will be quite frank with you. The company for which we do a lot of work owns vast estates in several parts of the world—undeveloped parts of the world, I should explain. In such places there are sometimes to be found recalcitrant tribesmen who, by raiding our outposts, do a lot of mischief. To punish these rascals by chasing them on foot used to be a long and costly business. We find that aeroplanes do the necessary chastisement faster and more efficiently. Naturally, we try to keep this quiet to prevent us from being bothered by well-meaning people who have nothing better to do than interfere with other people’s business. But that is why we mostly use aircraft of military rather than civil types.”
“I understand,” murmured Biggles. “As far as I am concerned the only question that remains to be asked, is when do we start?”
“Tonight, of course. There is no point in your going back to the barracks.”
That Biggles was not prepared for such a suggestion was apparent from his expression.
Raban must have known this would come as a surprise to them, for he smiled. “You see, we do not let grass grow under our feet.”
“But what about our personal kit?” demanded Biggles. not attempting to hide his disinclination to accept such arbitrary orders.
Raban made a gesture that brushed the objection aside. “What personal kit of value could a legionnaire have? Surely there is nothing that we cannot replace—with something better, I hope. The toilet equipment issued by the French army is not of the best quality.”
This, of course, was true. They had nothing of value. But obviously Biggles didn’t want to be cut off without a final word with Marcel. It was equally obvious to Ginger that Raban had no intention of letting them out of his sight now he had revealed his treachery.
He consoled himself with the thought that once in the air they would be able to go where they liked. He took it for granted that they would have charge of the aircraft. But this cheerful thought was soon knocked on the head.
“What about clothes?” asked Biggles. “Do we travel in these uniforms?”
Raban shrugged. “Why not? No one will see you before you arrive at your destination.”
“But if we had to land somewhere we should be recognized as deserters!”
“That should discourage any temptation to land,” retorted Raban smoothly, with an implication that was not lost on Ginger. “Let me assure you, you have nothing to worry about,” he went on. “Everything is arranged.”
“Where is the place?”
“You’ll see it in due course.”
“And what time do we leave here?”
“That, too, you will learn when the time comes.” Raban pulled open a drawer of his desk, and taking out two wads of notes, gave them one each.
“There is your first month’s pay, with a bonus. Work out how long it would take you to earn as much money in the Legion. It should settle any doubts you may still entertain.”
“What about the course to our destination,” asked Biggles, showing that he, too, supposed they would be flying the aircraft. “I would like to check it with the map.”
“You won’t need anything like that,” returned Raban.
“Why not?”
“Your pilot will know where to go.”
“Our pilot?” Again Biggles stared.
“Of course. Had you supposed that you would be flying yourselves?”
“Yes,” replied Biggles frankly.
Raban shook his head. “That would be too dangerous. You might lose your way. After all, as yet we have no proof of your ability.”
“I see,” said Biggles.
“You will have to meet your pilot so it may as well be now,” stated Raban. “You will have a meal together before you go.” He pressed a bell.
An Arab servant answered.
“Ask Monsieur Voss to Come in,” ordered Raban.
This was another shock for Ginger. Voss! The deserter. The man who had bombed the Abyssinian village. So this is where he was, still working for the gang. Ginger looked at Biggles, but Biggles gave no sign that the name meant anything to him.
Voss came in. He was a slim, fair man in the middle twenties, good-looking in a hard sort of way. He had the typical square, close-cropped head of a Prussian. However, his manner, as he nodded to them, was cordial enough. “Now we are going to fight on the same side, Englanders. That is as it should be,” he said, thus revealing that he had been informed of their recruitment. “Have you finished with them, monsieur?” he asked Raban.
“Yes, they’re all ready,” was the answer. “I’ll leave them in your hands. Give them a drink and see that they have a meal.”
“Certainly, monsieur.” Voss beckoned the two recruits. “This way, comrades.”
Biggles and Ginger followed him to a small lounge, where they accepted a long iced drink, of which, it may be said, Ginger was badly in need. The rate at which things had gone had left him slightly dazed. Never had he been more anxious to discuss a situation with Biggles, and never had it been less possible.
Later, an Arab servant announced that dinner was served, so they went through to a small room next to the kitchen, where such a meal was served that had Ginger’s appetite been normal he would have eaten more than he did. As it was, there was too much going on in his head to leave room for an appreciation of food. Raban did not appear. He was, presumably, eating alone in the dining-room in which they had seen him talking to Voudron.
“You’ll find your new employers do you very well,” said Voss. “Serve them well and they’ll take care of you. Money is no object.”
He talked quite a lot, but was, Ginger noticed, careful not to give them any information. Biggles put in one or two prompting questions, but Voss switched the conversation every time. For the most part he talked “shop”, as if trying to check up on their air experience. There was obviously no haste about their departure.
It was after midnight when Voss got up, and after a glance at his watch announced casually that it was time they were on their way.
They went to the front door. The car was there, with the same black driver. They got in.The door slammed. The windows were shuttered. The car moved forward. There was nothing dramatic about it. Indeed, it was all as incons
equential as if they were going to a cinema. Certainly it was nothing like the scene Ginger had imagined. The fact that they were doing what they had set out to do, and it had all been made so easy, did nothing to restore his peace of mind. He had imagined that when they went both Marcel and the Air-Commodore would know about it. They might even know where they were going. Instead of which, he and Biggles were about to vanish as completely as a stone dropped in an ocean. Nor was this accidental. He realized that from the moment they had met Voudron by the mosque they had been given no chance to speak to each other alone—much less speak to anyone else, or write a letter.
After a run of about twenty minutes the car stopped. Voss, saying they had arrived, got out. They would have a little way to walk. The car turned, and glided away.
Ginger, gazing about him, perceived they were on the edge of an aerodrome, lying white and silent in the moonlight, and a matter of perhaps half a mile from the hangars. Towards these, keeping on the road, Voss led the way.
After they had gone a hundred yards a notice-board appeared, clear and stark against the sky. As Ginger read it, and knew instantly what they were about to do, he felt his pulses tingle. For not only was this a military aerodrome of the French Armée de l’Air, but the home of Escadrille 77, from which at least one aircraft had already been stolen. Voss was now going to take another. As if this were not enough to daunt him he recalled what Marcel had said about extra guards being put on. Suppose they were caught in the act—with Voss, of all people? Given time, Marcel and the Air-Commodore would no doubt get them out of the mess: but long before that could happen they were likely to be shot out of hand, for the French must have had quite enough of Voss.
Did Voss know about the extra guards? Presumably not. And the dickens of it was they couldn’t warn him without revealing how they knew, and this would betray them for what they were. Biggles was no doubt wrestling with the same problem. He said nothing, so Ginger, too, remained silent, walking along behind Voss with his heart in his mouth, as the saying is.
What astonished Ginger was Voss’s confidence. He behaved as though he knew a machine was there, waiting for them on the tarmac. If so, then obviously he had a confederate on the station.
At last Biggles spoke. He touched Voss on the arm. “One moment, my friend,” he said softly. “You will pardon us if we ask just what we are doing. Is it the intention to—er—borrow a French Air Force machine?”
“Exactly. But don’t let it worry you. One will be waiting for us.”
“But I understand we are going a long way. What about petrol?”
“The tanks will be full. Didn’t I say everything would be ready? Don’t ask fool questions. Wait here while I make sure everything is in order. I shall be five minutes at most.”
“Bon.1”
Voss went on towards the hangars, at last giving Ginger a chance to say what was on his mind.
“We’re crazy,” he told Biggles grimly. “You remember what Marcel said about extra guards.”
“Yes. We shall have to chance it. The guards may have been bribed for all we know. Anyway. I’m not going to turn back now. This is what we came for.”
“All right. And suppose we get away with it, what are we going to do? Bomb innocent people? Not likely. Yet if we refuse, or fail, we shall certainly be bumped off.”
“We shall know definitely that the secret air force exists, where it is stationed, and its purpose. There’s bound to be a connecting link between the squadron and those who control it. We’ll watch for it.”
“There must also be a connecting link between Raban and the same people. We could watch him without putting our necks in a noose.”
“Maybe. But we stand a better chance by working inside the racket than watching it from the outside. That’s enough. Here comes Voss.”
The German returned. “All clear,” he announced. “The machine’s ready. Tanks full. A touch will start her. We’ll be in the air before these useless mechanics wake up.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Ginger softly.
“No noise now,” whispered Voss, and led the way.
Ginger soon saw that he had told the truth.
On the concrete apron that fronted the gaping doors of a hangar stood an aircraft of the light-bomber type bearing the blue, white and red roundel of the French Air Force. As they walked quietly towards it a man wearing the badges of rank of a corporal appeared out of the shadows. He whispered something to Voss.
So this, thought Ginger, was the traitor. He hoped one day to have the pleasure of denouncing him. Indeed, it needed all his self-control not to do so there and then. He looked around with trepidation. Where were the guards of which Marcel had spoken? Were they all asleep? There was not a soul in sight. A feeling came over him that the place was too quiet; that the uncanny silence was itself a threat. He tried to shake off the sensation, but it persisted, and he wished himself anywhere but where he was. “If we’re going, for heaven’s sake let’s go,” he muttered.
Voss gave him a disdainful glance, as if contemptuous of his fears, and walked over to the aircraft, which was, of course, in complete darkness, showing no navigation lights.
They got in. Voss took Biggles into the cockpit with him. Ginger, in the navigator’s compartment just behind, looked out of a side window to see the corporal waving them off. The twin engines whirred and started. Instantly, as if it had been a signal, the tarmac came to life. A whistle shrilled. A man shouted an order. Dark figures, running, converged on the aircraft. The engines bellowed. The machine began to move. The corporal ran. A pistol spat. He fell, writhing. There were more shots. Some hit the machine, now gaining speed. Ginger flung himself flat as bullets smacked through the fuselage. The only thought in his racing brain was, so the guards were on the job after all.
The windows became squares of white light as a searchlight caught the aircraft in its beam and held it. A machine-gun opened up, and Ginger flinched as lead lashed the machine like a flail. Splinters flew. He bunched himself into a ball, thinking the undercarriage must be wiped off, as the aircraft swerved sickeningly. This was the end, he thought. Why didn’t Voss switch off, the fool. A crash now and they would be in flames.
He breathed again as the Breguet became airborne. A reek of petrol in his nostrils told its own story. Dimly, as in a delirium, he heard Biggles shouting.
Getting up he staggered forward.
* * *
1 French: Good.
CHAPTER VII
DEATH IN THE AIR
FOR the next ten minutes all Ginger’s worst nightmares seemed to be happening together. He could hear Biggles calling but to get to him, anxious though he was to obey, was another matter. For one thing he was in darkness and the lay-out of the aircraft unfamiliar. But what put him in a state near to panic was the way the machine was behaving. It was all over the sky, and clearly, if not out of control, nearly so. As it swung about, centrifugal force jammed him first against one side, then the other. On top of this he was half choked by petrol fumes, and expected the machine to go up in flames at any moment.
At first, as he clawed his way through the bulkhead door, he thought Biggles must have been hit. Then he thought it was the machine that had been damaged, having had its controls shot away. But it turned out to be neither of these things. One look was enough to explain everything.
It was Voss who had been hit. He was either dead or unconscious. Not having had time to strap himself in his limp body had fallen and jammed itself against the control column. From the second pilot’s seat Biggles was trying to hold him up with one hand while he endeavoured to keep the aircraft on even keel with the other. In this he was only partly successful, and the behaviour of the machine was accounted for. Ginger rushed to help him.
“Get him out of that seat,” panted Biggles. “Get him into the cabin—out of my way—anywhere. We shall hit something in a minute if I don’t get that stick back.”
Between them, with the Breguet still yawing, side-slipping and nearly stalli
ng, they got the unconscious German into his seat, and then, with a great effort, behind it. This enabled Biggles to steady the machine, with the result that Ginger had no great difficulty in dragging the limp body into the cabin, where, gasping for breath, he nearly collapsed on top of him. What to do next he didn’t know. He was finding it hard to think at all. He couldn’t have done much for the wounded man had it been daylight. In the dark he could do nothing. The stench of petrol was such that there could be no question of striking a match.
He staggered back to Biggles. “What are you going to do?”
“Get my bearings.”
“Well for heaven’s sake try to get it down.”
“For several reasons I’m not going back to the aerodrome, even if I could find it.”
“You’d better find somewhere quickly. Voss is about all in and the cabin’s swimming with petrol.”
“The gravity tank was hit. The others are still showing pressure. Don’t get in a flap. This needs thinking about.”
“I can’t see that it needs any thinking about,” declared Ginger. “I’m all for getting down.”
“If we land near that airfield after what we’ve done we shall be for the high jump.”
“If we could get down close enough to barracks to get there before daylight who’s to know we had anything to do with pinching the machine?”
“That crooked corporal may squeal.”
“Squeal nothing. He was shot. I saw him fall. What about Voss, anyway. We ought to give him a chance.”
“Is he alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to find out. I think he was hit through the neck.”
Ginger went back to the cabin. He was just in time to hear the death rattle in Voss’s throat. He returned to Biggles. “He’s had it,” he announced.
Biggles was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Bad luck. Still, he’s been asking for it for a long time. I wonder we didn’t all get it. As there’s nothing we can do for him I feel inclined to go on. The machine seems to be holding together. Go through Voss’s pockets and see if you can find a map, a compass course, anything that might tell us where he was making for. Bring the stuff here, where you can see it in the light of the instrument panel.”
