by W E Johns
For all the sultry heat being cast off by the sun-soaked stones a cold hand seemed to touch his spine, and he prayed for the light of day to banish these melancholy meditations.
Once or twice, at long intervals, sometimes near and sometimes far, a stone, dislodged by a reptile or by the hand of time, would clatter down the hillside, making in the deathly hush a noise out of all proportion to its size. Once, afar off, a jackal howled. At least, he could think of nothing else it might be.
It was his watch when, at long last, the air shivered at the approach of another day. First the grey false dawn, causing the stars in the east to lose their lustre, then the pale pink and golden rays of the rising sun, touching the dome of heaven above his head.
The voice of one of the guards on the far side of the bridge, asking for a drink of water, brought him back to the world of stern realities. He thought it was a strange request, and he was considering it when Biggles, who must have heard, appeared with the bucket in his hand.
“Come and get it,” he said. “We’ll call a truce for five minutes. No tricks.”
The man—it was the youngish pilot who had declared that he had had enough of the Valley—made a business of putting his gun on a rock before crossing the bridge, and, tilting the bucket, drank thirstily. “Thanks,” he said, and after taking a step as if to withdraw, hesitated. “You know what they’re going to do?” he said softly.
“No,” answered Biggles.
“They’re going to pull out. They say this place is finished. They’re going to burn everything and then take everyone back to Alex. in the Douglas.”
“Leaving us here?”
“That’s the idea. They know you can’t get out. I thought I’d tip you off in return for the drink.”
“Thank you. What about the other machines?”
“They’re going to burn ‘em. They’re about done, and they’re getting a bit too well known for our job, anyhow. We’ve no real maintenance equipment here, as you may have noticed. So long, and thanks a lot for the drink.” The man went back over the bridge, and picking up his gun, sat down behind a rock.
Biggles looked at Ginger. “So that’s the plan. I didn’t think of it. Of course, I wasn’t thinking of them burning the place up, or the machines. They know as well as we do that they couldn’t take this place without casualties and it would take too long to starve us out. They’d run out of water, anyway.”
“Are they right in supposing we couldn’t get out?”
“Quite right. It would be a hopeless proposition. An Arab, properly equipped and knowing the desert tracks, might do it. But not us. By noon the sand would burn the soles off our feet.”
“Look!” Ginger pointed towards the camp. “Here they come.”
Some, not all, of the camp dwellers, appeared in the growing light, walked briskly towards the castle. Von Stalhein was with them. Pantenelli and Festwolder followed slowly. The remainder of the men were scattered about the camp doing one job or another—presumably getting ready for departure.
“What are they coming here for?” asked Ginger, watching the advancing party.
Biggles shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Maybe they hope to pull a trick to knock us out. They’d rather bump us off, if they could, than leave us here, you may be sure.”
The rim of the sun was now showing above the horizon, turning the eternal sands to lakes of living gold. The air sparkled, but the awful silence, the silence that only the desert knows, persisted.
Biggles and Ginger, from a safe position just inside the entrance archway, watched, prepared for anything except what actually happened.
It began with a gunshot near the camp, a hard yet flat report that echoed from hill to hill. A man who had been walking towards the wooden hut stumbled and fell. Then, as if the shot had been a signal, the silence was shattered and the wilderness came to life. Shots, shouts and yells, filled the air. In a moment, where all had been peace, all was confusion.
“Kurds,” said Biggles.
Ginger said nothing. He had nothing to say. Dazed by the sudden turmoil he could only stare.
What was happening in the camp itself he did not know. He could see men running about. Sometimes one would fall. The others took no notice. It seemed at first as if some of the men were trying to reach the wooden hut where the weapons were stored; but they were met by a fusillade of shots, whereupon the survivors turned about and fled towards the Douglas, which was standing some distance off, presumably in the hope of escaping what was obviously going to be a massacre. They never reached it. Out of a defile in the hills swept a compact band of horsemen, waving swords, galloping like madmen. These were the first Kurds Ginger had seen. Within a minute they had cut down the white men and were tearing on towards the camp.
Never was a surprise onset more successful. It was evident that any survivors in the camp hadn’t a hope of life.
The effect of the first shot on those near the castle had been to cause them to halt. Then those who were behind made the natural but fatal mistake of running towards the camp. Among these were Pantenelli and Festwolder. Not one reached it. Shots rang out from the hillside. Festwolder was one of those who fell. The rest turned again and raced for the castle. But they had left it too late. Wild-looking figures appeared between them and their objective. More shouts, more shots, and it was all over.
By this time von Stalhein, and another man who had been with him, had nearly reached the bridge, where the two who had been on guard were standing in an obvious state of indecision. It seemed to Ginger that they were all doomed, for, although they were unaware of it, more bearded, turbaned tribesmen, their sand-coloured robes tied up round their hips, were leaping down to intercept them.
“We’d better take a hand,” said Biggles, and raising his Luger he fired at the leader.
Von Stalhein spun round at the shot and looked at Biggles as if he thought he had fired at him; but Biggles shouted: “Mark! Above you! Keep going. I’ll try to hold ‘em off.” To Ginger he muttered, as he opened fire: “Get cracking.”
With two pistols picking them off the Kurds dived for cover and started shooting at the doorway, forcing Biggles and Ginger to a less exposed position. However, this relieved the pressure on the four white men. Three of them, dashing from cover to cover, and taking snap shots, were nearly at the bridge. Von Stalhein, not in the least flustered, moving more slowly, covered their rear, coolly and deliberately firing at any Kurd that showed. Near the bridge he stopped behind a rock, as if he had decided to make his last stand there.
“Keep going,” shouted Biggles. “Come over here.”
The three men with von Stalhein needed no second invitation. They appeared to be out of ammunition, anyway, for one of them flung his pistol at the head of a Kurd who came charging down on him. One of his companions dropped the man, and then all three made a rush for safety.
Biggles let them through and then emptied his gun at the enemy as von Stalhein walked across.
“Good morning,” greeted Biggles, smiling curiously. “You seem to be having a spot of bother outside.”
“Have you any Mauser cartridges?” asked von Stalhein.
“Only Luger—and I’ve only a ten packet of those,” replied Biggles, reloading.
“The camp’s going up in flames,” reported Ginger.
“What about the machines?” asked Biggles.
“Burning,” Ginger told him laconically.
A lull followed. Ginger announced that the Kurds who had been near the castle were running towards the camp, possibly to celebrate the victory or more likely to join in the looting.
For a minute or two from the windows they watched the quarters of the secret squadron, and its equipment, going up in flames. Clouds of smoke rolled into the sky. There was a diversion when with a cracking explosion the bombs in the burning wooden hut blew up, bringing to an abrupt end the war dance of some Kurds who were performing near it. They may not have noticed the bombs there; or perhaps they didn’t recognize them for what they w
ere.
One of von Stalhein’s men exclaimed joyfully at this, but Biggles shook his head. “It won’t make any difference,” he said.
“How many of them are there?” asked von Stalhein. “You were in a better position to see than we were.”
“No fewer than two hundred, for a rough guess. Anyway, too many for us to handle,” averred Biggles. “And by the way,” he went on, “since we seem to have plenty on our plate without fighting each other may I take it that our own hostilities are suspended until further notice?”
This was agreed, by the three men promptly, but by von Stalhein after a momentary hesitation.
“I’m sorry to put you in the embarrassing position of having to be helped by people whom you were hoping to liquidate, but that’s the way things happen in this cockeyed world,” Biggles told him. “Have you any cigarettes on you? Your toughs smoked most of mine yesterday—due to your firm’s oversight in letting stocks here run out—and I smoked my last at daybreak.”
Von Stalhein produced a gold cigarette-case, opened and offered it. There were two cigarettes in it. Biggles took one. Von Stalhein took the other and fitted it carefully into the long holder he habitually used.
“I hope we’re better off for cartridges,” said Biggles.
Von Stalhein said he had one only. The other three men had none between them. They had emptied their guns and carried no spares. Biggles had ten. Ginger seven.
“We shall have to be careful,” observed Biggles.
“Who are these people—Kurds?” questioned von Stalhein. Not for a moment did his stiff austerity relax.
“I imagine so,” answered Biggles. “We spotted one lying on the hill watching the camp last evening, just before sundown. As a matter of fact we were just going down to warn the camp that something might be cooking when you arrived. In the circumstances we thought we had better stay where we were.”
“Very wise.”
“This raid has probably been projected for some time,” went on Biggles. “The annoying thing—from your point of view—is that it wouldn’t have happened had you arrived twenty-four hours earlier, because as a soldier you’d have had the sense to put the place in some sort of position for defence. When we arrived there were no guards. The armoury door was wide open. Having no guns on us we just helped ourselves. As it turned out, that was just as well. But it looks as if you’re out of a job again. At least, you won’t work for Pantenelli and Festwolder again.”
“Did you see what happened to them?”
“They were shot. If the shots didn’t kill them they will have had their throats cut by now.”
Von Stalhein drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “What is going to be the end of this?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. The end of us, probably. The Kurds know we’re here. They know we’ve lost our transport so they know we can’t get out. That’s why they’re in no hurry. They also know we’re in no state to stand a siege for any length of time.”
“Do I take it from that you are not expecting reinforcements?”
“You do.”
“Usually you have a card up your sleeve,” said von Stalhein drily.
“On this occasion my cards are all on the table.”
“What about Lacey and Lissie?”
“The last time I saw them they were in Alexandria.”
“Did they know you were coming here?”
“Yes—more or less. But they’ve no way of getting here, and if they had I don’t see what they could do against this mob of fanatics. In the ordinary way, when the Kurds make a raid, when they’ve got what they want they beat it back to their hills where no one can follow. That’s how it was when the R.A.F. was here. What things are like now, under the Iraquis, I don’t know. My guess is that the Kurds will leave some men here to winkle us out of this, or starve us out. One tin of bully and half a dozen biscuits won’t go far between six men. There is this about it. There’s nothing we can do, so we needn’t crack our brains trying to think of something.”
“It isn’t often you say that.”
“This is one of the rare occasions when I do.”
Silence fell.
From a turret window Ginger watched clouds of smoke drifting into the pitiless sky. All that remained of the aircraft were the metal members and some smouldering debris.
Overhead, the sun toiled its daily course across the heavens, regardless of the cares and follies of men.
The day dragged on. Those in the castle had nothing to do but watch the Kurds cleaning up the camp. It was, thought Ginger, a queer end to their assignment, to stand watching a horde of barbarians doing what they themselves had set out to do—and doing it effectively. The squadron and its leaders were finished. Even more remarkable was it to be in the same room, for the first time ever, with von Stalhein, without hostility by word or action on either side. It was, he reflected, just one of those things....
It was late in the afternoon when a sudden burst of activity among the Kurds took everyone to a window. There appeared to be no reason for it, but it was apparent from the general agitation that something had happened. Men were running about with bundles of loot. Horsemen were trying to steady, while they loaded, mounts which had become restive, as if sensing danger.
But within two minutes the explanation was forthcoming. Faintly through the shimmering air came the drone of an aircraft which the Kurds must have heard before those in the castle. Presently it appeared.
“Dragon,1” said Biggles, identifying the machine.
“Algy,” cried Ginger.
“Could be. If the machine was heading anywhere but on a straight course for the Valley I’d say it was an aircraft of one of the air companies operating over Iraq. It still could be. Some still use Dragons. The pilot could have come to see what the smoke was about. Whoever it is, I hope for his sake that he doesn’t try to get down. If he does, he’s had it. The Kurds probably take it for a military job. They wouldn’t know the difference.”
“The pilot will guess what has happened, or seeing all those men, will surely have more sense than to land,” opined von Stalhein.
This view was soon confirmed. The Dragon made a circuit of the Valley at about a thousand feet. Then it dropped down to five hundred, did another circuit and finished by diving low over the Kurds, who scattered. The pilot, apparently satisfied with his reconnaisance, climbed back to his original altitude and stood away to the west. The drone faded.
“Whoever it was,” said Biggles definitely, “he’s gone away quite sure of one thing, and that is, there isn’t a living European in this valley.”
No one answered.
* * *
1 A De Havilland Dragon, built in the 1930s. A twin-engined biplane aircraft carrying 4-6 passengers.
CHAPTER XV
ALGY AND THE DRAGON
As a matter of fact Algy was flying the Dragon. And when he turned away he was quite sure that if Biggles and Ginger were in the Valley of Tartars they were no longer alive. There was never any doubt in his mind about that. He knew from R.A.F. pilots who had served in Iraq the methods of the Kurdish hillmen with their captives.
What had happened was this.
In accordance with Biggles’s final instructions in Alexandria Algy had gone to the airport and Bertie had gone to the docks. At the airport the Beechcraft stood in plain view, and Algy was watching Biggles and Ginger to make sure they got safely away when a Rolls pulled up near him and, to his consternation, he saw von Stalhein step out. There were two men with him, but with those Algy was not concerned. Von Stalhein was enough, and from the way he ran out on to the tarmac it was clear that he would have stopped the Beechcraft taking off if it had been possible. It was not, so Algy had a respite from his alarm when he saw the machine in the air. Even then he did not realize that von Stalhein had intended to be a passenger in the machine.
Withdrawing to a prudent distance he followed proceedings with interest. The three men stood talking together for some time. During this period a ste
ward passed the group, and in doing so touched his hat. Algy intercepted him, and under the pretext of looking for a friend asked the steward if he knew the names of the gentlemen who he had just saluted.
The man told him that two were Mr. Festwolder and Mr. Pantenelli, both well known at the airport, which they used frequently. The other he did not know. Thus Algy gathered another piece of important information, although it did nothing to ease his anxiety on Biggles’s account.
Continuing to watch he saw the three men go into a hangar, from which, presently, a Douglas D.C. was pulled out and taken to the servicing station. Again Algy questioned an airport employee with success. The Douglas, he learned, was the property of Mr. Pantenelli, who used it to travel round his several commercial undertakings. He had just ordered the tanks to be filled for that purpose. A fourth person who had joined the group Algy took to be the pilot.
It did not take Algy long to arrive at the fairly obvious conclusion that von Stalhein, having missed his plane, was to be taken on in the Douglas. He did not realize that the other two men were going until they stepped into the machine. That was some time later. They had gone off in the Rolls, and Algy assumed that they would not be coming back. He watched the Douglas being serviced and tested. He was surprised when the Rolls returned, and its occupants rejoined the machine. It now looked as if all three were going, and this, at the end, proved to be the case.
