Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  The word ‘Hun’ used in this book was the generic term for anything belonging to the German enemy. It was used in a familiar sense, rather than derogatory. Witness the fact that in the R.F.C., a hun was also a pupil at a flying training school.

  W.E.J.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: A DESERT RENDEZVOUS

  CHAPTER 2: DESERT PATROL

  CHAPTER 3: WHAT HAPPENED TO GINGER

  CHAPTER 4: SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER 5: THE DECOY

  CHAPTER 6: BIGGLES STRIKES AGAIN

  CHAPTER 7: EVENTS AT THE OASIS

  CHAPTER 8: A DESPERATE VENTURE

  CHAPTER 9: A PERILOUS PASSAGE

  CHAPTER 10: THE HABOOB

  CHAPTER 11: HAPPENINGS AT SALIMA

  CHAPTER 12: THE ENEMY STRIKES AGAIN

  CHAPTER 13: BIGGLES TAKES HIS TURN

  CHAPTER 14: THE STORM BREAKS

  CHAPTER 15: ABANDONED

  CHAPTER 16: THE BATTLE OF SALIMA

  CHAPTER 17: THE LAST ROUND

  Chapter 1

  A Desert Rendezvous

  So slowly as to be almost imperceptible the stars began to fade. The flickering rays of another day swept up from the eastern horizon and shed a mysterious twilight over the desert that rolled away on all sides as far as the eye could see. Silence reigned, the tense expectant hush that precedes the dawn, as if all living things were waiting, watching, holding their breath.

  Suddenly a beam of light, tinged with crimson, began to paint the sky with pink, and simultaneously, as though it were a signal, from the north-east came the deep, vibrant drone of aircraft. Six specks appeared, growing swiftly larger, and soon resolved themselves into Spitfires1 flying in Vee formation.

  From the cockpit of the leading machine, Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth, better known in the R.A.F. as Biggles, surveyed the wilderness that lay beneath, a desolate, barren expanse of pebbly clay and sand, sometimes flat, sometimes rippling, dotted with camel-thorn bushes, and sometimes broken by long rolling dunes that cast curious blue-grey shadows.

  The rim of the sun, glowing like molten metal, showed above the horizon. With it came the dawn-wind, and almost at once the aircraft began to rise and fall, slowly, like ships riding an invisible swell. The sky turned to the colour of polished steel, and the desert to streaming gold, yet still the planes roared on. Once Biggles toyed with the flap of his radio transmitter, but remembering his own order for wireless silence, allowed it to fall back. Instead, he glanced at his reflector to make sure that the machines behind him were still in place.

  The rocking of the planes became more noticeable as the sun climbed up and began its weary toil across the heavens, driving its glittering lances into a waterless chaos of rock and sand, sand and rock, and still more sand. But Biggles was looking at the watch on his instrument panel now more often, and the frown of concentration that lined his forehead dissolved as an oasis came into view, a little island of palms, as lonely as an atoll in a tropic sea. His hand moved to the throttle, and as the defiant roar of the aircraft dropped to a deep-throated growl, its sleek nose tilted downwards. Soon the six machines were circling low over the nodding palms, from which now appeared half a dozen men in khaki shirts and shorts, and wide-brimmed sun helmets.

  Biggles landed first, and taxied swiftly towards them. The others followed in turn, and in a short while had joined the leading machine, which had trundled on into a narrow aisle that had been cleared between the trees.

  Biggles jumped down swiftly, stretched his cramped limbs, and spoke to a flight-sergeant who, having saluted, stood waiting; and an observer would have noted from their manner that each enjoyed the confidence of the other, a confidence that springs from years of association—and, incidentally, one that is peculiar to the commissioned and non-commissioned ranks of British military forces. Amounting to comradeship and sympathetic understanding, the original backbone of discipline was in no way relaxed, a paradoxical state of affairs that has ever been a source of wonder to other European nations. The N.C.O.2 was, in fact, Flight-Sergeant Smythe, who had been Biggles’ fitter on more than one desperate enterprise in civil as well as military aviation.

  ‘Is everything all right, flight-sergeant?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did the stores arrive as arranged?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Flight Lieutenant Mackail brought most of the stuff over in the Whitley3. He has flown the machine back to Karga. He told me to say that everything is okay there, and he will be on hand if you want him.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Good. Get the machines under cover. Fit dust sheets over the engines and spread the camouflage nets. Send some fellows out to smooth our wheel tracks with palm fronds. I hope they understand that no one is to set foot outside the oasis without orders?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve told them about the risks of getting lost in the dunes.’

  ‘That’s right; moreover, we don’t want footprints left about. Is there some coffee going?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve put up the officers’ mess4 tent near the spring. It’s a little farther on, in the middle of the palms.’

  ‘Did you bring that boy of yours with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here, sir. He’s got the radio fixed up, and someone is always on duty, day and night, listening.’

  ‘What about petrol?’

  ‘It’s all here, sir, in the usual four-gallon cans. I didn’t dump it all in one place. I had half a dozen pits dug, in different parts of the oasis—in case of accidents.’

  ‘Good work, flight-sergeant. I’ll have another word with you later.’

  As the flight-sergeant moved off Biggles turned to the five officers who were standing by. ‘Let’s go and get some breakfast,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll tell you what this is all about.’

  In the mess tent, over coffee and a cigarette, he considered his pilots reflectively. There was Flight-Lieutenant Algy Lacey, Flight-Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie, and Flying-Officers Ginger Hebblethwaite, Tug Carrington, and Tex O’Hara, all of whom had fought under him during the Battle of Britain.

  ‘All right, you fellows,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s get down to business. No doubt you are all wondering why the dickens we have come to a sun-baked, out-of-the-way spot like this, and I congratulate you on your restraint for not asking questions while we were on our way. My orders were definite. I was not allowed to tell anyone our destination until we were installed at Salima Oasis, which, for your information, is the name of this particular clump of long-necked cabbages that in this part of the world pass for trees. Even now, all I can tell you about our position is that it is somewhere near the junction of the Sudan, Libya, and French Equatorial Africa5.’ Biggles broke off to sip his coffee.

  ‘As most of you know,’ he continued, ‘a fair amount of traffic, both British and American, is passing from the West Coast of Africa to the Middle East. Most of it is airborne, and it is that with which we are concerned. This oasis happens to lie practically on the air route between the West Coast and Egypt. Over this route is being flown urgent stores, dispatches, important Government officials travelling between home and the eastern battlefields, and occasionally senior officers. It is quicker than the sea route, and—until lately—a lot safer. The route is about two thousand miles long, and the machines that fly it are fitted with long-range tanks to make the run in one hop. We are sitting about midway between the western and eastern termini—which means that we are a thousand miles from either end. For a time, after the route was established, everything went smoothly, but lately a number of machines have unaccountably failed to arrive at their destinations. They disappeared somewhere on the route. No one knows what became of them.’ Biggles lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘Our job
,’ he resumed, ‘is to find out what happened to them, and that doesn’t just mean looking for them—or what remains of them. There is a mystery about it. Had one machine, or even two, disappeared, we might reasonably suppose that the pilot lost his way, or was forced down by structural failure or weather conditions; but during the past month no fewer than seven machines have failed to get through, and the Higher Command—rightly, I think—cannot accept the view that these disappearances are to be accounted for by normal flying risks. They believe—and I agree with them—that the machines were intercepted by hostile aircraft. After all, there would be nothing remarkable in that. It would be optimistic to suppose that an important air route like this could operate indefinitely without word of it reaching the ears of the enemy. Naturally, they would do their utmost to prevent the machines from getting through. There is no proof that such a thing is happening, but it is a possibility—I might say probability.’

  Here Algy interposed. ‘Suppose enemy machines are cutting in on the route; surely it’s a long trip down to here from the enemy-occupied aerodromes in North Africa?’

  ‘You’ve put your finger on something there,’ agreed Biggles. ‘My personal opinion is that the Nazis, or Italians6, have detailed a squadron or a special unit to take up its position near the route in order to patrol it and destroy any Allied machine it meets. You will now realise why we are here. The machines that fly over this route must go through, and our job is to see that they go through. If an enemy squadron is operating down here, then we must find it and wipe it out of the sky. They will get an unpleasant surprise when they discover that someone else is playing their own game. At the moment we hold the important element of surprise. Assuming that enemy aircraft are operating in this district, they do not know we are here, and I am anxious that they should not know. That’s why I forbade the use of radio on the way. Ears are listening everywhere, even in the desert. One message intercepted by the enemy might be enough to give our game away, and even enable him to locate us. Well, that briefly is the general line-up, but there are a few points that I must raise.’ Biggles paused to pour himself another cup of coffee.

  ‘We are out here in the blue absolutely on our own, to do as we like, a free-lance unit. The rest of the squadron is at Karga Oasis, nearer to the Nile. I sent them there to be in reserve, as well as to form a connecting link with the Air Officer Commanding Middle East. I thought six of us here should be enough. Spare machines, stores and replacements are at Karga; they include a Whitley, converted into a freight carrier, for transport purposes. There is also a Defiant7. I thought a two-seater might be useful on occasion, and the Air Ministry very kindly allowed me to make my own arrangements. Angus Mackail is in charge at Karga. He has with him Taffy Hughes, Ferocity Ferris and Harcourt. Flight-Sergeant Smythe is here, as you saw, with a section of good mechanics to look after us. That son of his, young Corporal Roy Smythe, who did so well with us up in the Baltic8, is in charge of the radio, which, however, will be used only for receiving signals.’

  Biggles finished his coffee.

  ‘The first thing I want to impress upon you all is this,’ he continued. ‘We are in the desert—never forget that. To get lost is to perish miserably from thirst. The sun is your worst enemy, as it is the enemy of every living creature in the desert. The sun dries your body. While you can drink you can make up for the loss of moisture, but the moment you are denied water thirst has you by the throat. Twenty-four hours at the outside—less in the open sand—is as long as you could hope to survive without a drink, and death from thirst is not an ending one would choose. Every machine will therefore carry a special desert-box, with food, water, and anti-thirst tablets, in case of a forced landing. No one will move without a water-bottle. That’s an order. If you break that order, any of you, you won’t have to answer to me; as sure as fate the sun will turn on you and shrivel you up like an autumn leaf. Don’t ever say that I haven’t warned you. And, believe it or not, it, is the easiest thing in the world to get lost. On the ground, you could get hopelessly lost within a mile of the oasis. As far as possible we shall operate in pairs, so that one can watch the other; but there will, of course, be times when we shan’t be able to do that. There’s another reason why I don’t want people to wander about outside the oasis. Footprints and wheel tracks show up in the sand, and we don’t want to advertise our presence to the enemy. If they discover us we shall soon know about it; we shall have callers, but instead of leaving visiting cards they’ll leave bombs. Everyone will wear a sun helmet. Keep in the shade as far as possible. Expose yourself, and the sun will blister the skin off you; the glare will sear your eyeballs and the heat will get on your nerves till you think you’re going crazy. Apart from the sun, we have another enemy in the haboob, or sandstorm. Algy and Ginger have been in the desert before, and they know what it means, but the rest of you are new to it—that’s why I’m going to some trouble right away to make sure that you understand what you are up against. That’s all for the moment, unless anyone has any questions to ask?’

  ‘Can I ask one, old warrior?’ put in Bertie.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Assuming that the jolly old Boche9 is polluting the atmosphere along our route, is there any reason why he should choose this particular area—if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. If he operated at either end of the line his machines would probably be seen. It seemed to me that he would be likely to aim for somewhere near the middle, because not only is the country uninhabited, but it happens to be the nearest point to German-controlled North Africa—at any rate to Libya, where there is a German army.’

  ‘Yes — of course—absolutely,’ muttered Bertie. ‘Silly ass question, what?’

  ‘Not at all,’ answered Biggles. ‘Well, that’s all for the moment. We’ll have a rest, but everyone will remain on the alert ready to take off at a moment’s notice. I’ve arranged for a code message to be radioed when the next transport machine leaves the West Coast for Egypt, or vice versa. Naturally, machines operate both ways over the route. Until we get such a signal we will confine our efforts to reconnaissance, noting the landmarks—such as they are. There is at least one good one. The caravan route, the old slave trail, as old as the desert itself, passes fairly close, running due north and south. All the same, the only safe plan in desert country is to fly by compass. Reconnaissance may reveal some of the lost aircraft, or the remains of them.’

  ‘Say, chief, what about Arabs?’ inquired Tex. ‘Are we likely to meet any, and, if so, what are they like?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure about that,’ Biggles admitted. ‘There are wandering bands of Toureg — those are the boys who wear blue veils over their faces—all over the desert. They are tough if they don’t like you. Our best policy is to leave them alone in the hope that they’ll leave us alone—hark! What’s that?’

  There was a brief attentive silence as everyone jumped up and stood in a listening attitude. But the matter was not long in doubt. An aircraft was approaching.

  ‘Keep under cover, everybody,’ snapped Biggles, and running to the door of the tent, without going out, looked up. For a full minute he stood there, while the roar of the aircraft, after rising in crescendo, began to fade away. There was a curious expression on his face as he turned back to the others, who were watching him expectantly.

  ‘Now we know better how we stand,’ he said quietly. ‘That was a Messerschmitt 10910. He was only cruising, so I imagine he was on patrol. It would be waste of time trying to overtake him—no doubt we’ll meet him another day. I don’t think he spotted anything to arouse his suspicions or he would have altered course—perhaps come low and circled. I’m glad he came along, because the incident demonstrates how careful we must be. Had anyone been standing outside the fringe of palms he would have been spotted.’

  ‘But sooner or later we shall be seen on patrol,’ Ginger pointed out.

  ‘That may be so,’ agreed Biggles, ‘but to be seen in the air won’t provide a clue to our b
ase. This is not the only oasis in the desert. Well, that’s all. We’ll have a look round the district when we’ve fixed up our quarters.’

  * * *

  1 Legendary single-seat RAF fighter from World War II armed with guns or a cannon.

  2 Non-Commissioned Officer, e.g. a sergeant or corporal.

  3 A long-range night bomber with a crew of five.

  4 The place where officers meet for eating and relaxing together.

  5 Now Chad.

  6 From 1940 to 1943 the Italians, under the fascist dictator Mussolini, formed an alliance with Hitler and joined in the battle against Britain and her allies.

  7 British two-seater fighter carrying a rear gunner in a four-gun turret. It had no forward-firing guns.

  8 See Biggles in the Baltic.

  9 Slang: derogatory term for the Germans.

  10 German plane often abbreviated to ME. The main German single-seat fighter of World War II.

  Chapter 2

  Desert Patrol

  Over early morning tea the following day Biggles planned the first operation.

  ‘No signal has come in, so as far as we know at the moment we have no aircraft flying over the route,’ he remarked. ‘That gives us a chance to have a look round. I don’t expect enemy opposition; if there is any it will be accidental, and for that reason we needn’t operate in force. It would be better, I think, if we started off by making a thorough reconnaissance of the entire district, or as much of it as lies within the effective range of our machines—say, a couple of hundred miles east and west along the actual route, and the district north and south. Keep a sharp look out for wheel tracks, or any other signs of the missing machines. Algy, take Carrington with you and do the eastern section. Fly on a parallel course a few miles apart; that will enable you to cover more ground; only use radio in case of really desperate emergency. Bertie, you make a survey of the northern sector. Don’t go looking for trouble. There are one or two oases about up there, but you’d better keep away from them—we don’t want to be seen if it can be avoided; information travels fast, even in the sands. Tex, you fly south, but don’t go too far. I don’t think you’ll see much except sand. Everyone had better fly high—you can see an immense distance in this clear air. I’ll take Ginger and do the western run. All being well we’ll meet here again in two hours and compare notes. That’s all, unless anyone has any questions?’