Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  ‘Sit down, and I’ll tell you,’ answered Biggles, and gave the others a concise account of what had happened.

  Tug Carrington made a pretence of spitting on his hands. ‘That’s grand,’ he declared, balancing himself on his toes and making feints at imaginary enemies. ‘Now we know where they are we can go over and shoot them up.’

  ‘Tug, you always were a simple-minded fellow,’ returned Biggles sadly. ‘As you know, I’m all for direct methods when they are possible, but there are certain arguments against your plan that I can’t ignore. To start with, there is no guarantee we should locate the enemy’s base—you can be pretty certain it’s well camouflaged—whereas they would certainly see us. It is, therefore, far more likely that we should merely reveal our presence without serving any useful purpose. When we strike we want to hit the blighters, and hit them hard, and we shall only do that by being sure of our ground. Make no mistake; if von Zoyton is here with his jagdstaffel, we shan’t find them easy meat. They had a reputation in Libya. No, I think the situation calls for stratagem.’ Biggles smiled at Algy. ‘I wonder if we could pull off the old trap trick?’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Algy, grinning. ‘There were several varieties, if you remember?’

  ‘The decoy.’

  ‘We might try it. But what shall we use for bait?’

  ‘The Whitley.’

  ‘You must think von Zoyton is a fool. He wouldn’t be tricked by that.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of sending it through in its present war paint. By washing out the ring markings, and giving it a set of identification letters, we could make it look like a civil machine. Let’s try it. After all, it can but fail. Remember, the Boches don’t know we’re here. Bertie, you’ve had a quiet day. Do you feel like playing mouse in a little game of cat-and-mouse?’

  Bertie polished his eyeglass industriously. ‘Absolutely, old top,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll play any part you like, you bet I will, if it means hitting von what’s-his-name a wallop.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ returned Biggles. ‘This is what you have to do. Go to Karga. Tell Angus what’s in the wind. Get all hands working on the Whitley, making it look as much like a civil machine as possible. Then, at dawn, take off and fly it through. You’ll have to work fast. Come over here at about ten thousand, and then head for the danger zone.

  ‘Here, I say, what about some guns?’ protested Bertie.

  ‘You can stick as many guns in as you like, as far as I’m concerned,’ granted Biggles. ‘Angus will provide you with some gunners. But don’t go fooling about. You’re not supposed to fight. Leave that to us. We shall be upstairs, waiting for the Messerschmitts. Angus can send out a radio signal that you’re on your way. If von Zoyton picks it up he’ll soon be after you. Is that clear?’

  ‘Absolutely, yes, absolutely,’ murmured Bertie. ‘What fun! Here I go. See you in the morning. Cheerio, and so forth.’

  The others watched him take off and disappear in the starry sky towards the east.

  Biggles turned away. ‘All right, chaps, go to bed,’ he ordered. ‘We have a busy day in front of us tomorrow.’

  * * *

  1 German rank equivalent to Captain.

  2 A hunting group of German fighter planes. A staffel consisted of twelve planes.

  Chapter 5

  The Decoy

  The next morning, while the sky was turning from pink to eggshell blue and the palms were nodding in the dawn-wind, Flight-Sergeant Smyth reported to Biggles, who, with the four pilots who remained with him, was at breakfast.

  ‘Signal, sir, from Karga. British aircraft, G-UROK is on its way to the West Coast,’ he reported.

  ‘Good. Stand by for further signals.’

  The flight-sergeant saluted and retired.

  ‘All right, you chaps, there’s no hurry,’ went on Biggles, lighting a cigarette. ‘It will be some time before Bertie gets to the danger zone. I’ll just run over the programme again to make sure you understand the scheme—we don’t want any mistakes. What eventually happens must, of course, largely depend on how many machines von Zoyton sends up against the Whitley—assuming that he will try to stop it. As he sent three against the Dragon— Ginger saw only three, you remember—he’ll probably use the same number again. Three fighters certainly ought to be enough for one commercial aircraft, which he will, we hope, take the Whitley to be. We shall meet the Whitley about fifty miles or so east of here. I shall take up a position immediately above it, at twenty thousand, with Ginger and Tug. Algy, you’ll take Tex with you and sit up at twenty-five thousand, a trifle to the north, always keeping us, and the Whitley, in sight. We shall take on the Messerschmitts if they turn up. Your job, with Tex, is to see that none of them get home—cut off anyone who tries. That, I am well aware, sounds optimistic, and we may not be able to do it; but we must try, because if we can prevent any of the enemy from getting back it will still leave all the cards in our hands. It will be von Zoyton’s turn to start worrying—wondering what happened to his machines. If any of his machines do get back it will be open war in future, because he’ll know there’s a British squadron on the job. Speaking from experience, I should say that when the Messerschmitts go for the Whitley they won’t look at anything else, for the simple reason, not having had any opposition before, they won’t look for it this time. We should be on them before they know we’re about—perhaps get one or two at the first crack. If a combat starts, you, Algy, and Tex, will get between the Nazis and home, although as I said just now, much is bound to depend on how many of them there are, if, in fact, they show up. If they don’t, well, no harm will have been done, and we shall have to think of something else. And now, if that’s clear, we may as well get ready to move off. We’ll leave the ground in half an hour; that will give, Bertie time to get to our area. Algy and Tex will take off first and go straight up topsides; the rest of us will follow.’ Biggles finished his coffee, stamped his cigarette end into the sandy floor, and led the way to where the machines were parked under camouflage netting.

  One by one they were dragged clear. Algy and Tex climbed into their seats. Engines sprang to life, and the machines taxied out to the clear sand. In a few minutes they were in the air, with their wheels, no longer required, tucked away. The other three machines followed, and flew eastward, climbing, and taking up their battle stations. These attained, all five machines, taking their lead from Biggles, settled down to steady cruising speed. The desert, Ginger noticed, was much the same as that on the western side of the oasis.

  It was nearly half an hour before the Whitley came into view, but once seen, the distance between it and its escort closed swiftly. It took no notice of the five machines above it, but held steadily on its course. Biggles swung round in a wide semi-circle, throttled back to the same speed as the decoy, and the trap was ready to spring.

  For a long time nothing happened. The oasis came into view some distance to the south, but still the six machines went on, and on, until Ginger began to fear that the scheme had failed. Surely, if the Messerschmitts were coming they would have appeared by now? Suddenly the rocky country appeared ahead, and his nerves tingled, for it told him they were off their true course; the magnetic interference had been switched on, which suggested, if it did not actually prove, that the enemy was aware of the approach of a British aircraft.

  Biggles knew the direction from which trouble would come, if it came, and his eyes focused themselves on the sun-tortured atmosphere that quivered above the rocky hills to the north-west; and watching, his eyes lit up in a smile of satisfaction as they found what they sought. Three specks were racing towards the Whitley, looking, from his superior altitude, like three winged insects crawling swiftly over the sand. Concentrating his attention on them he made them out to be Messerschmitt 109’s. They were flying lower than he expected, which suggested, as he had predicted, that they were supremely confident, and had no doubt as to the result of the encounter with the big British machine. Biggles watched them, doing no more for the moment than al
ter his course slightly to put his machine—and at the same time those of his followers—in line with the sun. He waited until the Messerschmitts were about a mile away, and then, after a hand signal to Ginger and Tug, flying wing tip to wing tip on either side of him, he pushed his control column forward, and with his eyes on the leading Messerschmitt roared down in an almost vertical dive.

  At this juncture an unexpected development brought a frown of anxiety to his forehead. The three Messerschmitts parted company, giving Biggles the impression that only one was going to attack while the other two would act as shepherds to prevent their apparently easy prey from escaping. What upset Biggles was the leading Messerschmitt’s obvious intention of launching its attack from immediately below the Whitley. It was tearing down in a steep dive, obviously gathering speed for a vertical zoom, and it seemed as if this might happen before Biggles could get within effective range.

  And this, in fact, did happen, although the attack did not end as Biggles feared it might, and as the Messerschmitt pilot evidentally thought it would. The Whitley, which had been cruising along as unconcernedly as a seagull, suddenly skidded round on its axis, and then banked sharply. A split second later a cloud of tracer1 bullets burst from three places in the Whitley, converging on the Messerschmitt which, after a convulsive jerk at this unexpected reception, tore out of the field of fire like a scalded cat. Biggles’ face broke into one of its rare grins of delight at this unexpected performance on the part of Bertie, whom he could imagine sitting at the controls of the Whitley with an irate, monocled eye, on his attacker.

  Biggles’ smile soon faded, however. The matter was too serious. The other Messerschmitts had also seen what had happened, for they had turned smartly towards the Whitley with the clear intention of attacking it on two sides. It was impossible for Biggles to watch all four machines, so leaving Ginger and Tug to deal with the two outside Messerschmitts he went straight at the leader who, having recovered somewhat from his fright, was returning to the attack with a greater exercise of caution. Pursuing the Whitley it is doubtful if he thought to look behind him; indeed, he could not have done so, or he would have been bound to see Biggles; and had he seen him he would have taken evasive action. As it was, he offered a perfect target, and as there are no rules in air combat, Biggles did not hesitate to take advantage of it.

  Closing in to within a hundred feet to make sure there could be no mistake, he took the Messerschmitt in the red-crossed lines of his sight, and fired. It was only a short burst, but it was enough. It is doubtful if the Nazi pilot knew what had hit him. Pieces flew off his machine; it fell over on one wing, and slipped into a spin; one wing broke off at the roots, and the fuselage, spinning vertically round its remaining wing, its engine racing, plunged like a torpedo into the sand. Biggles knew that the pilot must have been killed by his burst of fire, or he would have baled out, or, at any rate, switched off his engine.

  All this had happened in less time than it takes to tell. Even while his opponent was spinning Biggles had snatched a glance at the sky around him, for in modern air combat every second is vital. The scene had entirely changed. A second Messerschmitt, trailing behind it a sheet of white flame, was plunging earthward. Ginger and Tug were turning away from it, which told Biggles that they had both attacked the same machine, which was a mistake, for it left the third machine a chance to retreat, a chance it had not hesitated to take. Nose down, it was racing towards the north-west.

  Again Biggles smiled grimly as he saw the Whitley in futile pursuit; as well might a frog have tried to catch a greyhound. Biggles, too, turned instinctively to follow the escaping machine, although he was doubtful if he would be able to overtake it—not that it really mattered, for looking up he saw Algy and Tex coming down like a pair of winged bombs to cut it off. Having the advantage of many thousands of feet of height, they would have no difficulty in doing this. The plan was working smoothly.

  The end was rather unexpected. The pilot of the last Messerschmitt, who gave Biggles the impression of being new to the business, seemed to lose his head when he saw the two Spitfires appear out of the blue in front of him. He turned in a flash, to find himself faced with three more, for Ginger and Tug had joined in the pursuit. For a moment he wavered in indecision—and to waver in air combat is usually fatal. Algy got in a quick burst from long range—too long, Biggles thought, to be effective. The target may, or may not, have been hit; even Algy could not afterwards say for certain; but the pilot had had enough. He baled out. For three seconds he dropped like a stone, then his parachute blossomed out. The Messerschmitt, its dive steepening, struck the ground with terrific force, flinging a cloud of sand high into the air. Its pilot landed lightly not far away, relieved himself of his harness, and then stood staring up at those responsible for his misfortune.

  Biggles circled over him wondering what to do. The plan had worked perfectly; all the enemy aircraft were down, but a factor had arisen for which he had not made provision. Now that the battle was over he put his profession as a pilot before nationality—a not uncommon thing with airmen—and the idea of leaving his defeated enemy to perish of thirst in the desert filled him with a repugnance that was not to be tolerated. There was, he realized, a chance that the enemy camp might send out a rescue party; this, however, did not mean that it would necessarily find the stranded Nazi pilot; and even if he were found he would, naturally, tell von Zoyton what had happened, and this Biggles was anxious to prevent.

  He considered the situation with a worried frown, while the Whitley, and the other Spitfires, circled with him, waiting for a lead. The Nazi was still standing on the ground, looking up. Biggles could, at a pinch, have landed, and picked up the German; but the Whitley was obviously better fitted for the job if he could make Bertie understand what was required.

  With this object in view he first flew very low over the area of sand on which the German was standing. As far as he could judge it was firm enough. He then flew close to the Whitley, close enough to see the pilot’s face distinctly. Bertie, monocle in eye, made a face at him. Biggles perceived that something had upset him, but he couldn’t be bothered to work out what it was. Instead, he made a series of signals with his hand, jabbing his thumb down vigorously, which he hoped would be correctly interpreted. Bertie put his tongue out, presumably to indicate displeasure, but all the same he went down, and, to Biggles’ relief, made a safe landing.

  As the German—evidently understanding what was required—walked over to the big machine, Biggles found himself wondering what would have happened had the position been reversed.

  The Whitley was only on the ground for about two minutes. As soon as the German was aboard it took off again. Satisfied that all was well, Biggles took a last glance at the other two Messerschmitts, lying where they had crashed. The pilots, he knew, were beyond all earthly help, so with the other machines behind him he led the way back to the oasis, disregarding his compass, relying on landmarks which his trained eye had noted on the outward journey.

  The Whitley was the last to land, for as soon as the oasis came into view the five Spitfires went on, with the result that they were already parked when the Whitley taxied in, to unload before an astonished Biggles, not only Bertie and the German, but Taffy Hughes, Henry Harcourt and Ferocity Ferris. The three last-named jumped down laughing immoderately, but Bertie’s face was flushed with indignation. The eye behind his monocle glinted as he marched straight up to Biggles.

  ‘I object, sir,’ he cried. ‘Yes, absolutely. You can’t do that sort of thing; no, by Jove —’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ asked Biggles, calmly.

  ‘The way you snaffled my Hun! I call that a bit thick—absolutely solid, in fact. He was my meat, absolutely, yes by Jingo—’

  ‘You were jolly nearly his meat,’ Biggles pointed out, coldly.

  ‘Oh here, I say, did you hear that, chaps? I call that a bit hot—red hot, in fact. Me—his meat. Why, I had the blighter absolutely taped; all sewn up—’

  ‘For th
e love of Mike,’ broke in Biggles. ‘What does it matter as long as we got him?’

  Bertie looked shocked. ‘I never thought to hear you say a thing like that to a pal—no, by Jove,’ he said, sadly. ‘Wasn’t it bad enough to have to fly your beastly old pantechnicon, without being pushed out of the scrum—if you see what I mean? You didn’t give me a chance, no, not a bally look-in. I say that was a bit steep, absolutely sheer in fact—eh, you chaps?’ Bertie turned to the grinning pilots for support.

  ‘Never mind, Bertie, you did a good job,’ said Biggles, consolingly. ‘One day I’ll find you a nice little Hun to play with all to yourself. Go and dip your head in a bucket of cold water—you’ll feel better. What was the idea of taking the whole Karga contingent for a joyride? I didn’t say that.’

  Bertie shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘That’s what I told them,’ he said pathetically. ‘They got in and they wouldn’t get out. They wouldn’t take any notice of me, no jolly fear. Had the nerve to tell me to take a running jump at a bunch of dates.’

  ‘Angus shouldn’t have allowed it.’

  ‘That’s just what I told him,’ declared Bertie, emphatically. ‘And do you know what he said? He said they could come to man the guns in case there was a frolic before you turned up. The trip would give them a chance to see the jolly old desert, and all that sort of thing, and so on and so forth—if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ replied Biggles, keeping a straight face with difficulty. ‘Well, I hope they enjoyed the scenery. As soon as we’ve had some lunch they can have the pleasure of taking the Whitley back to Karga. You’ll have to go with them to get your Spitfire.’

  Biggles turned to the prisoner, who had stood watching these proceedings with a sneer of contempt. He was young, in the early twenties, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and might have been called good-looking had it not been for a surly expression and a truculent manner so pronounced that it was clearly cultivated rather than natural.