Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  ‘Do you speak English?’ inquired Biggles, in a friendly tone of voice.

  The Nazi’s right hand flew up. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he snapped.

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, we know all about that,’ he said quietly. ‘Try forgetting it for a little while.’

  The German drew himself up stiffly. ‘I understand I am a prisoner,’ he said in fairly good English.

  ‘That’s something, at any rate,’ murmured Ginger.

  Biggles ignored the German’s rudeness. ‘I invite you to give me your parole while you are here; we would rather treat you as a guest than a prisoner.’

  ‘I prefer to be a prisoner,’ was the haughty reply.

  ‘How about trying to be a gentleman for a change?’ suggested Henry Harcourt.

  ‘I’d knock his perishing block off,’ growled Tug Carrington.

  ‘Will you fellows please leave the talking to me?’ said Biggles, coldly. Then, to the prisoner, ‘Years ago, officers in the air services—and that includes your fellows as well as ours—when we weren’t fighting, managed to forget our quarrels. It made things more pleasant. I’m not asking for an indefinite parole—merely for while you are here with us.’

  ‘Things are different now,’ returned the German, with a sneer.

  ‘Yes, so it seems,’ replied Biggles, a trifle sadly.

  ‘I shall escape,’ said the German loudly.

  ‘Quite right. I should do the same thing were I in your position, but I wouldn’t shout about it. There are ways of doing these things, you know—or perhaps you don’t know. What’s your name?’

  ‘Find out!’

  Biggles’ face hardened, and he took a pace nearer. ‘Listen here,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me anything to which I am not entitled under the Rules of War2. I’m trying to be patient with you. Now, what is your name?’

  The German hesitated. Perhaps there was something in Biggles’ quiet manner that made him think twice. ‘Heinrich Hymann,’ he said, grudgingly.

  ‘Rank?’

  ‘Leutnant3.’

  ‘Thank you. Let’s go in and have some lunch.’

  * * *

  1 Phosphorus loaded bullets whose course through the air can be seen by day or night.

  2 Under international agreement, a prisoner is only obliged to tell his name, rank and service number.

  3 German rank equivalent to pilot officer.

  Chapter 6

  Biggles Strikes Again

  After lunch, which the prisoner shared, sitting with the other officers, Biggles’ considerate manner remained unaltered; and it was perhaps for this reason that the Nazi thawed somewhat—or- it might be better to say, became reconciled. Several times he looked at Biggles strangely, as if he suspected that his courteous behaviour was but a pose to deceive him.

  When the meal was over he stood up, turned to Biggles, bowed stiffly from the waist, and announced that he was prepared to give his parole not to attempt to escape while he was with the squadron.

  ‘That’s all right,’ answered Biggles, evenly. ‘I accept your parole, as long as you understand that a parole is a matter of honour, and therefore inviolate while it lasts. You can end it any time you like by giving me five minutes’ notice.’

  The German bowed again, smiling faintly. ‘Am I at liberty to take some fresh air?’

  ‘Certainly, but keep to this part of the oasis.’ Biggles walked to the door with the prisoner to point out which part he meant.

  Tex frowned. ‘I wouldn’t trust that guy as far as a rattlesnake can strike,’ he told Tug in a quiet aside. ‘In Texas we make sure of his sort—with a rope.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let the C.O.1 hear you talking like that,’ interposed Ginger softly. ‘If Biggles has a weakness, it is judging other people by his own principles, and I, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way. It hasn’t done us much harm so far. Anyway, I don’t think even a Nazi would break his parole.’

  ‘A Nazi would break anything,’ grated Tex.

  Bertie looked horrified. ‘Oh, here, I say, old rustler, that’s going a bit far—yes, by Jove, too bally far. I couldn’t imagine even a double-dyed Nazi breaking his word of honour.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ put in Tug pointedly. ‘I’d anchor him to a rock with a couple of cables—that’s how he’d have treated any of us.’ He looked up to see Biggles’ eyes on him.

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ inquired Biggles icily, ‘that we arrange our code of behaviour by what a Nazi would do?’

  ‘Er—no, sir.’

  ‘Good. I thought for a moment you were. I hate moralizing, but it’s my experience that liars sooner or later run into something sticky—and that goes for Hymann. He’s an officer, and until he turns out to be something else I shall treat him as one. He can be flown up to Egypt as soon as I can spare the Whitley. Let it go at that. Get your combat reports made out and we’ll talk things over.’

  On the whole Biggles was well satisfied with the progress he had made, but was in some doubt as to his next step. In accordance with his usual custom he discussed it with the others, to give them an opportunity of expressing their opinions.

  ‘The obvious course would be to fly over and make a reconnaissance, to try to locate the Boche aerodrome,’ he admitted in reply to a question by Ginger. ‘You might say, let’s find their nest now we know roughly where it is, and bomb them out of the Libyan desert. On the face of it there is much to recommend the plan, but I’m not convinced that it is the right one—at any rate not yet. The success of such a plan would depend on absolute success, and that’s something we can’t guarantee. Suppose we failed to find the German landing-ground, and they saw us—and they certainly would see us—it would be us who got the bombs. In any case, if it came to a general clash there would be casualties on our side as well as theirs; and while I don’t expect to fight a war without getting hurt, if casualties can be avoided, provided we achieve our object, so much the better. The Nazis have got where they have in this war by employing unorthodox methods. Well, two can play at that game. We played the first trick this morning, and it came off. Not only has the enemy lost three machines without loss to ourselves, but—and this is important—he doesn’t know what caused his casualties. That will worry him.’

  ‘What you really mean is,’ put in Algy smoothly, ‘you’ve got another trick up your sleeve? Let’s hear it.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Quite right,’ he confessed. ‘It’s rather more risky than the one we played this morning, but it struck me that we might give the Whitley another airing before we sent it back to Karga.’

  Bertie was industriously polishing his eyeglass. ‘I hope, sir, that on this occasion you’ll trundle the jolly old steam-roller through the atmosphere—if you get my meaning,’ he remarked.

  ‘That was my intention. This is the scheme. I propose, first of all, to broadcast a radio signal that a British aircraft, G-UROK, is leaving Karga forthwith.’

  Algy wrinkled his forehead. ‘But the enemy will pick the message up.’

  ‘Of course—that’s why I’m sending it out.’

  ‘But they must have picked up the same message early this morning?’

  ‘Quite right. They won’t know what to make of it, particularly as three of their machines went out to intercept the aircraft and did not return. They won’t be able to solve the mystery sitting at home, so what will they do? Unless I’ve missed my mark, von Zoyton and his boys will beetle along to see what the deuce is really happening.’

  ‘They’ll catch you in the Whitley.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘With an escort?’

  ‘No, there will be no escort.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘I hope not. As soon as I see the swastikas coming I shall lose my nerve, go down and land, choosing a nice open space if there is one handy.’

  ‘Go on,’ invited Algy. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Von Zoyton and his crowd, seeing the machine go down, will land to examine the prize. When they reach the
Whitley they will find us waiting to receive them.’

  ‘Us? Who do you mean?’

  ‘Well, several of us—say, half a dozen, with Tommy guns2. The principle is the same as that played by the Navy with their Q-ships. You remember how it works? A harmless-looking craft is sent out inviting trouble, but when it is attacked it turns out to be a red-hot tartar, bristling with guns. Someone will have to stay here to take charge, and form a reserve in case the plan comes unstuck.’

  There were smiles as Biggles divulged his plan. ‘Suppose von Zoyton, or whoever attacks the Whitley, doesn’t land?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘If they don’t land, obviously they will return to their base and report the position of the aircraft, when, if the same procedure as before is followed, a car will be sent out to collect the stranded passengers. We shall be there, waiting, so it will come to the same thing in the end. We ought to be able to gather some more prisoners, and perhaps a car.’

  ‘And what next, sir?’ asked Henry Harcourt.

  ‘I think that’s enough to go on with,’ answered Biggles. ‘Our next move will depend on how things pan out. There are all sorts of possibilities.’

  ‘When are you going to start this operation?’ asked Algy.

  Biggles glanced at his watch and considered the question for a moment before he replied.

  ‘Just when you fellows feel like it. You’ve done one show to-day. If you feel that the heat is trying we’ll leave it until tomorrow. There’s no desperate hurry; on the other hand, if you feel up to it, there is no reason why we shouldn’t do the show this afternoon. We’re not out here on a picnic. Our job is to make the route safe, and the sooner it is safe, the better.’

  There was a chorus of voices in favour of doing the show that day. Bertie voiced the view that it was better to do something than do nothing, because there was less time to think about the heat.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Consider it settled. I shan’t need everybody. Six people in the Whitley, with a couple of Tommy guns, and revolvers, ought to be a match for anything that turns up. I shall fly the Whitley. The other five will be chosen by drawing lots — that’s the fairest way. Algy, you’ll have to stay here to take charge. You’d better send someone to Karga to let Angus know that we’re all right, and that the Whitley will be returning shortly—possibly to-night. Now put all the names except yours and mine in a hat.’

  This was soon done, with the result that the operating party turned out to be: Biggles, in command; Lord Bertie, Tex, Tug, Taffy Hughes and Ferocity Ferris. This left Algy, Ginger, and Henry Harcourt to remain at the oasis. They looked glum, but said nothing.

  Algy went off to the radio tent to arrange for the despatch of the fake signal announcing the departure of the commercial aircraft. The others went to the armoury where weapons were drawn and tested, and the party inspected by Biggles, who allowed some time to elapse before he climbed into the cockpit of the Whitley. It was, therefore, well on in the afternoon when the big machine, with the operating party on board, took off and cruised towards the west.

  Crossing the caravan road, Biggles turned to the north, towards the area where he had found Ginger, which, as he now knew, was the direction of the enemy camp. Ignoring his compass, which he dare no longer trust, he flew entirely by landmarks noted on his previous flights. Apart from the brief occasions when he checked up on these, his attention was directed entirely to the sky around him. He knew he was doing a risky thing, and had no intention of being caught unaware. The lives of everyone on board might well depend on his spotting the enemy aircraft before they came within range, and getting on the ground before they could open fire. Bertie sat beside him and shared his task. Taffy occupied the forward gun turret, and Tug, the rear, so they were really in a position to put up a fight if they were caught in the air by a force of fighters; but that was not Biggles’ intention if it could be avoided; apart from anything else, it involved risks which he preferred not to take.

  As it turned out, there was no air battle. Biggles saw three specks appear in the sky in the direction from which he expected the enemy to come. Evidently they saw no reason to employ stalking tactics, for they made straight for the Whitley.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Biggles calmly. ‘Hang on, Bertie, I may have to move smartly.’

  Now Biggles did not want to arouse suspicion by giving in too easily; on the other hand, he had no wish to offer himself as a target; so he chose a middle course. As the three Messerschmitts drew close he started skidding wildly about the sky, employing exaggerated evading tactics to create an impression that he was in a panic. One of the enemy machines took a long shot at him with his cannon, and that was really all Biggles was waiting for. He had already chosen his emergency landing ground—as before, a strip of sand between two outcrops of rock—and as the tracer shells screamed over him he cut his engine and side-slipped steeply towards it. In two minutes he was on the ground, deliberately finishing his run within a few yards of the rock boundary.

  ‘Don’t show yourselves, but be ready to get out in a hurry,’ he shouted.

  It was a strange moment, brittle with expectation, yet to those in the aircraft, unsatisfactory, for there was nothing they could do. Biggles’ sensation was chiefly one of anxiety, for he did not like the way the Messerschmitts were behaving. All three had reached the Whitley within a minute of its landing; two had remained comparatively high, at perhaps a thousand feet, circling; the other, apparently the leader, which sported a blue airscrew boss and fin, had dived low in a manner which, as the slim fuselage flashed over his head, gave Biggles the impression that the pilot was aiming his guns at the Whitley, and would have fired had he not overshot his mark. It was a contingency for which Biggles had not made allowances, and his anxiety rose swiftly to real alarm as the Messerschmitt swung round in a business-like way, clearly with the intention of repeating the dive. There appeared to be no reason for such a manoeuvre unless the pilot intended to carry out offensive action against the helpless Whitley.

  Suddenly Biggles shouted, ‘Get outside, everybody. Take your guns and find cover amongst the rocks. Jump to it!’

  Knowing that the order would be obeyed, he did not wait to watch the performance of it, but made a hurried exit from the aircraft and took cover behind an outcrop of rock some twenty yards away. The others had selected similar positions near at hand. They were only just in time, for within a few seconds the blue-nosed Messerschmitt was diving steeply on the aircraft, raking it with both machine-gun and cannon fire. It was a nasty moment, for bullets and shells not only smashed through the machine, but zipped viciously into the sand and thudded against the rocks behind which the British pilots lay. There were some narrow escapes, but no one was hit.

  Again the Messerschmitt pilot roared round, and diving, lashed the Whitley with a hail of fire as though it had done him a personal injury; and this time he was even more successful, for a tongue of flame from the riddled fuselage had licked hungrily along the fabric. In a minute the entire machine was a blazing inferno.

  Biggles said nothing. There was nothing to say. This time the enemy had not behaved quite as he expected, and the result was a blow that might well prove fatal. The Messerschmitt that had done the damage, apparently satisfied with its work, now came low, circling in a flat turn to watch the conflagration, while his two companions, acting either under orders or on their own initiative, turned away and disappeared towards the north-west.

  Bertie polished his eyeglass imperturbably. ‘Nasty fellow,’ he observed. ‘It’s going to be beastly hot walking home, what?’

  But Biggles wasn’t listening. With an expression of incredulity on his face he was watching a new arrival that now came racing on full throttle towards the scene. There was no need to look twice to recognize the type. It was a Spitfire. There were cries and ejaculations from the earthbound airmen.

  When Biggles spoke his voice was pitched high with astonishment. ‘Why, that’s Ginger’s machine!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the dickens does th
e young fool think he’s doing...?’ Biggles’ voice trailed away to silence, as drama, swift and vicious, developed.

  The Spitfire was flying unswervingly, flat out on a north-westerly course. From its behaviour it might have been pursuing the two departing Messerschmitts. The pilot, whose eyes were probably on the two German machines which, while distant, were still in sight, appeared not to see the blue-nosed Messerschmitt now zooming upward in a beautiful climbing turn into the eye of the sun. For a moment it hung there, like a hawk about to strike; then it turned on its wing and descended on the Spitfire like a bolt from the blue. As it came into range its guns flashed, and tracer bullets made a glittering line between the two machines.

  The result was never in doubt. The stricken Spitfire jerked up on its tail, shedding fabric and metal, its airscrew making a gleaming arc of light as it threshed vainly at the air; then, with a slow deliberation that was more ghastly to watch than speed, it rolled over on its back; the nose swung down, and with a crescendo wail of agony it dropped like a stone to strike the gleaming sand not a hundred yards from where Biggles, tense and ashen-faced, stood watching. There was a roaring, splintering crash. A sheet of white flame leapt skywards. Black oily smoke rolled up behind it.

  Came silence, a brittle attentive silence broken only by the brisk crackle of the burning aircraft, and the drone of the machine that had destroyed it. Biggles, stunned for once into immobility, still stood and stared, paralyzed by the suddenness of the tragedy. Then he turned to where the others lay, pale and saucer-eyed. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said in a curiously calm voice. ‘We can’t do anything.’

  He himself, although he knew that anything he did would be futile, ran towards the blazing mass of wreckage, holding up his arms as he drew near to shield his face from the fierce heat. Twenty yards was as near as he could get. Apart from the heat, cartridges were exploding, flinging bullets in all directions. Knowing that whoever was in the machine must be already burnt to a cinder, he walked slowly back to where the Whitley had nearly burnt itself out and sank down on a boulder. ‘Stay under cover,’ he told the others in a dead voice.