Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  To make matters more difficult the sun was now low over the horizon. In the desert, during the blinding glare of day, nothing appears to change. The sun seems to be always at the zenith, as though it could never again sink below the earth. But when once it begins to fall, it falls ever faster. The rocks, as though they had been driven into the sand by the hammering rays, begin to rise. Shadows appear, and behind the level beams assume fantastic shapes, with an eerie effect -on the whole barren scene. Thus it was now. Soon, very soon, night would fall.

  Ginger took Bertie out of earshot of the German and asked him what he intended to do, for in the absence of Biggles, Bertie, by virtue of his rank of Flight Lieutenant, automatically took command of the detachment.

  ‘It’s deuced awkward,’ muttered Bertie. ‘If we go towards the enemy we shall all be captured. If we stay here we shall fry when the sun comes up to-morrow. To try to get home means abandoning the C.O.. Yes, by Jove, it’s awkward. Confounded nuisance having von Zoyton with us, too. I’m really no good at this sort of thing, you know.’

  At this juncture an unexpected sound became audible. It was the purr of an internal combustion engine, some distance away.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ demanded Bertie.

  Ginger guessed, and he guessed correctly. ‘I’ll bet it’s the car—you know, the car the Germans send out to crashed machines.’

  ‘By jingo! I’d clean forgotten all about it,’ admitted Bertie. ‘This is really most awfully nice of them—yes, by jove! I’d rather ride home than walk, every time. We’ll take the car.’

  ‘Keep an eye on von Zoyton,’ said Ginger tersely. ‘He knows what’s coming, and may try to yell a warning.’ So saying he scrambled to the top of the rock and looked out across the desert. He was back in a moment, looking agitated. ‘It isn’t going to be as easy as we thought,’ he muttered. ‘It’s an armoured car.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ murmured Bertie, unperturbed, and then went on to make his dispositions. ‘Tex, old boy, take von Zoyton out of sight. If he starts squealing, hit him on the boko. We can’t have any half measures — no, absolutely. The rest of you chaps get under cover with your guns ready. This is going to be fine.’

  While the order was being obeyed, Bertie sat on the boulder once occupied by Biggles, adjusted his monocle and waited.

  Presently the car appeared, travelling slowly on account of the uneven nature of the ground. A head and shoulders projected above the centre turret. Still it came on, obviously without the crew having the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong. There was, in fact, nothing to indicate to the driver or the crew that von Zoyton, as they would naturally suppose, was not in charge of the situation. On the contrary, the presence of the burnt Whitley was calculated to convey the opposite impression.

  ‘Don’t move, chaps, until I put up my hand—then make a rush,’ Bertie told the others. ‘We don’t want any shooting if it can be avoided; it’s too beastly hot.’

  With the only sound the steady purr of its engine, the armoured vehicle, bristling with guns, ran up to where Bertie was sitting in a disconsolate attitude. The man in the gun turret called something to him, but he did not answer, for the words were German and he did not understand them. The head and shoulders disappeared. The side door was thrown open and three men emerged, casually wiping perspiration from their faces.

  Bertie strolled over to the car and looked inside. One man, the driver, remained, lounging behind the wheel. He beckoned to him. The man, with an expression of wonder on his face, joined the others on the sand. All four stared at Bertie. It was obvious from their manner that they could not make out what was going on. They still apprehended no danger. Even when Bertie raised his hand and Ginger, Tug, Ferocity and Taffy emerged, Ginger and Taffy carrying Tommy guns, they merely looked stupefied. The guns must have told them that something was wrong, but they seemed unable to grasp what precisely had happened.

  ‘Sorry, and all that, but you are prisoners,’ said Bertie apologetically, regarding them steadily through his monocle.

  They understood that, for there was a mutter of conversation.

  Inquiry produced the information that the party comprised a driver, a mechanic, a medical orderly, and the Italian officer Pallini, who had acted as guide.

  Bertie put them with von Zoyton and, leaving Tex, Tug and Ferocity on guard, took Ginger and Taffy on one side.

  ‘I say, you fellows, this is getting a bit thick,’ he remarked. ‘I’m dashed if I know what to do next. Are we going to stay here all night? It’ll be dark in five minutes. I’m not much good at thinking things out—no good at all, in fact. Give me a bat and I can hit the jolly old ball, and all that sort of thing, but when it comes to arranging the teams I’m no bally use.’

  ‘How many people could we get in the car?’ asked Ginger.

  Bertie didn’t know, so Taffy went to look.

  ‘Eight, or nine at a pinch,’ he announced when he returned.

  ‘Dear—dear,’ murmured Bertie. ‘How dashed awkward. There are eleven of us in the party already. I’m no bally sardine.’

  ‘We can’t go without Biggles, anyway,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘We must try to get hold of him somehow.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But how?’

  ‘Biggles always seems able to work these things out,’ said Ginger. ‘There must be a way, if only we can think of it.’

  The fact of the matter was, they were beginning to miss Biggles.

  ‘Give me a few minutes to think,’ suggested Ginger. ‘I may be able to work out a plan. This bunch of prisoners is going to take a bit of handling, so I suggest for a start that we send for reinforcements. Algy ought to know what has happened, anyway. He could get out here, so could Henry if he wasn’t badly hurt. That would give us two more machines. I’d send Ferocity home in my Spitfire to tell Algy what has happened. While that’s going on some of us could take the car and try to rescue Biggles.’

  ‘How shall we find the enemy camp?’ asked Taffy.

  ‘By following the wheel tracks—that ought to be easy. Let me think this over.’

  Ten minutes later he gave an outline of his plan. Ferocity had already taken off in the Spitfire to report to Algy. That left five officers available for duty. Two would be needed to guard the five prisoners, who might be expected to make a dash for liberty in the darkness should an opportunity present itself. That left three available for the rescue party. This, Ginger suggested, should consist of himself, Bertie and Taffy. The idea was that they should follow the wheel marks to some point near the enemy camp, which, he thought, was not more than twenty to thirty miles away. There, assuming that the presence of the car was not detected, one could remain at the wheel of the vehicle while the other two went forward to reconnoitre, and, if possible, locate Biggles. Their actions would then depend on what they found. Without knowing the dispositions of the enemy aerodrome it was impossible to plan any further.

  ‘I say, old boy, that doesn’t sound much of a plan to me,’ protested Bertie.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Well, there isn’t any plan at all. It’s too simple—if you get what I mean.’

  ‘The simplicity is probably the best thing about it,’ declared Ginger. ‘The more involved the scheme the easier it is to go wrong. I’ve heard Biggles say that a score of times. If we stand here talking we shan’t get anywhere. If we’re going to try to get Biggles, the sooner we start moving the better, otherwise we shall arrive there in time to discover that he’s on his way to Germany.’

  ‘Too true, too true,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Let’s go. Who’s going to drive the chariot?’

  ‘I’ll drive, look you,’ offered Taffy. ‘I once drove a tank.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ returned Ginger grimly. ‘I also know why they used to call you “Crasher.” Be careful how you handle this char-a-banc, because if you bust it we shan’t get another.’

  Taffy promised to be careful, so leaving Tex and Tug in charge of the prisone
rs, Bertie, Taffy and Ginger went over to the car, taking one of the Tommy guns with them. They also carried revolvers. Finding a petrol can of water in the car they had a drink, and handed the rest to those who were to stay behind. In a few minutes the car, running in its own tracks, was purring quietly across the starlit desert.

  For a while good progress was made, but then frequent halts became necessary in order to spy out the land ahead, so that the car did not find itself unexpectedly on the enemy aerodrome. In just under an hour, Ginger, convinced that they must be near the enemy camp, went forward on foot to have a look round, and returned with the information that half a mile ahead, in a depression, there was a large oasis in which the enemy base was probably concealed. Under his guidance the car proceeded for half that distance, and then, as there was a risk of its engine being heard, it was stopped in a narrow sandy gully which provided excellent cover, and, incidentally ran on in the direction of the oasis.

  At a brief council of war that followed it was decided to leave the car there in charge of Taffy, while Bertie and Ginger, taking the Tommy gun, went forward to scout, and if possible rescue Biggles. Without knowing precisely what lay ahead it was impossible to make detailed plans. The general idea was to find out the lie of the land, rescue Biggles, and return to the car, which would then set out on the long journey to Salima, picking up on the way those waiting by the Whitley.

  ‘You’d better let me go first,’ Ginger told Bertie. ‘I’ve had more experience at this sort of thing than you have. I know most of the tricks.’

  ‘Extraordinary fellow,’ was Bertie’s only comment.

  Ginger, revolver in hand, started forward. Visibility was fairly good, but the silence, and the presence of rocks which might hide a sentry, made the advance a slow and anxious task. However, in due course an irregular fringe of palm fronds cutting into the sky revealed the edge of the oasis. An obstruction was also encountered. At the point where the gully fanned out into the oasis a line of tethered camels stood close to a small group of low black tents.

  ‘That must be the Arab camp,’ whispered Ginger to Bertie. ‘I’d forgotten all about the Toureg the Germans have with them. I can’t see anybody on guard.’

  ‘We’d better make a detour,’ suggested Bertie.

  ‘That would mean going into the open, and we don’t want to do that if it can be avoided. Stand fast.’

  With every nerve tense Ginger crept forward, taking advantage of the ample cover provided by the rocks. He reached the camels, most of which, couched for the night, were contentedly chewing the cud, their jaws moving in a steady sideways crunch, left to right, right to left. They looked at Ginger with their great soft eyes, in the human way these animals have, but they showed no sign of alarm. Behind some of them were saddles, and on these lay the cotton nightshirt-like garments worn by Arabs for desert travel. They gave Ginger an idea. He picked one up and threw it across his shoulders so that the ragged ends reached nearly to the ground. As a disguise the robe left much to be desired, but, after all, he reflected, it was dark, and it was better than nothing. He took a gumbaz, as these robes are called, back to Bertie, who, with a sniff of disgust, put it on.

  ‘Now let’s try our luck in the oasis,’ suggested Ginger.

  Actually, the approach was easier than they expected, and it seemed that the guard, if one was kept, was not rigidly maintained. They were soon among the palms, walking on coarse dry grass. For a little while they walked on looking about them, for there was nothing to indicate where the actual camp was situated, but eventually a path took them to where a number of lights glowed feebly in the darkness. It was also possible to make out the vague outlines of aircraft, disposed in much the same way as were their own at Salima. A low murmur of conversation came from a large tent some distance to the right, and this, Ginger thought, was the men’s quarters. On the left a number of smaller tents were presumably those of the officers. It seemed likely that Biggles would be in one of them, because it was improbable that there could be a permanent building in the oasis.

  So far they had seen no human beings, which struck Ginger as strange, and he was wondering what could have happened to the Arabs when from the direction of the large tent a number now appeared. Without speaking they passed on and disappeared in the direction of the camels. One, possibly the leader, remained for a little while talking in low tones to a man in uniform; then he salaamed and walked on after his companions. Ginger was too far away to hear what was said; nor could he make out the nationality of the man in uniform, although he supposed him to be an Italian or a German. This man strode towards the smaller tents.

  Ginger waited for him to disappear and then turned to Bertie. ‘Stay here for a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll go over to those tents and try to learn something. Keep behind this bush, then I shall know where you are.’

  ‘Just as you like,’ agreed Bertie. ‘I’m all of a twitter.’

  Keeping among the palms, Ginger made his way to the tents. Not a sound came from any of them, which puzzled him, for he thought that at least a few officers should be about.

  Then, beyond the tents, he saw a curious arrangement, one that he had to approach and study for some time before he could be fairly sure what it was. He made it out to be a sort of lean-to structure, about thirty feet long, roofed with palm fronds. The front was open in the manner of a barn, but the interior was in such deep shadow that he could not see into it. It was a sentry standing at each end armed with a rifle that gave him an idea of the purpose for which the primitive building was intended. It was the prisoners’ quarters. If this surmise was correct, then it seemed probable that Biggles would be there, thought Ginger, as from a thick group of palms he surveyed the scene. Not only Biggles, but the passengers of the air liners that had been shot down. He wondered vaguely how many there were, for this raised a new problem. Naturally, they would all be anxious to be rescued, but this, obviously, was impossible. The next step was to find out if Biggles was there, although just how this was to be achieved was not apparent.

  A cautious detour brought him to the rear of the building, where a disappointment awaited him. He had hoped that it might be possible to break a way through, but he found that the rear wall was built of palm trunks, laid one upon the other. To make a hole, even with the proper tools, would be a noisy operation. It seemed that the only way to get into the building was from the front, and this would not be possible without disposing of at least one of the sentries.

  He was still pondering the problem, standing at the rear of the building and two or three paces from one end, when a development occurred which at first seemed to provide him with just the opportunity that he required. He could not see the sentries, but suddenly they started a conversation only a few yards from where he stood. It was evident that the sentry at the far end had walked down to have a word with his partner, and this suggested that it should be possible to affect an entry at that end.

  Ginger was about to move away when something one of the sentries said made him pause. The man spoke in German, and although Ginger would not have claimed to be able to speak the language fluently, he understood it fairly well, or at least enough to follow a conversation.

  ‘This is an amazing thing about Hauptmann von Zoyton,’ said one sentry.

  ‘Yes, it is a mystery,’ returned the other.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ continued the first speaker.

  ‘Nobody can,’ was the reply. ‘Everyone saw plain enough what happened. I myself saw him come down on the parachute, and could have sworn he fell into the trees at the far end of the oasis. Everyone thought so. I was one of those who ran to the place, but when we got there there was no sign of him. The Arabs have searched everywhere. I hear they are just going out to make a fresh search in the desert, in case he went that way.’

  ‘But why should he do that?’

  ‘Well, where else could he have gone? He might have been wounded, or perhaps he hurt himself when he landed and didn’t know what he was doing. Instead of comin
g into the oasis he might have wandered away among the dunes.’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed the other sentry. ‘Still, it’s a queer business. All the officers are still searching for him.’

  With what interest Ginger listened to this enlightening conversation can be better imagined than described. It was easy enough to understand what had happened, and he could have kicked himself for not thinking of the possibility. The Germans at the oasis had seen the blue-nosed Messerschmitt shot down, but they were not to know that the man in it was not von Zoyton. They had assumed, naturally, that it was. They had gone to meet him, but he had not been found, for the very good reason that the pilot who had descended by parachute was Biggles, who had managed to find a hiding place before their arrival. It came to this: Biggles had not been taken prisoner. He was still at large, and the Germans did not know, or even suspect, that the man was not their commanding officer. They were still looking for him. This altered the entire situation, and left Ginger wondering what he ought to do about it.

  His first decision was to retire, to return to Bertie and get clear of the oasis, leaving Biggles to make his own way home. Two more British officers in the oasis, far from helping him might easily make his task more difficult. Then Ginger had a second thought. The sentry who should be at the far end of the prison hut — if it was a prison hut—had left his post. It should be a simple matter to get in at that end and find out who was inside, information which Biggles would certainly be glad to have. Turning, he started running along the soft sand that had drifted like waves against the back of the building, leaving dark hollows between them. In the very first one of these he stumbled and fell over something soft, something which, he could tell by the feel of it, was alive.

  With a grunt of alarm he scrambled to rise, but before he could do so a dark form had flung itself on him and borne him to the ground; a vicelike grip closed over his neck, forcing his face into the sand. In another moment, in spite of his desperate struggles, his gumbaz was being wrapped round his head, blinding him and suffocating him with its voluminous folds. Then, for no reason that he could imagine, the grip of his assailant relaxed, and the choking rags were torn from his face. Bewildered by the ferocity of the attack, and gasping for breath, he sat up, wondering what had happened and prepared for a renewal of the assault.