Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  Chapter 11

  Happenings at Salima

  Half an hour later, dizzy from the blinding heat, they reached the oasis to find, as Biggles had feared, that the enemy had discovered their camp and shot it up. After drinking, and plunging their faces in water, in the welcome shade of the mess tent Algy told them what had happened. He was more than a little relieved to see them. They all knew about the night battle, so he skipped it, and narrated the events of the morning.

  He said that he had intended—naturally— to take off at the crack of dawn to look for them, and he, Henry and Ferocity were actually taxiing out when the haboob hit the oasis and threw everything into confusion. Not only was flying out of the question, but it was only by strenuous efforts by all hands that the machines had been saved. As soon as the air was reasonably clear, he, with Ferocity and Henry—it turned out that he had not been badly hurt by Hymann’s blow— had got out the machines again to make a reconnaissance. They had food and water ready to drop if it was needed. They guessed the car would be stranded.

  At this moment, when the Spitfires were taxiing out to take off, a Messerschmitt had suddenly appeared over the oasis. They had not heard it coming because their engines were running. This Messerschmitt had at once radioed its discovery to Wadi Umbo, and to other machines that were out looking for the car, giving the position of Salima. They knew this because the message had been picked up by Corporal Roy Smyth who was on duty at the time; but it was only when the flight sergeant ran up with the news that he, Algy, knew that an attack on the oasis was imminent. Thereafter things had happened fast. Messerschmitts seemed to come from all directions. Algy had counted six, as, with Ferocity and Henry, he took off to give battle. By this time the Messerschmitts were diving on the oasis shooting it up with their guns.

  In the dog fight that followed Algy had shot down one Messerschmitt in flames, and Ferocity had driven another into the ground, both the enemy pilots being killed. Henry had badly damaged another Messerschmitt before being shot down himself. He had baled out and was unhurt, but his machine was a total wreck. Both the other Spitfires had been damaged, but they were being repaired and were already serviceable if required. On the ground two airmen had been wounded. A certain amount of damage had been done to stores, but the petrol dumps had escaped.

  Biggles, and those who had come in from the desert, listened to this recital without speaking. When it was finished Biggles said: ‘It might have been worse; in fact, you seem to have got out of the mess pretty well. We can’t expect to have things all our own way and this was certain to happen sooner or later. Now von Zoyton knows where we are, and he was bound to find that out eventually, things are likely to start buzzing. We are still on the credit side, but I’m not very happy about the position. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that this private war with von Zoyton is only incidental to our job of keeping the route clear. Let’s see, how do we stand for machines?’

  ‘We are down to three Spits, actually at the oasis,’ answered Algy. ‘Originally we had six. We’ve lost two by enemy action, and Bertie’s is still at Karga, where he left it when he went to fetch the Whitley. We’ve also lost the Whitley. There are four Spitfires and a Defiant at Karga. We’d better see about getting them over.’

  ‘Yes, but how? Angus is alone at Karga. The machines won’t fly themselves here, and we’ve no transport to send people to Karga. It can be done by using the Defiant, but it will take time. In the meanwhile, if another machine starts across the route, and gets lost, my name will be mud with the Air Ministry. They don’t care two hoots about our troubles. All they’re concerned with is the machines getting through—and quite rightly. It’s this blessed compass juggling that worries me. We’ve got to put a stop to that, or none of our machines will get through.’

  ‘Three of us could fly the three Spits to Karga with passengers on our laps,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘And leave the oasis without any air defence? We should be in a lovely mess if von Zoyton came over — as he will—and we hadn’t a single machine here. No, that won’t do. I’ve got to get General Demaurice to Egypt, too.’

  The General, who had not so far spoken, even when the car had been stranded in the desert, stepped into the conversation. ‘Why not send a radio message to Egypt, for more machines and pilots? Surely they would let you have them?’

  ‘They might,’ agreed Biggles. ‘And thanks, Monsieur le General, for the suggestion. But that isn’t quite our way of doing things. I was given enough men and machines to do this job and I aim to do it. If I can’t the Higher Command will jolly soon relieve me of my command. I have a two-seater at Karga. I propose to send for it. One of my pilots will fly you to the nearest point from where you will be able to get to Cairo. I’d be obliged if you would carry my despatches with you.’

  ‘I am entirely at your service, monsieur,’ said the General.

  ‘Thank you.’ Biggles turned to Flight Sergeant Smyth, who was waiting for orders. ‘Wireless-silence doesn’t matter any longer now the enemy knows we’re here. Send a signal to Mr. Mackail and ask him to fly the Defiant here right away.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The flight sergeant departed.

  ‘What we really need for transport purposes is the Rapide von Zoyton has got at Wadi Umbo,’ remarked Ginger wishfully.

  Biggles whistled softly. ‘By jingo! That’s an idea,’ he said slowly. wonder...?’

  For a minute Biggles remained lost in thought. Then he looked up. ‘That’s all for the present,’ he said. ‘You had better all go and get some rest. Bertie, Taffy and Tex, I shall have to ask you to be duty pilots in case any trouble blows along. You can sleep, but stay by your machines and keep your clothes on. I’ll arrange for reliefs in two hours.’

  Algy and Ginger lingered after the others had gone. ‘You two had better go and get some sleep, too,’ advised Biggles. He smiled. ‘I may want you to-night.’

  ‘Got an idea?’ asked Algy shrewdly.

  The flight sergeant came in with a slip of paper. ‘Signal from Egypt just in, sir. I’ve decoded it. A machine is leaving for the West Coast at dawn tomorrow.’

  Biggles took the signal. ‘That’s torn it,’ he muttered. ‘Now I’ve got to think of something between now and tomorrow morning. If this machine doesn’t get through it will mean a rap over the knuckles for me, from headquarters.’

  ‘Perhaps the Nazis won’t know about this machine starting?’ suggested Ginger hopefully. ‘After all, the signal is in code. They can’t read it even if they pick it up.’

  ‘We may safely assume that they’ll learn about it in the same way that they learned about the other machines. Their Intelligence must be providing them with the information.’

  ‘You mean a spy is letting them know?’

  ‘Yes—apparently.’

  ‘Couldn’t we find this fellow?’

  ‘That isn’t our job. It might take weeks, and what do you suppose is going to happen in the meantime? Never mind about that now. Go and get some sleep. I’ve some writing to do before I can have a nap. Flight sergeant, let me know if you hear aircraft approaching.’ Biggles sat down at the table and began to write.

  When, four hours later, the flight sergeant went in to report the approach of the Defiant, he found Biggles sound asleep.

  Flight-Lieutenant Angus Mackail taxied in and jumped down.

  Biggles was waiting for him. ‘You’ve been a long time getting here, Angus,’ he greeted.

  ‘My boys were doing a top overhaul when your signal arrived,’ explained Angus. ‘I got away as quickly as I could. What’s been going on? Where’s everybody?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ answered Biggles. ‘Things have started to warm up. It’s a long story—I’ll tell you about it later. We’re up against rather a tough proposition. We’ve lost the Whitley. You’ve got four Spits at Karga, I believe?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘I shall need them, but for the moment I have a job for you. I have a French General here who must be got to Egypt
right away. Our nearest point of contact with a communication squadron able to provide transport to Cairo is Wadi Halfa. I want you to fly the General there and then come back here as quickly as possible. Wadi Halfa is the best part of five hundred miles, which means nearly a thousand miles for the round trip. I reckon you ought to be back here by sunset. It’s a bit of a sweat for you—’

  ‘Dinna worry about that, laddie,’ broke in Angus. ‘Gi’e me the General, and let’s get awa’. I’ll be glad to be doing something. I seem to have been missing the fun.’

  ‘No doubt there’ll still be some fun—as you call it—when you get back. Your boys will be all right at Karga?’

  ‘Aye. I left the sergeant in charge.’

  ‘Good. I’ll fetch the General.’

  The General, who was asleep, was awakened. Biggles gave him an envelope, requesting him to deliver it to British Air Headquarters, Middle East. Then, as there was no reason for delay, the Defiant took off, heading due east.

  Biggles watched it go, and then turned to find that the noise of the aircraft had awakened most of those who were sleeping. He beckoned to Algy and Ginger and took them to the mess tent. ‘I want a word with you,’ he said.

  When they were inside he sat down and continued. ‘Tonight I’m going to scotch the wireless beam at Wadi Umbo,’ he announced calmly. ‘It’s the first thing to be done if we’re going to make the route reasonably safe—I mean, it’s no earthly use machines trying to get through while their compasses are going gaga. They’d get off their course, anyhow, and probably run out of petrol even if they weren’t shot down by von Zoyton’s crowd.’

  ‘Did you see the electrical gear when you were at Wadi Umbo?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Yes. It’s mobile, of course—two big lorries side by side with an aerial stretched between two lopped-off palms. Unfortunately they are near the prisoners’ quarters, so we daren’t shoot them up for fear of hitting our own people. The job will have to be done on the ground.’

  ‘In other words you’re going to the oasis to blow the works up?’ put in Ginger.

  ‘That’s the idea. If things go well we may be able to kill one or two other birds with the same stone. We might get the Rapide, and the prisoners at the same time. We could then plaster the oasis, a pleasure at present denied us because of the prisoners there. I’m telling you about this now because I may need some help. We’ve done so many shows together, and know each other’s methods so well, that I’d rather have you with me than anybody. Some of the others may be in it too. I’m just working out the details of the scheme. I’ll get everybody together later on and we’ll go into it. We shall need the Defiant. Angus has taken General Demaurice to Wadi Halfa, but I hope he’ll be back by sunset. That’s all for the moment. I thought I’d just warn you of what I had in mind. In any case, I felt that we ought to be doing something. It’s no use just sitting here waiting for von Zoyton to come over to us—as he will, you may be sure, because he must be feeling pretty sore. I was never much good at fighting a defensive war, anyway.’ Biggles got up. ‘Let’s go and have some lunch and get all the rest we can. We shan’t have much to-night.’

  Chapter 12

  The Enemy Strikes Again

  Biggles was restless, as a commander must be when he knows that a superior force is within striking distance. As the afternoon wore on he walked often to the fringe of the oasis and gazed long and steadily into the north-western sky. He had an uneasy feeling that von Zoyton’s jagdstaffel, with the advantage of a bomber at its disposal, would be over again before he was in a position to hit back. If von Zoyton was the commander that rumour gave him out to be, he must know, as Biggles knew, that in air warfare offensive tactics alone can bring success. Biggles was being forced temporarily to the defensive, and he did not like it. He hoped that the Nazi ace would hold his hand until he, Biggles, could strike.

  That von Zoyton, now aware of his presence at Salima, would be as anxious to wipe him out, as he, Biggles, was to put the Nazi station out of action, could not be doubted, particularly as a civil aircraft was due to go through in the morning. Biggles even considered sending a signal to Egypt asking that the proposed flight be delayed; but on second thoughts he dismissed the idea. It would look too much like weakness — or inefficiency. Von Zoyton would guess, correctly, that the civil aircraft would be escorted through the danger zone by Spitfires, so if he could keep the Spitfires on the ground he would certainly do so.

  Thus Biggles reasoned, putting himself in the Nazi commander’s place. But for the British prisoners at Wadi Umbo, he would, even with the limited force at his disposal, have carried out an offensive patrol over the enemy camp, but he dare not risk killing the prisoners there.

  However, even with these thoughts on his mind, Biggles did not waste time, but kept every man on the station as hard at work as the heat would permit, digging trenches for cover against bombs and piling sand around the store dumps. Apart from the three Spitfires he had no defence against air attack. The machine he feared most was the Messerschmitt 110, a formidable three-seater fighter-bomber, capable of doing an immense amount of damage. As far as he knew, von Zoyton had only one, for which he was thankful. The oasis was an easy target to find, yet owing to the heat of the sun he dare not move either men or machines out of it. If the bomber came over they would have to take what came down—apart from what the three Spitfires could do to prevent the bomber from operating with accuracy. He knew roughly when the enemy would come over—if they were coming.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll come in the heat of the day,’ he told Flight-Sergeant Smyth, who had followed him round the camp on a final inspection. ‘Von Zoyton will hardly expect to attack us without suffering some damage, and if he’s as clever as I think he is, he won’t risk subjecting his pilots to a possible forced landing on the homeward journey, knowing that anyone so landing would probably die of thirst before help could reach him. If he’s coming it will be just before sundown; then anyone cracking up between here and Wadi Umbo would have a chance to get home in the cool of the night. If anything starts, blow your whistle. That will be the signal for the men to take cover. There’s nothing else we can do. They understand that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lord Lissie and Mr. O’Hara will fly the Spitfires with me if trouble starts.’

  ‘So I understand, sir.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette and strolled back to the northern fringe of the oasis. In the west, the sun was sinking like a big red toy balloon towards the horizon, and he began to hope seriously that von Zoyton was not coming—at any rate, before Angus in the Defiant got back. That would give him another machine.

  As events turned out, this hope was not to be fulfilled. His surmise regarding von Zoyton’s tactics was correct. A hum, so slight as to be almost inaudible, reached his ears, and he gave an exclamation of annoyance. For a moment he stood staring up at the sky, but seeing nothing he turned and raced towards his machine.

  In the camp the flight-sergeant’s whistle shrilled.

  When Biggles reached his aircraft Bertie and Tex were already in their machines, their airscrews whirling.

  ‘Watch my tail, as far as you can!’ he shouted as he slipped into his parachute harness. ‘If the bomber is there I’m going to get it.’

  With that he swung himself into the cockpit, started the engine, taxied tail-up to the open sand and swept like a winged torpedo into the air. As he climbed steadily for height, swinging round towards the north-west, a glance in the reflector showed the two other Spitfires close behind him.

  He now concentrated his attention on the sky, seeking the enemy, and soon made out two Me. 109’s flying together at about eight thousand feet. To the three Spitfires they may have looked, as no doubt they were intended to look, easy victims; but Biggles was not deceived by so transparent a ruse. Long experience, amounting almost to instinct, made him lift his eyes to the sky overhead, and it did not take him long to spot four more Me. 109’s flying in line ahead at about ten thousand feet abov
e the two lower machines.

  ‘Six,’ he mused. ‘That’s probably the lot. Von Zoyton can’t have many machines left.’

  But even now he was not satisfied. Where was the bomber? He felt certain that if it was serviceable von Zoyton would use it, because one well-placed bomb might do more damage to the oasis than all the single-seaters. But where was it?

  Keyed up now for the fight that was inevitable, he half turned in his seat and studied the air below him. For a moment he saw nothing; then a movement far below, on the far side of the oasis, caught his eye, and he recognized the sinister shape of the Me. 110. The six fighters were obviously intended to attract attention to themselves while the bomber did its work. That was why, Biggles realized, the fighters had as yet made no move towards him, although they must have seen him. They were trying to draw him away from the oasis.

  Turning his tail to the Nazi fighters he streaked for the bomber, now steepening its dive towards its target. It was some distance away, and he hardly hoped to reach it before it dropped its first bomb, but he thought he might get close enough to upset the pilot’s aim.

  A swift glance behind and upward showed the six Messerschmitts, their ruse having failed, coming down behind him— the top four almost vertically. Bertie and Tex were turning to meet them.

  Biggles was sorry to leave the two Spitfires, but the destruction of the bomber was imperative if the oasis was not to be blitzed out of existence, and he might never get a better chance. His lips tightened to a thin line as, with his eyes on the bomber, he held his control column forward in a power-dive as steep as the aircraft would stand. The bomber was still going down, too, apparently unaware of his presence.

  It may have been that one of the gunners in the bomber actually helped him by calling his pilot’s attention to him by opening fire. Tracers streamed upwards, cutting glittering white lines through the air between the two machines; but the range was still too long for effective shooting, and Biggles merely increased the pressure of his right foot on the rudder-bar so that the Spitfire swerved just enough to take it clear of the bullets. At the same time the pilot of the Me. 110, who must have heard the guns at the rear of his own machine, looked up and saw death coming like a meteor—at least, so Biggles supposed, for the bomber started to turn away, dropping a stick of bombs that fell harmlessly across the area of sand that had been used for a landing ground.