by W E Johns
‘I seem to do nothing but chase round the landscape in that perishing battle-wagon,’ growled Taffy.
‘I can’t give you an aircraft because I haven’t any,’ Biggles pointed out. Then he smiled. ‘After all, you left your Spitfire at Karga when you came here—without orders. Had you remained at your station I could now have sent you a signal to fly over and join in the fun and games.’
‘All right, sir, you win,’ agreed Taffy. ‘Come on, Henry; come on, Ferocity! Let’s go and examine von Zoyton’s tin chariot.’
‘If we can get the four Spitfires here by morning we’ll give von Zoyton the shock of his life if, as I think, he’s worked it out that we’re down to two machines,’ declared Biggles. ‘Now let’s synchronise our watches and polish up the details of the scheme. In a show like this perfect timing is essential.’
With the scheme afoot the time passed quickly. The melancholy business of the funerals took up a certain amount of time, as did the evening meal, and it was after ten before all these things had been cleared up. Taffy, Ferocity and Henry, with spades on their shoulders, had long ago set off for the abandoned car. In the end they had decided to do the work themselves rather than take from the oasis airmen who were working full time on the two Spitfires, both of which needed attention.
Silence utter and complete lay over the desert when, just before eleven, the operating machines were wheeled out to the open sand in readiness for the raid. The great African moon gleamed like polished silver in a cloudless sky. The palms of the oasis, weary after their battle with the sun, hung silently at rest.
‘It’s going to be a bit of a squash, I’m afraid,’ remarked Biggles to Ginger, as they walked over to the Defiant.
‘We’ll get in somehow,’ said Ginger.
‘When we bale out, follow me down as quickly as you can,’ went on Biggles. ‘We don’t want to land too far apart.’
‘How do you want me to fly?’ inquired Algy.
‘Take her up to twenty thousand. Cut your engine and glide when I give the word. We want to get as close as we can, but it won’t do for the enemy to hear us. When we’ve baled out, turn and glide away; try not to use your engine until you are out of earshot of the aerodrome.’
Algy nodded. ‘Okay. I get it.’
Biggles finished his cigarette and stamped the stub into the sand. He looked at his watch. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s be going.’
Algy climbed into his seat. Biggles and Ginger followed, and wedged themselves in the gunner’s cockpit—the gun had been removed to make more room.
The engine came to life, shattering the silence and swirling sand in little clouds across the desert. The aircraft began to move forward, slowly at first but with swiftly increasing speed. The tail lifted. Then the Defiant rose with the grace of a bird towards the dome of heaven. Picking up its course it continued to nose its way upward, without effort, each succeeding thousand feet of height thrusting the horizon ever farther away. At first the sand had glistened faintly to the stars, but from fifteen thousand feet the aircraft appeared scarcely to move across a bowl of immense size, the interior of which was as dull and lifeless as the surface of the moon. Indeed, the picture presented reminded Ginger of those he had seen of the moon, photographed through a telescopic lens. Oases were represented by dark spots that might have been no more than clumps of moss. All detail was lost. The only landmark was the ancient slave trail which, as straight as a railway track, crept up over the rim of the world to cut a tragic scar across its face before disappearing into the mysterious shadows that veiled the northern horizon. And still the aircraft thrust its way towards stars that seemed to hang like fairy lamps from a ceiling of purple velvet.
Biggles spoke to Algy. ‘Level out and cut the engine,’ he ordered. ‘There’s Wadi Umbo ahead. Five minutes will do it.’
As the nose came down the drone of the engine died away to a sibilant whisper. The aircraft glided on through a lonely sky, leaving no more sign of its passing than a fish in deep water. Biggles, his face expressionless, watched the ground. The minutes passed slowly, as they always do in the air. But at last he turned to Ginger.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Give me three seconds to get clear. We should be able to see each other when we get on the floor.’ To Algy he said, ‘So long—see you later.’
Algy nodded. He did not speak.
Biggles climbed out, slid a little way along the fuselage, and then dropped off into space.
Ginger could see him falling like a stone as he climbed on the fuselage and followed his leader into the void. The experience was no novelty, and as soon as his parachute had opened he looked around calmly to make out what appeared to be a mushroom, a thousand feet below and about a quarter of a mile behind in the track of the aircraft. After that there was nothing more to do but wait while the brolly lowered him gently through the atmosphere.
There was no wind, so he knew that he was dropping vertically. Not that there was any sensation of falling. He appeared to be suspended in space. In fact, he was not conscious of any sensation at all, except perhaps one of loneliness. He appeared to be alone in the world. The silence was uncanny. It was some time before the details of the desert, such as they were, began to draw nearer and take shape. As far as he could make out he would touch down, as was intended, between two and three miles short of the objective, the oasis that lay like a dark stain on a grey cloth.
Then, suddenly, came a feeling of falling, for no other reason than because the earth seemed to rise swiftly to meet him, and he bent his knees to take the shock of landing. He watched the ground with some apprehension, for he knew that if he struck rock instead of sand it might mean a broken bone. But as it happened all was well, and he landed on the sand as gently as he could ever remember alighting. He did not even fall.
The silk, assoon as his weight was taken from it, settled as softly as a thistle seed. In a moment he was out of his harness, rolling the fabric into a loose ball. This done, knowing the direction, he gazed across the desert, and was relieved to see a figure walking towards him. Biggles had, of course, landed first.
‘What are we going to do with the brollies?’ asked Ginger, when they met. ‘We can’t hump them round with us; they’ll be in the way.’
‘We shall have to abandon them,’ answered Biggles, in a low voice. He walked a little way to the nearest rock. ‘We’ll cover them with sand, and smooth it out,’ he said. ‘We may have a chance to recover them at some future date.’ As he spoke Biggles set down a bundle that he was carrying and started to scoop a hole in the sand.
It took about ten minutes to dispose of the unwanted parachutes. Then Biggles rose, picking up his parcel.
‘Now let’s get along,’ he said. ‘We’ve some way to go, but we’ve plenty of time. We’ll keep close to the rock. I hope we shan’t see anybody, and I don’t think we shall, but if we’re challenged we may have to fight it out. Got your gun handy?’
‘I brought two, to be on the safe side,’ answered Ginger.
Biggles smiled. ‘Not a bad idea. I hope it won’t come to that, though. But that’s enough talking. Don’t speak unless you have something important to say; it’s amazing how far sound travels when the desert is as quiet as this.’
Biggles took a small service compass from his pocket, studied it for a moment and then walked on, keeping close against an outcrop of rock that ran like the carapace on a crocodile’s back in the right direction.
Chapter 14
The Storm Breaks
For half an hour Biggles walked on, keeping close against the rock and stopping often to listen. Occasionally he made a cautious survey of the country ahead from the top of a convenient eminence, taking care, though, not to show too much of himself above the sky-line. Ginger did not speak, for he had nothing to say. In the end it was Biggles who, after a reconnaissance, broke the long silence.
‘We’re about three hundred yards from the fringe of the oasis,’ he breathed. ‘The camel lines are to our left. I can see peop
le moving about, but I think we can risk getting a little closer. We’re in good time.’
‘What is the time?’ whispered Ginger.
‘A quarter to twelve.’
They went on again, slowly, exercising extreme caution, and after a little while came to a cup-shaped depression in the rocks. Sounds of movement, industry, and noisy conversation in the oasis were now clearly audible.
‘This will do us,’ announced Biggles. ‘We’ll stay here till the music starts.’
Ginger squatted down to wait. ‘Everything seems to be going fine,’ he observed.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can never tell. However well a show like this is planned, much still depends on sheer chance. One can’t make allowances for the unexpected, for things one doesn’t know about. I should say that good leadership consists not so much of sitting down quietly at a headquarters and making plans, as adapting them to meet unexpected obstacles as they occur. Everything is all right so far. We’ll deal with trouble when it arises— as it probably will. We shall be lucky if it doesn’t. We’re all set. There are still ten minutes to go.’
‘Sounds like the lads coming now,’ murmured Ginger a moment later, as the distant hum of aircraft came rolling through the night air.
Biggles said nothing for a little while. ‘That doesn’t sound like a pair of Spitfires to me. The sound is coming from the wrong direction, anyway.’
It was now Ginger’s turn to be silent. Standing up he gazed long and steadily towards the north, the direction from which the sound seemed to come. Presently there was no doubt about it. ‘There are more than two engines there,’ he announced.
‘More than two!’ retorted Biggles. ‘I should say there are nearer ten. They’re not our engines. To me, that broken purr says Junkers1. They’re coming this way — they must be coming here. We’ve chosen a lovely time for a raid!’ He looked over the rim of the depression. ‘Everyone seems to be making for the aerodrome,’ he remarked. ‘We’d better get a bit nearer and see what is happening. Junkers or not, those lorries have got to be destroyed, somehow. Come on!’
Sometimes walking and sometimes running they made their way quickly towards the oasis. If they were seen there was no indication of it. There was a considerable amount of noise, suggesting excitement, in the enemy camp. Orders were shouted. The drone of aircraft became a roar. There was no longer any need to talk quietly. Landing lights sprang up round the aerodrome, and a floodlight flung a path of radiance across it.
Biggles made swiftly for the fringe of palms that marked the nearest point of the oasis. Reaching it, he hesitated. Anxious as he was to get to the lorries, he was equally concerned about the landing aircraft, for he could not imagine what they could be or what they were doing. He glanced at his watch.
‘Four minutes to go,’ he said crisply. ‘I think we’ve time to see what all this fuss is about.’
They hurried forward through the palms until they reached a position which gave them a view of the enemy landing ground. As they came within sight of it a big machine was just coming in.
‘For the love of Mike!’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘It’s an old Junkers commercial, the type Lufthansa2 used on the Berlin-Croydon run. What the...’ Biggles’ voice faded away in speechless astonishment as one after another four of the big tri-motored machines landed, filling the air with noise and turbulent sand. But an even greater shock was to come. As the machines came to a standstill cabin doors were opened and men poured out to form up with military precision. Not fewer than twenty men in full marching order emerged from each of the first three machines.
‘Paratroops,’ said Biggles in a curiously calm voice.
‘What on earth would they want with paratroops in this part of the world?’ demanded Ginger in astonishment.
Biggles threw him a sidelong glance. ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ he said.
‘You mean —Salima?’
‘What else? This is von Zoyton’s answer. He must have sent for them from North Africa.’
The big machines now moved forward, like four antediluvian monsters, making for a part of the oasis not far from where Biggles and Ginger stood watching. Three rumbled on and disappeared between the palms. The last one stopped. Men ran out and swarmed about it.
‘Now what?’ said Ginger.
The question was soon answered. Six anti-aircraft guns of the pom-pom type were quickly unloaded.
‘I imagine those are intended as a little surprise in case we come over,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Oh to be in the air at this moment with a full load of ammunition.’
‘What a target for Bertie and Tug when they come over!’
Biggles looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be thirty seconds too late,’ he said bitterly. ‘There’s still half a minute to go. There goes the last of the Junkers into the trees. Now the lights are going out. It’s all over.’
‘But Bertie and Tug will have seen something going on. They can’t be far away.’
‘Probably, but they won’t know what to make of it. In any case, they have their orders.’
Biggles bit his lip with annoyance. ‘This is the sort of thing that tempts one to depart from the original plan, but we mustn’t do that,’ he muttered. ‘We must go through with what we started. Hark! Here come the Spitfires now. Everyone will be busy with the new arrivals, so we still have a chance. This way.’ Biggles began walking quickly through the palms towards the centre of the oasis. There were quite a number of troops about, and one or two passed fairly close, but no one challenged the intruders.
Two minutes sharp walk brought them to a clearing, and by this time pandemonium had broken loose. Such was the uproar that Ginger, after the first shock of astonishment had passed, in spite of the seriousness of their position, burst out laughing. Rising above everything was the howl of the Spitfires, which were literally skimming the palm fronds at the bottom of each dive. Occasionally they used their guns, filling the air with streams of tracer shells and bullets. All sorts of weapons came into action on the ground. Musketry rolled. Orders were screamed. Men ran, shouting, apparently under the impression that the oasis was being attacked by a superior force. A pom-pom gun, presumably one of the new ones, added its voice to the din.
‘Strewth!’ muttered Biggles, ‘what a business.’ He caught Ginger by the arm and pointed. ‘Look! There’s the Rapide. Now’s your chance. Get set, but don’t start up until I join you.’
As Ginger made a bee-line for the big machine, Biggles, revolver in one hand and parcel under the other arm, darted along the edge of the clearing to where he had last seen the lorries. His satisfaction was intense when he saw they were still there. He ran forward until he was close enough to hear a dynamo whirring.
Suddenly a man, armed with a rifle, bayonet fixed, appeared in front of him Whether he was a sentry, or merely an odd soldier on his way to the landing ground. Biggles never knew. At first the man took no notice of him, but, unfortunately, as they were about to pass, a star-shell cut a brilliant parabola across the sky, and showed everything in clear white light. Had the man gone on Biggles would have taken no notice of him, for he was concerned only with the destruction of the lorries; but it seemed that the soldier suddenly recognized Biggles’ uniform. At any rate, he pulled up dead and shouted, ‘Wie gehts da3?’ At the same time he dropped the point of his bayonet, ready to thrust.
With a swift movement of his free arm Biggles knocked the muzzle of the rifle aside. The cartridge exploded. The blaze nearly blinded him. Before he had fully recovered his sight the man had jumped forward and knocked him over backwards. Biggles fired as he fell, and the man slipped forward like a swimmer diving into deep water. Picking himself up, Biggles looked around quickly, hoping that in the general uproar the shots would not have been noticed. But apparently they had, for a door in the rear of the nearest lorry, which was built in the manner of a caravan, was flung open, so that light streamed out. In the centre of it, peering forward, stood a German airman. He was hatless and his tunic was unfastened,
suggesting that he was either an engineer or radio operator. In his hand he held a revolver.
Things were not going quite as smoothly as Biggles had hoped, but there could be no question of retiring. The man saw him and shouted something, and without waiting for a reply fired two quick shots, neither of which hit their mark. Biggles took quick but deliberate aim and fired. The man stumbled out of the lorry on to the sand, ran a few yards, and fell. Biggles took no further notice of him, but jumped into the lorry to find it empty.
As he had supposed, the interior was a compact, perfectly equipped radio station. He unwrapped his parcel. It was not, as Ginger had vaguely supposed, a bomb, or an explosive charge, for the simple reason that nothing of the sort was available at Salima. Biggles had been compelled to rely on fire alone, and he carried in his parcel no more than a large oil can filled with petrol.
It took him only a moment to remove the cap and splash the contents over the walls and floors of the lorry. He backed to the door, laying a trail of spirit, for he had no intention of being burnt when the petrol gas exploded, as he knew it would when he applied a light. The second lorry stood so close to the first that the destruction of one would be bound to involve the other. Nevertheless, he flung what remained of the petrol on the nearest wall of it, and then, having struck a match, tossed it on the petrol-soaked sand.
There was a sheet of blue fire, a vicious whoosh, and the first lorry was immediately enveloped in flame. Blue flame dripped from the adjacent vehicle.
Biggles backed away, watching to make sure that his work had been well done. A minute sufficed to convince him that it had, so he turned and ran towards the prison hut. What was going on in other parts of the oasis he did not know, but the commotion neither in the air nor on the ground had in any way subsided, and that was all he cared.
