by W E Johns
When he reached the long hutment that housed the prisoners he found a curious state of affairs. It appeared that the prisoners, alarmed or excited by the uproar, had crowded outside the hut to see what was going on. As they were not tied up this was possible, although in the ordinary way they would have been intimated by the sentries, who were always on duty. The sentries were, in fact, still there, two of them, brandishing their rifles and shouting in an attempt to drive the prisoners back into their quarters. When Biggles arrived on the scene, the prisoners, talking excitedly, were just moving back into the hut, although they still tried to see what was going on, hoping, no doubt, that British troops had arrived to rescue them.
One of the sentries saw Biggles coming at a run, shouted something, and levelled his rifle. Biggles swerved and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past him. Before the man could fire again, Biggles’ gun had spat, and the man fell. The other sentry turned and ran, shouting for help. Biggles stopped and addressed the prisoners tersely.
‘Keep your heads,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to get you away. Stay together and follow me.’
‘Well, strike Old Harry!’ cried a voice. ‘Isn’t that Biggles?’
Biggles stared at the speaker and recognized Freddie Gillson, the Imperial Airways captain of whom he had spoken, and who he had often met at Croydon.
‘Hello, Fred,’ he said. ‘You’re the very man I want. Can you handle a Rapide?’
‘I should think so,’ replied Fred, grinning. ‘I brought one here—that’s my machine they’ve got.’
‘Fine! We’re going home in it—I hope,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Keep close to me. Make for the cockpit as soon as we reach the machine. A lad of mine is inside, but he may not know for certain how everything works. You take over. Come on.’
Biggles turned and ran towards the Rapide, which he could not see, although he knew that it was only a hundred yards or so away.
The prisoners followed, and it looked as though they would reach their objective unmolested. But this was not to be, for, although Biggles was not to know it, the aircraft stood in full view of a spot which had been manned by German paratroops who were lining the fringe of the palms overlooking the landing ground in order to resist the attack which they supposed was being launched. Even then the escapers nearly succeeded in getting aboard without being noticed, for it seemed that the Nazis were concerned only with what was in front of them. Fred had already entered the Rapide, and the others were crowding in behind him when, by a bit of bad luck, one of the German soldiers happened to look round. Even then, possibly because he was a new arrival, he appeared not to understand exactly what was going on. For a moment he just gazed without any particular interest. Then he seemed to realise that something was wrong. He ran a few paces towards the Rapide and then stopped, staring, evidently trying to make out just what was happening. Suddenly he understood and let out a yell.
‘Inside everybody—quick!’ shouted Biggles. ‘I’ll keep them back. Don’t wait for me. Get off as fast as you can.’
So saying, Biggles ran a little way towards the end of the line of German troops, who by this time had turned towards the scene, and dropping into a fold in the sand opened fire with his revolver. He reckoned that another minute would see all the escapers in the aircraft, and his action was calculated to gain just that amount of time. And in this he was successful. Before his fire, the Germans, thrown into some confusion by so unexpectedly finding themselves enfiladed4, ducked for fresh cover, and by the time they were in a position to do anything the Rapide’s engines had come to life; the big machine began to move slowly towards the open ground, its airscrews flinging dust and palm debris high into the air.
This was the moment for which Biggles had waited. There was no longer any point in remaining, for it was not his intention to be left behind. Jumping to his feet he made a dash for the cabin door, which had been left open. Several shots were fired at him, as he knew they would be, but there was no way of preventing this. The Rapide turned a little, presumably to help him, but the result was a blinding cloud of dust right in his face.
Instinctively he flung up an arm to protect his eyes. At that moment a rifle cracked, but he did not hear it. Something inside his head seemed to explode in a sheet of crimson flame that faded slowly to utter blackness. He pitched forward on his face and lay still.
* * *
1 JU52 - German three-engined, low-wing monoplane used for transporting many passengers.
2 German state airline.
3 German: Who goes there?
4 Enfilade: to attack a line of troops or targets by firing from the side down its length.
Chapter 15
Abandoned
Probably only one man of all those in the vicinity saw Biggles fall—Ginger, who from the cockpit had seen his perilous position, and had dashed to the door to cover his retreat. Biggles, as he fell, was hidden from the Germans by the clouds of dust torn up by the churning airscrews. In the general rush, those in the machine were too concerned with their own affairs to look outside. What had happened was this.
Ginger had found the Rapide and reached it with surprising ease. Germans were all around him, but not one took the slightest notice of him, this being due, no doubt, to the uproar, which at its worst appeared to produce a state of panic. Entering the cockpit he made a quick survey of the instruments and then proceeded to put the machine in a condition for a quick start-up and take-off. This occupied him for some minutes, during which time he was left quite alone, although there was nothing remarkable about this. There was no reason why the Germans should suppose anyone was in the air liner. This done, he was able to turn his attention to what was going on outside. The dominant feature was a fire of sufficient size to throw a lurid glow over everything. Through the dancing shadows of the palms, cast by the leaping flames, he could see figures moving, most in ones and twos. There was as yet no sign of Biggles, who, he realised with a glow of satisfaction, had succeeded in his first object—the destruction of the Nazi power station.
After two or three minutes had elapsed he saw, not without consternation, that German paratroops were lining the edge of the oasis uncomfortably close to his position; but there was nothing he could do about it. Shortly afterwards he made out a little crowd running towards the Rapide, and knew that Biggles had managed to secure the prisoners. Two figures, running hard, were in advance of the main group.
What happened next has already been related. One of the two leading figures, whom he now perceived was Biggles, turned towards the paratroops. The other ran on and jumped into the machine. This man was a stranger to Ginger, but he introduced himself without wasting words.
‘I’m Gillson,’ he rapped out. ‘This is my machine. Let me have her. Where are we bound for?’
‘Salima— an oasis about a hundred and thirty miles south-east from here. You can see it for miles—you can’t miss it.’
‘Okay,’ returned Gillson shortly. ‘You’d better go and look after your C.O.. He’s outside somewhere.’
Looking through the side window, Ginger saw how dangerously Biggles was placed. He was content to leave the aircraft in the hands of a master pilot, so he made his way to the cabin door, where he found the rest of the prisoners pouring in. This prevented him from getting out. All he could do was to shout, ‘Hurry along—hurry along,’ in the manner of a bus conductor.
The prisoners did not need the invitation. They were only too anxious to get aboard, but for several seconds they prevented Ginger from seeing what was going on outside. He could, however, hear the crack of rifle fire, which worried him. When finally the door was clear, he looked out to see Biggles retiring towards the Rapide in a cloud of dust. Then the machine began to move. This alarmed Ginger, although as the movement was as yet slight he hoped that Biggles would manage to get on board. More sand swirled, half hiding the scene.
By this time Ginger was shooting at the Germans as fast as he could pull trigger. He did not trouble to take aim, but blazed away simply with the id
ea of keeping up a hot covering fire. Then Biggles, when he was within a dozen yards of the aircraft, pitched headlong on the sand. For a moment Ginger did nothing, for his first impression was that Biggles had merely fallen; but when he did not get up he realised with a shock that he had been hit. At this juncture the aircraft turned still more towards the landing ground, driving a blinding cloud of dust straight into the faces of the Germans. The scene was completely blotted out. Ginger could no longer see Biggles although he was only a few yards away. He did what anyone would have done in the circumstances. He jumped out of the machine and, running to the place where he had last seen him, found him still lying as he had fallen.
With the object of carrying him to the aircraft, Ginger tried to pick him up, only to discover that to pick up an unconscious body is not the simple job some people may suppose. It is far more difficult than picking up a man who is only pretending to be unconscious. In sheer desperation he seized Biggles by the collar and started to drag him.
He could hear the machine, but he could not see it on account of the flying sand which, flung into his face with considerable force, nearly blinded him. For a minute he struggled on in a kind of frenzy. He knew it was no use shouting for help because the roar of the Rapide’s engines drowned all other sounds. Then, to his horror, the sound began to recede, and as the aircraft gathered speed such a storm of wind and sand and debris was hurled behind it that Ginger dropped choking to his knees, covering his face with his arms.
As soon as it was reasonably possible he stood up. He knew that he had been left behind, and for a little while the shock bereft him of all power of thought. His brain whirled as a thousand thoughts crowded into it. Biggles still lay at his feet, dead or wounded, he did not know which. Overhead, the noise of aircraft began to abate, and he could hear orders being shouted through the settling sand, which was still dense enough to prevent him from seeing more than a few yards. Not knowing what he was going to do—in fact, hardly knowing what he was doing—he grasped Biggles by the collar of his tunic and started to drag him in the direction of the nearest palms. He knew where they were. Reaching them he halted, and tried to think.
He was now out of the line of the Rapide’s take-off, and the air was comparatively clear. There was still a certain amount of noise, mostly in the direction of the burning lorries. Judging by sounds, everyone on the oasis was there, trying to extinguish the flames. Over-head the moon shone brightly, throwing a complicated pattern of shadows on the sand.
Ginger dropped on his knees and looked at Biggles in the hope of discovering where he had been hit. This was not difficult, for his face was covered with blood. With his handkerchief he was able to wipe most of it away, revealing a wound just above Biggles’ right ear. As far as he could make out it was a long laceration, tearing away skin and hair. Another fraction of an inch and the bullet would have missed him altogether; a fraction the other way and it would have gone right through his head.
Ginger decided that there was only one thing to do. He was not in the least concerned with being taken prisoner; he was concerned only in saving Biggles’ life, if possible. The Germans, being in force, would have a medical officer with them. Clearly he must give himself up in order to get assistance. Before doing this, however, he soaked his handkerchief with water from the water bottle which he carried, and dabbed it on Biggles’ face. He also tried to pour a little through the pallid lips.
Unexpectedly, and to his joy, Biggles groaned, muttered incoherently for a moment and then opened his eyes. They stared at Ginger unseeingly.
Recklessly, Ginger poured more water on Biggles’ head, and was overjoyed to see his eyes clear.
‘What happened?’ whispered Biggles in a weak voice.
‘You’ve been hit,’ answered Ginger. ‘We’re still at Wadi Umbo. The Rapide got away with the prisoners, but we were left behind.’
Biggles struggled to a sitting position, drank from the water bottle, and then buried his face in his hands. Presently he looked up. ‘We seem to be in a mess,’ he muttered. ‘My head’s thumping like a steam hammer.’
‘I’m going to fetch a doctor,’ declared Ginger.
‘No!’ Biggles’ voice was firm. ‘Don’t do that. I don’t think it’s as bad as that. I’m still a bit dizzy, but maybe I’ll be better presently. ‘I’ll give it a minute or two, anyway.’ Biggles laved his hands and face with water, while Ginger took the field service dressing from the corner of his tunic1 and bandaged Biggles’ head.
‘That’s better already,’ announced Biggles. ‘By gosh! That was a close one, though. Where exactly are we?’
Ginger told him.
‘Where are the Germans?’
‘I think they’re trying to put out the fire. I can’t make out why they haven’t found us.’
‘Probably because they haven’t looked,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Naturally, they would assume we had got away in the Rapide.’
‘Of course—I didn’t think of that.’
Biggles rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying. He leaned against a palm to steady himself. ‘I don’t feel like packing up—yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a chance. Let’s try to find a better position. The best place, if we can get to it, is the side of the oasis where we came in. The palms are pretty thick there, and I don’t think it’s used much.’
‘Okay, if you think you can manage it,’ agreed Ginger. ‘You’d better put your arm round my shoulders. I’ll help to steady you.’
Then began a long slow walk as they worked their way cautiously towards the desired position. Biggles’ condition improved, partly, no doubt, as the result of his iron constitution, and partly on account of his will power. Comparative quiet had fallen on the oasis. An argument appeared to be going on at the place where the lorries had stood. A glow marked the spot. Occasionally figures could be seen moving through the trees.
Eventually the objective was reached, and there, just inside the palms, facing the open sand, Biggles sat down to rest.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Ginger anxiously.
‘Not too bad,’ returned Biggles. ‘I’ve got a splitting skull ache, otherwise I seem to be all right.’
‘How about trying to pinch a Messerschmitt?’ suggested Ginger.
Biggles smiled bleakly. ‘I don’t think I’m quite up to that. Let’s sit quietly for a bit and think things over. Everything went off fine. It’s just a matter of getting home, now.’
As they sat and rested, every now and then, from somewhere in the desert, voices could be heard, calling. For some time they took no notice. Then Biggles looked up.
‘What the deuce is going on out there?’ he asked.
Ginger moved a little nearer to the open sand and gazed out across the wilderness. He could just make out several figures, apparently walking aimlessly, some near, some far. One or two were leading camels.
‘I get it,’ he said slowly. ‘The Spitfires, or the general commotion, must have stampeded the camels. They’re all over the place, and the Arabs are out looking for them.’
‘Is that so?’ said Biggles, in an interested voice. ‘Are there any camels in the camel lines—you know, the Toureg camp?’
‘Yes, several.’
‘See any Arabs?’
Ginger looked long and carefully. ‘No. They all seem to be out looking for the strays. Those who bring them back just tie them up and then go out to look for more.’
Said Biggles, in a curious voice: ‘Ginger, have you ever ridden on a camel?’
‘Come to think of it, I don’t think I have,’ answered Ginger. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ returned Biggles, ‘I’m afraid you are going to have a perfectly beastly time.’
Ginger started. ‘Doing what?’
‘Having your first lesson.’
‘What’s wrong with a camel?’
‘Quite a lot of things,’ murmured Biggles. ‘To start with, he is usually as bad-tempered as he is ugly. His breath stinks like nothing on earth, and if he doesn’t like you he m
ay spit in your eye a slimy lump of green cud. Riding a camel is like sitting on a broomstick in a choppy sea.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ inquired Ginger, in a startled voice.
‘Because this seems to be where we go riding on a camel in the desert—or rather, on two camels.’
Biggles got to his feet and surveyed the camel lines, which were quite near. ‘I think it’s all clear,’ he observed. ‘Let’s go across. I’m no lover of a camel, but I’d rather use his feet than mine, when it comes to foot work on the sand.’
Five camels stood in the line, contentedly chewing the cud. Three carried saddles; two were unsaddled. Biggles went up to the nearest beast that carried a saddle.
‘You will discover that a camel saddle is designed primarily for breaking your back,’ he observed. ‘The first thing, though, is to make the animal kneel, so you can get on his back.’ Then, looking at the camel, he said, ‘Ikh.’
The animal took no notice.
‘I hope I haven’t lost the knack,’ muttered Biggles. ‘You have to get just the right intonation.’ He tried again, with a more guttural accent. ‘Ikh.’
The animal groaned, and sank on its knees.
‘There you are—all done by kindness,’ Biggles told Ginger. ‘Get aboard. Sit side-saddle on the rug. Get the pommel in the bend of your right leg and hook your instep with your left heel. That’s the idea. Hold tight!’ Then, to the camel, he said, ‘Dhai!’
Ginger grabbed at his saddle as an earthquake occurred under the front half of his camel, tilting him back at an angle of forty-five degrees. He leaned forward to prevent himself from sliding off; simultaneously the rear half of the camel heaved, and he was restored to even keel. He caught his breath when he looked down and saw how far he was from the ground.
Meanwhile Biggles had followed the same procedure with a second camel. Mounted, he drew near to Ginger. ‘You can hold your rein—there’s only one—but it doesn’t really do anything. You guide a camel by tapping its neck and regulate your speed with your heel. No doubt your beast will follow mine.’ To his camel Biggles said, ‘Yahh!’, and the beast started to walk.
