Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  Ginger found himself lurching backwards and forwards, just as though, as Biggles had said, he was on a rough sea.

  ‘I shan’t be able to stand much of this,’ he muttered. ‘I shall be as sick as a dog.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Biggles assured him. ‘You’ll find it a bit tricky when we break into a trot; but if you can hang on while the beast gets in its stride, you’ll find a camel easier to ride than a horse—look out! Those two fellows on the right have spotted us.’

  A shout came rolling across the waste.

  ‘Take no notice,’ ordered Biggles.

  There were more shouts, and the two men started to run towards the camel lines.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s torn it,’ remarked Biggles, quietly. ‘Those blighters have guessed we’re making off with their animals, and they’ve either gone to fetch help, or get mounted to pursue us. We’d better push along if I can get my brute into top gear.’

  Biggles’ camel, with heartrending groans, broke into a trot, and the next instant Ginger thought his end had come; but he clung to the saddle, and when the creature had settled in its stride it was not so bad. He saw that they were covering the ground at surprising speed.

  For some time nothing was said. Ginger was in no state to talk. He was still wondering how long he would be able to stand the strain. Then came a shout behind. He dare not risk turning to look, but Biggles did, and announced that they were being pursued by the Toureg.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ll catch us if we don’t go faster than this,’ he said. ‘They’re as much at home on a camel as we are in a Spitfire. They know how to get most out of their beasts.’

  So far Biggles had followed the gully through which they had travelled to the oasis, but they now reached a point where it fanned out to open sand for a considerable distance.

  Beyond was more rock. Soon after they were in the open a shot rang out, and a bullet kicked up a splash of sand in front of them. More shots followed.

  Biggles looked behind him. ‘They’re overtaking us — quite a bunch of them,’ he announced. ‘Let’s try to reach those rocks ahead. Hang on, I’m going to gallop. We may as well break our necks as be caught by those sheikhs behind us.’

  Biggles’ camel groaned again, and then broke into a full run. Ginger gasped as his beast followed. Then he could have laughed with relief. There was no more jolting. It was like skimming through the air in a glider.

  ‘How far away are the rocks?’ he shouted.

  ‘Two or three miles.’

  Ginger risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Arabs coming at a full gallop, flogging their beasts and uttering piercing shouts. There was also sporadic shooting. He did not know what Biggles intended doing if they reached the rocks first, but he imagined that they would stop and fight it out. He could think of nothing else. It was certain that if they kept on the Toureg would overtake them, probably shoot them down from behind at close range. For the moment it was a race for the rocks.

  They reached the outcrop a bare hundred yards ahead of their pursuers, and as a camel’s legs are not constructed for travelling over rock Biggles made for an opening, just such a gully as the one in which Ginger had once landed his Spitfire. A minute or two later, after they had travelled about a hundred yards in the gully, Ginger’s camel, for no reason that he could see, flung up its head and swerved. Unprepared for such a manoeuvre Ginger lost his balance. He made a wild grab at the animal’s neck, missed it, and shot out of the saddle. The halter, to which he clung, broke his fall; then it slipped through his hands and he rolled over and over across the sand. He finished in a sitting position to see Biggles still racing on, evidently unaware of his fall.

  ‘Hi! Biggles!’ he yelled desperately.

  Apparently Biggles did not hear, for he ignored the cry.

  A thunder of hooves at the entrance to the gully brought Ginger to his feet in a hurry, revolver in hand. An instant later the Arabs came pouring through the gap in the rock. They must have seen the loose camel which, having got rid of its rider, was standing on the open sand in the supercilious attitude that only these animals can adopt; possibly they saw Ginger as well, for with harsh shouts they pulled their beasts to a skidding standstill.

  Ginger, without turning, backed towards the wall, revolver at the ready. He had given up all thought of escape, but was determined to do as much damage as possible before he was shot, as he knew he must be at the end of so one-sided an affair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Biggles stop and then come tearing back. He was sorry about this, for he could not see what useful purpose Biggles hoped to serve. It looked as though he was throwing his life away uselessly.

  By this time Ginger had reached the rock wall that bounded the gully, and with his back to it, in deep shadow, he brought a sharp fire to bear on the Arabs, moving his position between each shot. This was necessary, for the Arabs were shooting now— the ragged fire of undisciplined men. They appeared to have no concerted plan of attack, but with a good deal of unnecessary noise, scattered, and began to advance, each in his own way.

  By this time Biggles had dismounted and was running towards the spot, keeping close against the rock. He disappeared into deep shadow, but his voice reached Ginger clearly.

  ‘Can you get up the rock behind you from where you are?’

  ‘No!’ shouted Ginger. ‘It’s sheer.’

  ‘Then retire towards me,’ called Biggles. ‘There’s a place here. If we can get on the rocks their camels won’t be able to follow. Keep coming—I’ll cover you.’ Biggles’ gun spat.

  Ginger began to run along the gully to the point where he judged Biggles to be; but evidently the move was seen by the Arabs who, with renewed yells and more firing, began to close in. In his heart he felt that the position was hopeless, and his reaction was a sort of reckless abandon that completely eliminated anything in the nature of fear.

  ‘Come on Biggles!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s paste the devils!’ Crouching, he turned towards the Arabs who were now fast closing in; but a moment later, to his surprise, for he could see no reason to account for it, they began to retire. Thinking perhaps the Arabs were reluctant to face his fire, with a shout of triumph he dashed forward, shooting until a click told him that his gun was empty. By this time the Arabs were in full flight; they remounted their camels and raced for the open sand. And while he was still marvelling at this extraordinary behaviour there came a sound that brought him round with a gasp. It was the hum of a powerful car. Then a headlight blazed down the gully, flooding the scene with radiance. A machine-gun began its vicious staccato chatter, and he flung himself flat as a hail of lead ripped up the sand and spattered against the rock.

  For a minute or two Ginger lay where he had thrown himself, his brain in a whirl at this unexpected development. Then, as he saw the Luftwaffe car come tearing down the gully, and he realized what had happened, he laughed hysterically. The car dashed up, and even before it had stopped a figure with a white bandage round its head jumped out. He recognized Tex.

  ‘Say, Ginger, what goes on?’ Tex demanded.

  Ginger put his gun in his pocket and leaned against the car as Taffy, Henry and Ferocity scrambled out.

  Biggles strode up. ‘Where the deuce have you come from?’ he inquired. ‘How did you get here, Tex? I thought you were on the sick list?’

  ‘So I was, but I got well,’ answered Tex, casually. ‘Say, chief, what’s wrong with your head?’ he added, noticing Biggles’ bandage.

  ‘It got in the way of a bullet,’ answered Biggles, briefly. He turned to Taffy. ‘So you got the car out? Bit of luck for us; you timed your arrival very nicely.’

  ‘Luck?’ questioned Taffy. ‘Why, we were looking for you!’

  Biggles frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could you have known we were in the desert?’

  ‘Well, it was this way, look you,’ returned Taffy. ‘When we got the car out we took it back to Salima to refuel, and then came out on patrol as you suggested. We heard the two Spits go home, and
soon afterwards, while we were still cruising towards Wadi Umbo, what we took to be the Rapide. So we—thinking everything was all right—had a cigarette, and were just thinking of going home when we got a radio signal from Algy, who was back in the Defiant at Salima. He said the Rapide had landed, but you and Ginger weren’t on board. He reckoned you must have been left at Wadi Umbo, but if you hadn’t been captured you wouldn’t stay there. He thought you might start to walk back, so he asked us to come and meet you. Then we heard the shooting, and here we are. That’s all there was to it.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Nice piece of staff work, Taffy. Matter of fact we were trying to get home on a couple of camels, but Ginger stalled and made a crash landing. The Toureg were on our trail, and for a minute or two things looked a bit gloomy. As I said just now, you couldn’t have timed your arrival better. But we mustn’t stand talking here. I’ve things to do. The sky will be stiff with Messerschmitts presently. What’s the time?’

  ‘Half-past three.’

  Biggles whistled. ‘Late as that? Then we certainly have no time to lose. Von Zoyton has imported several loads of paratroops, and they’ll be calling on us presently. As we’re fixed if they once get their feet on the ground in Salima they’ll make a shambles of the place. Stand fast. I’m going to send a signal to Algy.’

  ‘Don’t forget von Zoyton will hear you,’ put in Ferocity.

  ‘Oh, no, he won’t,’ replied Biggles. ‘All that’s left of his radio equipment, I hope, is a heap of cinders.’ He went into the car and sat down at the instrument, and was soon in touch with Salima. Having assured Algy that he and Ginger were safe, he ordered the Rapide to proceed immediately to Karga, taking the released prisoners, together with Algy, Angus, Bertie and Tug, who were to return forthwith in the four Spitfires. He closed by saying that the car was on its way home and should be back before dawn.

  ‘If that works out without any snags, by dawn we should have six Spits and the Defiant,’ announced Biggles to the others, who were watching him. ‘Von Zoyton will suppose that we are down to two Spitfires — not enough to stop his Messerschmitts and Junkers. He’ll strike, as he thinks, before we can get help. I should say his entire crowd will be over at dawn, or soon after. We’ve got to get those troop carriers before they can unload or Salima will be wiped out. Tomorrow ought to see the showdown. Let’s get home.’

  * * *

  1 Every serviceman carried a wound dressing kit for emergency first aid.

  Chapter 16

  The Battle of Salima

  After a tiring journey, during which Biggles often dozed, the car arrived back at the oasis just before six o’clock. The moon had set, and the darkness that precedes the dawn had closed over the wilderness. Flight-Sergeant Smyth met the car to announce that coffee and biscuits were waiting in the mess tent. He was in charge at the oasis, all the officers having gone to Karga in the Rapide to fetch the Spitfires. Biggles, pale and red-eyed, led the way to the tent and gulped down the welcome refreshment.

  ‘Now listen, everybody,’ he said. ‘That includes you, flight-sergeant. I can give you all ten minutes for a bath and brush up; then we must get busy. Von Zoyton has been reinforced by four Junkers troop carriers. He has about sixty paratroops, to say nothing of the men of his own unit. He aims to wipe us out completely. He can want airborne troops for no other purpose. We know now how the Nazis do this operation. The Junkers will either crash-land, or unload in the air under a protecting screen of Messerschmitts. We may safely assume that von Zoyton will lead the show in person. If we had more machines I shouldn’t wait for him to come. I should have a crack at Wadi Umbo before he could get started. But we can’t do that with only three machines, leaving Salima unprotected. The Karga Spitfires may be here in time to give us a hand, or they may not. I hope they will. It will be a close thing, anyway. I reckon the earliest the four Spitfires can get here will be about seven o’clock— twenty minutes after sun-up. Von Zoyton is bound to attack before the heat of the day. If he comes at the crack of dawn we shall have to carry the whole weight of the attack with what we’ve got. Every minute he delays after that gives us a better chance. But the point is this. If those paratroops get on the ground in this oasis, we’re sunk. They carry grenades, flame-throwers, sub-machine guns—in fact, everything needed for their job. Not only have we none of these things here, bar a couple of Tommy guns, but we are outnumbered six to one. Obviously, then, we must at all costs prevent the Junkers from getting through. Presently I shall go with the flight-sergeant and fix up such ground defences as we can manage. The two Spitfires and the Defiant will leave the ground before dawn and go to meet the enemy.’

  ‘Do you think you are fit to fly?’ asked Ginger anxiously.

  ‘I shall fly one of the Spitfires,’ answered Biggles coldly. ‘You will fly the other, because you know better than anyone else how I work in a case like this. Taffy, you will fly the Defiant. Sorry, Tex, but you and Henry will have to take charge of things on the ground. Don’t look so glum; if those Nazis get their feet on the floor you’ll have plenty to do, believe me. The three aircraft will leave the ground in fifteen minutes. That’s all. Now go and get cleaned up. Ginger, Taffy, Ferocity, stand fast.’

  After the others had filed out, Biggles turned to those who were to fly. ‘This looks like being a tough show,’ he said. ‘I shall, of course, try to spring a surprise, for which reason I shall take you up to the ceiling. The Messerschmitts are bound to fly above the Junkers. I aim to go right down through them, which should upset them, if only for a few seconds. In a show like this seconds count. I shall go after the Junkers. The others will do what they can to keep the Messerschmitts off my tail. In your case, Taffy, I think your best plan would be to adopt the tactics Ball1 brought to a fine art in the last war. He used to throw himself straight into the middle of the enemy formation and then skid all over the sky, browning2 the whole bunch, and generally acting as though his idea was to ram anyone who got in his way. If you can get the enemy split up they’ll have to watch each other to prevent collisions. Make the most of that. Ginger, do what you can to keep my tail clear while I deal with the Junkers. I’ll meet you at the machines in ten minutes.’

  Biggles had a new dressing put on his head, and a quick wash, which freshened him up considerably. When he went out he found the oasis a hive of activity. Arms were being distributed and men posted at strategic points. Airmen were struggling under loads of ammunition. Biggles made a quick round of the defences, and then joined Ginger, Taffy and Ferocity at the machines. For a little while, smoking a cigarette, he gazed at the eastern horizon; but as soon as the first pale flush of dawn appeared he trod his cigarette into the ground.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be heavy going while it lasts, but it shouldn’t last long. Today will see the end of either Salima or Wadi Umbo. When we sight the enemy, stay close to me until I give the signal to peel off.’

  Biggles swung himself into his cockpit and started the engine; he sat still for a few seconds with his engine idling, and then roared into air which, at that hour, was as soft as milk. Swinging round slowly towards the northwest he settled down to climb.

  The radiance behind him became a living flame, and when some minutes later the rim of the sun showed above the horizon to put out the last lingering stars he smiled faintly with satisfaction. It was dawn. According to his calculations, Algy and the Karga Spitfires were still a hundred miles away, but every passing minute knocked five miles off the intervening distance. A glance at his altimeter showed that he was now at twenty thousand feet, but he continued to climb until Salima was no more than a lonely islet in an ocean of sand that rolled away to infinity Ahead, the sky was clear. Biggles examined it methodically, above and below, section by section, for the tiny black specks that would be his first view of the enemy; but they were not in sight. At twenty-two thousand he turned on the oxygen and went on up to twenty-five thousand, at the same time turning a few miles to the north of a straight line between the two oases. Not for a m
oment did he relax in his ceaseless scrutiny of the sky. His face was like a mask, expressionless. Only his eyes seemed alive.

  At last he saw what he was looking for. He spotted the four Junkers first; they were flying a good deal lower than he expected, not higher, he judged, than six thousand feet.

  Five thousand feet above them, and about a mile behind, four Messerschmitt 109’s followed the same course, like sharks in the wake of a convoy. Where were the rest? Lifting his eyes Biggles saw three more machines, perhaps five thousand feet above and a mile behind, the middle layer.

  All were on a straight course for Salima. Biggles had anticipated this, which was why he had edged to the north. He was anxious to avoid being seen before he struck. The Nazis had adopted a typical battle formation; there was nothing about it to make him change his plans.

  As the top layer drew near he frowned. There was something odd about them. Then he saw what it was. They were not all the same type. The leading machine was a Messerschmitt 109 F., an improvement on the 109. This settled one question. If von Zoyton was in the party he would be in the new machine. Where the aircraft had come from Biggles did not know, nor did he care. The machine was there, and that was all that mattered. With the Nazi ace at the joystick it was far and away the most formidable member of the hostile force, worth, probably half a dozen ordinary Messerschmitt 109’s flown by pilots of average ability.

  The enemy machines were still flying straight towards Salima. Biggles allowed them to pass. He felt sure that not one of the Nazis had seen the three British machines sitting nine thousand feet above them, or some move would have been made, some signal given. Von Zoyton would have placed himself between them and his vulnerable troop carriers. Once behind them, Biggles knew that there would be still less chance of discovery, for von Zoyton and his pack, if expecting trouble, would look for it ahead, in the direction of Salima; so Biggles swung round in a wide half-circle that brought him about two miles behind the enemy machines, on the same course, and still well above. He moistened his lips and braced his body. The time had come. He turned his head to look at Ginger and Taffy in turn. They were both watching him. He nodded. Then, with his lips set in a straight line by the strain of the impending action he thrust the control column forward. With a wail of protest the nose of the Spitfire tilted down until it was in line with the top layer of enemy machines. Speed, now, was what he needed, if he was to reach his real objective—the four Junkers troop carriers, which from his height looked like four bloated locusts crawling across the dunes.