Now Biggles has, and always had, a horror of dressing up, or otherwise making himself look ridiculous. He refused to be party to such proceedings. But, he said, that needn't prevent us from going. He would taxi the aircraft to a hiding place under the rocky bank of the lake, keep out of sight while the news-vendor was passing through, and so await our return. As the news-vendor would not be returning that way he advised me—on the quiet—to drop a scrap of paper at intervals as we walked along. This would mark the trail, so that when we came back alone there would be no risk of our losing the way. It was obviously a sensible suggestion, and the plan, as I have outlined it, was adopted.
The next morning Biggles retired to the aircraft, and we saw no more of him for a little while. The rest of us dressed up like three of Ali Baba's Forty Thieves, seated ourselves with the old hermit at the entrance to the cave, and awaited the arrival of the news-monger. He turned up as per schedule. We heard him coming long before he reached us.
Every mile or two he would stop, clang a bell which he carried, and bawl the news to the wide world. He was an engaging person in the matter of appearance—tied up, it seemed, with an amazing number of old garments, most of them falling to pieces.
Over a bowl of rice AE Baba told the prearranged story about us—at least, so I assumed
; at any rate, he talked an awful lot in a tongue unknown to us. At first the news-monger appeared to jib at the idea, but eventually he gave way, and we were given to understand that everything would be all right. The result was that when the news-man girded up his loins and proceeded on his way, we trailed along behind him in single file, looking as serious and as holy as possible. I brought up the rear, as it was my job to lay the paper trail, and this I did, dropping a scrap every ten yards or so, using an old newspaper for the purpose.
I needn't tell you about the journey. I've done some queer hikes in my time but this was the oddest. We walked for some hours, skirting the flank of a big mountain, sometimes crossing meadows bright with flowers, and at other times plunging through gloomy forests of
cedar and pine. The scenery was superb. Every so often the news-vendor would stop,
ring his bell, shout the news and then go on. It seemed to me to be a complete waste of time, because we didn't see a soul. Eventually we turned into a valley which our guide, by signs, indicated was the one we were looking for. It turned out that he was going into the valley himself, so he led the way. Donald was quite excited, and Algy and I were pleased at what promised to be a satisfactory end to our quest.
It was the end of our quest and no mistake. It was jolly near the end—for us of all quests.
We were striding along a sort of narrow defile, between high rocky walls. Donald went to the front, bustling along in his usual energetic style. Algy followed close behind, and I followed Algy. Inside the defile our guide had stopped for something, and now brought up the rear. There was nothing odd about this, because in a defile there is no possibility of taking a wrong turning.
Suddenly the defile opened out, and there before us stood four tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed crusaders. Dressed as you see them in pictures, they made a striking picture, leaning on their big swords, with the Cross of St. George on the front of their white tunics. Algy whispered to me that they almost seemed to be waiting for us, to which I replied, that just as Ali Baba had known of the coming of the news-monger, so must these fellows have been aware that he was due to arrive. I hit nearer to the truth than I supposed. They were waiting for him all right—and for us.
The crusaders stood in a sort of little semicircle, in the manner of a reception committee.
When we were within a few yards of them each man produced from under his tunic an automatic pistol. The effect was so incongruous that I nearly laughed. Looking back over my shoulder at our guide, I got a nasty feeling in the stomach when I saw that he, too, had produced a pistol, and had covered us. He sneered maliciously, "Keep on walking, spies." He spoke in English with a strong accent.
To say that we were flabbergasted would be to put it mildly. For a minute we stared at each other. Then Algy blurted, "What's all this about ? "
You should know that," answered one of the crusaders. "We know what you're doing here. Well, now you've found us. That is excellent. We also have found you, and we shall see to it that you cause no further inconvenience to the Third Reich.
"Third Reich ? " I gasped. I couldn't get the hang of the thing at all.
The Professor was the first to spot the truth. "They're Germans," he said, "and I can guess what they're doing here. This is a nest of spies who, taking advantage of local legends, have disguised themselves as crusaders to cloak their real activities."
"Wonderful," sneered one of the crusaders. "As if you didn't know."
"I give you my word," I said, "that we knew nothing about it. This gentleman is Dr.
Duck, the famous biologist. We were looking for the genuine crusaders."
"No doubt,' snarled the crusader who seemed to be the leader. Then he added, in German,
" Let us make an end of them and get it over."
I could hardly believe my ears—or my eyes—when they suddenly backed away, taking aim at us with their pistols. Remember, we weren't at war with Germany then. What shook me most was the fact that our guide was dearly one of the gang. He had played his part well, for no suspicion of the truth had occurred to us.
Well, there we were. What could we do? We hadn't a weapon between us. Nobody could have foreseen such a state of affairs. It was obvious that the Germans had decided that we were British agents sent out to locate their headquarters, and to deny that would be a sheer waste of time. In any case, now that we had rumbled their racket, they certainly would not let us go. It would be hard to imagine a tighter spot. The head crusader took deliberate aim at Donald ; I could see his finger tightening on the trigger and I thought it was all up.
A shot crashed out. I looked at Donald. He was still standing 'there. What was more remarkable, he seemed to be all right. Then I saw that it was the crusader who had been hit. His legs suddenly folded up under him and he went down in a heap. My brain couldn'
t keep pace with this, and while I was still wondering vaguely why the chap had shot himself—for that's what I thought had happened—a voice spoke. It was close, and un-perturbed. Somehow Biggles had arrived on the scene. He spoke in German, and I knew enough of the language to make out that he was telling the others to drop their guns.
They looked as amazed as we were. One by one they allowed their pistols to fall to the ground. Biggles stepped out from behind a rock, and without taking his eyes off the Germans, told me to pick up the pistols. This done, he ordered the Germans to turn about and march away down the valley.
The tables were now turned with a vengeance, and the Nazis could do nothing but comply. They marched off. When they had gone about fifty yards they broke into a run.
Biggles said, "Come on, let's get back. Those fellows have probably got some pals in the village. We've stirred up a hornets' nest, and the sooner we're in the air the better."
We set off at the double. Before we were out of the defile there were shouts behind us, and by the time we got to Ali Baba's cave snipers were taking shots at us. We didn't stop, but ran straight on to the water's edge. And there, flat on his face, lay Ali Baba. His green turban had rolled off, and I noticed that he, too, had flaxen hair. Donald would have stopped, but Biggles merely grunted, "He's a Hun, like the rest of them; I had to crack him on the skull. Let's get into the air."
It was warm work at the finish, for by the time we had the engine started the counterfeit crusaders were pouring down the mountain path. One or two bullets hit the machine, but they did no damage. We were soon out of range, heading for Baku. As soon as we landed Bigglet told the Soviet authorities what was going on. What happened to the Germans we never learnt—the Russians don't talk about these things—but we could guess. We didn't go back, so we still don't know if there are any real crusaders in the Caucasus.
Apparently, what had happened after we had set off with the guide was this. In the cave, Biggles, who never misses anything, had noticed a length of electric wire against the wall. That aroused his suspicions. He said nothing to us, but he had a feeling that something was wrong, and that was why he had stayed behind. It was also the reason why he told me to leave a trail, so that he could follow us if necessary. As soon as he saw us start up the trail he crept back to the cave, and heard Ali Baba talking to somebody in German, on the telephone. That made it clear that he was no Persian, but a German agent, probably a sentry posted to keep a watch over the lake. Putting two and two together, he saw that we had walked into a trap. If further proof was needed it was soon forthcoming, for out came Ali Baba, armed with a rifle. He crept down to the water near the aircraft, obviously with the intention of shooting Biggles. He didn't suspect that Biggles was stalking him, and he was just covering the aircraft when Biggles hit him on the head with a lump of rock. Then, picking up the rifle, Biggles set off after us hoping to overtake us. Had it not been for the paper trail he would never have found us, but by following it he caught up with us in the nick of time, as I have described.
Well, that's all there was to it. All's well that ends well, but there's no doubt that we had a close squeak. Had we been shot by the Germans, and we certainly should have been had Biggles not noticed that tell-tale piece of flex, nobody would ever have known what happened to us. We don't know how long the Germans were there, but they may have gathered some useful information; but for our visit they would have learnt a lot more. I doubt if Biggles ever did a more useful job of work —but here he comes now; I'd better dry up.
XV
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GREEN HORSE
"WHAT with dugouts, trenches, funk-holes and air raid shelters, civilized people are in a fair way to become troglodytes," remarked Henry Harcourt gloomily.
Tug Carrington started. "What are they ? " he questioned suspiciously.
"Troglodytes? People who live in holes in the ground.
"You mean—like rabbits?"
"That's the idea."
"Are there such people ? "
Henry shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. There used to be. I believe there are mountains honeycombed with ancient troglodyte dwellings in North Africa, but I fancy the old trogs themselves are all dead and gone."
"Don't you believe it," declared Ginger, rousing himself from the deck chair in which he had been basking after a two-hour patrol. "The trogs may have departed from the ken of civilized men, but they're far from dead. On the contrary, they're very much alive. I know. I've seen 'em."
" Really? " Henry became interested. " Where? "
"North Africa, but a good deal farther south than the well-known underground burrows in Libya. Matter of fact, those we saw were in the Hogger Mountains, sometimes called the Roof of the Sahara."
" We? " queried Henry.
" Biggles, Algy, Dr. Duck and myself," explained Ginger.
" Ah ! now I understand. So you once went on a troglodyte-hunt?"
" Oh, no," disputed Ginger. "I didn't even know the little blighters existed. Actually, we were looking for a green horse."
"Ha ha," sneered Lord Bertie Lissie. "That's a good one ! What had the horse been doing to acquire an emerald hide—eating too much grass ? "
No. I doubt if there was a blade of grass within five hundred miles of where this particular quadruped was supposed to browse."
"Was it there when you got there?" demanded Taffy Hughes.
Ginger shook his head. "That's a long story." "Spit it out, kid," invited Tex O'Hara.
Ginger laughed, and settling down in his chair, continued: A green horse would, you will agree, be a zoological curiosity, so it was hardly surprising that Dr. Donald was interested. The facts concerning this equine phenomenon were, to say the least of it, slim. For one thing, they rested entirely on native rumour, and that isn't always to be trusted. However, Donald took the view that even with the most superstitious natives there is rarely smoke without fire, so he decided to look into it.
It seemed that the thing began with the discovery of an Arab wandering about alone in the Libyan desert, near a place called Insalah. He was spotted by a French aircraft out on reconnaissance—this, of course, being before the war. The pilot made a signal to his base at Fort Flatters, with the result that a car was sent out to pick up the lost Arab. He was in a pretty bad way, and he did, in fact, die ; but before passing out he made a rambling statement about being followed by a green horse, which caused his own horse to bolt and throw him. This would certainly account for his predicament, because Arabs don't normally stroll about in the desert alone on foot. Not unnaturally, the French thought he was raving, and paid little attention to the story.
Some time later a caravan crossing the desert northeast of Timbuctu was startled by the sudden appearance on a ridge of a jade-green horse. The entire caravan of about a hundred persons saw the animal, and it put the wind up them. When it turned and galloped away most of the Arabs were inclined to think that they had seen a mirage but one thing a mirage doesn't do is leave footmark;. This unnatural steed did, and examination revealed that they came from the direction of the Hogger Mountains, which comprise a group tucked away in the fiery heart of the Sahara. These mountains have been seen and visited by one or two armed expeditions, but for obvious reasons little is known about them. It isn't the place you'd choose for a holiday; the heat is terrific, and they haven't got the water laid on. Some of the peaks rise to 11,000 feet. A few nomadic Arabs have been known to frequent the valleys, but they're a wild lot and don't encourage tourists. It is only natural that such a place should bristle with fanciful tales, and before we started we heard tell of ancient ruins, deep unexplored gulches, emerald mines, and similar attractions.
Now, in case what I am going to tell you strains your credulity, I had better tell you about the big troglodyte settlement in the Matmata Mountains, near the coast. People have known about this for a long time ; it was described by classical writers a couple of thousand years or so ago, and according to at least one traveller, it is still in existence. In this amazing community, surrounded by sheer desert, some 50,000 human moles are supposed to dwell, as they have dwelt since prehistoric times, in a honeycombed mountain. They still use flint arrowheads and axes, which is fairly conclusive proof that they haven't advanced much in thousands of years. It is assumed that they first took to the earth to escape marauding bands on the hunt for slaves; at any rate, they're as nervous as rabbits, and disappear into the bowels of the earth at the approach of strangers. They live entirely on snails, lizards and scorpions. To discourage visitors, they roll down rocks from the peaks—an old trick, but still effective. Their customs are disgusting. For instance, when one of them dies, his arms and legs are bound together; the body is then set up on a mound and pelted with rocks by the entire party to shouts of jolly laughter.
We knew nothing of this—at least, I didn't; we weren't even thinking of troglodytes when we set a course for the Hogger Mountains in search of the green gee-gee.
I've seen some sand in my time, but nothing like that which I saw in the neighbourhood of these mountains. Some of the dunes, measured by our altimeter, were nearly 2,000
feet high. The desert looks like a mighty ocean suddenly frozen in the middle of a storm.
The two most outstanding features of the mountains as we approached them, were the sharpness of the peak; and the amazing clearness of the air. Wind has worn the sandstone of which they are composed to points as sharp as needles. Altogether, it was a grim-looking spot. There was no sign of life, and nothing like a horse, green or otherwise. Our only chance seemed to be to land and look for tracks.
After hunting round for some time Biggles found a fairly fiat stretch of sand, and managed to put the old Wanderer down right side up. I don't think any of us quite realized what the heat was like until we stepped out. Talk about an oven ! I could feel my skin cracking. Well, we put a dust cover o
ver the engine, had a bite of lunch, and then, as Donald was impatient to be off, we started on our first survey on foot. There was no question of walking over the rock—it would have blistered our feet ; we chose one of the deepest canyons where there was a certain amount of shade. The ground under our feet was silt, or rather, rough sand that had disintegrated from the mountains. The silence was frightening ; the air was absolutely still, and you could have heard a pin drop a hundred yards away.
Well, we walked on for some time, looking about us, lost in wonder at the awful solitude of the place. For some time we saw nothing—nothing, that is, except rock and sand—and then, at the spot where another canyon crossed ours, what should we come upon but the tracks of a horse. I could hardly believe my eyes—nor, I think, could the others. It was hard enough to believe the horse story before we started, but now, having seen the place, it seemed fantastic.
Biggles stood and looked at the tracks while he lit a cigarette. Then he said, "No matter how hard it may be to believe, these tracks were undoubtedly made by a horse. You will observe that there is only one set, and they lead in the direction of the open desert, so if the animal came back, it didn't come this way.
The next point is, since no animal could live here long without water, if we trace these tracks back to their source we shall find water. I don't think the tracks are recent, but it's hard to judge, because it is a fact that in these deserts tracks can remain for hundreds of years."
Donald, who was pale with excitement, agreed, and started off at a brisk pace up the second canyon, following the tracks, evidently determined to trace them to their source.
27 Biggles - Charter Pilot Page 14
