37 Biggles Gets His Men

by Captain W E Johns

  "This is something I didn't take into account," remarked Biggles.

  "I told you what the wildfowl population was like," reminded Mayne.

  "I know you did, but I couldn't imagine anything like this."

  "They only flight early morning and late evening."

  "Very obliging of them," returned Biggles sarcastically. "Meanwhile, it looks as if we shall have to confine our flying activities to the hours a lot of perishing birds don't want to occupy the atmosphere. An aircraft might as well fly into a brick wall as into heavyweight poultry on this scale."

  By the end of a quarter of an hour, however, the fighting had ceased, and, Biggles was relieved to note, the mist was beginning to thin. Visibility improved slowly, and they were just finishing breakfast when from the distance came the sound for which they had been waiting—the drone of aero engines. Ruling out anything in the way of coincidence it could only be the Ranger. Hurrying to the Birada's radio Biggles sent out the signal.

  That it had been picked up became evident when the big aircraft came nearer, although the mist was still too thick for it to be seen.

  It so happened that the Ranger did not have long to wait, although to Biggles, in his anxiety—for everything depended on the machine getting down safely—it was long enough. Quite suddenly the mist began to lift, thinning as it rose. A shaft of watery sunshine struck through it; an area of pale blue sky appeared, and like magic the air was clear except for a few swiftly dispersing clouds. The drone of the engines overhead died away and the Ranger appeared like a great, grey wraith, nosing its way cautiously towards the placid surface of the lake. Biggles ran out a little way, for nowhere near the island was the water very deep, and waved a towel. Then, as the Ranger turned towards the spot he returned to the shore to await its arrival.

  "Not so bad after all," was the way he expressed his relief to Mayne as the Ranger made a good landing and surged on towards the island. He signalled it to the mooring that had been prepared for it.

  Another minute and the big machine had nosed its way into its reedy anchorage. The engines died, and Algy. Ginger and Bertie, looking incongruous in their Oriental "tog-gery"—as Bertie had called it—stepped ashore.

  "All hands help to cover the wings with reeds," ordered Biggles. "I've plenty cut."

  "But here, I say old boy, what about a spot of brekker first?" protested Bertie, regarding Biggles reproachfully through his monocle. "We started at a ghastly hour and the old tummy feels a- bit emptyish—if you get what I mean?"

  "You'll have all day to fill it," answered Biggles. "And you'd better take that window out of your face. It doesn't go with the rest of you."

  "But I shall be lost—absolutely lost—without it," complained Bertie.

  "You're more likely to be lost with it, if anyone sees you," was Biggles' uncompromising reply. "Get cracking."

  The Ranger was soon made snug, and so bestrewn with reeds that detection, except from close range, would be practically impossible.

  Over breakfast Algy stated that he had nothing to report. Everything had gone off all right, although the ground mist, when it formed suddenly, had him worried for a little while. "How are things here?" he inquired.

  "Okay so far," answered Biggles. "We've seen nobody, and as far as we know nobody has seen us. We appear to

  have the place to ourselves, but to be on the safe side everyone will keep back under the trees except when handling the aircraft. Remember, in clear weather this island can be seen from anywhere along this end of the lake. Everything is dead still, so a movement of any sort would attract the attention of any odd native who happened to be on the prowl.

  If we're spotted, this place as a hide-out would be finished, and it would be a tricky business now, trying to move to another. How long we shall be here depends of course on how things fall out, but the sooner we get mobile the sooner we shall be away.

  Sharing the island with us is a real tough line in mosquitoes that should encourage everyone to put his best foot forward. You'll realise what I mean when the sun goes down. Meanwhile, we're all set to begin operations."

  "In that case let's get started," suggested Algy. "What's the programme? Have you worked it out yet?"

  "More or less," answered Biggles. "Obviously, our first job is to locate the enemy camp—assuming that there is one. We can do nothing until we've confirmed it and know exactly where it is. To start blundering about on foot in this sort of country is out of the question. If it's here, or hereabouts, a single air reconnaissance should reveal it. There's no reason why that shouldn't be done to-day—right away, in fact. I shall do it, taking Ginger with me. The rest will stay here, get the place shipshape and watch for any movement on the mainland. You'd better know exactly what I intend to do, in case things come unstuck. The supposed position of the kidnappers' dump is about thirty miles due east from us. When I take off I shall head north, to make a wide detour before swinging round to approach the objective from behind; so, as I pass over it. I shall be already on course for home. I shall fly straight on, having a good look, of course, while Ginger takes a strip of photos so that we can study the layout of the place in our own time. Having no map, the photos should be useful when it comes to the foot-slogging part of the operation. Having got the photos I shall wander about a bit like a lost first-soloist, so I may arrive back here from any direction.

  "And then what?" inquired Bertie.

  Biggles smiled faintly. "Having located the enemy dump, all we have to do is march to it, collect our men, return here and then fly home—but I have a feeling that it won't be quite as easy as that. We'll plan our next move when we know what we have to cope with. Of course, the objective may be well hidden, and hard to find; but we'll try the simple way first. That's enough for the moment. All right, Ginger. I'm ready when you are."

  "What happens if this trip comes unstuck?" inquired Algy. "I mean, in case of a forced landing, or anything of that sort. What do you want me to do?"

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. "Ginger and I ought to be able to work our way back here. I've got a pocket compass, and with a few biscuits in our pockets we should be all right for a day or two. If all goes well we should be back inside a couple of hours. If we'

  re not, you'll know something unforeseen has happened; but don't get in a flap, and don't be in too big a hurry to do something. Give me a day or two. On no account put the big machine in the air, except to go home. Without the transport it's unlikely that any of us would ever get home. If by any chance we don't turn up you'll have to use your own initiative about what to do."

  Algy nodded. "Good enough."

  Followed by Ginger, Biggles walked down to the edge of the lake and surveyed the shore, and the land beyond as far as it could be seen, for any sign of life. But there was none, so the Birada was cleared of its camouflage and the crew took their places.

  Finding a parachute in his seat, Ginger asked: "Do we really want these things?"

  "As they're here we might as well wear them," answered Biggles casually. "We're not heavily loaded and they may come in useful. One never knows. By the way, don't take photos until I give the word. I want to get a good vertical strip of the far end of the long lake. You can use the oblique camera to take shots of anything that strikes you as suspicious."

  "Okay."

  The engine came to life, and in a few minutes the Birada was on its way to perform the duty for which it had been brought.

  From the air, in broad daylight. Ginger watched a strange panorama unfold itself to his view, half water, half land, unmarked by a road of any sort, or, as far as he could see, a human habitation. On all sides stretched a seemingly endless succession of lakes, lakes of all shapes and sizes, many connected by rivers and brooks that meandered through vast plains of reeds. Only on the higher ground was there any actual forest, and this mostly occurred in areas seldom exceeding a few square miles. Patches of jungle on occasional knolls might have been the backs of prehistoric monsters afloat on an emerald sea, for across the
plains passed wave after wave as the tall grasses and rushes bent under the pressure of a fitful breeze. There were mountains in the distance. The foothills, gashed by mysterious gorges, came down to meet the plains.

  Biggles, as he had planned, first headed northward, a course which he held for some twenty minutes before swinging round to the east, and finally south, in a wide detour that would bring him over the estimated position of his objective, which, according to the rough sketch map drawn on the head of the Orochon, lay at the extremity of an arm outflung from a lake of exceptional size and peculiar shape. This lake—or so Ginger took it to be—had been in sight for some time, filling almost the whole of the eastern skyline.

  Indeed, it was now possible to see that this sheet of water occupied the centre of what was in fact a vast basin, perhaps a hundred miles across, hemmed in on all sides by mountains, now dwarfed by distance, but, Ginger imagined, in reality high enough to form an almost insuperable barrier to any vehicle but an aircraft.

  Biggles, apparently, also assumed the lake to be the one with which they were concerned, for cruising quietly at two thousand feet he worked his way towards its western extremity where it was now possible to observe, there occurred just such a long narrow arm as was depicted on the map. Finally he turned on a new course that would take him directly over it, at the same time speaking to Ginger over the inter-com "Use your eyes and stand by to take photos," he said crisply. "This is it—or should be."

  Ginger was already looking, searching the ground with trained eyes for signs of human habitation. He knew what to look for. He did not expect to see roads or conspicuous buildings; nor did he; but where people move about regularly over the same ground there come into existence tracks that are visible from the air, if not from the ground.

  There might be smoke from cooking fires, washed clothes left out to dry, and rubbish tips. If, as the Orochon had indicated, trees had been felled there should be some sign of that, too. He saw none of these things. All he could see was the calm surface of the lake, bounded sometimes by the eternal reeds and sometimes by wide areas of jungle.

  The machine droned on, turning neither to right nor left, bringing the picture ever closer.

  Bending over the side of the aircraft Ginger had just convinced himself that there was nothing there, and that they had come to the wrong place when he saw a small, dark-coloured blob move swiftly from one spot to another, and then stop. It might have been a bear, or some other animal. In the ordinary way, without reason to pay particular interest, it was unlikely that he would have given the thing a second glance. As it was he watched closely, and when he saw a microscopic white spot appear against the darker background he knew that it was the face of a human being looking up at him. Then, suddenly, it was no longer there. But this only confirmed what Ginger suspected. Thus can the folly and curiosity of one man destroy the most deceptive camouflage ever designed.

  "There's someone down there," he said over the intercom.

  "I saw him," answered Biggles. "Okay. Start taking."

  Ginger applied himself to his cameras, taking photo after photo as the aircraft passed on even keel over the suspected area. Between vertical shots he took an occasional snap, with a "pistol" camera, at several angles, covering particularly the area where he had seen the movement.

  The machine droned on, and gradually the objective fell away behind.

  Said Biggles: "Did you see anything?"

  "Only the one man."

  "Then you didn't notice the trench?"

  "Trench? No."

  "There was a straight black line, with squared-off ends, between two patches of jungle. I took it to be a trench. I can't think what else it could be. Anyway, straight lines don't occur in nature, so there's something there. You should have the thing in your photos so we'll have another look at it presently. We'll get along home."

  The Birada went on. There had been no opposition, anyhow, thought Ginger, not without satisfaction. Nevertheless, he stood up to get a clear view beyond the rudder in case there was anything more to be seen. There was, but it was not on the ground, and it was on the ground, naturally, that his attention was concentrated. It may have been that a movement caught his eye. At any rate, something made him look up; and there, perhaps a mile distant, a single black spot moved against an infinity of blue. Ginger blinked and looked again, thinking it might be an eagle, or one of the larger hawks. But no. The silhouette was unmistakable. The spot was an aircraft, a monoplane, head on, well above and following them.

  "Watch out, Biggles! " he warned sharply. "There's a bandit behind us."

  "Which way is he travelling?"

  "He's following us, and coming in fast."

  "Recognise the type?"

  "No. It's a fighter by its cut. Painted black. Can't see any markings."

  "Okay." Biggles' voice was quite calm.

  The sinister pursuer came on, swiftly closing the gap.

  "What are you going to do?" demanded Ginger, in a voice brittle with alarm. "This chap means business." He asked the question because the stranger was clearly a high-performance fighter, whereas their own machine, being a trainer type, carried no armament of any sort. There could, therefore, be no question of combat. Nor could the Birada hope to escape by running. Biggles had selected it for the very reason of its slow speed, robust construction and easy manceuvrability, qualities which in view of the conditions in which it would have to operate were to be preferred to high speed and fighting performance.

  Biggles' answer to Ginger's question was: "It all depends on what he does. If he only intends to follow us we'll take him for a tour round the landscape. If he comes for us I shall have to go down. Get the cameras under your arm and be ready to jump."

  "To what?"

  "Jump. We've got to save the photos. If we lose them we may never get another chance to get a fresh set. Don't bother about me. The thing is to get the cameras back to base."

  Biggles' voice was now terse.

  "Okay," acknowledged Ginger in a resigned voice.

  In the short time occupied by this conversation the relative positions of the two machines had altered considerably. The black fighter had increased its speed and was coming in, nose down, from the flank. Biggles, while ostensibly still on his course, was side-slipping away from it, and clear of the lake, towards a grass-covered steppe broken by numerous groups or copses of heavy timber.

  The end came suddenly, but Biggles, old at the tricks of his trade, watching the stranger in his reflector, was ready. He swerved, and only just in time, for almost simultaneously came the grunting snarl of multiple machine guns. A stream of tracer bullets, intended for the Birada, flashed behind its tail unit. Biggles continued to turn, banking steeply to pass under the attacking machine, which, in consequence, overshot, and had to make a complete turn to resume its attack.

  For an instant the Birada came to even keel. At the same time Biggles' voice came over the inter-com in a single staccato word, "Jump!"

  Ginger, ready, did not hesitate. With the cameras under his left arm he launched himself into space.

  By the time the parachute had opened, and he was able to look around, the two machines were some distance away, the fighter turning in a tight circle to bring its guns to bear on a target, which, twisting and turning—although, as Ginger realised, under perfect control—dropped ever nearer to the ground.

  He did not see the end of the affair, being too taken up with his own position which was not without its hazards. Fortunately there was little wind, but looking down to see where he was going feared that he must collide with some small trees. In the event a puff of wind just saved him; he missed the trees by a narrow margin and made a touchdown in the long grass by which they were surrounded. He fell, but was up again in a moment, releasing himself and then swiftly piling the billowing silk into a ball for easy transport so that he could get it out of sight. With the cameras under one arm and the "brolly"

  under the other, he dived into the trees. Putting his burden i
n a safe position he dashed

  out into the open to see how the one-sided combat had ended. In the last few hectic seconds of his descent he had been aware of sporadic bursts of fire, so he was not surprised when, just as he ran clear, there came the horrible, tearing, rending noise of a crashing aircraft. By the time he was quite clear of the trees there was only one machine in the air. It was the black fighter.

  The matter did not end there. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Ginger watched the fighter roar down and rake its now stationary target with long bursts of fire. From the spot, into the air rolled a coiling cloud of black smoke. Only then, as if satisfied, did the fighter turn away. Either by accident or design it turned towards the place where Ginger, as if rooted to the ground by horror, was standing in full view. Perceiving his folly, having a pretty good idea of what to expect, Ginger flung himself back under the trees.

  Nor did he stop at the fringe, but bored his way through the undergrowth to the root of a giant oak, at the foot of which, on the far side, he flung himself flat. An instant later, through the copse came such a shattering hail of metal that he was appalled by the din it made. Branches and bark were ripped from the trees. Clods of earth sprang into the air.

  Hearing the fighter roar low overhead, acting under the sheer impulse of self-preservation, he reversed his position to still keep the tree between himself and the aircraft. Again came the withering blast.

  Four times this happened. Ginger knew that the pilot couldn't see him, so apparently he was spraying the whole copse in the hope of killing him. Finally, either because he had used up all his ammunition, or possibly because he thought he had done enough, the fighter made off. As the noise of its engine receded, Ginger, white and shaken, picked himself up, and in a sort of frenzy raced for the spot where the Birada had crashed. There was no difficulty in finding it for it was still burning fiercely.

  He was still running, dry-lipped and wild-eyed, when a voice near at hand said: "Where do you think you're going?"