Biggles Goes to War

by W E Johns

  ‘Step on it,’ snapped Biggles as the car moved forward.

  ‘You were a long time,’ grumbled Ginger. ‘I don’t mind telling you I began to get worried when the cars started going. Originally, I chose a Mercedes–’

  ‘Never mind what you chose; look where you’re going,’ interrupted Biggles curtly.

  ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

  ‘Back to the machine, of course.’

  ‘The machine doesn’t look like being much good to us even if it’s still there,’ answered Ginger, peering between the flakes of snow that were being caught by the windscreen.

  ‘The snow may stop.’

  Ginger shook his head. ‘Not it. Not yet, anyway. I saw it start; nice big gentle flakes, as if it was going to make a really good job of it’

  ‘Well, we’ve nowhere else to go,’ answered Biggles. ‘It would choose this moment to start, confound it.’ He turned to the Count. ‘We’ve got an aeroplane waiting out in the country,’ he explained. ‘But, as you may know, an aeroplane isn’t exactly a safe conveyance in a snow-storm, even if it can get off the ground – and it can’t always do that.’

  ‘Is there no other way of getting into Maltovia?’ asked the Count.

  ‘None.’

  ‘You might try the bridge.’

  ‘We might, but it wouldn’t be much use.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The two middle arches are missing.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘The most important part of the bridge, which is the middle, is no longer there.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the river.’

  ‘Great heavens! How did it get there?’

  ‘It got in the way of a lump of high explosive and came off second best.’

  ‘How on earth did that happen?’

  ‘It didn’t exactly happen. I dropped a bomb on it. The Lovitznians were getting ready to march across.’

  ‘Ah! I see.’

  ‘Had I known what I know now I would have waited until tomorrow, but we didn’t know you were a prisoner when we bombed the bridge.’

  ‘What are we going to do, then?’

  ‘Whatever happens, I think we must go to the aircraft, or, at least, to the place where we left it, in case Algy is still standing by – not that I think he will be. I hope he had the sense to clear off home when the snow started.’

  ‘Would he be able to do that?’

  ‘Yes; the snow is coming from the north. Janovica lies to the south. If he took off at once he could race the snow home. But there, it isn’t much use guessing; we shall do better to wait and see what has happened before we make any plans. Take it steadily, Ginger. We shan’t see the ruts in this snow, and we only need to break a back axle now to be in a really good mess.’

  After that they fell silent while Ginger made the best time he could, with safety, back to the landing-field. They did it in little over an hour, by which time the snow was almost blinding in its intensity. When Biggles stepped out of the car on arrival at their destination he sank in it up to his knees. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ he muttered savagely.

  ‘Is he here?’ asked Ginger, referring, apparently, to Algy.

  ‘I don’t know. You can’t see ten yards in this stuff. Even if he is, flying is out of the question. I’m prepared to take risks, but I never did see any sense in committing suicide.’

  Leaving the car on the side of the road, they hurried across the field to where they had left the machine, but, as Biggles had fully expected, it had gone. It mattered little, for he knew that it could not have taken off in two feet of snow.

  ‘And now what?’ asked Ginger resignedly, when they had made quite sure that the machine was not there.

  It was the Count who came to the rescue with a new hope. ‘Wait a minute!’ he cried. ‘I believe I have the answer. I know this part of the country well, because I used to fish in the river when I was a boy. There is an old mill some distance down the stream; in the old days they used to keep a boat there.’

  ‘How far is this place?’

  ‘It must be nearly four miles from here.’

  ‘As far as that! Can we get to it in the car?’

  ‘No, we must follow the river. There is a tow-path, you know.’

  ‘It should be a pleasant little jaunt on a night like this,’ replied Biggles, sarcastically. ‘I haven’t much use for walking at the best of times, but in this stuff, and at this hour – still, it’s no use grumbling, I suppose. Do you feel able to walk four miles, Count?’

  ‘Yes, I think I can do that.’

  ‘Very well. We may as well start as stand here and freeze to death.’

  They set off in a straight line for the river, or as near a straight line as they could keep, for walking through the whirling flakes was no easy matter. Half an hour brought them to the tow-path, and Ginger could not help reflecting that they had covered the same ground in one minute of time earlier in the evening. The river lay like a great black snake in the snow so they could not lose their way, while the hard foundation of the path made the going easier than it had been over the turf.

  The Count turned to the right on reaching the river and then set off along the bank. ‘The snow has its advantages,’ he observed optimistically. ‘We need hardly fear pursuit.’

  ‘I should have been still less afraid of pursuit with a joystick in my fist,’ replied Biggles grimly. ‘However, we are not doing so badly.’

  Thereafter they kept their breath for the task on hand, but even so they were all nearly exhausted when, two hours later, the Count announced that they were nearing their objective. He declared that he recognized a bend in the river. Thus cheered, the little party moved on again, thankful at least that the exertion kept them fairly warm.

  ‘We’ve got a dickens of a long walk in front of us even when we get across the river,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘We shall find a conveyance of some sort as soon as we get into Maltovia,’ stated the Count confidently.

  ‘In any case, it was no use staying in Lovitzna,’ put in Biggles. ‘Even if it was a thousand miles to Janovica, thanks to this snow we have no alternative to what we are doing.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed the Count, brushing the worst of the snow from his clothes. Fortunately, it was the dry, crisp sort that did not cling and melt. ‘Ah, I see where we are,’ he went on. ‘I remember this place quite well.’

  The snow had thinned somewhat, and the others could just make out high, wild-looking, pine-clad slopes on either side of them. The open country had been left behind and they were, in fact, passing through a deep valley.

  ‘What on earth would a mill be doing in such a place?’ asked Biggles, mystified.

  ‘It is a saw-mill,’ replied the Count. ‘The trees are cut down and shipped by barges to the other side of the country, where they are sawn into lengths for pit-props. There are some mines there. We must go carefully; it will not do to be discovered; the people who own the mill are Lovitznians, don’t forget. Ah! there is the mill. I see it. I–’ The Count’s voice died away curiously. ‘It seems to have changed,’ he added dubiously after a moment or two.

  They took a few paces nearer.

  ‘I don’t want to be pessimistic, but it looks to me as if all that is left of your mill is charred stumps,’ observed Biggles casually. ‘The place has been burnt down.’

  The Count uttered a low cry and ran forward to where a few rough planks spanned a backwater. ‘You are right,’ he cried. ‘The place has been burnt down, and – the boat has gone.’

  Biggles stopped on the planks regarding the desolate scene. Where the saw-mill had stood, a gaunt skeleton of charred beams loomed darkly against the sky. In the backwater, half submerged in mud, lay an old barge, rotten, derelict. Near the water were piles of fir trees, stripped of their branches. ‘It looks as if we’ve arrived about five years too late,’ he murmured evenly.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed the Count sadly.

  Ginger drew a deep
breath and was about to speak when a long, mournful howl welled up somewhere in the black pinewood beside the river. He shivered. ‘My goodness! What’s that?’ he cried.

  The Count began to back away. ‘Wolves!’ he said in a startled voice.

  ‘Wolves!’ Biggles almost barked the word. ‘Do you have wolves here?’

  ‘They come down in packs from Siberia in the winter. Cold and hunger drive them down.’

  ‘How very cheerful,’ answered Biggles, peering into the darkness, at the same time taking out his automatic. ‘I don’t want them to satisfy their hunger on me, if it can be prevented,’ he announced.

  ‘Nor me,’ declared Ginger vehemently.

  At that moment the snow stopped, the sky cleared like magic, and a wan moon shed a pallid light over the whitened world.

  ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ asked Biggles sharply. ‘Think of something somebody. The situation is getting a bit beyond me.’

  ‘Look!’ The Count almost hissed the word. Swinging round, the others saw that he was facing the way they had come, evidently with the idea of returning. Fifty yards away, in the middle of the path, several dark shapes were slinking.

  Biggles levelled his pistol, but before he could fire, almost as if the wolves had divined his intention, the shapes had merged into the black background of the trees.

  The Count began walking quickly towards the mill. ‘Let us take refuge in here,’ he said. ‘The brutes may think twice before attacking what is, or what looks like, a building. If they catch us in the open we shall not have a chance.’

  The others needed no second invitation. Stumbling over logs and fallen timber, they made their way as fast as they could into what was left of the mill. The ground floor was piled up high with debris, but from one corner of it a flight of stone steps led upwards to the few boards that remained of the first floor.

  ‘We had better get up there until we decide what we are going to do,’ suggested Biggles.

  ‘Yes, that is our best plan,’ agreed the Count. ‘It looks as if we shall have to wait here until the morning. Wolves are cowardly brutes and seldom show themselves in daylight.’

  ‘Well, we shan’t have long to wait, there is that about it,’ replied Biggles, glancing at his wrist-watch. ‘It’s turned five o’clock now.’

  They made their way up the tottering steps until they stood on the remains of the first floor. Biggles looked through the ruins of what had once been a wall. Sitting in a circle round the building were thirty or forty grey wolves, panting, with lolling tongues. Their breath rose up like a cloud of steam. ‘Pretty lot of little fellows, aren’t they?’ He said to Ginger, who had joined him.

  Ginger did not answer. He was drawing his pistol.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Have a crack at the swines,’ replied Ginger vindictively.

  ‘It will be time enough to do that when they start coming up the stairs,’ Biggles told him bluntly. ‘Save your ammunition. In any case, we don’t want to tell the world where we are.’

  ‘This is what comes of leaving good old England,’ muttered Ginger morosely.

  ‘Well, you said you were craving for some excitement. You’re getting it, so I don’t see what you’ve got to grumble about,’ Biggles told him shortly, as he sat down to wait for the dawn.

  Chapter 15

  A Perilous Undertaking

  SLOWLY THE MOON sank and the sky cleared. The weather turned milder as the wind swung to another quarter; presently it died away altogether, and the mournful silence that settled over the dismal scene was broken only by the drip, drip, drip of melting snow.

  Presently Ginger spoke. ‘The wolves are coming nearer,’ he said, with a hint of alarm in his voice.

  Biggles stood up. The wolves were still sitting on their haunches, but several of them had edged appreciably nearer.

  ‘That is their usual way,’ said the Count, who was watching. ‘They are waiting for one, more daring than the rest, to make a rush.’

  ‘Then we’d better do something to discourage them before they start anything like that,’ replied Biggles. ‘I had hoped it would not be necessary to use our pistols in case the shots were heard, but we might as well be captured by the Lovitznians as chewed up by a mob of ravening wolves. Have a crack at them, Ginger.’

  Ginger levelled his automatic, resting the muzzle on a charred beam; his finger tightened on the trigger and the weapon went off. For a second or two he was blinded by the flash, but when his sight adjusted itself again he saw that the wolves had all disappeared.

  ‘Didn’t I hit one?’ he asked in a disappointed voice.

  ‘No, but you made one jump,’ grinned Biggles.

  ‘They’ll come back when they get over their fright,’ declared the Count.

  ‘Then they’ll have to buck up if they aim to get a meal before morning,’ replied Biggles. ‘It’s beginning to get light – look!’ He pointed to the east where a grey streak was creeping up over the tree-clad hills. ‘Incidentally, a quick thaw seems to have set in,’ he continued. ‘I’m afraid Algy won’t know what to do for the best.’

  ‘It will be no use him thinking of landing in that same field, even if the snow does melt,’ put in the Count quickly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can’t you imagine what happens when a fall of snow like this starts melting? All that low country is inundated.’

  ‘My gosh! I never thought of that,’ muttered Biggles. ‘And what about the river?’

  ‘The water will pour off the hills, and there will be such a spate that nothing will be able to get across the river, perhaps for some days.’

  ‘One way or another we look like having a bonny time,’ murmured Ginger disconsolately, casually throwing a piece of wood at the swiftly running stream.

  ‘As soon as it gets properly light a hue and cry will start and we shall be chased up and down the country like escaped convicts,’ growled Biggles. ‘I suppose it is no use trying to swim across the river?’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ declared the Count. ‘Quite apart from the speed of the current, we should be frozen to death before we were half-way across.’

  ‘Confound it! Surely there must be some way we can get across?’

  Ginger suddenly grabbed Biggles’s arm. ‘There is!’ he cried triumphantly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You saw me throw that piece of wood in the river just now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s gone ashore on the opposite bank at the next bend, where that piece of sand sticks out. The current swings round this corner, hits the bank here and shoots right across to the other side at the next bend. Look, you can see the piece of wood I threw lying on the bank. With some of these tree trunks tied together we could soon have a raft strong enough to float us over to the other side. All we need is some rope.’

  ‘Good work, Ginger,’ cried Biggles enthusiastically. ‘Let’s see if we can find something that will do to tie the logs together. What about the barge? We might find something there. As it’s light, I don’t think we need worry about the wolves, but keep your gun handy in case of accidents.’

  They all made their way down the steps, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a binding material. They found nothing in the mill itself, but on the deck of the barge Biggles pointed to an old tarpaulin. ‘We could no doubt tear that into strips if we can find nothing else, although it would take a bit of tying. Or that,’ he added, pointing to a length of chain. ‘Rope would suit us better, of course.’

  There was nothing else on the deck, but dragging open a mouldering locker in the bows Biggles gave a cry of delight, for lying in a mildewed heap were several odd lengths of rope. He picked up a piece, and made a grimace as, giving it a sharp jerk, it snapped like a piece of wet cotton.

  ‘That won’t hold much,’ said the Count ruefully.

  ‘If we handle it carefully it ought to be good enough to keep a few logs together for a few
minutes,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’ll thread the chain through the middle to take most of the strain.’ So saying, he picked up an armful of the rope and hurried back to the pile of logs that lay nearest to the water’s edge. They were, in fact, almost in the now rising water, ordinary fir trees of about six inches diameter, trimmed ready for transportation.

  ‘Count, will you wind the rope round one end, while you, Ginger, tie the other end as I pass them down to you? Make an ordinary flat raft, keeping the logs as close together as you can. Ease them into the water as you go along, then we shall be able to test it until it will take our weight.’

  It was a perfectly straightforward task, but one that demanded a certain amount of care on account of the rottenness of the ropes. For half an hour they worked feverishly, Biggles handing down the logs to the others, who then lashed them together at either end. The sun came out and they actually perspired as they worked.

  ‘It must be nearly wide enough,’ announced Biggles at last, pausing to look at the result of their labours. ‘By James! We’ve no time to lose, either. Look at the river. It’s risen a foot in the last half hour and it’s travelling twice as fast as it was. Slip and get that length of chain, Ginger; we’ll use it as a main bracing. We might have the tarpaulin, too, to throw over the top. What the–!’ He broke off and swung round, staring up the river bank. ‘I thought I heard somebody shout,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘So did I,’ said Ginger tersely. He ran into the mill and sped up the steps to take advantage of the elevation they provided. One look and he was down again, almost falling in his haste. ‘Launch her, launch her!’ he gasped.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Soldiers. Soldiers and bloodhounds. They’re following our trail. They are only just round the corner and they’re coming at a run.’

  Biggles wasted no more time in conversation. Taking one end of that part of the raft which still remained ashore, he dragged it towards the water, while the Count did the same thing on the other side. Ginger got behind and pushed, as much to take the strain off the ropes as for any other reason. In a moment the crude raft was floating on the stream, but under their combined weight it sagged frighteningly. Water surged up between the logs and over the outside edges.