by W E Johns
He was standing at the edge of the kerb wondering which way to go when an errand-boy dismounted from a bicycle not far away, and, leaving the machine leaning against a lamp-post, disappeared into a shop. Covertly watching the people around him to see if his movements were observed, Biggles walked quickly to the cycle. Nobody took the slightest notice of him; they were all far too interested in the Germans. In a moment he had straddled the machine and was pedalling a somewhat erratic course down the street – erratic because it was many years since he had ridden a bicycle. Moreover, the only bicycles he had ridden were the rather heavy old-fashioned type which had upright frames, whereas his present mount was a light roadster with ram’s-horn handlebars that swept nearly to the ground. He felt awkward on it, clumsy, and could only hope that he did not look as conspicuous as he felt.
Even so, it was entirely the German’s fault that he collided with him. He – Biggles – was just turning into the broad highway which he knew ran past the aerodrome when the Nazi, a corporal, stepped right in front of him. Biggles did his best to stop, but he couldn’t find the brake, and the result was that the handlebars caught the German under the seat of his pants and knocked him flying into the gutter.
Biggles stopped at once, for he knew that to go on was to court disaster. The corporal, white with fury – for several of the spectators had laughed at his discomfiture – strode swiftly back to where Biggles was standing.
‘Fool!’ he snarled, kicking the bicycle out of the way and striking Biggles across the face with his open palm.
By what effort Biggles controlled himself he did not know. He clenched his fists and his jaws clamped together, but he stood still, suffering in impotent silence, for around him were a dozen or more fully armed soldiers. But even now the corporal was not satisfied. He lifted his heavy field boot to kick. Biggles stiffened, and his eyes glinted dangerously, for to stand still and be kicked by a German corporal was more than he was prepared to endure. How the matter would have ended had there not been an interruption is a matter for conjecture, but at that moment a Storm-troop2 officer on a swastika-bedecked motor-cycle pulled up alongside and spoke crisply to the corporal, demanding to know why he wasn’t getting on with his job. Without waiting for the corporal to answer he fired out a string of orders.
The corporal saluted, mustered his men, and marched them behind the officer to the corner of the street, a distance of perhaps forty paces, where the officer proceeded to post the men as sentries.
Biggles looked at his bicycle. The front wheel was buckled and the tyre was flat. Obviously, it would take him no farther. There was not another vehicle in sight – except the Nazi-flagged motor-cycle, resting on its stand as the officer had left it.
It did not take Biggles long to make up his mind what to do. He knew now that once the German net had closed around the city he would be caught in it, and would probably remain in it until the end of the war – if nothing worse happened to him. His only chance of escape lay in reaching the aerodrome immediately. In an hour, two hours at most, it would be too late. The motor-cycle offered a chance, a chance that might never present itself again. Biggles had spent most of his life taking chances, and he did not hesitate to take this one.
There was a gasp of horror from the spectators as he swung a leg over the saddle. His heel slammed down the self-starter. There was a yell from the Germans as the engine sprang to life, but he did not waste valuable time looking back. In a moment he was tearing down the street, crouching low over the handlebars to minimize the risk of being hit by the shots which he presumed would follow.
1 German: Non-commissioned officer e.g. a Sergeant or Corporal.
2 A member of an elite force of highly trained troops.
CHAPTER 2
ALARMING DEVELOPMENTS
ACTUALLY, ONLY TWO or three shots were fired, and they whistled harmlessly past, before Biggles came to a side street into which he lost no time in turning. Then he steadied his pace, for he did not want another collision, nor did he wish to attract attention to himself by riding at a dangerous speed. A hundred yards farther on he took a turning which brought him back to the main road. Several parties of German troops were stationed at various turnings and cross-roads, and although they sometimes looked at him curiously, as he swept past, they made no attempt to stop him. He realized that he, a civilian, must have cut a strange figure on a swastika-flagged motor-cycle, but the Nazi emblem acted as a passport, and he was content to let the flags remain.
In five minutes he was through the suburbs of the city and on the open road, doing sixty miles an hour, determined that no one should overtake him before he reached the aerodrome. If there was a pursuit, and he fully expected that there would be one, he saw no sign of it, and when, twenty-five minutes later, he swept into the straight piece of road that led to the aerodrome, he imagined that his escape was assured. He could have shouted with glee as he turned into the short drive that ended at the club-house. He did, in fact, purse his lips to whistle, but the sound died away before it was formed; for outside the club-house was a group of men. One or two were civilians; the rest were in uniform – the grey uniform of the German Air Force.
Shaken though he was by shock, Biggles realized what had happened, and a glance towards the hangars confirmed it. A dozen machines were parked in line – but they were not club aeroplanes. They were Messerschmitts, sleek monoplanes bearing the familiar Latin cross, and the swastika of the German Air Force.
The German pilots, laughing, suddenly spread across the road, raising their arms in salute; and, as Biggles jammed on his brakes and stopped, they crowded round him. One of them, a captain, stepped forward and Biggles steeled himself for the worst. To his utter and complete amazement the German clapped him on the back with every sign of friendliness.
‘Welcome!’ he cried.
Biggles’s brain seemed to go numb, for not by any stretch of the imagination could he make out what was happening. Far from treating him like an enemy, the Germans seemed pleased to see him. He couldn’t understand it at all, and he began seriously to wonder if, after all, the whole thing was not an evil dream. Then, dimly, he began to see daylight – or he thought he did. It was the motor-cycle – or rather, the swastika flags on it. The Germans took him for one of themselves.
But the next remark made by the German captain dispelled this delusion. He took Biggles by the arm in the most friendly manner, although his friendliness had an oily quality which Biggles found hard to stomach.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were one of us?’ he said slyly, nudging Biggles with roguish familiarity.
Something in the man’s voice made Biggles look at him more closely; and then, for the first time, he recognized him. Doubtless it was the uniform that had so altered him that he had not recognized him at first. He was one of the members of the flying club.
Biggles’s brain raced to keep pace with the situation. ‘But wouldn’t that have been risky?’ he said vaguely, in order to gain time. ‘I thought you were a Norwegian.’
‘So I am,’ was the staggering reply, ‘but I’ve always admired the Nazis – and it was made worth my while to play on their side. There were three of us here in the swim, but none of us guessed that you were in it too.’
‘At last Biggles understood. Three of the members of the flying club were in German pay, and now that he had arrived on a Nazi motor-cycle they assumed, not unnaturally, that he, too, was in Nazi employ. The knowledge shook him to the very core. Spying was something he could understand; there had always been, and always would be, spies. It was one of the oldest professions in the world, and was, after all, a part of the unpleasant business of war. But what he could not understand, and what he could not forgive, was a man playing traitor to his own country. Yet there were three such men here, men who were far worse than spies; they were renegades, traitors in the most despicable sense.
Biggles swallowed something in his throat and forced a sickly smile. ‘I wasn’t taking any chances,’ he said in German. ‘As
a matter of fact,’ he continued, as he saw a new loophole of escape, ‘I’m not officially in the German service – yet. I heard a whisper that some of you were, so I bided my time; but as soon as I saw the troops land this morning I borrowed this motor-bike and headed for the aerodrome in the hope of being able to do something.’
‘You’ll be able to do something,’ the other assured him. ‘We shall need all the pilots we can get, and having seen something of your flying I can recommend you. Ever flown a Messerschmitt?’
‘No.’
‘You will, and you’ll like it. It’s a lovely machine. The trouble will be finding somebody to fight.’
‘You don’t expect much opposition then?’
The other scoffed. ‘None at all. The only military machines in the country are obsolete types.’
‘But suppose the British send some machines out?’ queried Biggles.
The other laughed scornfully. ‘We’ll deal with them when they come,’ he boasted.
‘By the way, is my machine still here?’ asked Biggles in a voice which he strove to keep steady. He had no wish to find himself in the German Air Force.
‘Yes, but you won’t be allowed to fly it. All machines are grounded – the Commandant’s orders.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Of course – very wise,’ he agreed. ‘Well, here I am. What ought I to do next?’
‘You’ll have to wait here until the Commandant arrives, then I’ll introduce you to him. No doubt he’ll be glad to have you in the service, particularly as you know the country. Here he comes now.’
The man, whose name Biggles now remembered was Kristen, nodded towards a big car that came speeding up the road, a swastika flag fluttering on its bonnet.
Biggles’s astute brain had now got the whole situation fairly well straightened out. Kristen, and two other members of the club, had actually got the aerodrome ready for German occupation. A number of Messerschmitts, flown by regular German officers, had already landed. The new commandant of the station was just arriving to take charge of operations. He, Biggles, was assumed to be of Nazi persuasion, and might, if he played his cards properly, actually be admitted into the German Air Force as a renegade Norwegian. The prospect nauseated him, but he felt that if it offered a chance of escape he would be foolish not to take it. There might even be some satisfaction in beating the Germans at their own underhand game. In any case, he knew that if ever it was learned that he was British he was likely to have a bad time. Should the Germans learn his real name, and the Nazi Intelligence Service hear of his capture, then things would look very black indeed, for they had his record and had good cause to hate him.
The assembled pilots clicked their heels as the Commandant’s car came to a stop and he alighted.
‘Hauptmann Baron von Leffers,’ whispered Kristen.
There was some delay while the Commandant spoke to the officers, some of whom got into their machines and took off. Von Leffers watched them go and then beckoned to Kristen.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘you have done well. Presently you will be given one of our machines, but before that I want to go over with you the list of all machines and accessories that you have here. You have it prepared?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
The Baron looked at Biggles. ‘Who is this?’
‘He is one of us, but as yet his appointment has not been confirmed.’
‘So? How is that?’
Kristen explained that Biggles had not been very long in the country and had been flying his own machine. He was, he asserted with more confidence than Biggles’s statement warranted, entirely in sympathy with the Nazis, and would like to fly for them.
‘You have your own plane?’ queried the Commandant.
Biggles bowed German fashion. ‘Ja, Herr Kommandant.’
The Baron smiled drily. ‘You must have plenty of money?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘I had some, but I have spent most of it. Flying is an expensive pastime.’
‘It won’t cost you anything now,’ returned the Baron. ‘I’m afraid we shall have to take your machine. You will be paid for it, of course – after the war.’
‘Quite so, Herr Kommandant.’
‘And you would like to fly one of our fighters?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
‘Have you any experience of fighting machines?’
‘Yes. I was a test pilot for a while in America.’
In making this statement Biggles was telling the truth; for once, in America, he had tested some machines for the British Government with a view to purchase.
‘We will see about it,’ the Baron promised curtly, and, beckoning to Kristen, walked away.
Biggles was left alone. He was not sorry, for he wanted time to think. He was far from pleased with the situation, but he realized that it might have been worse – a lot worse. He was at least still free, and he only wanted to find himself alone in an aeroplane – any aeroplane – to make a bee-line for home. It was for this reason, of course, that he had agreed to the suggestion of his flying a German fighter, for a Messerschmitt would suit him just as well as his own machine – better, in fact, since it was both faster and had a longer range. In any case, to dispute the suggestion would at once have made him an object of suspicion. The immediate future was still obscure, but he was prepared to match his wits against those of the Germans.
His chief fear was that he would be followed from Oslo by the fellow whose motor-cycle he had taken, and recognized. And it was for this reason that his first action was to put the machine in a shed out of sight. Then, with the idea of escaping forthwith if it were possible, he made his way to the hangar in which his machine was kept, but a glance showed him that this was now out of the question. The hangar was full of Germans; what was even worse, they had already dismantled all the light aeroplanes to make room for the fighters, and were stacking the components against the end wall. Perceiving that nothing was to be gained by remaining there, particularly as several of the Germans were glancing at him suspiciously, he made his way to what had once been the club-house, but was now the officers’ quarters.
As he strolled across, a curious smile played for a moment round the corners of his mouth. His Norwegian ‘holiday’ seemed to be shaping into something very different.
Presently he encountered Kristen, who, for some reason not altogether apparent, seemed to have taken him under his wing. It appeared that Kristen was one of those fussy, busy people who get satisfaction out of making other people’s arrangements for them. Perhaps it flatters their vanity. Anyway, up to a point this suited Biggles quite well, and he played up to the man’s weakness. At the moment, no doubt on account of the Nazi invasion and the part he had played in it, Kristen was looking very pleased with himself.
‘Have you finished with the Commandant?’ inquired Biggles, adopting a meek, almost humble, air. He spoke in German.
‘It is useful that you speak German so well.’
Biggles nodded.
‘Yes, I’ve given the Commandant all the information about the place,’ went on Kristen. ‘Of course, it’s unlikely that such a little aerodrome will get as much limelight as the big air bases, but we shall make our mark – you watch it.’
‘Yes, I shall certainly watch it,’ said Biggles seriously, and he meant it.
‘By the way, I’ve brought you this.’ Kristen held out a red armlet bearing a black swastika, within a white circle.
‘What’s that for?’ inquired Biggles.
‘To wear. You won’t be able to get a uniform until tomorrow. Perhaps not for a day or two; in the meanwhile the Commandant says you are to wear this. It will show that you are not an ordinary civilian and may save you trouble with the guards.’
‘Thanks.’ Biggles took the armlet and fastened it on his sleeve.
‘We may as well go and have a bite to eat,’ suggested Kristen.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Biggles, and they walked together to the officers’ mess. He smiled as they went in, for it had been the
club dining-room. In a few hours it had been converted into a Nazi military depot. More than once, as he ate the food set before him, Biggles smiled faintly as he wondered what his comrades would think could they see him, swastika on sleeve, calmly eating in a German mess.
Later in the day the Commandant sent for him, and after a close interrogation, in which Biggles’s statements were supported by his Norwegian papers of nationality, he was admitted into the German Air Force on probation with the rank of Leutnant.1 No uniform was yet available, but the Baron promised to procure one for him in the near future. In the meantime Biggles was to wear the swastika armlet.
Biggles didn’t like this; nor did he, in fact, like the whole arrangement, but since refusal to accept the conditions would unquestionably jeopardize his freedom, if not his life, he thought it expedient to accept. He promised himself that it would not be for long.
Indeed, within five minutes of leaving the Commandant’s office he was making new plans for flight. He still hoped that it might turn out to be a simple business after all. Heavy gunfire could be heard in the distance, and machines, chiefly Messerschmitts, were constantly coming and going; so he found Kristen and asked him frankly if he could make a flight. The not unnatural retort to this request was, ‘Why so soon? What was the hurry?’ Biggles answered, reasonably enough, that as he was now in the Air Force but had never flown a Messerschmitt, it was time he put in a bit of practice.
To his disappointment his request was refused, not on account of any suspicion on Kristen’s part – that was obvious – but because no machines were available for such a purpose. They were all in use.
