by W E Johns
So Biggles had to make the best of it. He nodded and walked away. His time, he thought, would come. He was rather at a loss to know what to do next, but this, as it turned out, was decided for him – and in no uncertain manner. Rounding a corner of the officers’ quarters he came face to face with the officer whose motor-cycle he had borrowed. He had just stepped out of a large touring car in which sat three men wearing the uniform of the dreaded Gestapo.2
1 German rank of Pilot Officer.
2 German Nazi secret police.
CHAPTER 3
ACROSS THE FRONTIER
COMING FACE TO face as they did they recognized each other instantly, and never did Biggles’s presence of mind stand him in greater stead. Before the man could speak, and while his brows were still darkening with anger, Biggles clapped him on the shoulder, laughing at the same time.
‘So there you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was hoping you’d come along. I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened this morning, but I was in the dickens of a mess – and in a hurry. I should have been at the aerodrome the moment our troops arrived, but the fool woman at my hotel forgot to wake me. You were all busy, so rather than worry you I tried to get to the aerodrome by myself. As you saw, I borrowed a bicycle. Then, after the accident, knowing that you’d have no difficulty in getting another machine, I borrowed yours and dashed along here. I would have seen to it that you got it back, of course.’
While he had been speaking, out of the corner of his eye Biggles saw Kristen coming towards him. He now looked at him and cried, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ asked Kristen, hastening his steps.
‘My machine was here.’ Biggles didn’t say what machine.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Biggles turned to the Gestapo agent. ‘There you are.’
In the face of this evidence the German accepted the explanation, but not with very good grace.
‘You’d no right to take my machine,’ he growled.
‘I admit that,’ agreed Biggles readily. ‘But don’t make a fuss about it, there’s a good fellow, or it may lead to trouble for all of us.’
‘Where is my motor-cycle now?’
‘Here. I put it in the shed for safety. I’ve reported to the Commandant, so I can now take it back to Oslo if you like.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ was the gruff reply. ‘I’ve borrowed a car from one of these miserable Norwegians – he won’t want it again. The car suits me better than the motor-cycle. Still, you’d better take it back to Oslo some time.’
‘Where shall I find you?’
‘Leave it in the garage of the Nordic Hotel.’
‘Certainly,’ Biggles promised. ‘Have a glass of beer while you’re here? I feel I owe you a drink.’
‘No, I haven’t time now. I must get back. Naturally, I had to find out who it was who made off with my machine.’
‘Of course.’
The German went back to his car, and Biggles drew a deep breath of relief. It had been an awkward moment. Kristen was still standing there, but he announced that he was on his way to the hangars where he had a job to do.
Biggles gave the fellow a dark look as he departed. True, he had been of service to him, but not willingly. Had he known the truth it would have been a different story. As far as Biggles was concerned the man was worse than a spy; he was a traitor, and that was something he could not forgive.
He decided to go over to see if the motor-cycle was still where he had left it. It was, and as he gazed at it a fresh scheme took shape in his mind. It did not make so much appeal to him as his original plan for getting out of the country. But the motor-cycle was, after all, a fast vehicle, and it was not far to the Swedish frontier. Sweden was still a neutral country, and if he could get across the frontier into it there was no reason why he should not assume his real nationality, and tell the truth – that he was a fugitive from the Nazi invasion of Norway. He would report to the nearest British Consul, who could, no doubt, make arrangements for his immediate return home. Thinking it over, Biggles decided that it was a reasonable plan, and decided to put it into operation forthwith.
The sun was now far down in the west, and he reckoned that he had only about half an hour of daylight left; but this did not bother him; indeed, he decided that darkness would probably suit his purpose better than broad daylight. He examined the petrol tank and found that it was nearly full, so as there was nothing to delay him he wheeled the machine out and started the engine. Several Germans were about, but none took any notice of him, and in a few minutes he was cruising down the main road.
It was an anxious journey, for he realized that every man was his enemy. The Norwegians, seeing his Nazi armlet, would hate the sight of him. Any German, were the truth known, would shoot him on sight. Nazis of all ranks were everywhere – in cars, on motor-cycles, in armoured cars, and even light tanks; and Biggles was aghast as, for the first time, he saw how widespread the German movement was. It was obvious that far more Germans had landed than he had at first supposed. He wondered vaguely what the Allies were doing about it all, but of course he had no means of knowing.
The traffic grew more congested as he neared the frontier, chiefly with refugees trying to escape from the country – going anywhere to evade the Nazis. German soldiers and storm-troopers were turning them back, and from observations made by the people Biggles learned that many of these same Nazis had been living in the country as ordinary citizens, and were known to them. In other words, they had been planted in the country before the invasion actually occurred. Thus Biggles learned of the treachery that enabled the Nazis to effect the landing. Still, his armlet and the swastika-beflagged motor-cycle served their purpose, and took him anywhere he wanted to go. Indeed, on more than one occasion Nazi troops held up the traffic to let him pass.
By this time he had got to within a few miles of the frontier, and the traffic began to thin out. The Germans were fewer, from which he judged that he had about reached the limit of their operations. The calm manner in which peasants were walking home from the fields suggested that they had not yet heard that their country had been invaded.
As twilight closed in and darkness fell, Biggles stopped. A signpost told him that the frontier was only a mile ahead. He contemplated the motor-cycle, and knew that it would not do to try to get into Sweden on such a machine. Already alarmed by what had happened to Norway, the Swedes would not want anything German in their country. He decided that he would have to abandon the machine, but he hardly liked to leave it by the road-side where it would certainly attract attention, so he turned down a lane and lifted it bodily into the bottom of a deep ditch, near a coppice, covering it with any rubbish he could find so that it would not be noticed by a passer-by. He took off his armlet and pushed it under the saddle.
This done, he made a cautious survey of the landscape, as far as it was possible in the darkness, and then set off at a brisk walk for the frontier. He now had only one fear. Would the Swedes allow a Norwegian to enter the country? For that is what his passport proved him to be – Sven Hendrik, a Norwegian subject. The photograph on the passport, and the particulars it registered, were, of course, correct; only the name was false; but the Swedes, in their natural anxiety, might refuse to allow him to enter the country. Had he possessed any British papers this difficulty would not have arisen; but he had none – it would have been far too dangerous to carry such papers on his person.
As he expected, the frontier barrier was down, but he marched boldly up to it and took his place at the end of a short queue of people who were waiting to get through. All were pedestrians, for vehicles had been stopped and confiscated farther back. He had no difficulty in passing the Norwegian guards. His difficulty would be at the next barrier – the entrance in Sweden – a few paces ahead.
In the queue everyone was talking at once, talking to anybody, as always happens when danger is a common enemy. There were even two or three English people there. Actually Biggles found himse
lf next to an American tourist – who had chosen a bad moment to visit Norway. He was bewailing the folly that had brought him from his own country, and cursed with hearty sincerity everybody responsible for the upheaval.
Slowly the queue shuffled forward towards the Swedish police and soldiers, who had come to reinforce the frontier guards. Some people were allowed through, but others were turned back. The man in front of Biggles was an elderly Norwegian, and Biggles waited with tense interest to see what would happen to him. He soon learned.
‘Nationality?’ snapped the passport officer.
‘Norwegian.’
‘Sorry, but you can’t come through here.’
‘But I must.’ The man’s voice was desperate.
‘Why must you?’
The man poured out a score of reasons.
‘Sorry, but we can’t take any more Norwegian refugees. Only foreigners passing through the country on their way home can be admitted, and they won’t be allowed to stay in Sweden without good reason.’
The man pleaded, but in vain. Sobbing, he was turned away.
Biggles had already realized that if he gave his nationality as Norwegian, he, too, would be stopped, so he switched his plan abruptly.
‘Nationality?’ questioned the officer.
‘British.’
‘Where are your papers?’
‘Sorry, but I haven’t any.’
The officer frowned. ‘Why haven’t you a passport?’
‘I was in my hotel in Oslo when the Germans rushed in and seized everything,’ answered Biggles readily, and this was no less than the truth. ‘In the circumstances you can hardly blame me for not stopping to argue over my luggage. I reckoned I was lucky to get away at all.’
The officer bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve absolutely nothing to prove your identity?’
‘Nothing. But I’m sure the British Consul will vouch for me if only you will let me see him.’
‘Hmm.’
The officer was obviously in a quandary. It was clear that he didn’t want to refuse admission to an Englishman; indeed, he had no reason to refuse; but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to admit an enemy. If he admitted a man without papers he would be taking a serious risk.
Biggles saw the man hesitating and pressed his case. ‘I’ve plenty of money on me,’ he announced. ‘You can take charge of it so you won’t be put to any expense on my account. All I ask is that you take me, under guard if you like, to the nearest British Consul, and allow him to vouch for me. After all, if he accepts responsibility for me you won’t have anything to worry about.’
This was so obviously true that it carried the point. The officer drew a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he agreed, and beckoned to two policemen. ‘Escort this traveller to Rodas,’ he ordered. ‘If the British Consul there will take responsibility for him you can get a receipt and leave him. Otherwise, bring him back here.’
Biggles almost gasped his relief as he passed through the narrow gate. He was more or less under arrest, but that did not worry him. He was free, free from the Nazis, and therefore free from worry. His one thought now was to get back to France. If there was one anxiety that lingered in his mind, then it was fear that Sweden, too, might be invaded before he could get out of the country.
He was put in a car and taken to Rodas, less than half an hour’s journey, and thence to the British Vice-Consulate. The Vice-Consul was still in his office, so Biggles introduced himself without loss of time, asking to be taken under protection.
Biggles stood in front of the two Swedes, so they did not see him drop an eyelid meaningly. The Vice-Consul did, however, and, realizing that there was more to the case than appeared on the surface, asked the guards to wait outside. He said he would take responsibility.
As soon as they were out of the door Biggles confessed everything. ‘Believe me, I’m glad to be out of that,’ he concluded feelingly.
The Vice-Consul was interested, as he had every reason to be, for queer things were happening in Scandinavia. Over a cigarette and a cup of coffee Biggles told the whole story, quietly and concisely, holding nothing back, as a sick man might explain his symptoms to a doctor.
‘My word! You were certainly lucky to get out,’ said the Vice-Consul when he had finished. ‘I expect you want to get straight back home?’
‘You bet I do!’ returned Biggles. ‘The sooner I let Colonel Raymond know where I am the better.’
The Vice-Consul looked up sharply. ‘Would you like to speak to him?’
‘Speak to him? How?’ Biggles was amazed.
‘On the telephone.’
‘Can you get through to London?’
‘Of course. Sweden isn’t at war – at least, not yet.’
Biggles was delighted. ‘Why, that’s fine.’
‘I’ll get Raymond for you,’ the Vice-Consul promised.
He was as good as his word, but there was a long delay before Biggles found himself speaking to the Colonel. In a few words he told him what had happened, describing how he had narrowly escaped serving as a traitor Norwegian in the Nazi Air Force. Even before he had finished a doubt crept into his mind, a doubt as to whether he was wise in telling the Colonel this now. It would have been better to wait until he got home. The Colonel might ask him . . .
The Colonel did ask him. Biggles knew instantly what was coming from the sudden change in Colonel Raymond’s voice.
‘You know what I’m going to ask you to do?’ said the Colonel.
Biggles hesitated. ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ he said slowly. ‘You want me to go back into Norway.’
‘Yes. Fate or fortune has put an astounding opportunity your way. It’s a chance that we ought not to lose. With you behind the German lines in Norway, serving as an officer in the Air Force, we should learn every move—’
‘Oh, no,’ interrupted Biggles curtly. ‘I’m a pilot. I’ve had quite enough of Secret Service work.’
The Colonel made a longish speech in which he dwelt on the extraordinary opportunity that pure chance had put in Biggles’ way, and the wonderful service he could render his country by going back.
‘Of course,’ he concluded sadly, ‘I can’t order you to go. But, frankly, you’re not the man I take you to be if you let this golden opportunity slip.’
‘But I’m not a professional spy,’ protested Biggles vigorously.
‘My dear Bigglesworth, you yourself have seen what Germany is doing in Norway. There’s black treachery for you, if you like. We’ve got to fight the enemy with his own weapons, if only for the sake of the Norwegians.’
Thus spoke the Colonel. It was a subtle argument that he put forward, put in such a way that Biggles could hardly refuse.
‘All right,’ he said at last, wearily. ‘How am I going to get in touch with you when I have something to report?’
‘Leave that to me,’ said the Colonel quickly. ‘I can’t tell you now. Arrangements will have to be made, but you’ll get further instructions in due course. Get back to the aerodrome and learn all you can about the enemy’s movements.’
‘Just one request,’ put in Biggles. ‘I feel very much on my own up here; if you could get Lacey and Hebblethwaite somewhere handy, somewhere where I could reach them in emergency, I’d be grateful. As you know we always work as a team, and I need a little moral support, anyway. If they hear nothing they’ll be worried to death about me.’
‘I’ll get them within striking distance of you at once,’ promised the Colonel without hesitation. ‘As a matter of fact, knowing things were warming up, I brought them home from France yesterday, since when they’ve been waiting on the East Coast ready to slip across in case you needed help. They can be over in a couple of hours.’
‘But how can I make contact with them?’
‘I shall have to think about that, but I’ll arrange something immediately, don’t worry. Good luck. I mustn’t hold the line any longer.’ The Colonel rang off.
The Vice-Consul heard Biggles’ end of the conve
rsation, of course. He shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.
‘Bad luck, old man,’ he said quietly. ‘But you must admit that Colonel Raymond is right. It is on such chances as this that wars are sometimes won or lost. How do you propose getting back into Norway?’
‘I think the easiest way would be for you to refuse to accept responsibility for me,’ suggested Biggles readily. ‘In that case the Swedes will soon have me back across the frontier.’
The Vice-Consul nodded and pressed the bell. The two policemen came back into the room.
‘I have had a conversation with this – er – applicant,’ said the Vice-Consul coolly. ‘He may be telling the truth, but he has no means of providing it, so in your interests as well as mine I’d rather not accept responsibility.’
‘You’ll leave him with us to deal with then?’ said the senior of the two police.
‘Yes, I’m afraid no other course is open to me.’
The officer tapped Biggles on the arm. ‘Come,’ he said.
Obediently, Biggles followed.
Half an hour later he was gently but firmly shown across the frontier back into Norway. He made no demur. It would have been a waste of time even if he had wanted to stay in Sweden. For a while he walked slowly down the road, but as soon as he was out of sight of the frontier post he quickened his steps and made his way to where he had left the motor-cycle. It was still there, so he dragged it out and recovered his swastika armlet from under the saddle. Deep in thought, he started the engine. Reaching the main road, he turned away from the frontier and headed back towards Boda, back towards the enemy.
He had no difficulty in getting back – his swastika flags saw to that. As he dismounted near the club-house Kristen hurried towards him.
‘Hello,’ he said curiously. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Only for a ride,’ answered Biggles casually. ‘Why?’
‘Baron von Leffers has been asking for you.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I’ll report to him at once,’ he said quietly.
