Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  The captain stared. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you know your job,’ he said simply. ‘All I can say is I’d rather have my job than yours. I’m much obliged for the information. I’ll remember it. By the way, what’s your name?’

  ‘Bigglesworth – Squadron Leader, R.A.F. If you get home safely you might notify Colonel Raymond of M.I. 5. that you saw me. I won’t waste any more of your time. I fancy the balloon is about to go up.1 So long and good luck.’

  Biggles left the bridge. He was determined to get ashore, but how this was to be done was not easy to see unless he swam for it, and the shore was nearly a quarter of a mile away. Normally he would be quite able to swim that distance, but he doubted his ability to do it in icy water, fully dressed; yet he could not discard his clothes. Still, he saw that he had just a chance. The Narvik fiord, like most fiords, was not straight; not only did it bend like a dog’s leg, but there were places where cliffs jutted far out into the water. They had already passed one or two; another was just ahead, and Biggles saw that the captain had for some tactical reason altered his course to pass very close to it. Much as he disliked the idea, he decided that if the destroyer passed within a hundred yards of the rock he would go overboard. Beckoning to a chief petty officer who was standing near, he made him aware of his intention in order that it might not be thought that a man had accidentally fallen overboard. Then, standing tense, he waited for the crucial moment.

  The rocky promontory, beyond which lay the town of Narvik, seemed to float nearer as the destroyer raced towards it. Beyond lay the enemy ships. Within a minute the battle would start. To his great satisfaction Biggles saw that the captain had edged even nearer to the rock than he had dared to hope. The intervening distance was not more than sixty yards or so. The time had come: It was now or never. Bracing himself, he took a running dive to get as far from the vessel as possible in order to clear the churning screws.

  By the time he had come to the surface the destroyer’s guns were roaring. The enemy ships had also opened fire and shells were dropping into the water. With his eyes on the rock, he put every ounce of strength he possessed into his stroke, and reached the point with greater ease than he had expected. Dragging himself ashore, he paused for a moment to wring as much water as possible out of his clothes, and then ran towards the town.

  As he had hoped, he found everything in the wildest confusion, which was hardly to be wondered at, for until the German pilot reported their presence in the fiord, the arrival of the destroyers on the scene had not been expected. On the fiord itself a terrible battle was raging between eleven destroyers. Several German store-ships were also firing, and shore batteries added to the din. Nobody took the slightest notice of Biggles as he dashed towards the schoolhouse; indeed, very few people, either soldiers or civilians, were in sight. No doubt the troops were all at their stations, and the civilians had taken cover. The din was indescribable.

  At the schoolhouse Biggles found a curious state of affairs. Only two elderly German soldiers remained on guard, and they were trying vainly to quieten the prisoners, who were cheering hysterically.

  He went straight to the guards. ‘Are the doors locked?’ he asked tersely, indicating the schoolhouse.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll take charge here.’ Biggles showed his Gestapo pass. It was wet, but that didn’t matter. ‘Give me the keys. You’ve got to get down to the shore,’ he added. ‘The British are going to land marines.’

  The two soldiers did not question the order. There was no reason why they should, for it seemed highly probable that a landing would be attempted. Indeed, Biggles really hoped that a landing would be made. He watched the two Germans out of sight and then unlocked the school door. He was greeted with cheers, but by holding up his hands he managed to quell the clamour.

  ‘You’ll have to bolt for it,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything more for you. You’ll have to take your chance. Get as far down the fiord as you can and hide. If our destroyers withdraw, signal to them, and there is a chance that they may pick you up. That’s all.’

  The prisoners wasted no time. With the exception of Algy they made for the door.

  ‘What had I better do?’ asked Algy.

  ‘You go with them.’

  ‘And leave you here?’

  ‘Yes, but only for the time being. I shall follow you,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘Believe me, I’ve had about enough of this. But it wouldn’t do for us to be seen together. Where’s Ginger?’

  ‘He’s somewhere off the coast in an aircraft carrier – at least, he ought to be. That’s where I left him.’

  ‘I see. We can’t stop to talk now. You get along. I’ll try to rejoin you outside the town. If the Boche see us together they’ll guess what has happened. Cheerio – see you later.’

  Algy dashed off after the sailors.

  Biggles watched him go. He was by no means happy over the state of affairs. He would have much preferred to remain with Algy, but the reasons he had given for not doing so were genuine. If he was seen with the escapees the Germans would realize at once that he was not what he pretended to be. It was better that he should go alone. Later, perhaps, he would be able to join the fugitives and get away with them. He wished now that he had asked Algy a few questions about his movements, and about Ginger. The trouble was, the situation really demanded serious thought, but there had been little or no time to think. Things had happened – and were still happening – so fast that there was no time for lucid reasoning. Shells were now dropping into the town. Several buildings were alight and small parties of Germans were dashing about. A mighty cloud of smoke hung over everything, making it impossible to see what was happening on the fiord. Yet he felt he ought to know, for unless he knew who had won the battle he would not be able to judge if there was any chance of being picked up by one of the destroyers. Then, of course, there was always a chance that the British sailors would attack the town and capture it, in which case it would be safe for him to remain where he was. On the other hand, if the British destroyers were beaten off he would find himself isolated with the Germans. When things settled down there would be inquiries. The prisoners would be remembered, and if he were found going down the fiord it would look suspicious. In the end he decided that before doing anything else he would find out what was happening.

  He went straight to the German headquarters, and was not questioned until he accidentally ran into the Commandant.

  The Colonel frowned. ‘I thought you had orders to get back to Boda?’ he queried sharply.

  ‘Quite right, sir,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘Believe me, I wish I was on my way.’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘I started back in a ’plane, but by a bit of bad luck we were shot down by British anti-aircraft guns. We crashed in the fiord and I had to swim ashore. What is happening here?’

  ‘The British are sinking our ships.’

  ‘Will they try to land, do you think?’

  ‘No. I’ve just heard that they’re going back down the fiord.’

  At that moment a German pilot in Air Force uniform came running up. He saluted the Colonel.

  ‘I’m getting away now, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ The Commandant started. ‘Just a minute. Have you got room for a passenger?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The Colonel turned to Biggles. ‘Here’s your chance,’ he declared. ‘Schaffer is flying down to Oslo immediately. You can go with him and go on to Boda afterwards; you might not get another chance.’

  ‘I can drop him at Boda if he likes,’ offered Schaffer. ‘I shall pass over the aerodrome on my way to Oslo.’

  This didn’t suit Biggles at all. He didn’t want to go back down south, either to Boda or anywhere else. Now that he had learned that the British destroyers were going back down the fiord he wanted to rejoin Algy, get aboard one of them, and go back to England. But he daren’t refuse the offer. All he could do was make excuses in the hope that Schaffer would go without h
im.’

  ‘I’m soaked to the skin,’ he protested. ‘I can’t fly in these wet clothes – I shall be frozen stiff.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ put in Schaffer quickly, with irritating generosity. ‘I can lend you some kit. My suitcase is in the machine; you can change in the cabin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ cried the Commandant. ‘You’d better obey your orders.’

  Biggles saluted. ‘Very good, sir.’

  He followed Schaffer down to the wharf, to where a big flying-boat floated.

  ‘You can’t land me at Boda in a flying-boat,’ Biggles pointed out.

  Schaffer smiled condescendingly. ‘She’s an amphibian.’

  ‘Ah! I understand.’ A new hope sprang into Biggles’ mind. Schaffer was unaware that he was a pilot, so he might overpower him in the air and take charge of the machine. If he could succeed in doing this he might fly straight on to England.

  He followed Schaffer into the flying-boat, and his hopes instantly collapsed. There were already three German officers in it.

  Schaffer pulled a suitcase off the rack. ‘Here you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ll find a spare uniform inside.’ Then he went through to the cockpit.

  In five minutes the flying-boat was in the air, heading south. Astern, from the fiord, a great pillar of smoke was rising.

  1 Slang: the battle is about to begin.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHAT HAPPENED AT STAVANGER

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Schaffer landed Biggles at Boda. He was still wearing the German’s spare uniform, for his suit was not yet dry. He arranged with Schaffer that he would send the uniform on when his own things were dry, although as the German was by no means certain of his movements he would have to let Biggles know where to send them.

  As soon as Biggles was on the ground, carrying his wet things in Schaffer’s suitcase, the German pilot took off again, leaving Biggles standing on the aerodrome, now a scene of considerable activity.

  Alert for danger, Biggles walked towards the officers’ quarters. His position was, he knew, perilous in the extreme, but he couldn’t remain standing on the aerodrome. What he feared was that he might run into Brandt, the man who knew him by sight. If von Stalhein happened to be with him, as seemed probable, then all deception would be at an end. All Biggles could do was mark down a Messerschmitt not far away, this offering the only possible means of escape if the worst came to the worst. To complicate matters, he would have to let von Hymann know that he was back, otherwise the Gestapo chief would start looking for him. He would learn that Schaffer had flown him back to Boda from Narvik, so should he, Biggles, fail to report, it would look most suspicious.

  He dumped the suitcase in the room that had been allotted to him, and subjecting everyone he met to the closest scrutiny, he began making his way towards the station headquarters. In doing so he met Kristen, who greeted him cordially but with surprise.

  ‘Hello!’ he cried. ‘Where the deuce have you been?’

  Biggles smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t talk about it,’ he said sadly. ‘I had to go up to Narvik on a special job. I was just starting for home, by air, when a flotilla of British destroyers arrived and we were shot down. We fell into the fiord, but I managed to swim ashore. Himmel1! Was it cold!’

  Kristen laughed. ‘All in a day’s work. Where are you bound for now?’

  It struck Biggles as odd that Kristen did not mention his uniform. He wondered why.

  ‘I’m just going to station headquarters to report,’ he answered. ‘By the way, how do you like my uniform?’

  ‘It fits badly. Also, I didn’t know you had been promoted to Oberleutnant.’

  ‘It isn’t mine,’ laughed Biggles. ‘I got wet through, so these things are lent to me by a fellow named Schaffer – the chap who flew me back here.’

  ‘I see. Some uniforms have now arrived here, so I thought, naturally, that you’d been and got yourself one. You can get one as soon as you like, but don’t be too long or you may find them all gone. See you later.’

  Biggles went on to headquarters and reported to the Commandant, Baron von Leffers. He asked permission to use the telephone.

  ‘Yes, you’d better report to von Hymann right away,’ returned the Commandant sourly. ‘There have been a lot of inquiries for you. Two fellows were here yesterday asking where you were.’

  ‘What were their names?’ inquired Biggles casually.

  ‘Brandt and von Stalhein – a fellow in the Secret Service.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I was expecting them,’ he announced calmly, and put a call through to the Hotel Port.

  In a minute he was speaking to von Hymann. Wasting no words, he reported that he was back at Boda, and was going on to report with more detail what had happened at Narvik when von Hymann stopped him.

  ‘We know all about that,’ said the Gestapo chief. ‘After you had left I had a long talk with the Commander of the Narvik garrison, and he told me how Bigglesworth had got away – as he had learnt it from the British prisoners. Von Stalhein was very upset. He seems to hate this fellow Bigglesworth like poison, and he, too, had a long talk with Narvik. Pity this fellow Bigglesworth didn’t remain with the party you captured, then we should have got him. Still, it’s no use crying over spilt milk.’

  Biggles muscles tightened as his chief went on ‘Von Stalhein is here with me now. He says that this Bigglesworth is a tricky customer, so he wants all the particulars from you that he can get. He’s coming along to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  There was a brief delay, presumably while the chief spoke to von Stalhein.

  ‘Now,’ answered von Hymann. ‘He says he’ll come along right now. He’ll be with you in less than an hour.’

  It was the answer Biggles dreaded. ‘Very good, sir.’ Trying not to let his face reveal what he felt, he hung up the receiver.

  ‘Everything all right?’ inquired the Baron coldly.

  ‘Right as rain,’ returned Biggles.

  Dusk was closing in as he left the office and started walking back towards his quarters. He had got to move quickly, that was certain. He had got to get away before von Stalhein arrived – but how? He felt that he was in a net, a net that was slowly but surely closing round him, and he could not even find respite, much less a way of escape.

  So engrossed was he with his thoughts that he saw no one near him. He was hardly conscious of the light touch that fell on his arm. Something – it felt like a slip of paper – was pushed into his hand. Then the man was gone, faded into the shadows. Biggles caught no more than a glimpse of a grey uniform. He glanced around swiftly and then walked on slowly; and as he walked he unfolded the slip of paper. There was a message on it, printed in small block letters. It read:

  ‘What is happening at Stavanger Airport? Particulars of planes and anti-aircraft defences urgently wanted. Also particulars of damage done. Get your report to Fiord 21, where messenger awaits you. If you are unable to land there, put message in a bottle and drop in fiord. R.’

  Biggles memorized the message; then he put the slip in his mouth and chewed it to pulp. He could have laughed had his position not been so desperate. As if he hadn’t got enough on his mind already! Now, in the middle of all his worries, was a message from Colonel Raymond, asking him to undertake a mission which bristled with difficulties. There was this about it though, he thought on reflection. His position was already so alarming that it could hardly be worse. Colonel Raymond, as promised, had got into touch with him. The man who had delivered the message, obviously a secret agent, must know him by sight – but (Biggles reasoned) he could have learned to recognize him from a photograph.

  It gave him strength to know he was not alone within the enemy lines. Other men were doing the same thing. The fellow who had so cleverly slipped the paper into his hand was one of them. It was cleverly done because he had not even seen the man’s face. He would not recognize him if he saw him, so he could never betray, either by accident or intentionally. They were all
playing a dreadful game in which no one took a risk that could be avoided. He tore the chewed-up message to pieces and threw the pieces away.

  Reaching the officers’ mess, he stood still for a moment staring into the gathering gloom, trying to get his racing thoughts into some sort of order. Colonel Raymond’s message was clear enough. He wanted him to go to Stavanger. Obviously he could not remain at Boda once von Stalhein had arrived on the scene, and since he had got to go somewhere, Stavanger suited him as well as anywhere. But after that he would not be able to return to Boda. Von Stalhein would be furious, not to say suspicious, when he arrived and found that the man whom he had come to see had gone off without leaving a message. What would von Stalhein do then? Biggles wondered. Most likely he would return to Oslo and voice his suspicions to von Hymann, who would start a hue and cry for him. Still, there was no way of preventing that. He couldn’t let Colonel Raymond down. He would do his best to obtain the required information, and get it to Fiord 21. He knew the fiord well. Indeed, the number 21 was the one he himself had given it. It was one of the fiords he had marked down during his survey flights, and as it was a possible landing-place he had given particulars of it in the reports he had sent home. No doubt the Colonel had used the number, instead of the fiord’s proper name, in order to convince him that the message was genuine. Further, should the message fall into wrong hands the recipient would not know to which fiord the number 21 referred. As far as Stavanger Airport was concerned, there was only one way he could get to it, and that was by air. The only aircraft available was a Messerschmitt – there were now several standing on the aerodrome. It meant flying in the dark, but he didn’t mind that. The greatest danger would come when he tried to take the plane. However, he could but try.

  Biggles went round to the back of the canteen, found a small empty bottle with a well-fitting cork and put it in his pocket. It was all the equipment he needed. He then returned to the aerodrome and reconnoitred the part where the planes were standing. Most of those which had been operating during the day had now returned, and were parked at intervals along the edge of the aerodrome – an anti-bombing precaution which suggested that a raid was feared. However, Biggles was not concerned with that. All he wanted was a machine, and as few people were about there did not appear to be any great difficulty in getting one. There might be an alarm when he took off, but by that time he would be in the air, so it wouldn’t matter.