by W E Johns
Unhurriedly, and without being accosted, he walked over to the nearest Messerschmitt and laid his hand on the engine cowling. It was still warm. A glance round revealed no sign of danger, so he climbed into the cockpit. Still no alarm was raised. He examined the instrument board carefully, and perceiving that the controls were of orthodox design, he decided to start. He had no flying kit, but that did not worry him; the journey, not more than a hundred miles, was too short for him to get really cold.
He wasted no more time. The engine spluttered as it sprang to life, and in another minute the machine was racing across the turf. He had taken off in the direction of his destination, so he could keep straight on towards the western coast, keeping low so that his identification markings could be seen easily if he were challenged. He was, many times. Searchlights leapt up along his line of flight, only to fade again as the operators found him and identified the aircraft for one of their own.
In less than half an hour he was gliding down through a perfect maze of searchlight beams that surrounded the airport of Stavanger. He made a mental note of the number of them, for they formed an important part of the anti-aircraft equipment, about which Colonel Raymond was anxious to have particulars. Some of the beams followed him down, so as soon as the machine had finished its run he taxied straight on to the aerodrome buildings. A working-party under an N.C.O. ran out to meet him and to guide him in.
‘I thought single-seaters were not to fly after dark unless there was a raid?’ said the N.C.O.
This was evidently a new order, and Biggles knew nothing of it. ‘Quite right,’ he said smoothly. ‘It happens, though, that the order does not apply to the special communication squadron to which I belong. I have a message for the Commandant.’
‘Couldn’t it have been telephoned, or radioed?’ queried the N.C.O., who was evidently of an inquisitive nature.
‘So that the enemy could pick it up, too?’ sneered Biggles sarcastically. ‘Not likely. Where is the Commandant’s office?’
The N.C.O. pointed. ‘Over there.’
‘Thanks.’
Biggles walked on, leaving the working-party to continue its duties. He had no intention of seeking an interview with the Commandant. There was no reason why he should. He thought he could learn all there was to know about the place without asking pointed questions, either of the Commandant or anyone else. Which, in fact, he did. He went to the canteen, and, lingering over a coffee, listened to the conversations going on around him. After that he walked round outside, noting everything of interest – the number of machines, types, position of guns, etc. Only one man, a police corporal, challenged him, but the Gestapo pass worked as usual and the corporal said no more. Finally, Biggles returned to the canteen and, sitting quietly in a corner as though writing a letter, committed all the information he had gathered to writing. He was well aware of the danger of doing this, for should he for any reason be searched it would provide conclusive evidence against him. When it was done he returned to the aerodrome, and in the darkness inserted the paper into the bottle, afterwards corking it tightly.
Now all this had occupied more than an hour, and Biggles was just moving towards his machine with a view to going straight on to Fiord 21 when he became aware of a commotion. There was nothing definite about it; it took the form of a slightly increased activity. A messenger ran along the concrete apron in front of the hangars, shouting to another man. Small parties began to collect, talking excitedly. One such group stood near his machine. He walked quickly towards it but kept in the background.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked a simple-looking soldier who stood nearby.
‘They say this machine was stolen from Boda,’ was the startling reply.
‘Stolen?’
‘All I know is, a friend of mine in the orderly room told me that a message has just come through by telephone from Boda saying that someone had made off with the machine. They gave the number of it, and it has just been discovered that this is it. They’re looking for the pilot who brought it here.’
Biggles did not doubt for one moment the truth of this alarming information. Nor did he waste time asking who was looking for the pilot. Obviously it would be fatal for him to go near the machine now. He would have to borrow another. Having reached that decision, he was turning away when there was a general stir. The searchlights switched on again, sweeping the heavens, whence came the noise of a gliding plane. A silver spark gleamed against the sky, and a minute or two later the machine, a two-seater, glided in and landed. As soon as it was on the ground it taxied quickly to where the Messerschmitt stood. A man jumped down, and Biggles had no need to look twice to see who it was. It was Erich von Stalhein. The German walked quickly towards the Commandant’s office.
‘It’s getting time I was moving on,’ Biggles told himself, and turned quickly towards the machines that lined the boundary of the aerodrome. In doing so he came face to face with a man whom he had no wish to see at that moment. It was the N.C.O. in charge of the working-party, the man who had accosted him on landing.
‘Here! They’re looking for you,’ cried the N.C.O. sharply.
‘Looking for me?’ queried Biggles foolishly. ‘Who’s looking for me?’
‘Everybody. You’d better come with me to the office and see the Commandant.’
Had the man been alone, Biggles might have been tempted to make a break for it, but during the conversation several soldiers and airmen had gathered round until he and the N.C.O. were in the centre of a circle. Nevertheless, he had not the slightest intention of walking unprotestingly to his doom – for that was what the Commandant’s office amounted to now that von Stalhein was there. What he would have done had things remained normal will never be known. For once he was at a loss to know how to act for the best. And while he stood there staring at the N.C.O., trying to make up his mind, he heard a distant sound that set his pulses racing. It was the choking whoof-whoof-whoof of anti-aircraft gunfire, and it was drawing rapidly nearer.
‘D’you know who I am?’ Biggles asked the N.C.O., simply to gain time.
‘Who are you?’
Biggles produced his Gestapo pass.
The corporal’s manner changed; he became more respectful, but he did not retract. ‘All the same, sir, I think you’d better report to the Commandant,’ he insisted. ‘There seems to be some trouble over your—’
The N.C.O. broke off, staring at the sky, while the soldiers and airmen dispersed like mist on a summer morning; for, from overhead, there came a sudden burst of aero engines. Apparently the machine, or machines, had been gliding. Almost simultaneously with the roar of the engines came an even more sinister sound. It was a shrill whine, increasing swiftly in volume until it sounded like the whistle of an express train.
The N.C.O. knew what it was. So did Biggles, for once heard there is no mistaking the sound of falling bombs. No longer concerned with Biggles, the N.C.O. ran for his life. Biggles, too, bolted, for he had an idea of what was going to happen to the aerodrome. From one point of view the British bombers had done him a good turn, but he had no desire to be blown to pieces by their bombs. He started to follow the N.C.O. and his men, assuming that they would know the nearest way to cover, but before he could overtake them the first bombs were bursting. The searchlights were raking the sky. Anti-aircraft guns roared. Bombs thundered. In short, pandemonium broke loose.
Biggles flung himself flat, his hands over his ears to prevent himself from being deafened. Bombs were falling all around. Some fell on the buildings and set fire to them, and in the lurid glare he could get a rough idea of the damage that was being done. The first wave of bombers passed, but he could hear more coming, and then, suddenly, he knew what they were doing. Apart from destroying the aerodrome buildings, they were churning the aerodrome itself into a sea of craters, thus putting it out of action.
Biggles caught his breath as he realized what this implied. If the bombers were going to make it impossible for machines to land, then they would also make it impo
ssible for machines to take off, in which case he would be stranded at Stavanger – with von Stalhein. He perceived that if ever he was to get away it would have to be now, before any further damage was caused. Already it would be a risky business taking off, for if he got a machine and struck a crater while travelling at high speed, he would certainly break some bones. Furthermore, some of the machines were ablaze, and it seemed likely that they would set fire to the rest.
In a flash Biggles was on his feet, racing towards a machine which had so far escaped damage. He could hear another salvo of bombs coming down; guns flashed, and lines of tracer bullets streaked through the air. The noise was deafening. With one thing and another, he felt that he had suddenly gone mad in the middle of an inferno. There was this about it though, he thought, as he tore towards the machine: everyone would be too busy doing something, or taking cover, to pay any attention to him, even if he were seen.
Panting for breath, he reached the machine he had selected, and he laughed aloud when he recognized it for the one in which von Stalhein had arrived. Then he flung himself flat again as another lot of bombs rained down.
‘Go to it, boys!’ he yelled, giving way to a fierce exultation as the bombs exploded. While the last report was still ringing in his ears he clambered into the machine.
In all his long career, with its many breathless incidents, he had never made a more fantastic take-off. Fantastic only half describes it. It was, he felt, the act of a madman – but then it would have been lunacy to remain.
To start with, it was neither light nor dark. It was both. Pitch darkness alternated with vivid flashes of blinding orange light as bombs exploded and guns flashed – not that it would have made much difference had the light been constant, for the aerodrome was now blanketed in a pall of smoke. As if this were not enough, several bombs had fallen on the landing field, leaving yawning craters.
For a moment, with his hand on the throttle, he blinked in a sort of daze through the windscreen, trying to make out something, anything, as long as it would give him a line to fly on, and help to keep him straight.2 But there was nothing – nothing but smoke. Again, the noise was indescribable, and sufficient in itself to prevent coherent thought.
In sheer desperation Biggles jerked the throttle open, and in a moment was tearing blindly through the turmoil. There then followed twenty seconds of such strain that his nerves seemed to be stretched like elastic; but at the end of that brief period of time – which, in fact, seemed longer than the bare figure suggests – he could tell by the ‘feel’ of the controls that the machine was ready to lift. He eased the joystick back. Instantly the cessation of vibration, caused by the wheels running over the ground, told him that he was air-borne. He could still see nothing, but as he climbed the smoke thinned, and a vague misty world began to take shape around him.
The first substantial object that he saw was another machine coming straight towards him, and only by a spasmodic jerk of the controls did he avoid a head-on collision. As the other machine flashed past he made out the dim silhouette of a Blenheim. Dry-lipped with strain, he held the stick forward for a moment or two and then zoomed high into a blue-black world torn by jabbing flame and hurtling metal. Below, the aerodrome was an inferno. The risk of collision with the British bombers or of flying into the bombs that were raining down was still imminent, but he could do no more than hold on a steady course and hope for the best. Another anxious minute passed, each second of it reducing the risk, and then his taut nerves began to relax.
‘Holy smoke! What a picnic,’ he gasped, and then swung round to the north towards Fiord 21. He could see the sea below him now and the deeply indented coastline, so his immediate mission became nothing more difficult than straightforward flying, or so he thought.
His destination lay about fifty miles away, and he had covered half that distance in a few minutes when he detected a faint reek of petrol. He was unable to see anything, so he could only feel about with his hand, and in doing so he made the disconcerting discovery that the floor of his cockpit was wet with petrol. He guessed what had happened. Either while the machine had been standing on the ground, or after it was in the air, it had been hit by a piece of shrapnel, and the tank had been holed. There was nothing he could do about it, of course, except switch on the instrument-board light and look at the petrol gauge. One glance told him the worst. The tank was practically empty. He at once looked at his altimeter, which told him that he had climbed to four thousand feet. That gave him a chance. If only the engine would hold out for another five minutes he would be within gliding distance of the fiord.
It did – nearly. He could see the fiord in the distance, for he had flown over the district several times for the purpose of making his reports, and had it not been for this he would have been in a worse case than he was. He was still by no means certain that he would reach the fiord, but he could only hold on in an endeavour to do so. He switched off the ignition, for the engine was back-firing, and anyway it could serve no useful purpose. In dead silence he glided on towards the fiord, losing height slowly but steadily. And as he glided he made up his mind what he would do when he reached the water. Not that there was really any choice, for the aircraft was a land machine, without any adaptations for landing on water. This at once meant that he would have to pancake3 on the surface of the fiord, for a landing on the jagged rocks that surrounded it was out of the question. Still, he thought that with judgment, and a little luck, the machine would remain afloat until – until what? He wondered. Someone would be there waiting for him – or at any rate for the bottled message. It seemed unlikely that Colonel Raymond would order a message to be dropped into the fiord unless he was positive that someone would be there to collect it. Indeed, his message said that someone would be there. In that case he, Biggles, would be picked up. If there was no one there, then he would have to swim ashore, and with the possibility of this in view he decided to pancake as near the rocks as possible.
And that is what he did. Skimming the towering cliffs that bordered the fiord with only a few feet to spare, Biggles turned up the long narrow stretch of water, losing height, and keeping as near to the cliffs as he dared. He knew that a short distance ahead this cliff had partly collapsed in a mighty landslide, and this, if he could reach it, would provide the easiest place to get ashore.
As soon as the landslide came into view he side-slipped steeply to lose height. Ten feet above the surface of the black water he flattened out, and as the controls began to go ‘sloppy’, telling him that the machine was about to fall out of his hands, he kicked the rudder hard to bring the nose towards the sloping mass of boulders that thrust outward like a promontory and ended at the water’s edge.
He was well satisfied with his landing. There was a terrific splash as the aircraft flopped bodily on to the water, but it floated, and surged forward to within a few yards of the rocks. By climbing along the wing he would be able to jump ashore, which pleased him immensely, for he fully expected a ducking, and the idea of spending the rest of the night in wet clothes was not pleasant to think about. He was kneeling on the centre section preparatory to climbing along the wing to the shore when a voice spoke.
‘D’you always land like that?’ asked someone evenly, in English.
Biggles nearly fell into the water. His hand flew to his gun, and half drew it. Then he stopped dead, staring. Slowly he pushed his pistol back into his pocket.
‘Christopher Columbus!’ he gasped. ‘Ginger! How in the name of all that’s miraculous did you get here?’
Ginger stood on a rock with his hands thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets. ‘I shouldn’t call it a miracle,’ he answered calmly. ‘Raymond sent me along to meet you. Mind you don’t slip – the water’s colder than the tip of an Eskimo’s nose.’
1 German: heavens!
2 In taking off a pilot chooses a mark, usually on the boundary of the aerodrome, to prevent swerving.
3 A landing where, instead of the aircraft gliding down to land, it flop
s down from a height of a few feet after losing flying speed.
CHAPTER 8
EXPLANATIONS AND DECISIONS
BIGGLES SCRAMBLED ASHORE. He was just in time to escape a ducking, for the aircraft was sinking fast.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
‘Since last night.’
‘Great Scott! You must be hungry.’
‘Not me,’ grinned Ginger. ‘For all I knew it might have been a week before you turned up, so I brought some grub along.’
‘Lead me to it,’ returned Biggles promptly. ‘I need some nourishment. We can talk as we eat – and there seems to be a lot to say. I assume you’ve got a machine here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank goodness for that. After we’ve eaten we’ll push off home – and I don’t mind telling you I shall be mighty glad to get out of this.’
Ginger looked up sharply. ‘Home?’
‘Of course – why not?’
‘But what about Algy?’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s gone to Boda.’
Biggles swayed. Then he sank down on a rock. For a moment or two he was speechless. ‘Gone to Boda?’ he managed to get out. ‘What in heaven’s name for?’
‘To find you.’
Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Get the grub,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s time we got this straightened out.’
Ginger led the way to the tiny cove where, under an overhanging cliff, a seaplane rested on the water. From behind a rock he produced a heavy bag. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, dropping the bag in front of Biggles. ‘There’s bread, cheese, sardines, and a flask of cold tea. That’s all I could manage.’
