by W E Johns
Biggles and Algy watched him go – without comment, of course, for their attitude towards each other was that of captor and captured. Algy strode along with a mechanic on either side of him. Biggles stayed with the officers. Some were glum; others were cheerful, and, where Algy was concerned, inclined to be sympathetic. They were well able to appreciate his position.
They came to a farmhouse where they stopped, drank milk, and made a frugal meal. The Norwegian to whom it belonged was in no case to refuse what was asked of him. After a short rest they went on to the main road – the same road over which Biggles had passed earlier in the day. And while they were standing on it, undecided which way to go, a motor-cyclist storm-trooper came tearing along. He stopped and dismounted when he saw the party, and was soon told what had happened.
‘I shall have to let headquarters know about this,’ he declared. ‘I’m on the trail of two British spies, and they may have had something to do with the raid. You’d better keep your eyes open for them.’
He actually made this request to Biggles, who promised that if the spies fell into his hands they would have short shrift.
As the motor-cyclist went on Biggles wondered why he had addressed him, and saw for the first time that he was the senior officer of the party, in that he was an Oberleutnant – or wore the uniform of one – whereas the others were only Leutnants. He determined forthwith to take advantage of this, and from that moment more or less placed himself in command of the party.
‘I’m by no means sure that we did right in leaving the fiord,’ he told the other officers. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m by no means clear as to what has happened there. Headquarters may send new machines up, so I’m wondering if, instead of wandering about the country like this, out of touch with everybody, it wouldn’t be better for us to go back there.’
What Biggles really wanted was time to think, to form a definite plan. At present he had none, and the appearance of the motor-cyclist made it only too clear that they could not continue for long to move about the country without being arrested. Moreover, the farther they got from the fiord, the farther they were getting away from Ginger, their only contact with home, and their only means of escape. He noted that from time to time squadrons of German planes passed high overhead, all heading northward, and he asked the Germans if they knew the meaning of this.
The senior Leutnant smiled knowingly. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said softly.
His manner was so mysterious that Biggles was intrigued. At the same time he was conscious of a disturbing uneasiness.
‘No, I haven’t heard anything,’ he said.
‘Then you were not on the same job as us, that’s certain.’ The Leutnant hesitated, but then went on, confidentially. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ he whispered, ‘but the British North Sea Fleet is sailing into a lovely trap.’
Biggles did not move a muscle. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘Well, to start with, they are going to land troops at Narvik – our Intelligence people know that for a fact. To cover the landing the British fleet will use, as a base, Westfiord, which is handy. Our spies watched them survey the place for that purpose, and they’re heading straight for it now. But what they don’t know is this. Since they were there we have been busy. We’ve stuffed the fiord with magnetic mines3 until it is as full of them as a pudding is of plums. When the ships sail in there’s to be one big bang, and that will be the end of them. Meanwhile, the British troops won’t know this. They’ll attempt to land at Narvik and then our planes will shoot them to bits. Our machines are concentrating up there now for that purpose.’
Biggles felt a cold hand settle over his heart. He moistened his lips. ‘You’re quite certain about this fiord, Westfiord, being full of mines?’
‘I ought to be,’ grinned the German. ‘My squadron put them there. That’s what we’ve been doing.’
Biggles smiled – but only with his lips. There was no humour in his eyes, for this staggering piece of news and its deadly significance altered all his ideas. The trap sounded such a likely one that he did not doubt the authenticity of it for a moment.
Algy was standing close enough to hear what had been said, but his expression did not change. His eyes met those of Biggles only for a moment, but they held a question.
As far as they were concerned, from that moment escape became of secondary importance. The only thing that mattered was getting a warning to the ships of the Royal Navy engaged in the enterprise, and to the commander of the troops bound for Narvik.
Said Biggles to the Leutnant: ‘I believe two of your machines escaped when the raid started. D’you think they’ll come back?’
‘They’re almost certain to, if only to see what has happened,’ returned the German without hesitation.
‘In that case,’ observed Biggles quietly, ‘I think we’d better get back there. The machines would at least enable us to get into touch with headquarters.’
‘I think you’re right there,’ agreed the other. ‘What about the prisoner?’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter was a minor one. ‘It looks as if we shall have to keep him with us – for the time being, at any rate.’
‘He may get in the way,’ demurred the Leutnant. ‘Remember, he’s a pilot, so it won’t do to let him get near an aircraft.’
Biggles nodded. The last thing he wanted was to be parted from Algy. ‘Trondheim is the nearest depot,’ he pointed out. ‘And that’s nearly forty miles away,’ he added. ‘The only thing we can do with the prisoner for the moment is to keep him with us. If a machine comes into the fiord we may be able to get rid of him then, either by flying him up to Trondheim, or by sending him to Oslo.’
‘Yes, that seems to be the best plan,’ agreed the Leutnant.
They set off back towards the fiord.
1 British Rolls-Royce engines widely used in World War II fighter and bomber aircraft.
2 Royal Navy carrier-borne dive bombers.
3 Underwater mines detonated when the hull of a passing vessel causes a shift of the magnetic field at the mine.
CHAPTER 12
DESPERATE MEASURES
IT WAS PAST midday when they got back to the fiord, to find that it had more or less settled down. There was a fair amount of wreckage floating on the water. One of the store-ships had burnt itself out; the other was still aground, in spite of the efforts of the survivors of both crews to get her off. A little party of airmen, apparently odd members of the squadron that had dispersed when the raid occurred, were sitting or standing about the spot where the store-tent had stood. Biggles noted that, as so often happens, the sailors and the airmen, members of two services, kept apart from each other, as if they were acting under separate orders – as no doubt they were. Those airmen who had remained at the fiord greeted the return of the others with cheers.
From the top of the landslide, which was the easier way down to the river, Biggles surveyed the fiord. ‘No aircraft have arrived yet,’ he observed.
The Leutnant declared that it could only be a matter of time before something, or somebody, arrived, for news of the raid must by then have reached either Trondheim or Oslo, perhaps both. It was a reasonable assumption, and the party made its way to the others on the rocky beach, where the raid was discussed. Algy, under guard, sat a little apart from the others. Biggles, of course, mixed freely with the Germans.
This state of affairs lasted for about an hour, during which time Biggles racked his brains in vain to find a way out of the curious position in which he and Algy now found themselves. Things might, he thought, have been worse. At least he had his liberty, and had it not been for the disquieting information about the trap which had been prepared for the British fleet he would have been content to wait quietly until something turned up. He still felt his best chance of getting away lay in remaining at the fiord, because Ginger knew that they must be there, or in the vicinity. So there seemed no point in leaving. Even if he, Biggles, and Algy could get clear, they would only wande
r about the country without a definite objective. True, there was the car which they had concealed, but he felt that by this time it would be a dangerous vehicle to take on the road. Whether or not word had gone out for that particular car to be apprehended, it would certainly be stopped by every patrol, and with so few roads it would be impossible to get far without encountering patrols. Indeed, Biggles had a shrewd suspicion that a proper hue and cry had been started for them. Brandt, whom they had left by the roadside, and who by now must have been picked up, would probably see to that.
It was, then, with relief that after they had been back in the fiord about an hour Biggles saw a flying-boat approaching. It was a Dornier, and was recognized immediately by the members of the squadron for one of their own. Biggles caught Algy’s eye and winked, for this was what he had been waiting for. He resolved that this was the machine that should carry them to safety. There was no other way.
The Dornier landed and taxied up to the beach, where it was made fast by one of the airmen who had walked forward to meet it. The pilot came ashore to be greeted with a volley of questions.
‘Where have you been?’ asked one of the German officers.
‘I dashed down to Oslo to report the raid,’ was the reply. ‘They sent me back with orders that we are to stand fast here until help is sent. I suppose they will send us new machines.’
Biggles was staring at the pilot in alternate alarm and satisfaction, for it was none other than Schaffer, the officer whom he had first met at Narvik, and who had afterwards flown him to Boda; in fact, it was Schaffer’s uniform that he was still wearing. And at that moment, looking round, Schaffer saw him. An extraordinary expression at once crossed his face.
‘Hello, what are you doing here?’ he said moving forward slowly at the same time.
Biggles forced a smile. ‘I deserve all you must have thought of me for not returning your uniform,’ he said in tones of self-reproach. ‘As you see, I’m still wearing it, but to tell the truth I’ve been so rushed since I last saw you that I haven’t had time to see about getting it back to you.’
Schaffer still gazed at Biggles with a peculiar expression on his face. A struggle seemed to be going on inside him.
As for Biggles, he could well imagine what Schaffer was thinking. It is a far cry from being merely suspicious to making a direct accusation; but that Schaffer was suspicious was obvious; or, if not actually suspicious, he felt that there was something odd going on. What Biggles did not know, and perhaps it was as well for his peace of mind that he did not, was the extent of the hue and cry that had been started for him. He did not know that every German agent and every patrol in Norway was looking for him; and this being so, strange rumours were afoot, rumours that had reached the ears of nearly every German in the country, including Schaffer. Unaware of this, although he dimly suspected something of the sort, Biggles did not take it into account. He saw Schaffer hesitating, and had a good idea of what was in his mind. He knew that the German was wondering if he ought to cross-examine him there and then, and perhaps accuse him of being a spy, or wait until he could get through to Oslo and leave this task to those whose specific duty it was to attend to such things.
What Schaffer actually did was to walk a short distance away taking the other officers with him. These he engaged in earnest conversation, and from covert glances thrown in his direction Biggles knew that he was the object of the discussion. It was quite apparent that even if nothing worse happened, from that moment he was a marked man, and the first false move he made would be quite enough to fan smouldering suspicion into the flame of direct action. He glanced at the machine riding on the water, and then at Algy, wondering if he ought to risk all on a sudden dash for liberty. It was one of those difficult decisions upon which so much might depend. At the finish he decided against the plan, chiefly because there were so many Germans about that to hope for success was to hope for something in the nature of a miracle.
He made a swift survey of the weaknesses in his position, for they were plain enough to see. When Schaffer compared notes with the others – and that was undoubtedly what he was doing at that moment – they would perceive that there was something very odd in the manner in which he had appeared, from nowhere, so to speak. And the same with Algy. Up to now it had been assumed automatically that he was one of the British raiding party, and had been shot down. But what had happened to his machine? No one had seen it fall. There was no crash to mark the spot. Biggles felt that once the Germans started thinking on these lines, and they could hardly fail to do so, his freedom would not last long.
He was not told what the result of the conference was. He was able to form an idea of it, however, when, a few minutes later, he noticed that two of the airmen, armed with rifles, were never far away from him. And when a little while later Schaffer came over and told him, with a nonchalance that was obviously affected, that he was flying to Oslo, and invited him to go with him, Biggles understood the general scheme. Schaffer was not prepared to run the risk of arresting one who might in fact turn out to be a member of the dreaded Gestapo; instead, he would get him to Oslo and put the onus of responsibility for this on someone else.
Biggles answered at once that he would be glad to go. He could not very well do otherwise. Nor dared he hesitate, knowing how thin was the hair on which his freedom depended.
‘In that case we’ll take off right away,’ said Schaffer.
As these words were spoken Biggles saw Algy being taken along the beach towards the supply-ship, which, for want of something better adapted to the purpose, was evidently to be his temporary prison. It was not a very desirable one, for from remarks let drop by the airmen Biggles knew that it was loaded with petrol and ammunition. Indeed, he could see some of the oil drums which had been put ashore to lighten the ship, evidently in the hope that it would float off the rock on which it was aground at the next high tide.
Biggles told Schaffer that he had no kit to collect, so he was ready to move off. He still had a card up his sleeve, and it was this. Schaffer did not know that he was a pilot. The fact that he wore a pilot’s uniform meant nothing – at least, as far as the German was concerned, for he knew that it was his own. Biggles hoped, therefore, that he would be able to overpower Schaffer in the air and seize the machine. His chief fear was that the other officers might be in it – more than he could deal with.
Great was his relief when, a minute or two later, Schaffer beckoned to him and led the way towards the aircraft, for it was clear that the others were remaining in the fiord.
‘Where would you like to sit?’ inquired Schaffer.
Not for a moment did Biggles abandon his original pose of quiet assurance. ‘Well, I’m a bit nervous of these things, you know,’ he said, simulating slight embarrassment. ‘If it’s all the same to you I’d like to sit beside you.’ He had noted that there was side-by-side seating in the Dornier, but only one set of controls.
Schaffer agreed so readily that Biggles became more and more convinced that the last thing the German expected was that he might be attacked in the air. Indeed, if, as he supposed, Biggles was a mere land-lubber, then he had nothing to fear on that score, for no one but a lunatic – or, of course, another pilot – would interfere with a man at the controls of an aircraft.
They took their places. The machine was cast off, and Schaffer taxied out to the middle of the fiord to take off.
‘There’s a chance that we may run into hostile aircraft,’ he announced. ‘If we do just sit tight and leave things to me.’
‘You bet I will,’ promised Biggles. ‘I’m afraid I shouldn’t be much use.’
Schaffer opened the throttle. The flying-boat sped across the water and rose like a bird into the air. For a little while the pilot held the machine straight, climbing steeply for altitude, and then banked round in the direction of his destination.
Biggles knew that it was not much more than half an hour’s flight, so he had no time to lose. No sooner were they out of sight of the fiord than he open
ed the proceedings by very gently taking Schaffer’s revolver from its holster. He had a pistol of his own in his pocket, but he felt that if he disarmed the German as a first precaution it would make his task easier.
He was in the act of putting the revolver into his own pocket when Schaffer happened to glance round. He saw at once what was happening. Fear and anger leapt into his eyes.
‘What are you—’ he began, but Biggles cut him short.
‘I’m sorry, Schaffer,’ he said curtly. ‘I must ask you to let me have this machine. I should be sorry to have to hurt you, so I hope you’ll be reasonable about it.’
Schaffer had turned as white as a sheet. His eyes blazed.
‘Then I was right,’ he hissed. ‘You are a spy.’
‘It would be futile to deny it,’ admitted Biggles, ‘but if I am it is by force of circumstances and not as a result of any desire on my part. Actually, like you, I am a pilot. I was caught in Oslo when the war started and I’ve been trying to get home ever since. I am now going. Please vacate your seat.’
‘I will not,’ snarled Schaffer, and abandoning the controls, he flung himself at Biggles in such fury that Biggles was taken by surprise. Before he could prevent it Schaffer’s left hand had caught him by the throat, forcing him back into his seat.
Biggles deliberately knocked the joystick, and then, hooking his leg round it, dragged it back. The machine plunged, and then reared up like a frightened horse. Instinctively the German spun round to right the aircraft, which was in danger of falling into a spin, but Biggles now caught him by the arms, and thrusting his knee in the small of his back, flung him back into the cabin. He then made a dive for the controls to prevent the machine from stalling.
