by W E Johns
His hopes of escaping observation did not last long. He knew, from the way the two machines turned sharply, the moment the pilots saw him. And there was still nothing he could do. He had not enough petrol to take him back to India even if he had so wished. If he turned he would soon be overtaken, as he swiftly perceived, for his companions in space were now close enough for recognition. He made them out to be a pair of Mitsubishi ship fighters. And he was not equipped for fighting. The situation was all fairly clear. The smudge on the northern horizon, he reasoned, was a Japanese aircraft carrier. The two Mitsubishis had been out on reconnaissance and were returning to their parent ship. He had cut across their course at an unfortunate moment. It was bad luck, but that risk was always present. He was well aware of it. Biggles had known it when he had made his arrangements, but as he had said at the time, they could not carry fighting equipment if they were to load enough petrol for a trans-ocean flight.
Algy knew, as they say in India, that his time had come.
He took the only course open to him. Flying now on full throttle he dived steeply, back on his original course for Elephant Island, still nearly four hundred miles away. He reckoned he had one chance. If the Mitsubishis had made a long reconnaissance they might be short of petrol; they might have left themselves only enough to return to the ship with a slight margin. If that was so they would not be able to follow him far, if by taking evading action he could avoid their early attacks.
The Mitsubishis quickly overtook him, as he knew they would. By the time they were within range he was down to fifty feet, racing just above the surface of the placid sea. This low altitude would to some extent worry the fighters in that they would not be able to press their attack too close for fear of overshooting their mark and colliding with the water. Algy flew with his eyes on the reflector, watching the two Mitsubishis, which had remained together and were coming down behind him – the orthodox tactics for such an attack. He knew just when they would fire, and was ready. He slammed the control column over and skidded out of the line of bullets. This happened three times, and he did not suppose that he would be allowed to get away with such a simple manoeuvre a fourth time. He was right. The two fighters parted company and attacked together from either side. Several bullets struck the Gosling but without an any way affecting its performance. Nevertheless, Algy was far from happy. Apart from the petrol in his tanks he was carrying fifteen four-gallon cans. He was, in fact, a flying petrol tank. And the Japs were using tracer.2 One bullet in the right place would be enough to cause the Gosling to explode like a bomb.
His hopes flared up when one of the fighters now turned away and headed north. That could only mean that it was short of fuel. But his hopes were dashed when the remaining fighter, in what seemed to be a final effort – and the attack was pressed closely on that account – came right in. Algy did everything he knew, but it seemed that the Gosling’s controls had been hit, for the machine responded sluggishly to his frantic efforts with control column and rudder bar.3 The port engine coughed. The needle of the revolution indicator swung back. Grey petrol vapour swirled aft. With a swift flick of his hand Algy switched off. The Gosling, loaded to capacity, sank bodily. Algy tried to hold the machine off, but the controls were sticky and it only half responded. Two seconds later the aircraft struck the water with a mighty splash, bounced, splashed again, and then came to rest, rocking.
Algy threw a swift glance over his shoulder, saw the Mitsubishi coming at him in a businesslike way, so he went overboard, taking such cover as the airframe could provide. He heard, rather than saw, the result of the enemy machine’s final burst. There was a noise such as a tree makes in falling. It lasted less than three seconds. Then the sound ended abruptly. The drone of the engine began to recede.
Climbing up out of the water Algy saw the fighter turning towards the north at the top of its zoom. For a minute he watched it, prepared for it to come back, but when it held on after its companion he made a quick inspection of the aircraft, which apart from a considerable number of holes appeared to have suffered no serious damage. The great thing was – and in this respect he realised he had been lucky – the machine had not taken fire. Dripping water, he climbed on the centre-section and sat down to consider his position; and it did not take him long to conclude that it was not very bright. He was more than three hundred miles from the nearest land – the Mergui Archipelago. The chances of getting the machine airworthy were too small to be considered seriously. But – and this was the factor that set him hoping again – he was not far off the direct course from Madras to Elephant Island. If the sea remained calm, and if the aircraft did not sink – and bearing in mind the five watertight compartments in the hull he did not think they could all be holed – there was a good chance that one of the Liberators would spot him on its outward run to the island the following day. It would not be able to pick him up, but Biggles would at least know where he was. Curiously enough, the possibility of what did actually happen did not occur to him. The last thing he thought of was that he might be picked up by a ship; and for this reason his astonishment knew no bounds when, just as dusk was closing in, he saw not one but six columns of black smoke appear above the northern horizon. Six hulls, which he soon made out to be six destroyers, appeared under the smoke. They were, he observed, making directly towards him; and with a sinking feeling in the stomach he knew why. There was nothing remarkable about it. The two Mitsubishis would be certain to report their combat. They would report that the aircraft was still afloat. Obviously enemy ships in the vicinity would be sent to the spot.
The destroyers, flying the Rising Sun of Japan,4 their decks lined with curious faces, came close. One moved alongside. A rope was thrown. Algy took it and was hauled aboard. An officer dropped down to the Gosling, searched it and returned. The destroyer backed away. A gun fired three shots. The Gosling went up in a sheet of flame. Algy was allowed to watch this with an armed escort standing beside him. Then he was marched below, to a cabin in which behind a desk sat an officer of senior rank – judging by the amount of gold braid he carried. Two junior officers stood behind him. At a small table sat a clerk with a writing pad before him. Algy was searched, everything in his pockets being piled on the table. The senior officer examined everything carefully. This formality over, at a word from him, one of the juniors, who apparently had been appointed to act as interpreter, addressed Algy with a curious sing-song intonation.
‘You are to tell your name, service and rank,’ said he.
Algy gave this information.
‘Where are you from?’ was the next question.
‘I have nothing more to say,’ answered Algy.
‘It will be better for you if you talk freely,’ promised the officer.
‘I know, but I prefer to say nothing,’ returned Algy.
Upon this there was a brief conversation between the interpreter and the senior officer.
Addressing Algy again the interpreter inquired, ‘Where do you go and why do you carry petrol?’
‘I have already told you that I have nothing more to say,’ answered Algy. ‘In that, as you know quite well, I am within my rights as a prisoner of war.’ There was another conversation in Japanese.
‘It will be bad for you if you do not answer questions,’ said the interpreter.
Algy nodded. ‘I know.’
‘You will say nothing?’
‘Nothing. I have told you all that I am compelled to tell you.’
‘You will be sorry.’
‘No,’ stated Algy. ‘Whatever you do I shall not be sorry.’
That ended the interview. The escort took charge of the prisoner, who was marched out to end a short journey in a small bare cell somewhere in the bottom of the ship. He was locked in. There was no porthole, but light was provided by a small electric bulb behind a grill. There was a bunk. Algy lay on it and gave himself up to the contemplation of his position. Most of his thoughts were naturally of a speculative nature. He wondered where the ship would take him
– Singapore, Rangoon, Penang, Japan . . . it might be anywhere. The flotilla might be at sea for days, perhaps for weeks. He wonderd how Biggles would manage without the Gosling and what he would think about its non-return. He wondered if the squadron would ever know what happened to him . . . and so on.
Time passed. It seemed a long time. Algy did not know how long for his watch had been taken from him. He only knew that it must now be night. It was hot, stuffy, in the cabin. No one came near him. After a while he fell asleep.
1 His crash – See Biggles in the Orient.
2 Phosphoros-loaded bullets whose course through the air can be seen by day or night.
3 Foot-operated lever which the pilot uses to control the direction of flight.
4 National flag of Japan, a red sun on a white background.
CHAPTER 13
ALGY MEETS A FRIEND – AND AN ENEMY
ALGY WAS TIRED, and for this reason he slept long and heavily, as he realised in a vague sort of way when he was awakened by a steward who brought a dish of rice mixed with some sort of fish. The escort watched from the door.
‘What time is it?’ asked Algy.
The steward made signs which Algy took to mean that he did not understand; he did not pursue the matter and the man went out, the escort locking the door behind him.
Another long weary period elapsed before it was opened again. This time the officer-interpreter was with the escort. He ordered Algy to follow.
‘You go on shore now,’ said he. ‘Perhaps now you will speak,’ he added, with something like a sneer.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Algy evenly.
‘Perhaps Admiral Tamashoa make you change your mind,’ said the Jap coldly.
That was the first indication Algy had that the destroyer had arrived at Victoria Point. Nearing the deck he saw that it was broad daylight. The destroyers were dropping anchor at what at first appeared to be a land-locked lagoon. Algy had never seen the place before but he supposed it to be the estuary of the Pak Chan river. It was a depressing-looking place. On all sides the forest dropped sheer into the sea. A muddy foreshore, on which lay a few dilapidated prahus was backed by a street of houses, mostly ramshackle. A wooden landing stage – it could hardly be called a pier – thrust its rotting timbers out into the stagnant water. A line of decomposing vegetation followed the high-water mark. There was nothing Eastern about the place. So this, thought Algy, was the place Tamashoa had made his headquarters.
Still under escort he was taken ashore in a boat lowered for the purpose, and at the landing stage was handed over to a squad of Japanese soldiers, who took him to what he learned later had been the bungalow of the District Police Superintendent. There were a lot of Japanese troops about, mostly undersized little men dressed in the shoddiest of uniforms. It struck him there was as good deal of activity, although what it was about he did not know.
He finished his short march in what had obviously been the local jail, a little square cell on the edge of an open space behind the bungalow. A small barred window let in a little air, but the place was in a filthy condition and stank abominably. But he paid little attention to such details, for to his astonishment the cell was already occupied, and by a white man. Dressed in a flannel suit, torn and stained with blood, this man sat on the floor trying to bandage a wound in his leg with a piece of old newspaper. Staring at the man Algy was pushed inside. The door slammed. A key turned in the lock.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the wounded man, looking up from his task. ‘Forgive my not rising, but I’m having a little trouble with my leg. One of the devils stuck a bayonet into it. Damn scoundrel. I was already a prisoner. But allow me to introduce myself. My name is Marling, one-time major in His Majesty’s Indian Army.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ said Algy. ‘My name’s Lacey, Flight Lieutenant, Royal Air Force. A friend of mine has just been to . . .’ Algy glanced round and dropped his voice. ‘I’m a friend of Bigglesworth,’ he went on tersely. ‘What are you doing here? What has happened at Shansie? Excuse me, sir, but that paper isn’t much use. I can fix a better bandage than that.’ Without any messing about Algy ripped a sleeve out of his shirt.
‘Thanks. That’s most kind of you,’ said Marling. ‘Shansie, I’m afraid, is finished. Bigglesworth was right. ’Fraid I was a bit too confident. Still, I did what I could.’
‘What happened?’ asked Algy, working on the wound.
‘The morning after Bigglesworth went, a Jap plane came flying over – looking for the Lotus, I imagine. We were at work making an aerodrome. If you’ve seen Bigglesworth he will have told you about it. The Jap must have guessed what we were up to. Next thing we knew Japs were dropping on us out of the sky. Paratroops, I believe they call ’em. Well, there we were. We had a little affair that lasted about twenty minutes or so, then they caught me.’
‘What happened to your son?’
‘Wish I knew. Lost sight of him in the scuffle. Last I saw of him, he was using a parang with one of my fellows named Melong. Of course, they might have got into the forest.’
This information worried Algy not a little, ‘Then the Japanese have taken over Shansie?’ he queried.
‘Without a doubt.’
‘In that case Biggles – that is, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth – may step into a trap if he goes there to see you.’
‘ ’Fraid you’re right, my boy. Can’t do anything about it though, can we?’
‘It looks that way, I must admit. Why did the Japanese bayonet you?’
‘Wanted me to tell ’em where I’d hidden my rubber and my rubies.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘Tell them? No fear. Won’t get a word out of me, blast them. I’ve had a set to with this fellow Tamashoa. He didn’t get anything out of me, either. I told him what I thought of him. How did they get hold of you?’
Algy gave a brief account of his misfortune.
‘Bad luck. Damn bad luck. Tamashoa will be seeing you. Won’t get anything out of you though, I’ll bet.’
‘Not a word.’
‘That’s the spirit. Don’t talk to the scum.’
‘Have you any idea of the time, sir?’ asked Algy as he finished the bandage.
‘Sun’s going down – must be nearly six o’clock. Soon be dark. Devil of a place to pass the night. Place stinks.’
At this point the door was opened and a Japanese non-commissioned officer appeared, behind him an escort of four soldiers with bayonets fixed. He beckoned to the prisoners in turn.
‘I suppose he means we’re to go with them,’ said Algy. ‘You’d better not move with that leg, sir, or you’ll start it bleeding again.’ He tried to point this out to the N.C.O.,1 and he may have succeeded; but if he did the only effect it had on the Japanese was to cause him to cross the cell and drag the major roughly to his feet.
Algy started forward, his face flaming resentment, but Marling spoke to him sharply. ‘Steady, my boy, or they’ll stick a bayonet into you, too. I can manage.’
The prisoners – Marling limping, with a hand on Algy’s shoulder – had not far to go. They were marched to the front door of the bungalow where a sentry stood on duty. As they entered, a small party emerged, obviously another prisoner with an escort. The prisoner in this case was a Burmese youth. With the escort there was a burly Japanese, stripped to the waist, carrying a drawn sword – a heavy curved weapon.
As the two parties passed, Marling spoke to the prisoner, who answered, ‘Baik, tuan.’2
‘That was Tapil, Melong’s eldest son,’ Marling told Algy. ‘Apparently they caught the lad. Tamashoa has been trying to get him to talk.’
‘What was that fellow doing with the drawn sword?’ asked Algy.
‘You’ll probably find that out soon enough, my boy,’ answered the major.
The party came to a halt outside a door. The N.C.O. knocked and went in. He came back and motioned the prisoners forward. Prisoners and escort went in.
Seated at a desk was the man Algy s
upposed to be Tamashoa. Several members of his staff stood behind him in attitudes of respectful attention. He was not what Algy expected. He thought to see a man of a size and general appearance in proportion to his rank, instead of which the admiral was a smooth-faced, foppish-looking little man of barely middle age, absurdly over-dressed by European standards. His uniform was as impressive as that of a cinema attendant. The breast was hung with medals and studded with orders. When the prisoners entered he was reading a document – or, for effect, making a pretence of doing so. This he continued to do for a full two minutes, during which a silence, embarrassing in its intensity, persisted. At length Tamashoa deigned to look up. He laid the paper aside and with his elbows on the desk looked at Algy.
‘Answer questions,’ he said, in fair English. ‘What were you doing in airplane?’
‘Flying,’ answered Algy.
Tamashoa appeared to see nothing facetious in this answer. Not a muscle of his face moved. ‘Quite so. What were you doing in sea?’ he asked.
‘Swimming,’ replied Algy.
‘Quite so. I mean, what are you doing here?’ queried Tamashoa.
‘Standing,’ replied Algy evenly. He did not smile.
‘Why?’ asked Tamashoa.
‘Because no one has offered me a seat.’
To Algy’s astonishment, at a movement from the admiral a chair was brought and he was invited to sit. He gave the chair to the major, whereupon another chair was brought.
‘You see we understand the courtesy,’ said Tamashoa smoothly. ‘Why did you carry petrol?’
