by W E Johns
As soon as he realised what was happening he threw discretion to the winds and raced like a madman towards his Spitfire, but before he had gone fifty yards he knew he would be too late. The one-sided running fight had swept over him, and a jagged escarpment hid it from view. The machine-gunning ended abruptly, and the roar of engines seemed suddenly to diminish in volume.
Although he could not see, Ginger could visualise the picture. The British pilot, realising the futility of trying to escape from its attackers, was trying to land, and so save the lives of his passengers. It was the only sensible thing to do.
And then, as Ginger stood staring white-faced in the direction in which the machines had disappeared, came a sound which, once heard, is never forgotten. It was the splintering crackle of a crashing aeroplane. The distance he judged to be not more than four or five miles away.
For a few seconds the drone of the Messerschmitts continued, as, no doubt, they circled round the remains of the Dragon; then the sound faded swiftly, and silence once more settled over the desert.
Now Ginger did what was perhaps a natural thing, but a foolish one – as he realised later. Acting on the spur of the moment, without stopping to think, he dashed up the rock escarpment which hid the tragedy from view. Panting and gasping, for the heat of the rock was terrific, he reached the top, only to discover that another ridge, not more than a hundred yards away, still hid what he was so anxious to see. So upset was he that he was only subconsciously aware of the blinding heat as he ran on to the ridge, again to discover that an even higher ridge was in front of him.
He pulled up short, suddenly aware of the folly of what he was doing. Already he was hot, thirsty and exhausted from emotion and violent movement in such an atmosphere. He realised that he had been foolish to leave the Spitfire without his water-bottle. He needed a drink – badly. He could not see the Spitfire from where he stood, but he knew where it was – or thought he did – and made a bee-line towards the spot.
For a time he walked confidently, and it was only when he found himself face to face with a curiously shaped mass of rock that he experienced his first twinge of uneasiness. He knew that he had never seen that particular rock before; it was too striking to be overlooked. Still, he was not alarmed, but simply annoyed with himself for carelessness which resulted in a loss of valuable time.
Turning slightly towards a rock which be thought he recognised, he walked on, only to discover that he had been mistaken. It was not the rock he had supposed. He began to hurry now, keeping a sharp lookout for something that he could recognise. But there was nothing, and irritation began to give way to fear. Fragments of Biggles’ warning drifted into his memory, such pieces as ‘shrivelling like an autumn leaf’.
He had been following a shallow valley between the rocks, and it now struck him that if he climbed one of the highest rocks he ought to be able to see his machine or the crashed Rapide. Choosing an eminence, he clambered to the summit – not without difficulty, for it was hot enough to burn his hands. The sight that met his eyes horrified him. On all sides stretched a wilderness of rock and sand, colourless, shapeless, hideous in its utter lifelessness.
He discovered that his mouth had turned bricky dry, and for once he nearly gave way to panic. No experience in the air had ever filled him with such fear. His legs seemed to go weak under him. Slowly, for he was terrified now of hurting himself and thus making his plight worse, he descended the rock and ran to the next one, which he thought was a trifle higher. Looking round frantically, he was faced with the same scene as before. It all looked alike. Rock and sand . . . sand and rock, more sand, more rock.
Running, he began to retrace his footsteps – or so he thought – to the escarpment, and was presently overjoyed to find his own footprints in the soft sand. He followed them confidently, feeling sure that they would take him back to the crash. Instead, they brought him back to the same place. He had walked in a circle. With growing horror in his heart he realised that he was lost, and he stood still for a moment to get control of his racing brain.
Bitterly now he repented his rash behaviour – not that it did any good. The silence really frightened him. It was something beyond the imagination. It seemed to beat in his ears. A falling pebble made a noise like an avalanche. He trudged on through a never-altering world. All he could see was rock and sand, except, above him, a dome of burnished steel. Time passed; how long he did not know. He was not concerned with time. All he wanted was the Spitfire, and the water that was in his water-bottle. The idea of water was fast becoming a mania. Very soon it was torture. Several times he climbed rocks, but they were all too low to give him a clear view. The loneliness and the silence became unbearable, and he began to shout for the sake of hearing a human voice. He could no longer look at the sky; it had become the open door of a furnace. He put his hands on his head, which was beginning to ache. He no longer perspired, for the searing heat snatched away any moisture as soon as it was formed. He felt that his body was being dried up – as Biggles had said – like a shrivelled leaf.
Hopelessness took him in its grip. He knew he was wandering in circles, but he had ceased to care. All he wanted to do was drink. His skin began to smart. His feet were on fire. His tongue was like a piece of dried leather in his mouth. Sand gritted between his teeth. The rocks began to sway, to recede, then rush at him. Rock and sand. It was always the same. A white haze began to close in on him. Presently it turned orange. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. He could only think of one thing – water.
He walked on, muttering. The rocks became monsters, marching beside him. He shouted to scare them away, but they took no notice. He saw Biggles sitting on one, but when he got to it it was only another rock. Beyond, he saw a line of blue water, with little flecks of white light dancing on it. It was so blue that it dazzled him. Shouting, he ran towards it, but it was always the same distance away, and it took his reeling brain some little time to realise that it was not there. He began to laugh. What did it matter which way he went? All ways were the same in this cauldron. More monsters were coming towards him. He rushed at them and beat at them with his fists. He saw blood on his knuckles, but he felt no pain. The sky turned red. Everything turned red. The sand seemed to be laughing at him. He hated it, and in his rage he knelt down and thumped it. It only laughed all the louder. The voice sounded very real. He tried to shout, but he could only croak.
1 De Havilland Dragon Rapide, a twin-engined biplane.
CHAPTER 4
SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT
SUDDENLY GINGER BECAME conscious that he was drinking; that water, cool, refreshing water, was splashing on his face. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t true, but he didn’t mind that. It was the most wonderful sensation he had ever known, and he only wanted it to go on for ever. His great fear was that it would stop; and, surely enough, it did stop. Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing into the concerned face of his leader.
‘All right, take it easy,’ said Biggles.
‘You were – just about – in time,’ gasped Ginger.
‘And you, my lad, have had better luck than you deserve.’ Compassion faded suddenly from Biggles’ face; the muscles of his jaws tightened. ‘I seem to remember making an order about all ranks carrying water-bottles,’ he said in a voice as brittle as cracking ice. ‘If we were within striking distance of a service depot I’d put you under close arrest for breaking orders. As it is, if you feel able to move, we’d better see about getting out of this sun-smitten dustbin. It will be dark before we get back as it is.’
Ginger staggered to his feet. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said contritely.
‘So you thundering well ought to be,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘Why did you land in the first place?’
‘I saw a crashed aircraft, and came down to see if there was anyone in it.’
Biggles started. ‘A crash? Where?’
Ginger shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t know, but it can’t be far away. Do you know where my machine is?
’
‘Yes, I landed by it. I saw it from some way off and went straight to it.’
‘That’s probably why you didn’t see the crash; it’s lying close up against a cliff. It’s a Rapide. It was the flash of broken glass that took me to it. Somehow I’d got off my course.’
‘I can’t blame you for that,’ answered Biggles. ‘I had the same experience. Magnetic interference was put up to affect our compasses – or rather to affect the compass of the Dragon.’
‘Great Scott! I’d almost forgotten,’ declared Ginger. ‘You’re dead right. The Dragon came this way. It was being attacked by three Messerschmitts. They roared right over me, but I reckon they were too concerned with their own affairs to see me. That’s what started my trouble. I heard a machine crash some way off, and instead of returning to my Spitfire I climbed an escarpment to see if I could see the crash. I couldn’t see it, though. It was in going back to my machine that I lost my way.’
Biggles looked amazed at this recital – as he had every reason to. He was silent for a moment.
‘We shall have to get all these facts in line,’ he said presently. ‘Assuming that, like me, you had compass trouble, I came out to look for you. I found your machine and landed by it. I was a bit worried to find you weren’t with it. I was wondering where you could have gone when I heard someone laughing and shouting—’
‘You heard me – from the Spitfires?’
‘Certainly.’
Ginger stared. ‘Then I must have been wandering about close to my machine?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Biggles. ‘All can tell you is the Spitfires are just behind those rocks on the left – less than a hundred yards away.’
‘Just imagine it,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘I might have passed out from thirst within a hundred yards of water.’
‘That’s how it happens,’ said Biggles seriously. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But let’s get to the machines. Thank goodness the heat isn’t quite so fierce now the sun is going down.’
Dusk was, in fact, advancing swiftly across the shimmering waste as the sun sank in a final blaze of crimson glory. There was just time to walk to the Spitfires, make a trip to the crashed Rapide, and return, before complete darkness descended on the wilderness. The heat, as Biggles had remarked, was less fierce; but the atmosphere was stifling as every rock, and every grain of sand, continued to radiate the heat it had absorbed during the day.
Biggles leant against the fuselage of his machine and lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t feel like taking off in this blackout,’ he told Ginger. ‘Nor do I feel like risking a night flight across the desert with a compass that isn’t entirely to be relied on. We’re in no particular hurry. The moon will be up in an hour, so we may as well wait for it. I’ve some thinking to do, and I can do that as well here as anywhere. Tell me, in which direction was the Dragon flying when you last saw it – presumably the sound of the crash came from the same direction?’
‘Yes,’ answered Ginger. ‘It was over there.’ He pointed to the escarpment, its jagged ridge boldly silhouetted against the starlit heavens. ‘I couldn’t swear how far it was away, because sounds are so deceptive here, but I wouldn’t put it at more than five miles. What are you thinking of doing?’
‘I was wondering if we should try to find it.’
‘Not for me,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’ve had one go at that sort of thing. You got me out of the frying-pan, and I don’t want to fall in it again.’
‘There’s less risk of that at night, when you have stars to guide – Great Scott! What’s that?’
For a little while both Biggles and Ginger stood staring in the direction of the escarpment, beyond which a glowing finger of radiance, straight as a ruler, was moving slowly across the sky.
‘It’s a searchlight,’ declared Ginger.
‘If it is, then it’s a dickens of a long way away,’ returned Biggles. ‘Whatever it is it’s mobile. Look at the base of it – you can see it moving along the rock . . . that’s queer, he’s stopped now. I think I know what it is. It’s the headlight of a car, deflected upwards.’
‘A car!’ said Ginger incredulously. ‘A car – here – in the desert?’
‘You haven’t forgotten that a car came out to the crashed Rapide – or a vehicle of some sort? It was not one of ours; therefore it must have belonged to the enemy. Whoever shot the Rapide down would report where it had crashed. Unless I’m mistaken, the same thing is happening now. A car is on its way to the crashed Dragon. If it can’t get right up to it, no doubt it will go as close as possible; the people in it can walk the rest of the way. This is an opportunity to learn something definite, and I don’t feel inclined to miss it. Our machines will be safe enough here – unless the car comes this way, which seems unlikely. Anyway, it’s a risk worth taking.’
With Ginger’s water-bottle slung over his shoulder, Biggles started off in a direct line towards the light, which still appeared as a faint, slender beam, like a distant searchlight. From the top of the escarpment a good deal more of it could be seen – the lower part, which descended to a point.
‘No British forces are operating in this district, so whoever is putting that beam up must be an enemy,’ said Biggles thoughtfully, as he stood staring at it. ‘How far away do you think it is?’
‘That’s impossible to tell, because we don’t know the strength of the beam. It might be a weak one fairly close, or a powerful one a long way off. What puzzles me is why it is turned upwards. It can’t be looking for aircraft.’
‘It could be a signal, a signpost, so to speak, for airmen.’
‘Possibly, but unlikely, for there seems to be no reason why enemy aircraft should operate at night.’ Biggles laughed shortly. ‘What a fool I am – the heat must have made me dense. The beam is a signpost, probably a rallying point, for people out in the desert on foot looking for the crashed Dragon. That, I think, is the most likely answer. Let’s go on for a bit; maybe we shall see something. Speak quietly, and make no more noise than you can prevent, because we’re approaching a danger zone, and sound travels a long way in the desert.’
They went on in silence, climbed the ridge that had baffled Ginger, and the one beyond it, which they discovered dropped sheer for about forty feet to a lower level of sand, generously sprinkled with broken rock. In the deceptive starlight they nearly stepped over the edge before they realized how steep was the drop. They went a little way to the right hoping to find a way down, and finding none, tried the left; but the cliff – for they were on the lip of what might best be described as a low cliff – seemed to continue for some distance. There were one or two places where a descent appeared possible, and once Ginger moved forward with that object in mind; but Biggles held him back.
‘I’m not going to risk it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This desert rock isn’t to be trusted; wind and sun make it friable; if it broke away and let us down with a bump we might hurt ourselves. If we were nearer home I wouldn’t hesitate, but this is no place for even a minor injury – a sprained ankle, for instance. We’re some way from the machines too. But here comes the moon. Let’s try to get a line on the light; if we can do that we may be able to check up in daylight.’ So saying, Biggles lay flat and using his hands to mask the surrounding scenery, focused his attention on the foot of the beam.
Following his example, Ginger made out what appeared to be three successive ranges of low hills which, from their serrated ridges, were obviously stark rock. The light sprang up from behind the farthest, which he estimated to be not less than twelve miles away. He tried to photograph the silhouette of the rocks in line with the beam on his brain, this being made possible by certain salient features. In the first range there was a mass of rock that took the form of a frog, and behind it a group of four small pinnacles that might have been the spires of a cathedral. These were near enough in line with the beam to fix its position should the light be turned out, and he mentioned this to Biggles, who agreed, but reminded him that when they had firs
t seen the light it had been moving, which proved that it was not constant.
The moon, nearly full, was now clear of the horizon, and cast a pale blue radiance over the wilderness. It was not yet light enough to read a newspaper, as the saying is, but it was possible to see clearly for a considerable distance; and if the lifeless scene had been depressing by day, thought Ginger, it was a hundred times worse at night.
He was about to rise when from somewhere – it was impossible to say how far away – there came a sound, a noise so slight that in the ordinary way it might well have passed unnoticed. It was as though a small piece of rock had struck against another.
Biggles’ hand closed on Ginger’s ann. ‘Don’t move,’ he breathed.
Ginger, his muscles now taut, lay motionless, his eyes probing the direction from which he thought the sound had come, which was on the lower level to the right of where he lay. He stared and stared until the rocks appeared to take shape and move – not an uncommon reaction in darkness when nerves are strained. Moving his head slightly until his mouth was close to Biggles’ ear, he whispered, ‘Perhaps it was a jackal.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘Nothing lives in this sort of desert.’
Another rock clicked, nearer this time, and Biggles hissed a warning.
Staring again at the lower level, Ginger saw that a group of what appeared to be shadows was moving silently towards them. Very soon they took shape, and it was possible to distinguish men and camels. There were six camels carrying riders, and a number of men walking behind them. Two of the camel riders rode side by side a little in advance of the rest of the party. The other four camels moved noiselessly in single file. Magnified by the flat background behind them they were huge, distorted, more like strange spirits of the desert than living creatures. They came on, heading obliquely towards the distant light. When the two leaders were quite close a voice spoke, suddenly, and the sound was so unexpected and so clear that Ginger stiffened with shock. But it was not only the actual sound that shook him; it was the language that the speaker had used.
