by W E Johns
The end was rather unexpected. The pilot of the last Messerschmitt, who gave Biggles the impression of being new to the business, seemed to lose his head when he saw the two Spitfires appear out of the blue in front of him. He turned in a flash, to find himself faced with three more, for Ginger and Tug had joined in the pursuit. For a moment he wavered in indecision – and to waver in air combat is usually fatal. Algy got in a quick burst from long range – too long, Biggles thought, to be effective. The target may, or may not, have been hit; even Algy could not afterwards say for certain; but the pilot had had enough. He baled out. For three seconds he dropped like a stone, then his parachute blossomed out. The Messerschmitt, its dive steepening, struck the ground with terrific force, flinging a cloud of sand high into the air. Its pilot landed lightly not far away, relieved himself of his harness, and then stood staring up at those responsible for his misfortune.
Biggles circled over him wondering what to do. The plan had worked perfectly; all the enemy aircraft were down, but a factor had arisen for which he had not made provision. Now that the battle was over he put his profession as a pilot before nationality – a not uncommon thing with airmen – and the idea of leaving his defeated enemy to perish of thirst in the desert filled him with a repugnance that was not to be tolerated. There was, he realised, a chance that the enemy camp might send out a rescue party; this, however, did not mean that it would necessarily find the stranded Nazi pilot; and even if he were found he would, naturally, tell von Zoyton what had happened, and this Biggles was anxious to prevent.
He considered the situation with a worried frown, while the Whitley, and the other Spitfires, circled with him, waiting for a lead. The Nazi was still standing on the ground, looking up. Biggles could, at a pinch, have landed, and picked up the German; but the Whitley was obviously better fitted for the job if he could make Bertie understand what was required.
With this object in view he first flew very low over the area of sand on which the German was standing. As far as he could judge it was firm enough. He then flew close to the Whitley, close enough to see the pilot’s face distinctly. Bertie, monocle in eye, made a face at him. Biggles perceived that something had upset him, but he couldn’t be bothered to work out what it was. Instead, he made a series of signals with his hand, jabbing his thumb down vigorously, which be hoped would be correctly interpreted. Bertie put his tongue out, presumably to indicate displeasure, but all the same he went down, and, to Biggles’ relief, made a safe landing.
As the German – evidently understanding what was required – walked over to the big machine, Biggles found himself wondering what would have happened had the position been reversed.
The Whitley was only on the ground for about two minutes. As soon as the Geman was aboard it took off again. Satisfied that all was well, Biggles took a last glance at the other two Messerschmitts, lying where they had crashed. The pilots, he knew, were beyond all earthly help, so with the other machines behind him he led the way back to the oasis, disregarding his compass, relying on landmarks which his trained eye had noted on the outward journey.
The Whitley was the last to land, for as soon as the oasis came into view the five Spitfires went on with the result that they were already parked when the Whitley taxied in, to unload before an astonished Biggles not only Bertie and the German, but Taffy Hughes, Henry Harcourt and Ferocity Ferris. The three last-named jumped down laughing immoderately, but Bertie’s face was flushed with indignation. The eye behind his monocle glinted as he marched straight up to Biggles.
‘I object, sir,’ he cried. ‘Yes, absolutely. You can’t do that sort of thing; no, by Jove—’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Biggles, calmly.
‘The way you snaffled my Hun! I call that a bit thick – absoluteIy solid, in fact. He was my meat, absolutely, yes, by Jingo—’
‘You were jolly nearly his meat,’ Biggles pointed out, coldly.
‘Oh here, I say, did you hear that, chaps? I call that a bit hot – red hot, in fact. Me – his meat. Why, I had the blighter absolutely taped; all sewn up—’
‘For the love of Mike,’ broke in Biggles. ‘What does it matter as long as we got him?’
Bertie looked shocked. ‘I never thought to hear you say a thing like that to a pal – no, by Jove,’ he said, sadly. ‘Wasn’t it bad enough to have to fly your beastly old pantechnicon, without being pushed out of the scrum – if you see what I mean? You didn’t give me a chance, no, not a bally look-in. I say that was a bit steep, absolutely sheer in fact – eh, you chaps?’ Bertie turned to the grinning pilots for support.
‘Never mind, Bertie, you did a good job,’ said Biggles, consolingly. ‘One day I’ll find you a nice little Hun to play with all to yourself. Go and dip your head in a bucket of cold water – you’ll feel better. What was the idea of taking the whole Karga contingent for a joyride? I didn’t say that.’
Bertie shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘That’s what I told them,’ he said pathetically. ‘They got in and they wouldn’t get out. They wouldn’t take any notice of me, no jolly fear. Had the nerve to tell me to take a running jump at a bunch of dates.’
‘Angus shouldn’t have allowed it.’
‘That’s just what I told him,’ declared Bertie, emphatically. ‘And do you know what he said? He said they could come to man the guns in case there was a frolic before you turned up. The trip would give them a chance to see the jolly old desert, and all that sort of thing, and so on and so forth – if you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ replied Biggles, keeping a straight face with difficulty. ‘Well, I hope they enjoyed the scenery. As soon as we’ve had some lunch they can have the pleasure of taking the Whitley back to Karga. You’ll have to go with them to get your Spitfire.’
Biggles turned to the prisoner, who had stood watching these proceedings with a sneer of contempt. He was young, in his early twenties, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and might have been called good-looking had it not been for a surly expression and a truculent manner so pronounced that it was clearly cultivated rather than natural.
‘Do you speak English?’ inquired Biggles, in a friendly tone of voice.
The Nazi’s right hand flew up. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he snapped.
Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, we know all about that,’ he said quietly. ‘Try forgetting it for a little while.’
The German drew himself up stiffly. ‘I understand I am a prisoner,’ he said in fairly good English.
‘That’s something, at any rate,’ murmured Ginger.
Biggles ignored the German’s rudeness. ‘I invite you to give me your parole while you are here; we would rather treat you as a guest than a prisoner.’
‘I prefer to be a prisoner,’ was the haughty reply.
‘How about trying to be a gentleman for a change?’ suggested Henry Harcourt.
‘I’d knock his perishing block off,’ growled Tug Carrington.
‘Will you fellows please leave the talking to me?’ said Biggles, coldly. Then, to the prisoner, ‘Years ago, officers in the air services – and that includes your fellows as well as ours – when we weren’t fighting, managed to forget our quarrels. It made things more pleasant. I’m not asking for an indefinite parole – merely for while you are here with us.’
‘Things are different now,’ returned the German, with a sneer.
‘Yes, so it seems,’ replied Biggles, a trifle sadly.
‘I shall escape,’ said the German loudly.
‘Quite right. I should do the same thing were I in your position, but I wouldn’t shout about it. There are ways of doing these things, you know – or perhaps you don’t know. What’s your name?’
‘Find out!’
Biggles’ face hardened, and he took a pace nearer. ‘Listen here,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me anything to which I am not entitled under the Rules of War2. I’m trying to be patient with you. Now, what is your name?’
The German hesitated. Perhaps there was
something in Biggles’ quiet manner that made him think twice. ‘Heinrich Hymann,’ he said, grudgingly.
‘Rank?’
‘Leutnant3.’
‘Thank you. Let’s go in and have some lunch.’
1 Phosphorus-loaded bullets whose course through the air can be seen by day or night.
2 Under international agreement a prisoner of war is only obliged to tell his name, rank and service number.
3 German rank equivalent to Pilot officer.
CHAPTER 6
BIGGLES STRIKES AGAIN
AFTER LUNCH, WHICH the prisoner shared, sitting with the other officers, Biggles’ considerate manner remained unaltered; and it was perhaps for this reason that the Nazi thawed somewhat – or it might be better to say, became reconciled. Several times he looked at Biggles strangely, as if he suspected that his courteous behaviour was but a pose to deceive him.
When the meal was over he stood up, turned to Biggles, bowed stiffly from the waist, and announced that he was prepared to give his parole not to attempt to escape while he was with the squadron.
‘That’s all right,’ answered Biggles, evenly. ‘I accept your parole, as long as you understand that a parole is a matter of honour, and therefore inviolate while it lasts. You can end it any time you like by giving me five minutes’ notice.’
The German bowed again, smiling faintly. ‘Am I at liberty to take some fresh air?’
‘Certainly, but keep to this part of the oasis.’ Biggles walked to the door with the prisoner to point out which part he meant.
Tex frowned. ‘I wouldn’t trust that guy as far as a rattlesnake can strike,’ he told Tug in a quiet aside. ‘In Texas we make sure of his sort – with a rope.’
‘I wouldn’t let the C.O.1 hear you talking like that,’ interposed Ginger softly. ‘If Biggles has a weakness, it is judging other people by his own principles, and I, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way. It hasn’t done us much harm so far. Anyway, I don’t think even a Nazi would break his parole.’
‘A Nazi would break anything,’ grated Tex.
Bertie looked horrified. ‘Oh, here, I say, old rustler, that’s going a bit far – yes, by Jove, too bally far. I couldn’t imagine even a double-dyed Nazi breaking his word of honour.’
‘No, you couldn’t,’ put in Tug pointedly. ‘I’d anchor him to a rock with a couple of cables – that’s how he’d have treated any of us.’ He looked up to see Biggles’ eyes on him.
‘Are you suggesting,’ inquired Biggles icily, ‘that we arrange our code of behaviour by what a Nazi would do?’
‘Er – no, sir.’
‘Good. I thought for a moment you were. I hate moralising, but it’s my experience that liars sooner or later run into something sticky – and that goes for Hymann. He’s an officer, and until he turns out to be something else I shall treat him as one. He can be flown up to Egypt as soon as I can spare the Whitley. Let it go at that. Get your combat reports made out and we’ll talk things over.’
On the whole Biggles was well satisfied with the progress he had made, but was in some doubt as to his next step. In accordance with his usual custom he discussed it with the others, to give them an opportunity of expressing their opinions.
‘The obvious course would be to fly over and make a reconnaissance, to try to locate the Boche aerodrome,’ he admitted in reply to a question by Ginger. ‘You might say, let’s find their nest now we know roughly where it is, and bomb them out of the Libyan desert. On the face of it there is much to recommend the plan, but I’m not convinced that it is the right one – at any rate not yet. The success of such a plan would depend on absolute success, and that’s something we can’t guarantee. Suppose we failed to find the German landing ground, and they saw us – and they certainly would see us – it would be us who got the bombs. In any case, if it came to a general clash there would be casualties on our side as well as theirs; and while I don’t expect to fight a war without getting hurt, if casualties can be avoided, provided we achieve our object, so much the better. The Nazis have got where they have in this war by employing unorthodox methods. Well, two can play at that game. We played the first trick this morning, and it came off. Not only has the enemy lost three machines without loss to ourselves, but – and this is important – he doesn’t know what caused his casualties. That will worry him.’
‘What you really mean is,’ put in Algy smoothly, ‘you’ve got another trick up your sleeve? Let’s hear it.’
Biggles smiled. ‘Quite right,’ he confessed. ‘It’s rather more risky than the one we played this morning, but it struck me that we might give the Whitley another airing before we sent it back to Karga.’
Bertie was industriously polishing his eyeglass. ‘I hope, sir, that on this occasion you’ll trundle the jolly old steam-roller through the atmosphere – if you get my meaning,’ he remarked.
‘That was my intention. This is the scheme. I propose, first of all, to broadcast a radio signal that a British aircraft, G-UROK, is leaving Karga forthwith.’
Algy wrinkled his forehead. ‘But the enemy will pick the message up.’
‘Of course – that’s why I’m sending it out.’
‘But they must have picked up the same message early this morning?’
‘Quite right. They won’t know what to make of it, particularly as three of their machines went out to intercept the aircraft and did not return. They won’t be able to solve the mystery sitting at home, so what will they do? Unless I’ve missed my mark, von Zoyton and his boys will beetle along to see what the deuce is really happening.’
‘They’ll catch you in the Whitley.’
‘Exactly.’
‘With an escort?’
‘No, there will be no escort.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘I hope not. As soon as I see the swastikas coming I shall lose my nerve, go down and land, choosing a nice open space if there is one handy.’
‘Go on,’ invited Algy. ‘What happens next?’
‘Von Zoyton and his crowd, seeing the machine go down, will land to examine the prize. When they reach the Whitley they will find us waiting to receive them.’
‘Us? Who do you mean?’
‘Well, several of us – say, half a dozen, with Tommy guns2. The principle is the same as that played by the Navy with their Q-ships. You remember how it works? A harmless-looking craft is sent out inviting trouble, but when it is attacked it turns out to be a red-hot tartar, bristling with guns. Someone will have to stay here to take charge, and form a reserve in case the plan comes unstuck.’
There were smiles as Biggles divulged his plan.
‘Suppose von Zoyton, or whoever attacks the Whitley, doesn’t land?’ asked Ginger.
‘If they don’t land, obviously they will return to their base and report the position of the aircraft, when, if the same procedure as before is followed, a car will be sent out to collect the stranded passengers. We shall be there, waiting, so it will come to the same thing in the end. We ought to be able to gather some more prisoners, and perhaps a car.’
‘And what next, sir?’ asked Henry Harcourt.
‘I think that’s enough to go on with,’ answered Biggles. ‘Our next move will depend on how things pan out. There are all sorts of possibilities.’
‘When are you going to start this operation?’ asked Algy.
Biggles glanced at his watch and considered the question for a moment before he replied.
‘Just when you fellows feel like it. You’ve done one show today. If you feel that the heat is trying we’ll leave it until tomorrow. There’s no desperate hurry; on the other hand, if you feel up to it, there is no reason why we shouldn’t do the show this afternoon. We’re not out here on a picnic. Our job is to make the route safe, and the sooner it is safe, the better.’
There was a chorus of voices in favour of doing the show that day. Bertie voiced the view that it was better to do something than do nothing, because there was less time to think about the heat.
‘All right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Consider it settled. I shan’t need everybody. Six people in the Whitley, with a couple of Tommy guns, and revolvers, ought to be a match for anything that turns up. I shall fly the Whitley. The other five will be chosen by drawing lots – that’s the fairest way. Algy, you’ll have to stay here to take charge. You’d better send someone to Karga to let Angus know that we’re all right, and that the Whitley will be returning shortly – possibly tonight. Now put all the names except yours and mine in a hat.’
This was soon done, with the result that the operating party turned out to be: Biggles, in command; Lord Bertie, Tex, Tug, Taffy Hughes and Ferocity Ferris. This left Algy, Ginger, and Henry Harcourt to remain at the oasis. They looked glum, but said nothing.
Algy went off to the radio tent to arrange for the despatch of the fake signal announcing the departure of the commercial aircraft. The others went to the armoury where weapons were drawn and tested, and the party inspected by Biggles, who allowed some time to elapse before he climbed into the cockpit of the Whitley. It was, therefore, well on in the afternoon when the big machine, with the operating party on board, took off and cruised towards the west.
Crossing the caravan road, Biggles turned to the north, towards the area where he had found Ginger, which, as he now knew, was the direction of the enemy camp. Ignoring his compass, which he dare no longer trust, he flew entirely by landmarks noted on his previous flights. Apart from the brief occasions when he checked up on these, his attention was directed entirely to the sky around him. He knew he was doing a risky thing, and had no intention of being caught unaware. The lives of everyone on board might well depend on his spotting the enemy aircraft before they came within range, and getting on the ground before they could open fire. Bertie sat beside him and shared his task. Taffy occupied the forward gun turret, and Tug, the rear, so they were really in a position to put up a fight if they were caught in the air by a force of fighters; but that was not Biggles’ intention if it could be avoided; apart from anything else, it involved risks which he preferred not to take.
