by W E Johns
As it turned out, there was no air battle. Biggles saw three specks appear in the sky in the direction from which he expected the enemy to come. Evidently they saw no reason to employ stalking tactics, for they made straight for the Whitley.
‘Here they come,’ said Biggles calmly. ‘Hang on, Bertie, I may have to move smartly.’
Now Biggles did not want to arouse suspicion by giving in too easily; on the other hand, he had no wish to offer himself as a target, so he chose a middle course. As the three Messerschmitts drew close he started skidding wildly about the sky, employing exaggerated evading tactics to create an impression that he was in a panic. One of the enemy machines took a long shot at him with his cannon, and that was really all Biggles was waiting for. He had already chosen his emergency landing ground – as before, a strip of sand between two outcrops of rock – and as the tracer shells screamed over him he cut his engine and side-slipped steeply towards it. In two minutes he was on the ground, deliberately finishing his run within a few yards of the rock boundary.
‘Don’t show yourselves, but be ready to get out in a hurry,’ he shouted.
It was a strange moment, brittle with expectation, yet to those in the aircraft, unsatisfactory, for there was nothing they could do. Biggles’ sensation was chiefly one of anxiety, for he did not like the way the Messerschmitts were behaving. All three had reached the Whitley within a minute of its landing: two had remained comparatively high, at perhaps a thousand feet, circling; the other, apparently the leader, which sported a blue airscrew boss and fin, had dived low in a manner which, as the slim fuselage flashed over his head, gave Biggles the impression that the pilot was aiming his guns at the Whitley, and would have fired had he not overshot his mark. It was a contingency for which Biggles had not made allowances, and his anxiety rose swiftly to real alarm as the Messerschmitt swung round in a businesslike way, clearly with the intention of repeating the dive. There appeared to be no reason for such a manoeuvre unless the pilot intended to carry out offensive action against the helpless Whitley.
Suddenly Biggles shouted, ‘Get outside, everybody. Take your guns and find cover amongst the rocks. Jump to it!’
Knowing that the order would be obeyed, he did not wait to watch the performance of it, but made a hurried exit from the aircraft and took cover behind an outcrop of rock some twenty yards away. The others had selected similar positions near at hand. They were only just in time, for within a few seconds the blue-nosed Messerschmitt was diving steeply on the aircraft, raking it with both machine-gun and cannon fire. It was a nasty moment, for bullets and shells not only smashed through the machine, but zipped viciously into the sand and thudded against the rocks behind which the British pilots lay. There were some narrow escapes, but no one was hit.
Again the Messerschmitt pilot roared round, and diving, lashed the Whitley with a hail of fire as though it had done him a personal injury; and this time he was even more successful, for a tongue of flame from the riddled fuselage had licked hungrily along the fabric. In a minute the entire machine was a blazing inferno.
Biggles said nothing. There was nothing to say. This time the enemy had not behaved quite as he expected, and the result was a blow that might well prove fatal. The Messerschmitt that had done the damage, apparently satisfied with its work, now came low, circling in a flat turn to watch the conflagration, while his two companions, acting either under orders or on their own initiative, turned away and disappeared towards the north-west.
Bertie polished his eyeglass imperturbably. ‘Nasty fellow,’ he observed. ‘It’s going to be beastly hot walking home, what?’
But Biggles wasn’t listening. With an expression of incredulity on his face he was watching a new arrival that now came racing on full throttle towards the scene. There was no need to look twice to recognise the type. It was a Spitfire. There were cries and ejaculations from the earthbound airmen.
When Biggles spoke his voice was pitched high with astonishment. ‘Why, that’s Ginger’s machine!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the dickens does the young fool think he’s doing . . .?’ Biggles’ voice trailed away to silence, as drama, swift and vicious, developed.
The Spitfire was flying unswervingly, flat out on a north-westerly course. From its behaviour it might have been pursuing the two departing Messerschmitts. The pilot, whose eyes were probably on the two German machines which, while distant, were still in sight, appeared not to see the blue-nosed Messerschmitt now zooming upward in a beautiful climbing turn into the eye of the sun. For a moment it hung there, like a hawk about to strike; then it turned on its wing and descended on the Spitfire like a bolt from the blue. As it came into range its guns flashed, and tracer bullets made a glittering line between the two machines.
The result was never in doubt. The stricken Spitfire jerked up on its tail, shedding fabric and metal, its airscrew making a gleaming arc of light as it threshed vainly at the air; then, with a slow deliberation that was more ghastly to watch than speed, it rolled over on its back; the nose swung down, and with a crescendo wail of agony it dropped like a stone to strike the gleaming sand not a hundred yards from where Biggles, tense and ashen-faced, stood watching. There was a roaring, splintering crash. A sheet of white flame leapt skywards. Black oily smoke rolled up behind it.
Came silence, a brittle attentive silence broken only by the brisk crackle of the burning aircraft, and the drone of the machine that had destroyed it. Biggles, stunned for once into immobility, still stood and stared, paralysed by the suddenness of the tragedy. Then he turned to where the others lay, pale and saucer-eyed. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said in a curiously calm voice. ‘We can’t do anything.’
He himself, although he knew that anything he did would be futile, ran towards the blazing mass of wreckage, holding up his arms as he drew near to shield his face from the fierce heat. Twenty yards was as near as he could get. Apart from the heat, cartridges were exploding, flinging bullets in all directions. Knowing that whoever was in the machine must be already burnt to a cinder, he walked slowly back to where the Whitley had nearly burnt itself out and sank down on a boulder. ‘Stay under cover,’ he told the others in a dead voice.
The blue-nosed Messerschmitt was still circling, losing height, but he took little notice of it. He bore the pilot no particular malice. What he had done was no more than Biggles would have done had the position been reversed. Professionally, the shooting down of the Spitfire had been a brilliant piece of work, precisely timed and perfectly executed. Biggles sat still, trying to think. Nothing now could restore the Spitfire pilot to life, but he found it impossible not to wonder what had brought it there.
Bertie interrupted his melancholy reverie. ‘That fellow’s going to land,’ he said.
Looking up, Biggles saw that it was true. The Messerschmitt pilot had cut his engine, lowered his wheels, and was side-slipping into the gully in which the Whitley had come down, with the obvious intention of landing.
Biggles smiled wanly at the others. ‘This is what I’d hoped he’d do,’ he murmured. ‘Unfortunately, he did a few other things first. Stay where you are, all of you.’
The Messerschmitt pilot landed near the burning Spitfire. He jumped down, and after a casual glance at it walked on towards the spot where Biggles still sat on his rock, smoking a cigarette. As he drew near Biggles made him out to be a man of about twenty-five, tall, agile, and virile, but with that hardness of expression common to the fanatical Nazi. With a revolver consciously displayed in his hand he walked straight up to Biggles, who did not move.
‘You are my prisoner,’ he announced, with the usual Nazi arrogance that never failed to fill Biggles with wonder. He spoke in English, with a strong accent.
Biggles was in no mood to argue. ‘Put that gun away, shut up and sit down,’ he said coldly. ‘This time you’ve captured more than you bargained for.’ He turned to the others. ‘All right, you chaps, you can come out now,’ he said wearily.
Had the circumstances been different he might have
smiled at the expression on the Nazi’s face when five R.A.F. officers stood up and came from the rocks behind which they had lain concealed.
‘What – what is this – a trick?’ rasped the Nazi furiously.
‘Just a reception committee,’ answered Biggles. ‘My name, by the way, is Bigglesworth. What’s yours?’
The other clicked his heels. ‘Hauptmann Rudolf von Zoyton.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I won’t say I’m glad to meet you,’ he said evenly. ‘You people are beginning to get my goat. It wouldn’t take much to make me angry, so you’d better keep your mouth shut.’ Turning to Tex, he added, ‘Take his gun and keep an eye on him. If he tries any rough stuff you have my permission to punch him on the nose.’ Then, to Bertie, ‘Come over here, I want to speak to you.’
Taking Bertie out of earshot of the German he went on, ‘I’m afraid this is a bad show. We’re in a jam. Without the Whitley we’ve no transport back to the oasis, unless the Germans send their car out to us. If they do we shall have to grab it. It’s our only chance of getting away. We can last the night without water, and possibly until noon tomorrow, but no longer. Fortunately, we have one way of getting into touch with Algy – the Messerschmitt. I’m going to fly it home and fetch a few cans of water, but before doing that, as we are so close, I’m going to have a dekko at the Nazi aerodrome. You can take care of things here until I get back. See you later.’ Biggles strode away towards the blue-nosed enemy aircraft.
1 Commanding Officer.
2 A submachine gun, the original designed by Thompson.
CHAPTER 7
EVENTS AT THE OASIS
WHEN BIGGLES HAD left the oasis in the Whitley, Algy, Ginger and Henry Harcourt had watched the machine out of sight before returning to the shade of the palms. There was only one duty to be done, and that was, as Biggles had ordered, to notify Angus, at Karga, that his absent officers were all right and would be returning shortly. That meant, of course, that someone would have to fly to Karga in a Spitfire, and as Algy, being in charge at the oasis, could not leave it, the matter resolved itself into a choice between Ginger and Henry. Algy didn’t care who went as long as the message was taken, and left it to the two officers to decide between themselves who should go.
Both wanted to go, possibly because loafing about the oasis with nothing to do was a depressing form of boredom. Clearly, there was only one fair way of settling the issue, and that was to toss for it. Ginger, to his disgust, lost the toss, and Henry, with a whoop of triumph, departed in the direction of the aircraft park.
‘Can I use your machine?’ he shouted over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘Mine’s at Karga.’
‘All right,’ agreed Ginger, ‘but if you break it I’ll break your neck.’ He strolled on to find Algy, and found him lying in the shade of a palm, apparently in earnest contemplation of the intricate tracery of fronds overhead.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ invited Algy.
Ginger sat down beside him. ‘Henry is pushing off to Karga right away.’
Algy grunted. He wasn’t particularly interested.
‘Where’s Hymann?’ asked Ginger.
‘I left him sitting near the spring,’ answered Algy. ‘I tipped off the flight-sergeant to keep an eye on him. He’s a surly brute – I don’t want him here with me.’
The restful silence was suddenly shattered by the starting growl of an aero engine.
‘That must be Henry,’ murmured Ginger. ‘I’ll go and see him off, and then come back.’ He got up and walked away through the palms in the direction of the sound.
It happened that between him and the machines there was an open, sandy glade, and for this reason he had a clear view of what was going on. It was as he expected. A mechanic was in the cockpit of his Spitfire having just started up the engine for Henry, who was adjusting his dark glasses and sun helmet preparatory to taking over from the mechanic. Flight-Sergeant Smythe and a number of airmen were working at a test bench not far away. Sitting under a tree near them, as Algy had described, was Hymann, who now rose to his feet and strolled, hands in pockets, towards the Spitfire, not unnaturally, to watch it take off. He was a good deal nearer than Ginger, and consequently reached the machine first. There was nothing in his manner to arouse suspicion, and, in fact, probably because the German was on parole, no suspicion of anything wrong entered Ginger’s mind.
What happened next occurred with the speed of light. The mechanic, having finished his task, climbed out of the cockpit on to the wing, and jumped lightly to the ground. At the same time Henry stepped forward to take his place, and had lifted one foot to the wing, when Hymann, with a tigerish leap, sprang forward, swinging a heavy spanner in his hand. It descended on the head of the mechanic, whose back was turned, and who, therefore, did not see the blow struck. Ginger did, and with a warning shout dashed forward. The shout was lost in the mutter of the engine, but something made Henry turn. He was just in time to see the mechanic sink unconscious to the ground. He also saw who was responsible, and what he did was perfectly natural. He jumped off the wing to grapple with the Nazi who, without pausing for an instant, had jumped over the prone body of the mechanic with a view to striking down Henry, and so reaching the cockpit.
Ginger saw all this as he raced towards the scene, but he was not in time to help Henry, who was not only unarmed, but a good deal lighter than the German. There was a brief struggle, and then the spanner came down on Henry’s head with a force that would certainly have split his skull had not the sun helmet taken some of the shock of the blow. Henry staggered away, reeling drunkenly, and fell. Moving with feline speed the Nazi sprang into the cockpit and opened the throttle wide. The Spitfire jumped forward, head-on towards Ginger, who was still some ten yards or so away. He had to leap aside to avoid the whirling airscrew, but made a grab at the leading edge of the port wing. But the machine was now moving fast; the wing struck him across the chest; for a moment he clung to it desperately, but there was nothing for his clawing fingers to grasp. They slipped off the polished surface and he went down heavily on his back. The aircraft raced on, and reached the aisle that gave access to the open sand.
Mouthing with rage, Ginger dashed after it, although he knew that nothing now, except a gun, could prevent the aircraft from getting away. The flight-sergeant and several mechanics also ran after it, although they were just as helpless. Ginger threw up his arms in impotent fury as the Spitfire reached the sand and shot like an arrow into the air.
‘Start up another machine!’ yelled Ginger to the flight-sergeant. He was dancing in his rage.
Algy came running up. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘Hymann’s got away. The swine brained one of the mechanics. Henry is hurt, too. Look after them. I’m going after Hymann. I’ll get that skunk if I have to follow him to Timbuctoo.’
But a Spitfire is not started in a second, and it was nearly five minutes before Ginger, in Henry’s machine, was lined up ready to take off. Ginger fumed at the delay. The instant the machine was ready he scrambled into the cockpit and taxied tail-up to the take-off ground, and so into the air. Hymann was already out of sight, but he knew the direction he had taken and settled down to follow.
His boiling rage cooled to a calculating simmer of anger, and he began to think more clearly. The desire for revenge against the perfidious Nazi became secondary to the necessity of putting him out of action, if it were possible, before he could report the presence of Biggles’ squadron at Salima Oasis to his chief. If the Nazi got away, and Ginger was afraid he might, Biggles’ present plan might be completely upset.
Ginger flew flat out with his eyes on the sky, hoping to catch sight of his now hated foe. He could not forget or forgive the foul blow that had struck down the unsuspecting mechanic. Moreover, that the Nazi should escape was bad enough, but that he should take his, Ginger’s, Spitfire with him, added insult to injury.
The others had been right, thought Ginger moodily, as he roared on. Biggles should not have accepted a
Nazi’s parole. It was clear now that Hymann had only given it in order to obtain the freedom that made escape possible. So brooded Ginger in his anger as he sped on with his eyes questing the sky. Only occasionally did he glance at the ground to check up on his course.
He was not to know that even if the machine he was flying was capable of doubling its speed he would never overhaul the Nazi, for the simple reason that the German lay in a tangle of charred wreckage among the rocks, shot down, by a stroke of ironic justice, by his own commanding officer, von Zoyton. He had already passed it, and the bumt·out Whitley, without seeing either; and if it appears strange that he did not see these grim remains, it must be remembered that his eyes were on the sky, not the ground; and, moreover, he was flying low, for he had not wasted precious seconds climbing for height. His brain was racing in a single track – the thought of Hymann, and what his escape might mean; and for that reason he did not consider the risks he was taking in approaching enemy territory, risks which, in the ordinary way, might have given him reason to pause in his headlong pursuit.
He had already reached a point farther to the north-west than he had ever been before, but because he was low he was able to make out two landmarks which, by a curious chance, he had seen from a distance. These were the two rock formations which he had observed when lying on the ground with Biggles on the occasion when they had watched the searchlight. One was the mass of rock shaped like a frog, and the other, the four spires.
Still seeking his quarry he raced on over the first. A few minutes later he roared over the second, and as he did so he saw something that brought a flush of exultation to his cheeks. Away ahead he picked out a speck in the sky, circling over what be presently made out to be an oasis not unlike Salima. At first, probably because his mind was centred on it, he thought the aircraft was a Spitfire, and it was not until he drew close that he saw, with a pang of disappointment, that he had been mistaken. The machine was a Messerschmitt 109, with a blue nose and fin. Ginger’s mouth set in a thin line. He was in the mood for a fight, and he was prepared to fight anything. Hymann, apparently, had got away, but the Messerschmitt would at least provide him with a satisfying target. With great consideration, he thought, it had turned towards him – or at any rate, it was now coming in his direction. Holding the joystick forward for a moment for maximum speed he pulled up in a rocket zoom that took him up behind the Messerschmitt. The instant he was level with it he pulled the Spitfire on its back, and then half rolled to even keel. In a split second he had fired his first burst. But in some mysterious way the Messerschmitt had flicked into a vertical bank and so avoided his fire. It seemed that the Messerschmitt preferred to take evading action rather than fight, for it now did its best to avoid combat. Flinging his machine on its side he dragged the joystick back into his right thigh, which for a second brought his sights in line with the Messerschmitt’s tail. Again his guns streamed flame, spitting lines of tracer bullets across the intervening distance. This time they hit their mark, but even in that moment of speed and action Ginger found time to wonder why the Messerschmitt pilot made no attempt to return his fire, for there had been a brief opportunity for him to do so.
