by W E Johns
Ginger waited for him to disappear and then turned to Bertie. ‘Stay here for a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll go over to those tents and try to learn something. Keep behind this bush, then I shall know where you are.’
‘Just as you like,’ agreed Bertie. ‘I’m all of a twitter.’
Keeping among the palms, Ginger made his way to the tents. Not a sound came from any of them, which puzzled him, for he thought that at least a few officers should be about. Then, beyond the tents, he saw a curious arrangement, one that he had to approach and study for some time before he could be fairly sure what it was. He made it out to be a sort of lean-to structure, about thirty feet long, roofed with palm fronds. The front was open in the manner of a barn, but the interior was in such deep shadow that he could not see into it. It was a sentry standing at each end armed with a rifle that gave him an idea of the purpose for which the primitive building was intended. It was the prisoners’ quarters. If this surmise was correct, then it seemed probable that Biggles would be there, thought Ginger, as from a thick group of palms he surveyed the scene. Not only Biggles, but the passengers of the airliners that had been shot down. He wondered vaguely how many there were, for this raised a new problem. Naturally, they would all be anxious to be rescued, but this, obviously, was impossible. The next step was to find out if Biggles was there, although just how this was to be achieved was not apparent.
A cautious detour brought him to the rear of the building, where a disappointment awaited him. He had hoped that it might be possible to break a way through, but he found that the rear wall was built of palm trunks, laid one upon the other. To make a hole, even with the proper tools, would be a noisy operation. It seemed that the only way to get into the building was from the front, and this would not be possible without disposing of at least one of the sentries.
He was still pondering the problem, standing at the rear of the building and two or three paces from one end, when a development occurred which at first seemed to provide him with just the opportunity that he required. He could not see the sentries, but suddenly they started a conversation only a few yards from where he stood. It was evident that the sentry at the far end had walked down to have a word with his partner, and this suggested that it should be possible to affect an entry at that end.
Ginger was about to move away when something one of the sentries said made him pause. The man spoke in German, and although Ginger would not have claimed to be able to speak the language fluently, he understood it fairly well, or at least enough to follow a conversation.
‘This is an amazing thing about Hauptmann von Zoyton,’ said one sentry.
‘Yes, it is a mystery,’ returned the other.
‘I don’t understand it,’ continued the first speaker.
‘Nobody can,’ was the reply. ‘Everyone saw plain enough what happened. I myself saw him come down on the parachute, and could have sworn he fell into the trees at the far end of the oasis. Everyone thought so. I was one of those who ran to the place, but when we got there there was no sign of him. The Arabs have searched everywhere. I hear they are just going out to make a fresh search in the desert, in case he went that way.’
‘But why should he do that?’
‘Well, where else could he have gone? He might have been wounded, or perhaps he hurt himself when he landed and didn’t know what he was doing. Instead of coming into the oasis he might have wandered away among the dunes.’
‘Possibly,’ agreed the other sentry. ‘Still, it’s a queer business. All the officers are still searching for him.’
With what interest Ginger listened to this enlightening conversation can be better imagined than described. It was easy enough to understand what had happened, and he could have kicked himself for not thinking of the possibility. The Germans at the oasis had seen the blue-nosed Messerschmitt shot down, but they were not to know that the man in it was not von Zoyton. They had assumed, naturally, that it was. They had gone to meet him, but he had not been found, for the very good reason that the pilot who had descended by parachute was Biggles, who had managed to find a hiding-place before their arrival. It came to this. Biggles had not been taken prisoner. He was still at large, and the Germans did not know, or even suspect, that the man was not their commanding officer. They were still looking for him. This altered the entire situation, and left Ginger wondering what he ought to do about it.
His first decision was to retire, to return to Bertie and get clear of the oasis, leaving Biggles to make his own way home. Two more British officers in the oasis, far from helping him might easily make his task more difficult. Then Ginger had a second thought. The sentry who should be at the far end of the prison hut – if it was a prison hut – had left his post. It should be a simple matter to get in at that end and find out who was inside, information which Biggles would certainly be glad to have. Turning, he started running along the soft sand that had drifted like waves against the back of the building, leaving dark hollows between them. In the very first one of these he stumbled and fell over something soft, something which, he could tell by the feel of it, was alive. With a grunt of alarm he scrambled to rise, but before he could do so a dark form had flung itself on him and borne him to the ground; a vicelike grip closed over his neck, forcing his face into the sand. In another moment, in spite of his desperate struggles, his gumbaz was being wrapped round his head, blinding him and suffocating him with its voluminous folds. Then, for no reason that he could imagine, the grip of his assailant relaxed, and the choking rags were torn from his face. Bewildered by the ferocity of the attack, and gasping for breath, he sat up, wondering what had happened and prepared for a renewal of the assault.
‘Great Heavens!’ breathed a voice.
Ginger stared at the face of the man who stood bending over him. It was Biggles. His eyes were round with wonder and his expression one of utter disbelief.
‘Ginger!’ he stammered. ‘I thought . . . I thought you were dead,’ he gulped.
‘Yes, I know. It wasn’t me, though. It was Hymann.’
‘If I hadn’t used your nightshirt for a gag, and so seen your uniform—’
Ginger, remembering the two sentries, raised a warning finger. He felt sure the scuffle must have been heard; and, sure enough, one of the sentries came round the corner of the hut.
‘Is this a free fight?’ he inquired humorously, in German.
‘Yes,’ answered Biggles, in the same language. ‘You’re just in time.’
There was a crack as his fist met the sentry’s jaw, and the man, unprepared for such a reception, went over backwards, the rifle flying from his hands.
‘Give me that nightshirt, Ginger,’ said Biggles. ‘We’d better truss him up before he starts squawking.’
‘There’s another sentry about somewhere.’
‘I fancy he’s gone back to his post,’ answered Biggles, rising to his feet, looking down on the sentry who, tied up in the gumbaz, looked unpleasantly like a corpse.
‘Where have you been since I shot you down?’ asked Ginger.
‘So you’ve discovered it was me you chose for a target?’ returned Biggles, coldly. ‘If you want to know, I’ve been frizzling on the crown of a palm. But don’t let’s waste time over that – I’ll tell you about it later. We’ve got to get out of this. How did you get here?’
‘We grabbed the enemy’s car. Bertie is with me.’
‘Fine! I could have been outside the oasis by now, but it struck me that while I was here I might as well try to collect General Demaurice. I was lying here when you kindly trod on my face. Where’s Bertie?’
‘Over by that bush.’
‘And the car?’
‘In a gully behind the oasis. Taffy is sitting at the wheel.’
‘Good! Stand fast. I’m going to see if I can find the General.’ Biggles disappeared into the darkness.
In a fever of anxiety Ginger waited. Once or twice there was a buzz of conversation inside the hut, but no alarm was sounded. Then Biggles came back, b
ringing with him a man whom Ginger recognised as the French General.
‘It’s tough on the others,’ murmured Biggles, as they walked towards the bush where Bertie was waiting, ‘but they’ll have to wait. We can’t take them all.’
‘How many prisoners are there?’ asked Ginger.
‘Fourteen. I told them we’ll come back for them as soon as possible.’
They reached the bush. Bertie was astonished.
‘I say, old battle-axe, this is wonderful, absolutely marvellous. Congratulations—’
‘Save them till we’re out of the woods,’ cut in Biggles crisply. ‘Lead on to the car, Ginger – you know the way.’
‘Everything going like clockwork, by Jingo,’ declared Bertie, as they came in sight of the car still standing where they had left it.
As he spoke there came shouts that rose to a clamour from the direction of the camp.
‘You spoke a bit too soon,’ Biggles told Bertie. ‘Either they’ve missed the General, or found the sentry I had to truss up.’
Taffy was there. He beamed when he saw Biggles, and started to say something, but Biggles stopped him.
‘Get going,’ he said, ‘and put your foot on it. I’ve an idea we’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest.’
As they got into the car, from the direction of the aerodrome came the roar of aircraft engines being started up.
CHAPTER 9
A PERILOUS PASSAGE
THE CAR WAS soon racing back over its trail at a speed that caused the sand to fly, and Ginger to hold his breath, for he remembered Taffy’s reputation for breaking things. The wilderness was littered with boulders, and they had only to strike one at the rate they were travelling to end in dire calamity. He mentioned it to Biggles, who, however, thought it better not to distract Taffy’s attention from what he was doing.
‘The nearer we get to Tex and Tug before the storm hits us the better,’ he remarked. ‘It’s going to be a race, and every second is valuable.’
‘Storm? What storm?’ asked Bertie.
‘The one that will hit us when the Messerschmitts find us,’ answered Biggles, grimly. ‘You heard the engines being started? They aren’t going on a joy-ride, or anything like that. In a minute they’ll be looking for us.’
‘We’re not showing any lights,’ Ginger pointed out.
‘No matter. They may not spot us while we’re in this gully among the rocks; but the moon is coming up, and when we have to cross open sand we shall be as conspicuous as a spider on a whitewashed wall. The Nazis have several machines besides Messerschmitt 109’s; I noticed, among others, a Messerschmitt 1101 fighter-bomber. If that baby finds us we are likely to have a rousing time.’
‘I’ll have a look round to see if I can see anything,’ said Ginger, and climbed up the central turret until his head and shoulders were clear above the metal rim.
Overhead, the heavens were a thing to marvel at. Stars gleamed like lamps suspended from a ceiling of dark blue velvet. The rising moon cast an unearthly radiance over the sterile wilderness. He could not see any hostile aircraft – not that he expected to; nor, for some time could he hear anything on account of the noise made by the car; then a sound made him look up, and he saw something that turned his mouth dry with shock. Almost immediately overhead a dark shape suddenly crystallised in the gloom, growing swiftly larger and more distinct. Knowing only too well what it was he let out a yell and tumbled back into the car.
‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a dive-bomber right on top of us!’
Luckily the car was now running over an area of flat sand, like a dry river bed, and almost before the words had left Ginger’s lips Taffy had swung the wheel hard over, causing the car to dry-skid so violently that those inside were flung against each other. An instant later the car swerved again, and nearly overturned, as the blast of a terrific explosion struck it.
‘Shall I stop and let you out?’ yelled Taffy.
‘No – keep going!’ shouted Biggles. ‘He’ll find it harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one. This car’s our only chance of getting back – we can’t afford to lose it. Keep going towards the rendezvous, but take your orders from me. When I shout “now”, turn as sharply as you dare.’
So saying, Biggles ran up into the turret. He saw the attacking machine, a Messerscbmitt 110, immediately, for it was flying low. As he expected, it had overshot them, pulling up after its dive, and was now turning steeply for a second effort. He watched it closely, saw it line up behind the speeding car, and put its nose down in a dive that grew swiftly steeper. He waited for the bombs – there were three this time – to detach themselves before shouting ‘Now!’
Again the car turned so sharply that he was flung against the side of the turret. He ducked below the rim and waited for the explosions that he knew must come.
Three mighty detonations, coming so close together that they sounded as one, shook the car as if it had been tissue paper. They were followed by a violent spatter, as of hail, as sand and stones smote the armour plate.
‘I say, old top, how many of those blessed things does the fellow carry?’ asked Bertie, in a pained voice. ‘Beastly noise – nearly made me drop my eyeglass.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ answered Biggles, smiling, and returned to his watch tower.
Twice more the aircraft dived, but each time the bombs missed their mark, for which the pilot was not to be blamed, for the fast-moving car did not keep a straight course for a moment.
‘I think that’s the lot,’ said Biggles, watching the Messerschmitt, which after circling, had turned away.
But now two Messerschmitt l09’s had arrived on the scene; he guessed that the explosions had brought them to the spot, and knew that they would use their guns.
‘Keep going,’ he told Taffy. ‘You’re doing fine. We’re more than halfway. That bomber may have gone home for some more pills, so we’ve got to beat it to the rendezvous. In any case, there’s a brace of 109’s overhead – look out, here they come!’ Biggles’ voice ended in a shout, and he dropped back into the car, slamming the cover behind him.
A few seconds later a withering blast of bullets struck the metal plating, without piercing it, although the noise was alarming. A tracer cannon shell went clean through the turret like a flash of lightning, but fortunately did no damage. It missed the French General’s head by inches, but he only smiled.
‘We can’t stand much of that,’ remarked Ginger.
‘You keep swerving,’ Biggles told Taffy, ‘but keep a general course for the rendezvous. Maybe I can discourage those fellows from being over-zealous.’ He picked up the Tommy gun and mounted the turret in time to see a Messerschmitt racing along behind them almost at their own level.
A Tommy gun was not an ideal weapon for his purpose, because it has to be held, accuracy being hardly possible in a moving vehicle; but the stream of bullets which Biggles sent at the pursuing Messerschmitt served a useful purpose in that they made the aircraft turn aside, so that the pilot’s aim was spoilt, and the bullets merely kicked up a line of sand. Moreover, evidently realising that he was not shooting at a helpless target, the pilot and his companion turned away and exercised more caution in their attacks.
‘What will happen when we get to the rendezvous?’ asked Ginger. ‘We can’t leave Tex and Tug.’
‘I don’t propose to leave them,’ answered Biggles.
‘What about the prisoners?’
‘We’ll decide what to do with them when we get there.’ Biggles climbed down into the car. ‘Drive straight in when we get there,’ he told Taffy. ‘Maybe we can find cover among the rocks till these confounded Messerschmitts get tired of shooting at us, or run out of ammunition. At the rate they’ve been using it that shouldn’t be long.’
Unfortunately, the arrival at the rendezvous coincided with the return of the Messerschmitt 110.
Biggles had just got out of the car, and was walking towards Tex and Tug, who were sitting on either side of the little group of pri
soners. Tug had a Tommy gun across his knees, and Tex had pushed his revolver into his belt. All this was clear in the bright moonlight. Bertie, Ginger, Taffy and General Demaurice were filing out of the car to stretch their legs.
Biggles said to Tug, ‘Is everything all right?’
Tug said that it was. ‘What’s this coming?’ he asked, staring at the sky towards the north-west from where now came the roar of an aircraft travelling at high speed.
Biggles thought quickly, and for a few seconds without reaching a decision. The approaching machine, coming from that direction, could only be an enemy. The pilot would see the car, or if not the car, the black wreckage of the burnt machines. There was still time to take cover, but the problem was what to do with the prisoners. The car would be the target, and it was a matter of common sense to get away from it.
By this time the aircraft, flying low, was close, and Biggles had to make up his mind quickly. ‘Scatter and take cover!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Get away from the car – General, get amongst the rocks – anywhere – but get away.’
‘What about these guys?’ Tex indicated his prisoners.
‘Take them with you – I’ll help you,’ answered Biggles, tersely.
But it was not to be as easy as that. A stream of tracer bullets flashed through the air, thudding into the sand and smacking viciously against the rocks.
‘Down, everybody!’ yelled Biggles, and flung himself behind a boulder.
An instant later there came the shrill whine of a bomb. It was short-lived. There was a blinding flash, a deafening roar, and everything was blotted out in a cloud of black smoke and swirling sand.
