Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  ‘Gosh, I could do with a drink,’ panted Tex. ‘My tongue’s like a file.’

  ‘Don’t talk about that,’ muttered Biggles curtly. ‘If you start thinking about a drink you’ll go crazy.’

  After that nothing more was said for what seemed an eternity of time, although Biggles knew from his watch that it was really only just over two hours. Then the noise outside began to subside.

  ‘It’s passing,’ he announced.

  Yet not for another half-hour did they attempt to open the door, and then it was only opened with difficulty. One thing was immediately clear. The car would take them no farther. Sand was piled high all round it; on the windward side it reached to the roof. Spades would be required before the car could be freed of its gritty bed. Sand was still settling on it. If the heat inside had been bad, outside it was intolerable. It was obvious that everyone was suffering from thirst, but no one mentioned it.

  ‘I guess we may as well start walking,’ suggested Tex.

  Biggles did not answer. He was thinking. He was by no means sure of where they were, for the whole face of the desert had altered, but he knew they must still be some distance from the oasis. Of one thing he was certain. If they tried to reach the oasis on foot, without water, they would perish. The end would be the same whether they stayed or went on, he reflected, and had just decided to walk on and meet death rather than wait for it when the buzzer started tapping out a message.

  They all stiffened, listening. Biggles took a pace nearer.

  ‘It’s in English,’ he said, as he heard the first word. ‘That means it’s for us.’

  Letter by letter the message came through:

  Hauptmann von Zoyton, Oasis Wadi Umbo, to Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, in Luftwaffe car Z 4421. If you need water there is reserve tank in rear section. Tap under medical chest. I look forward to shooting you. Message ends.

  Biggles ran into the car, and dragging aside a seat under the Red Cross cabinet, exposed to view a small metal tap. He turned it, and smelt the liquid that gushed out. ‘It’s water,’ he told the others. ‘Help yourselves, but don’t overdo it. Empty the bottles in the medicine chest and fill them with water. Fill every vessel you can find.’

  He went to the radio transmitter and tapped out a signal:

  Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, operating Luftwaffe car Z 4421, to Hauptmann von Zoyton. Message received. Have your guns ready. Will be calling shortly. Message ends.

  He turned to the others, who had paused in their drinking to watch him. ‘You’ll sometimes find,’ he averred, ‘that if you throw a crust of bread on the water you get a slice back. Without this water we were all dead men. If we hadn’t saved von Zoyton he couldn’t have saved us. Evidently he has reached Wadi Umbo and learned that we gave his squadron his position. Fill up these bottles and let’s get along.’

  Having drunk their fill, and carrying a good supply of water in bottles, they struck off across the burning wilderness.

  For a little while they were tortured by sand that still hung in the air; then, as it settled, and the sky cleared, the sun flamed down as if to blind them with its rays. The ground threw up a heat so fierce that it created a sensation of wading through liquid rather than air. They trudged on mechanically, in silence, realising that without constant sips of water they could not have lived.

  There were many places where the desert had completely changed. Sometimes the sand had been piled up in fantastic dunes; sometimes it had been torn away, leaving the bedrock exposed. Once they had to stumble over a ridge of volcanic clinker that crunched beneath their feet with a noise of breaking crockery, throwing up an acrid dust.

  They had covered some miles, and Biggles was sure that they could be no great distance from the oasis, when the unmistakable drone of aircraft was heard behind them. He turned and looked, but as yet he could see nothing.

  ‘Coming from that direction they must be Messerschmitts,’ he said. ‘They’re probably looking for the car.’

  Presently they saw an aircraft, too small for the type to be recognised, although as it came from the north-west they knew it must be an enemy machine. Flying at a tremendous height it passed right over.

  ‘Funny he didn’t see us,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘We may not notice it, but there’s still enough sand in the air to affect visibility,’ explained Biggles.

  ‘If they see Salima Oasis they’ll guess that’s where we came from.’

  ‘They’ve probably worked that out by now, anyway,’ asserted Biggles. ‘The oasis is shown on the map. They will know we must be at an oasis, and there aren’t many around here. Salima is one of the best – that’s why I chose it.’ He glanced up. ‘That sounds like more machines coming.’

  For some while they walked on in silence, with the drone of highflying aircraft in their ears.

  ‘I should say that first machine spotted the oasis and has called up the others,’ opined Biggles.

  ‘If they find it they’ll shoot it up,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Of course they will.’

  ‘In that case I imagine we shall shoot them up?’

  ‘That’s just the trouble, we can’t,’ disputed Biggles. ‘There happens to be a number of British prisoners at Wadi Umbo. We daren’t risk blitzing our own people.’

  From far ahead came the grunting of machine guns, punctuated with the heavier explosions of cannon.

  ‘They’re either shooting up Salima now, or else Algy has spotted them and gone out to meet them,’ said Biggles. He strode on, his eyes on the sky ahead.

  ‘There’s somebody going down – look!’ cried Ginger suddenly, as a plume of black smoke fell diagonally across the sky.

  Biggles did not answer. He walked on, with the others trailing behind him. Slowly the noise of aircraft died away and silence fell. Soon afterwards the palms of the oasis came into sight. Wearily they strode towards it.

  CHAPTER 11

  HAPPENINGS AT SALIMA

  HALF AN HOUR later, dizzy from the blinding heat, they reached the oasis to find, as Biggles had feared, that the enemy had discovered their camp and shot it up. After drinking, and plunging their faces in water, in the welcome shade of the mess tent Algy told them what had happened. He was more than a little relieved to see them. They all knew about the night battle, so he skipped it, and narrated the events of the morning.

  He said that he had intended – naturally – to take off at the crack of dawn to look for them, and he, Henry and Ferocity were actually taxi-ing out when the haboob hit the oasis ‘and threw everything into confusion. Not only was flying out of the question, but it was only by strenuous efforts by all hands that the machines had been saved. As soon as the air was reasonably clear, he, with Ferocity and Henry – it turned out that he had not been badly hurt by Hymann’s blow – had got out the machines again to make a reconnaissance. They had food and water ready to drop if it was needed. They guessed the car would be stranded.

  At this moment, when the Spitfires were taxi-ing out to take off, a Messerschmitt had suddenly appeared over the oasis. They had not heard it coming because their engines were running. This Messerschmitt had at once radioed its discovery to Wadi Umbo, and to other machines that were out looking for the car, giving the position of Salima. They knew this because the message had been picked up by Corporal Roy Smythe who was on duty at the time; but it was only when the flight-sergeant ran up with the news that he, Algy, knew that an attack on the oasis was imminent. Thereafter things had happened fast. Messerschmitts seemed to come from all directions. Algy had counted six, as, with Ferocity and Henry, he took off to give battle. By this time the Messerschmitts were diving on the oasis shooting it up with their guns.

  In the dog fight that followed Algy had shot down one Messerschmitt in flames, and Ferocity had driven another into the ground, both the enemy pilots being killed. Henry had badly damaged another Messerschmitt before being shot down himself. He had baled out and was unhurt, but his machine was a total wreck. Both the other Spitfires had bee
n damaged, but they were being repaired and were already serviceable if required. On the ground two airmen had been wounded. A certain amount of damage had been done to stores, but the petrol dumps had escaped.

  Biggles, and those who had come in from the desert, listened to this recital without speaking. When it was finished Biggles said: ‘It might have been worse; in fact, you seem to have got out of the mess pretty well. We can’t expect to have things all our own way and this was certain to happen sooner or later. Now von Zoyton knows where we are, and he was bound to find that out eventually, things are likely to start buzzing. We are still on the credit side, but I’m not very happy about the position. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that this private war with von Zoyton is only incidental to our job of keeping the route clear. Let’s see, how do we stand for machines?’

  ‘We are down to three Spits, actually at the oasis,’ answered Algy. ‘Originally we had six. We’ve lost two by enemy action, and Bertie’s is still at Karga, where he left it when he went to fetch the Whitley. We’ve also lost the Whitley. There are four Spitfires and a Defiant at Karga. We’d better see about getting them over.’

  ‘Yes, but how? Angus is alone at Karga. The machines won’t fly themselves here, and we’ve no transport to send people to Karga. It can be done by using the Defiant, but it will take time. In the meanwhile, if another machine starts across the route, and gets lost, my name will be mud with the Air Ministry. They don’t care two hoots about our troubles. All they’re concerned with is the machines getting through – and quite rightly. It’s this blessed compass juggling that worries me. We’ve got to put a stop to that, or none of our machines will get through.’

  ‘Three of us could fly the three Spits to Karga with passengers on our laps,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘And leave the oasis without any air defence? We should be in a lovely mess if von Zoyton came over – as he will – and we hadn’t a single machine here. No, that won’t do. I’ve got to get General Demaurice to Egypt, too.’

  The General, who had not so far spoken, even when the car had been stranded in the desert, stepped into the conversation. ‘Why not send a radio message to Egypt, for more machines and pilots? Surely they would let you have them?’

  ‘They might,’ agreed Biggles. ‘And thanks, Monsieur le General, for the suggestion. But that isn’t quite our way of doing things. I was given enough men and machines to do this job and I aim to do it. If I can’t, the Higher Command will jolly soon relieve me of my command. I have a two-seater at Karga. I propose to send for it. One of my pilots will fly you to the nearest point from where you will be able to get to Cairo. I’d be obliged if you would carry my despatches with you.’

  ‘I am entirely at your service, monsieur,’ said the General.

  ‘Thank you.’ Biggles turned to Flight, Sergeant Smythe, who was waiting for orders. ‘Wireless-silence doesn’t matter any longer now the enemy knows we’re here. Send a signal to Mr. Mackail and ask him to fly the Defiant here right away.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The flight-sergeant departed.

  ‘What we really need for transport purposes is the Rapide von Zoyton has got at Wadi Umbo,’ remarked Ginger wishfully.

  Biggles whistled softly. ‘By jingo! That’s an idea,’ he said slowly. ‘I wonder . . .?’

  For a minute Biggles remained lost in thought. Then he looked up. ‘That’s all for the present,’ he said. ‘You had better all go and get some rest. Bertie, Taffy and Tex, I shall have to ask you to be duty pilots in case any trouble blows along. You can sleep, but stay by your machines and keep your clothes on. I’ll arrange for reliefs in two hours.’

  Algy and Ginger lingered after the others had gone. ‘You two had better go and get some sleep, too,’ advised Biggles. He smiled. ‘I may want you tonight.’

  ‘Got an idea?’ asked Algy shrewdly.

  The flight-sergeant came in with a slip of paper. ‘Signal from Egypt just in, sir. I’ve decoded it. A machine is leaving for the West Coast at dawn tomorrow.’

  Biggles took the signal. ‘That’s torn it,’ he muttered. ‘Now I’ve got to think of something between now and tomorrow morning. If this machine doesn’t get through it will mean a rap over the knuckles for me, from headquarters.’

  ‘Perhaps the Nazis won’t know about this machine starting?’ suggested Ginger hopefully. ‘After all, the signal is in code. They can’t read it even if they pick it up.’

  ‘We may safely assume that they’ll learn about it in the same way that they learned about the other machines. Their Intelligence must be providing them with the information.’

  ‘You mean a spy is letting them know?’

  ‘Yes – apparently.’

  ‘Couldn’t we find this fellow?’

  ‘That isn’t our job. It might take weeks, and what do you suppose is going to happen in the meantime? Never mind about that now. Go and get some sleep. I’ve some writing to do before I can have a nap. Flight-sergeant, let me know if you hear aircraft approaching.’ Biggles sat down at the table and began to write.

  When, four hours later, the flight-sergeant went in to report the approach of the Defiant, he found Biggles sound asleep.

  Flight-Lieutenant Angus Mackail taxied in and jumped down.

  Biggles was waiting for him. ‘You’ve been a long time getting here, Angus,’ he greeted.

  ‘My boys were doing a top overhaul when your signal arrived,’ explained Angus. ‘I got away as quickly as I could. What’s been going on? Where’s everybody?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ answered Biggles. ‘Things have started to warm up. It’s a long story – I’ll tell you about it later. We’re up against rather a tough proposition. We’ve lost the Whitley. You’ve got four Spits at Karga, I believe?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘I shall need them, but for the moment I have a job for you. I have a French General here who must be got to Egypt right away. Our nearest point of contact with a communication squadron able to provide transport to Cairo is Wadi Halfa. I want you to fly the General there and then come back here as quickly as possible. Wadi Halfa is the best part of five hundred miles, which means nearly a thousand miles for the round trip. I reckon you ought to be back here by sunset. It’s a bit of a sweat for you—’

  ‘Dinna worry about that, laddie,’ broke in Angus. ‘Gi’e me the General, and let’s get awa’. I’ll be glad to be doing something. I seem to have been missing the fun.’

  ‘No doubt there’ll still be some fun – as you call it – when you get back. Your boys will be all right at Karga?’

  ‘Aye. I left the sergeant in charge.’

  ‘Good. I’ll fetch the General.’

  The General, who was asleep, was awakened. Biggles gave him an envelope, requesting him to deliver it to British Air Headquarters, Middle East. Then, as there was no reason for delay, the Defiant took off, heading due east.

  Biggles watched it go, and then turned to find that the noise of the aircraft had awakened most of those who were sleeping. He beckoned to Algy and Ginger and took them to the mess tent. ‘I want a word with you,’ he said.

  When they were inside he sat down and continued. ‘Tonight I’m going to scotch the wireless beam at Wadi Umbo,’ he announced calmly. ‘It’s the first thing to be done if we’re going to make the route reasonably safe – I mean, it’s no earthly use machines trying to get through while their compasses are going gaga. They’d get off their course, anyhow, and probably run out of petrol even if they weren’t shot down by von Zoyton’s crowd.’

  ‘Did you see the electrical gear when you were at Wadi Umbo?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Yes. It’s mobile, of course – two big lorries side by side with an aerial stretched between two lopped-off palms. Unfortunately they are near the prisoners’ quarters, so we daren’t shoot them up for fear of hitting our own people. The job will have to be done on the ground.’

  ‘In other words you’re going to the oasis to blow the works up?’ put in Ginger.

  �
��That’s the idea. If things go well we may be able to kill one or two other birds with the same stone. We might get the Rapide, and the prisoners at the same time. We could then plaster the oasis, a pleasure at present denied us because of the prisoners there. I’m telling you about this now because I may need some help. We’ve done so many shows together, and know each other’s methods so well, that I’d rather have you with me than anybody. Some of the others may be in it too. I’m just working out the details of the scheme. I’ll get everybody together later on and we’ll go into it. We shall need the Defiant. Angus has taken General Demaurice to Wadi Halfa, but I hope he’ll be back by sunset. That’s all for the moment. I thought I’d just warn you of what I had in mind. In any case, I felt that we ought to be doing something. It’s no use just sitting here waiting for von Zoyton to come over to us – as he will, you may be sure, because he must be feeling pretty sore. I was never much good at fighting a defensive war, anyway.’ Biggles got up. ‘Let’s go and have some lunch and get all the rest we can. We shan’t have much tonight.’

  CHAPTER 12

  THE ENEMY STRIKES AGAIN

  BIGGLES WAS RESTLESS, as a commander must be when he knows that a superior force is within striking distance. As the afternoon wore on he walked often to the fringe of the oasis and gazed long and steadily into the north-western sky. He had an uneasy feeling that von Zoyton’s jagdstaffel, with the advantage of a bomber at its disposal, would be over again before he was in a position to hit back. If von Zoyton was the commander that rumour gave him out to be, he must know, as Biggles knew, that in air warfare offensive tactics alone can bring success. Biggles was being forced temporarily to the defensive, and he did not like it. He hoped that the Nazi ace would hold his hand until he, Biggles, could strike.

  That von Zoyton, now aware of his presence at Salima, would be as anxious to wipe him out, as he, Biggles, was to put the Nazi station out of action, could not be doubted, particularly as a civil aircraft was due to go through in the morning. Biggles even considered sending a signal to Egypt asking that the proposed flight be delayed; but on second thoughts he dismissed the idea. It would look too much like weakness – or inefficiency. Von Zoyton would guess, correctly, that the civil aircraft would be escorted through the danger zone by Spitfires, so if he could keep the Spitfires on the ground he would certainly do so.