by W E Johns
‘It comes to this,’ he said, at the end of the summing up. ‘We’re down to the two Spitfires and the Defiant. Von Zoyton has lost more than we have, but he started with more; at this moment he must be short of machines – unless, of course, he is in a position to call up reinforcements. He won’t hesitate to do that if he can get some. One of the outstanding Nazi characteristics is vanity, and it would be gall and wormwood for him to have to admit that we got the better of him. He’ll do anything rather than allow that to happen.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ asked Algy. ‘Two Spitfires and a Defiant isn’t much of a striking force.’
‘You’re right; it isn’t. I’d like to get the four Spits that are at Karga over here right away, but I’m not clear as to how it can be done.’
‘We could use the Defiant to take people to Karga—’
‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted Biggles, ‘but I wanted the Defiant for another purpose. You see, even if we got the four Spitfires here it wouldn’t prevent the Nazis from putting up their magnetic disturbance in the morning and throwing the airliner off its course. As a matter of fact, I had formed a plan when the Nazis came over this afternoon, and I feel inclined to go on with it.’ Biggles lit a cigarette before continuing.
‘This is my idea. The scheme has for its first objective the destruction of the Nazi electrical equipment. If we can do that we not only put an end to this compass juggling, but we silence von Zoyton’s radio. If that part of the programme was successful, and conditions were favourable, I should strike right away at a second objective. As I told you, the Nazis are holding a Rapide which they forced down intact while it was flying over the route. I should try to get the Rapide, and collecting the prisoners at the same time bring them home in it. That would not only remove the handicap which prevents us from shooting up von Zoyton’s base, but would provide us with a transport machine which we need badly. Then, with the prisoners out of the way, and the Karga Spitfires here, we could keep Wadi Umbo on the jump, and at the same time keep the air clear over the route. Make no mistake, as things stand, now von Zoyton knows where we are, Salima is going to be anything but a health resort. I’m sorry to be so long-winded about all this, but I always try to ensure that everyone knows how things are going. Now we know what we want, let us consider ways and means of putting it over.
‘We can’t shoot up the Nazis for reasons which I have already explained. That means the job has to be done on the ground. I propose to do it myself, not because I don’t think any of you could do it, but because I know just where the lorries are parked. This is the programme as I’ve mapped it out in my mind. If anyone sees a weak spot, say so. Zero hour will be twelve midnight. At eleven o’clock Algy will fly the Defiant to a point near Wadi Umbo where Ginger and I will bale out. Algy will then return home. At twelve midnight the show will open with Bertie and Tug, in the two Spitfires, shooting up Wadi Umbo aerodrome but keeping away from the southern end of the oasis to avoid hitting the prisoners. They will make as much noise as possible. Under cover of the confusion that should result from this effort, Ginger and I will slip into the oasis. I shall tackle the lorries. Ginger will go to the Rapide and get ready to start up when I arrive. If I see a chance I shall collect the prisoners before joining Ginger in the Rapide, which will take off and fly to Salima. When the two Spitfires see the Rapide take off they also will return home. The Rapide will land here, and as soon as convenient fly on to Karga, taking four pilots to bring back the Spitfires. That’s a broad outline of the scheme. Of course, it has one weak point. If Ginger and I can’t get the Rapide we shan’t be able to fly home, but as far as I can see there’s no alternative. We daren’t risk a night landing in the Defiant, in unknown country, with rock all over the place. The Nazis have cleared an area for an aerodrome, but we could hardly use that. Any questions?’
‘But what about the rest of us, look you?’ cried Taffy, in a pained voice. ‘Don’t we get in the game whatsoever?’
‘Angus can’t come because he’ll have to remain in charge here. Someone will have to stay, and I say Angus because he had been in the air most of the day and must be dead beat. Tex, with a wounded head and a game leg, is in no condition to fly.’
‘That still leaves me, Ferocity and Henry,’ Taffy pointed out. ‘Can’t we do something useful?’
‘You can form three of the party to go to Karga in the Rapide to fetch the Spitfires,’ suggested Biggles.
‘We could do that anyway,’ complained Taffy. ‘I was thinking about the big show.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you what you can do,’ offered Biggles. ‘Walk to the armoured car, taking a working party, and dig it out. If you can’t get it out, or if the engine is dud, you’ll have a nice stroll home again in the moonlight. If it’s all right you can patrol between here and Wadi Umbo in case anyone has to make a forced landing. If you start right away you should have the car clear before midnight.’
‘I seem to do nothing but chase round the landscape in that perishing battle-wagon,’ growled Taffy.
‘I can’t give you an aircraft because I haven’t any,’ Biggles pointed out. Then he smiled. ‘After all, you left your Spitfire at Karga when you came here – without orders. Had you remained at your station I could now have sent you a signal to fly over and join in the fun and games.’
‘All right, sir, you win,’ agreed Taffy. ‘Come on, Henry; come on, Ferocity! Let’s go and examine von Zoyton’s tin chariot.’
‘If we can get the four Spitfires here by morning we’ll give von Zoyton the shock of his life if, as I think, he’s worked it out that we’re down to two machines,’ declared Biggles. ‘Now let’s synchronise our watches and polish up the details of the scheme. In a show like this perfect timing is essential.’
With the scheme afoot the time passed quickly. The melancholy business of the funerals took up a certain amount of time, as did the evening meal, and it was after ten before all these things had been cleared up. Taffy, Ferocity and Henry, with spades on their shoulders, had long ago set off for the abandoned car. In the end they had decided to do the work themselves rather than take from the oasis airmen who were working full-time on the two Spitfires, both of which needed attention.
Silence, utter and complete, lay over the desert when, just before eleven, the operating machines were wheeled out to the open sand in readiness for the raid. The great African moon gleamed like polished silver in a cloudless sky. The palms of the oasis, weary after their battle with the sun, hung silently at rest.
‘It’s going to be a bit of a squash, I’m afraid,’ remarked Biggles to Ginger, as they walked over to the Defiant.
‘We’ll get in somehow,’ said Ginger.
‘When we bale out, follow me down as quickly as you can,’ went on Biggles. ‘We don’t want to land too far apart.’
‘How do you want me to fly?’ inquired Algy.
‘Take her up to twenty thousand. Cut your engine and glide when I give the word. We want to get as close as we can, but it won’t do for the enemy to hear us. When we’ve baled out, turn and glide away; try not to use your engine until you are out of earshot of the aerodrome.’
Algy nodded. ‘Okay. I get it.’
Biggles finished his cigarette and stamped the stub into the sand. He looked at his watch. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s be going.’
Algy climbed into his seat. Biggles and Ginger followed, and wedged themselves in the gunner’s cockpit – the gun had been removed to make more room.
The engine came to life, shattering the silence and swirling sand in little clouds across the desert. The aircraft began to move forward, slowly at first but with swiftly increasing speed. The tail lifted. Then the Defiant rose with the grace of a bird towards the dome of heaven. Picking up its course it continued to nose its way upward, without effort, each succeeding thousand feet of height thrusting the horizon ever farther away. At first the sand had glistened faintly to the stars, but from fifteen thousand feet the aircraft appeared scarcely t
o move across a bowl of immense size, the interior of which was as dull and lifeless as the surface of the moon. Indeed, the picture presented reminded Ginger of those he had seen of the moon, photographed through a telescopic lens. Oases were represented by dark spots that might have been no more than clumps of moss. All detail was lost. The only landmark was the ancient slave trail which, as straight as a railway track, crept up over the rim of the world to cut a tragic scar across its face before disappearing into the mysterious shadows that veiled the northern horizon. And still the aircraft thrust its way towards stars that seemed to hang like fairy lamps from a ceiling of purple velvet.
Biggles spoke to Algy. ‘Level out and cut the engine,’ he ordered. ‘There’s Wadi Umbo ahead. Five minutes will do it.’
As the nose came down the drone of the engine died away to a sibilant whisper. The aircraft glided on through a lonely sky, leaving no more sign of its passing than a fish in deep water. Biggles, his face expressionless, watched the ground. The minutes passed slowly, as they always do in the air. But at last he turned to Ginger.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Give me three seconds to get clear. We should be able to see each other when we get on the floor.’ To Algy he said, ‘So long – see you later.’
Algy nodded. He did not speak.
Biggles climbed out, slid a little way along the fuselage, and then dropped off into space.
Ginger could see him falling like a stone as he climbed on the fuselage and followed his leader into the void. The experience was no novelty, and as soon as his parachute had opened he looked around calmly to make out what appeared to be a mushroom, a thousand feet below and about a quarter of a mile behind, in the track of the aircraft. After that there was nothing more to do but wait while the brolly lowered him gently through the atmosphere.
There was no wind, so he knew that he was dropping vertically. Not that there was any sensation of falling. He appeared to be suspended in space. In fact, he was not conscious of any sensation at all, except perhaps one of loneliness. He appeared to be alone in the world. The silence was uncanny. It was some time before the details of the desert, such as they were, began to draw nearer and take shape. As far as he could make out he would touch down, as was intended, between two and three miles short of the objective, the oasis that lay like a dark stain on a grey cloth.
Then, suddenly, came a feeling of falling, for no other reason than because the earth seemed to rise swiftly to meet him, and he bent his knees to take the shock of landing. He watched the ground with some apprehension, for he knew that if he struck rock instead of sand it might mean a broken bone. But as it happened all was well, and he landed on the sand as gently as he could ever remember alighting. He did not even fall. The silk, as soon as his weight was taken from it, settled as softly as a thistle seed. In a moment he was out of his harness, rolling the fabric into a loose ball. This done, knowing the direction, he gazed across the desert, and was relieved to see a figure walking towards him. Biggles had, of course, landed first.
‘What are we going to do with the brollies?’ asked Ginger, when they met. ‘We can’t hump them round with us; they’ll be in the way.’
‘We shall have to abandon them,’ answered Biggles, in a low voice. He walked a little way to the nearest rock. ‘We’ll cover them with sand, and smooth it out,’ be said. ‘We may. have a chance to recover them at some future date.’ As he spoke Biggles set down a bundle that be was carrying and started to scoop a hole in the sand.
It took about ten minutes to dispose of the unwanted parachutes. Then Biggles rose, picking up his parcel.
‘Now let’s get along,’ he said. ‘We’ve some way to go, but we’ve plenty of time. We’ll keep close to the rock. I hope we shan’t see anybody, and I don’t think we shall, but if we’re challenged we may have to fight it out. Got your gun handy?’
‘I brought two, to be on the safe side,’ answered Ginger.
Biggles smiled. ‘Not a bad idea. I hope it won’t come to that, though. But that’s enough talking. Don’t speak unless you have something important to say; it’s amazing how far sound travels when the desert is as quiet as this.’
Biggles took a small service compass from his pocket, studied it for a moment and then walked on, keeping close against an outcrop of rock that ran like the carapace on a crocodile’s back in the right direction.
CHAPTER 14
THE STORM BREAKS
FOR HALF AN hour Biggles walked on, keeping close against the rock and stopping often to listen. Occasionally he made a cautious survey of the country ahead from the top of a convenient eminence, taking care, though, not to show too much of himself above the skyline. Ginger did not speak, for he had nothing to say. In the end it was Biggles who, after a reconnaissance, broke the long silence.
‘We’re about three hundred yards from the fringe of the oasis,’ he breathed. ‘The camel lines are to our left. I can see people moving about, but I think we can risk getting a little closer. We’re in good time.’
‘What is the time?’ whispered Ginger.
‘A quarter to twelve.’
They went on again, slowly, exercising extreme caution, and after a little while came to a cup-shaped depression in the rocks. Sounds of movement, industry, and noisy conversation in the oasis were now clearly audible.
‘This will do us,’ announced Biggles. ‘We’ll stay here till the music starts.’
Ginger squatted down to wait. ‘Everything seems to be going fine,’ he observed.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can never tell. However well a show like this is planned, much still depends on sheer chance. One can’t make allowances for the unexpected, for things one doesn’t know about. I should say that good leadership consists not so much of sitting down quietly at a headquarters and making plans, as adapting them to meet unexpected obstacles as they occur. Everything is all right so far. We’ll deal with trouble when it arises – as it probably will.
We shall be lucky if it doesn’t. We’re all set. There are still ten minutes to go.’
‘Sounds like the lads coming now,’ murmured Ginger a moment later, as the distant hum of aircraft came rolling through the night air.
Biggles said nothing for a little while. ‘That doesn’t sound like a pair of Spitfires to me. The sound is coming from the wrong direction, anyway.’
It was now Ginger’s turn to be silent. Standing up he gazed long and steadily towards the north, the direction from which the sound seemed to come. Presently there was no doubt about it. ‘There are more than two engines there,’ he announced.
‘More than two!’ retorted Biggles. ‘I should say there are nearer ten. They’re not our engines. To me, that broken purr says Junkers1. They’re coming this way – they must be coming here. We’ve chosen a lovely time for a raid!’ He looked over the rim of the depression. ‘Everyone seems to be making for the aerodrome,’ he remarked. ‘We’d better get a bit nearer and see what is happening. Junkers or not, those lorries have got to be destroyed, somehow. Come on!’
Sometimes walking and sometimes running they made their way quickly towards the oasis. If they were seen there was no indication of it. There was a considerable amount of noise, suggesting excitement, in the enemy camp. Orders were shouted. The drone of aircraft became a roar. There was no longer any need to talk quietly. Landing lights sprang up round the aerodrome, and a floodlight flung a path of radiance across it.
Biggles made swiftly for the fringe of palms that marked the nearest point of the oasis. Reaching it, he hesitated. Anxious as he was to get to the lorries, he was equally concerned about the landing aircraft, for he could not imagine what they could be or what they were doing. He glanced at his watch.
‘Four minutes to go,’ be said crisply. ‘I think we’ve time to see what all this fuss is about.’
They hurried forward through the palms until they reached a position which gave them a view of the enemy landing ground. As they came within sight of it a big machine was just coming in.
‘For the love of Mike!’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘It’s an old Junkers commercial, the type Lufthansa2 used on the Berlin – Croydon run. What the . . .’ Biggles’ voice faded away in speechless astonishment as one after another four of the big tri-motored machines landed, filling the air with noise and turbulent sand. But an even greater shock was to come. As the machines came to a standstill cabin doors were opened and men poured out to form up with military precision. Not fewer than twenty men in full marching order emerged from each of the first three machines.
‘Paratroops,’ said Biggles in a curiously calm voice.
‘What on earth would they want with paratroops in this part of the world?’ demanded Ginger in astonishment.
Biggles threw him a sidelong glance. ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ he said.
‘You mean – Salima?’
‘What else? This is von Zoyton’s answer. He must have sent for them from North Africa.’
