by W E Johns
The big machines now moved forward, like four antediluvian monsters, making for a part of the oasis not far from where Biggles and Ginger stood watching. Three rumbled on and disappeared between the palms. The last one stopped. Men ran out and swarmed about it.
‘Now what?’ said Ginger.
The question was soon answered. Six anti-aircraft guns of the pom-pom type were quickly unloaded.
‘I imagine those are intended as a little surprise in case we come over,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Oh, to be in the air at this moment with a full load of ammunition.’
‘What a target for Bertie and Tug when they come over!’
Biggles looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be thirty seconds too late,’ he said bitterly. ‘There’s still half a minute to go. There goes the last of the Junkers into the trees. Now the lights are going out. It’s all over.’
‘But Bertie and Tug will have seen something going on. They can’t be far away.’
‘Probably, but they won’t know what to make of it. In any case, they have their orders.’ Biggles bit his lip with annoyance. ‘This is the sort of thing that tempts one to depart from the original plan, but we mustn’t do that,’ he muttered. ‘We must go through with what we started. Hark! Here come the Spitfires now. Everyone will be busy with the new arrivals, so we still have a chance. This way.’ Biggles began walking quickly through the palms towards the centre of the oasis. There were quite a number of troops about, and one or two passed fairly close, but no one challenged the intruders.
Two minutes sharp walk brought them to a clearing, and by this time pandemonium had broken loose. Such was the uproar that Ginger, after the first shock of astonishment had passed, in spite of the seriousness of their position, burst out laughing. Rising above everything was the howl of the Spitfires, which were literally skimming the palm fronds at the bottom of each dive. Occasionally they used their guns, filling the air with streams of tracer shells and bullets. All sorts of weapons came into action on the ground. Musketry rolled. Orders were screamed. Men ran, shouting, apparently under the impression that the oasis was being attacked by a superior force. A pom-pom gun, presumably one of the new ones, added its voice to the din.
‘Strewth!’ muttered Biggles. ‘What a business.’ He caught Ginger by the arm and pointed. ‘Look! There’s the Rapide. Now’s your chance. Get set, but don’t start up until I join you.’
As Ginger made a bee-line for the big machine, Biggles, revolver in one hand and parcel under the other arm, darted along the edge of the clearing to where he had last seen the lorries. His satisfaction was intense when he saw they were still there. He ran forward until he was close enough to hear a dynamo whirring.
Suddenly a man, armed with a rifle, bayonet fixed, appeared in front of him. Whether he was a sentry, or merely an odd soldier on his way to the landing ground. Biggles never knew. At first the man took no notice of him, but, unfortunately, as they were about to pass, a star-shell cut a brilliant parabola across the sky, and showed everything in clear white light. Had the man gone on Biggles would have taken no notice of him, for he was concerned only with the destruction of the lorries; but it seemed that the soldier suddenly recognized Biggles’ uniform. At any rate, he pulled up dead and shouted, ‘Wie gehts da3?’ At the same time he dropped the point of his bayonet, ready to thrust.
With a swift movement of his free arm Biggles knocked the muzzle of the rifle aside. The cartridge exploded. The blaze nearly blinded him. Before he had fully recovered his sight the man had jumped forward and knocked him over backwards. Biggles fired as he fell, and the man slipped forward like a swimmer diving into deep water. Picking himself up, Biggles looked around quickly, hoping that in the general uproar the shots would not have been noticed. But apparently they had, for a door in the rear of the nearest lorry, which was built in the manner of a caravan, was flung open, so that light streamed out. In the centre of it, peering forward, stood a German airman. He was hatless and his tunic was unfastened, suggesting that he was either an engineer or radio operator. In his hand he held a revolver.
Things were not going quite as smoothly as Biggles had hoped, but there could be no question of retiring. The man saw him and shouted something, and without waiting for a reply fired two quick shots, neither or which hit their mark. Biggles took quick hut deliberate aim and fired. The man stumbled out of the lorry on to the sand, ran a few yards, and fell. Biggles took no further notice of him, but jumped into the lorry to find it empty.
As he had supposed, the interior was a compact, perfectly equipped radio station. He unwrapped his parcel. It was not, as Ginger had vaguely supposed, a bomb, or an explosive charge, for the simple reason that nothing of the sort was available at Salima. Biggles had been compelled to rely on fire alone, and he carried in his parcel no more than a large oil can filled with petrol.
It took him only a moment to remove the cap and splash the contents over the walls and floors of the lorry. He backed to the door, laying a trail of spirit, for he had no intention of being burnt when the petrol gas exploded, as he knew it would when he applied a light. The second lorry stood so close to the first that the destruction of one would be bound to involve the other. Nevertheless, he flung what remained of the petrol on the nearest wall of it, and then, having struck a match, tossed it on the petrol-soaked sand. There was a sheet of blue fire, a vicious whoosh, and the first lorry was immediately enveloped in flame. Blue flame dripped from the adjacent vehicle.
Biggles backed away, watching to make sure that his work had been well done. A minute sufficed to convince him that it had, so he turned and ran towards the prison hut. What was going on in other parts of the oasis he did not know, but the commotion neither in the air nor on the ground had in any way subsided, and that was all he feared.
When he reached the long hutment that housed the prisoners he found a curious state of affairs. It appeared that the prisoners, alarmed or excited by the uproar, had crowded outside the hut to see what was going on. As they were not tied up this was possible, although in the ordinary way they would have been intimated by the sentries, who were always on duty. The sentries were, in fact, still there, two of them, brandishing their rifles and shouting in an attempt to drive the prisoners back into their quarters. When Biggles arrived on the scene, the prisoners, talking excitedly, were just moving back into the hut. although they still tried to see what was going on, hoping, no doubt, that British troops had arrived to rescue them.
One of the sentries saw Biggles coming at a run, shouted something, and levelled his rifle. Biggles swerved and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past him. Before the man could fire again, Biggles’ gun had spat, and the man fell. The other sentry turned and ran, shouting for help. Biggles stopped and addressed the prisoners tersely.
‘Keep your heads,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to get you away. Stay together and follow me.’
‘Well, strike Old Harry!’ cried a voice. ‘Isn’t that Biggles?’
Biggles stared at the speaker and recognized Freddie Gillson, the Imperial Airways captain of whom he had spoken, and who he had often met at Croydon.
‘Hello, Fred,’ he said. ‘You’re the very man I want. Can you handle a Rapide?’
‘I should think so,’ replied Fred, grinning. ‘I brought one here – that’s my machine they’ve got.’
‘Fine! We’re going home in it – I hope,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Keep close to me. Make for the cockpit as soon as we reach the machine. A lad of mine is inside, but he may not know for certain how everything works. You take over. Come on.’
Biggles turned and ran towards the Rapide, which he could not see, although he knew that it was only a hundred yards or so away.
The prisoners followed, and it looked as though they would reach their objective unmolested. But this was not to be, for, although Biggles was not to know it, the aircraft stood in full view of a spot which had been manned by German paratroops who were lining the fringe of the palms overlooking the landing ground in order to resist the att
ack which they supposed was being launched. Even then the escapers nearly succeeded in getting aboard without being noticed, for it seemed that the Nazis were concerned only with what was in front of them. Fred had already entered the Rapide, and the others were crowding in behind him when, by a bit of bad luck, one of the German soldiers happened to look round. Even then, possibly because he was a new arrival, he appeared not to understand exactly what was going on. For a moment he just gazed without any particular interest. Then he seemed to realise that something was wrong. He ran a few paces towards the Rapide and then stopped, staring, evidently trying to make out just what was happening. Suddenly he understood and let out a yell.
‘Inside everybody – quick!’ shouted Biggles. ‘I’ll keep them back. Don’t wait for me. Get off as fast as you can.’
So saying, Biggles ran a little way towards the end of the line of German troops, who by this time had turned towards the scene, and dropping into a fold in the sand opened fire with his revolver. He reckoned that another minute would see all the escapers in the aircraft, and his action was calculated to gain just that amount of time. And in this he was successful. Before his fire, the Germans, thrown into some confusion by so unexpectedly finding themselves enfiladed4, ducked for fresh cover, and by the time they were in a position to do anything the Rapide’s engines had come to life; the big machine began to move slowly towards the open ground, its airscrews flinging dust and palm debris high into the air.
This was the moment for which Biggles had waited. There was no longer any point in remaining, for it was not his intention to be left behind. Jumping to his feet he made a dash for the cabin door, which had been left open. Several shots were fired at. him, as he knew they would be, but there was no way of preventing this. The Rapide turned a little, presumably to help him, but the result was a blinding cloud of dust right in his face. Instinctively he flung up an arm to protect his eyes. At that moment a rifle cracked, but he did not hear it. Something inside his head seemed to explode in a sheet of crimson flame that faded slowly to utter blackness. He pitched forward on his face and lay still.
1 JU52 – German three-engined, low-wing monoplane used for transporting many passengers.
2 German state airline.
3 German: Who goes there?
4 Enfilade: To attack a line of troops or targets by firing from the side down its length.
CHAPTER 15
ABANDONED
PROBABLY ONLY ONE man of all those in the vicinity saw Biggles fall – Ginger, who from the cockpit had seen his perilous position, and had dashed to the door to cover his retreat. Biggles, as he fell, was hidden from the Germans by the clouds of dust tom up by the churning airscrews. In the general rush, those in the machine were too concerned with their own affairs to look outside. What had happened was this.
Ginger had found the Rapide and reached it with surprising ease. Germans were all around him, but not one took the slightest notice of him, this being due, no doubt, to the uproar, which at its worst appeared to produce a state of panic. Entering the cockpit he made a quick survey of the instruments and then proceeded to put the machine in a condition for a quick start-up and take-off. This occupied him for some minutes, during which time he was left quite alone, although there was nothing remarkable about this. There was no reason why the Germans should suppose anyone was in the airliner. This done, he was able to turn his attention to what was going on outside. The dominant feature was a fire of sufficient size to throw a lurid glow over everything. Through the dancing shadows of the palms, cast by the leaping flames, he could see figures moving, most in ones and twos. There was as yet no sign of Biggles, who, he realised with a glow of satisfaction, had succeeded in his first object – the destruction of the Nazi power station.
After two or three minutes had elapsed he saw, not without consternation, that German paratroops were lining the edge of the oasis uncomfortably close to his position; but there was nothing he could do about it. Shortly afterwards he made out a little crowd running towards the Rapide, and knew that Biggles had managed to secure the prisoners. Two figures, running hard, were in advance of the main group.
What happened next has already been related. One of the two leading figures, whom he now perceived was Biggles, turned towards the paratroops. The other ran on and jumped into the machine. This man was a stranger to Ginger, but he introduced himself without wasting words.
‘I’m Gillson,’ he rapped out. ‘This is my machine. Let me have her. Where are we bound for?’
‘Salima – an oasis about a hundred and thirty miles south-east from here. You can see it for miles – you can’t miss it.’
‘Okay,’ returned Gillson shortly. ‘You’d better go and look after your C.O. He’s outside somewhere.’
Looking through the side window, Ginger saw how dangerously Biggles was placed. He was content to leave the aircraft in the hands of a master pilot, so he made his way to the cabin door, where he found the rest of the prisoners pouring in. This prevented him from getting out. All he could do was to shout, ‘Hurry along – hurry along,’ in the manner of a bus conductor.
The prisoners did not need the invitation. They were only too anxious to get aboard, but for several seconds they prevented Ginger from seeing what was going on outside. He could, however, hear the crack of rifle fire, which worried him. When finally the door was clear, he looked out to see Biggles retiring towards the Rapide in a cloud of dust. Then the machine began to move. This alarmed Ginger, although as the movement was as yet slight he hoped that Biggles would manage to get on board. More sand swirled, half hiding the scene.
By this time Ginger was shooting at the Germans as fast as he could pull trigger. He did not trouble to take aim, but blazed away simply with the idea of keeping up a hot covering fire. Then Biggles, when he was within a dozen yards of the aircraft, pitched headlong on the sand. For a moment Ginger did nothing, for his first impression was that Biggles had merely fallen; but when he did not get up he realised with a shock that he had been hit. At this juncture the aircraft turned still more towards the landing ground, driving a blinding cloud of dust straight into the faces of the Germans. The scene was completely blotted out. Ginger could no longer see Biggles although he was only a few yards away. He did what anyone would have done in the circumstances. He jumped out of the machine and, running to the place where he had last seen him, found him still lying as he had fallen.
With the object of carrying him to the aircraft, Ginger tried to pick him up, only to discover that to pick up an unconscious body is not the simple job some people may suppose. It is far more difficult than picking up a man who is only pretending to be unconscious. In sheer desperation he seized Biggles by the collar and started to drag him. He could hear the machine, but he could not see it on account of the flying sand which, flung into his face with considerable force, nearly blinded him. For a minute he struggled on in a kind of frenzy. He knew it was no use shouting for help because the roar of the Rapide’s engines drowned all other sounds. Then, to his horror, the sound began to recede, and as the aircraft gathered speed such a storm of wind and sand and debris was hurled behind it that Ginger dropped choking to his knees, covering his face with his arms.
As soon as it was reasonably possible he stood up. He knew that he had been left behind, and for a little while the shock bereft him of all power of thought. His brain whirled as a thousand thoughts crowded into it. Biggles still lay at his feet, dead or wounded, he did not know which. Overhead, the noise of aircraft began to abate, and he could hear orders being shouted through the settling sand, which was still dense enough to prevent him from seeing more than a few yards. Not knowing what he was going to do – in fact, hardly knowing what he was doing – he grasped Biggles by the collar of his tunic and started to drag him in the direction of the nearest palms. He knew where they were. Reaching them he halted, and tried to think.
He was now out of the line of the Rapide’s take-off, and the air was comparatively clear. There was still a cer
tain amount of noise, mostly in the direction of the burning lorries. Judging by sounds, everyone on the oasis was there, trying to extinguish the flames. Overhead the moon shone brightly, throwing a complicated pattern of shadows on the sand.
Ginger dropped on his knees and looked at Biggles in the hope of discovering where he had been hit. This was not difficult, for his face was covered with blood. With his handkerchief he was able to wipe most of it away, revealing a wound just above Biggles’s right ear. As far as he could make out it was a long laceration, tearing away skin and hair. Another fraction of an inch and the bullet would have missed him altogether; a fraction the other way and it would have gone right through his head.
Ginger decided that there was only one thing to do. He was not in the least concerned with being taken prisoner; he was concerned only in saving Biggles’s life, if possible. The Germans, being in force, would have a medical officer with them. Clearly he must give himself up in order to get assistance. Before doing this, however, he soaked his handkerchief with water from the water-bottle which he carried, and dabbed it on Biggles’s face. He also tried to pour a little through the pallid lips.
Unexpectedly, and to his joy, Biggles groaned, muttered incoherently for a moment and then opened his eyes. They stared at Ginger unseeingly.
Recklessly, Ginger poured more water on Biggles’s head, and was overjoyed to see his eyes clear.
‘What happened?’ whispered Biggles in a weak voice.
‘You’ve been hit,’ answered Ginger. ‘We’re still at Wadi Umbo. The Rapide got away with the prisoners, but we were left behind.’
Biggles struggled to a sitting position, drank from the water-bottle, and then buried his face in his hands. Presently he looked up. ‘We seem to be in a mess,’ he muttered. ‘My head’s thumping like a steam hammer.’
‘I’m going to fetch a doctor,’ declared Ginger.
‘No!’ Biggles’ voice was firm. ‘Don’t do that. I don’t think it’s as bad as that. I’m still a bit dizzy, but maybe I’ll be better presently. I’ll give it a minute or two, anyway.’ Biggles washed his hands and face with water, while Ginger took the field service dressing from the corner of his tunic1 and bandaged Biggles’ head.
