by W E Johns
‘That’s better already,’ announced Biggles. ‘By gosh! That was a close one, though. Where exactly are we?’
Ginger told him.
‘Where are the Germans?’
‘I think they’re trying to put out the fire. I can’t make out why they haven’t found us.’
‘Probably because they haven’t looked,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Naturally, they would assume we had got away in the Rapide.’
‘Of course – I didn’t think of that.’
Biggles rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying.
He leant against a palm to steady himself. ‘I don’t feel like packing up – yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a chance. Let’s try to find a better position. The best place, if we can get to it, is the side of the oasis where we came in. The palms are pretty thick there, and I don’t think it’s used much.’
‘Okay, if you think you can manage it,’ agreed Ginger. ‘You’d better put your arm round my shoulders. I’ll help to steady you.’
Then began a long slow walk as they worked their way cautiously towards the desired position. Biggles’ condition improved, partly, no doubt, as the result of his iron constitution, and partly on account of his will power. Comparative quiet had fallen on the oasis. An argument appeared to be going on at the place where the lorries had stood. A glow marked the spot. Occasionally figures could be seen moving through the trees. Eventually the objective was reached, and there, just inside the palms, facing the open sand, Biggles sat down to rest.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Ginger anxiously.
‘Not too bad,’ returned Biggles. ‘I’ve got a splitting skull ache, otherwise I seem to be all right.’
‘How about trying to pinch a Messerschmitt?’ suggested Ginger.
Biggles smiled bleakly. ‘I don’t think I’m quite up to that. Let’s sit quietly for a bit and think things over. Everything went off fine. It’s just a matter of getting home now.’
As they sat and rested, every now and then, from somewhere in the desert, voices could be heard, calling. For some time they took no notice. Then Biggles looked up.
‘What the deuce is going on out there?’ he asked.
Ginger moved a little nearer to the open sand and gazed out across the wilderness. He could just make out several figures, apparently walking aimlessly, some near, some far. One or two were leading camels.
‘I get it,’ he said slowly. ‘The Spitfires, or the general commotion, must have stampeded the camels. They’re all over the place, and the Arabs are out looking for them.’
‘Is that so?’ said Biggles, in an interested voice. ‘Are there any camels in the camel lines – you know, the Toureg camp?’
‘Yes, several.’
‘See any Arabs?’
Ginger looked long and carefully. ‘No. They all seem to be out looking for the strays. Those who bring them back just tie them up and then go out to look for more.’
Said Biggles, in a curious voice: ‘Ginger, have you ever ridden on a camel?’
‘Come to think of it, I don’t think I have,’ answered Ginger. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ returned Biggles, ‘I’m afraid you are going to have a perfectly beastly time.’
Ginger started. ‘Doing what?’
‘Having your first lesson.’
‘What’s wrong with a camel?’
‘Quite a lot of things,’ murmured Biggles. ‘To start with, he is usually as bad-tempered as he is ugly. His breath stinks like nothing on earth, and if he doesn’t like you he may spit in your eye a slimy lump of green cud. Riding a camel is like sitting on a broomstick in a choppy sea.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ inquired Ginger, in a startled voice.
‘Because this seems to be where we go riding on a camel in the desert – or rather, on two camels.’
Biggles got to his feet and surveyed the camel lines, which were quite near. ‘I think it’s all clear,’ he observed. ‘Let’s go across. I’m no lover of a camel, but I’d rather use his feet than mine, when it comes to foot work on the sand.’
Five camels stood in the line, contentedly chewing the cud. Three carried saddles; two were unsaddled. Biggles went up to the nearest beast that carried a saddle.
‘You will discover that a camel saddle is designed primarily for breaking your back.’ he observed. ‘The first thing, though, is to make the animal kneel, so you can get on his back.’ Then, looking at the camel, he said, ‘lkh.’
The animal took no notice.
‘I hope I haven’t lost the knack.’ muttered Biggles. ‘You have to get just the right intonation.’ He tried again, with a more guttural accent. ‘Ikh.’
The animal groaned, and sank on its knees.
‘There you are – all done by kindness, ‘Biggles told Ginger. ‘Get aboard. Sit side-saddle on the rug. Get the pommel in the bend of your right leg and hook your instep with your left heel. That’s the idea. Hold tight!’ Then, to the camel, he said, ‘Dhai!’
Ginger grabbed at his saddle as an earthquake occurred under the front half of his camel, tilting him back at an angle of forty-five degrees. He leant forward to prevent himself from sliding off; simultaneously the rear half of the camel heaved, and he was restored to even keel. He caught his breath when he looked down and saw how far he was from the ground.
Meanwhile Biggles had followed the same procedure with a second camel. Mounted, he drew near to Ginger. ‘You can hold your rein – there’s only one – but it doesn’t really do anything. You guide a camel by tapping its neck and regulate your speed with your heel. No doubt your beast will follow mine.’ To his camel Biggles said, ‘Yahh!’, and the beast started to walk.
Ginger found himself lurching backwards and forwards, just as though, as Biggles had said, he was on a rough sea.
‘I shan’t be able to stand much of this,’ he muttered. ‘I shall be as sick as a dog.’
‘That’s all right,’ Biggles assured him. ‘You’ll find it a bit tricky when we break into a trot; but if you can hang on while the beast gets in its stride, you’ll find a camel easier to ride than a horse – look out! Those two fellows on the right have spotted us.’
A shout came rolling across the waste.
‘Take no notice,’ ordered Biggles.
There were more shouts, and the two men started to run towards the camel lines.
‘I’m afraid that’s torn it,’ remarked Biggles, quietly. ‘Those blighters have guessed we’re making off with their animals, and they’ve either gone to fetch help, or get mounted to pursue us. We’d better push along if I can get my brute into top gear.’
Biggles’ camel, with heartrending groans, broke into a trot, and the next instant Ginger thought his end had come; but he clung to the saddle, and when the creature had settled in its stride it was not so bad. He saw that they were covering the ground at surprising speed.
For some time nothing was said. Ginger was in no state to talk. He was still wondering how long he would be able to stand the strain. Then came a shout behind. He dare not risk turning to look, but Biggles did, and announced that they were being pursued by the Toureg.
‘I’m afraid they’ll catch us if we don’t go faster than this,’ he said. ‘They’re as much at home on a camel as we are in a Spitfire. They know how to get the most out of their beasts.’
So far Biggles had followed the gully through which they had travelled to the oasis, but they now reached a point where it fanned out to open sand for a considerable distance. Beyond was more rock. Soon after they were in the open a shot rang out, and a bullet kicked up a splash or sand in front of them. More shots followed.
Biggles looked behind him. ‘They’re overtaking us – quite a bunch of them,’ he announced. ‘Let’s try to reach those rocks ahead. Hang on, I’m going to gallop. We may as well break our necks as be caught by those sheikhs behind us.’
Biggles’ camel groaned again, and then broke into a full run. Ginger gasped as his beast followed. Then he could have laughed with reli
ef. There was no more jolting. It was like skimming through the air in a glider.
‘How far away are the rocks?’ he shouted.
‘Two or three miles.’
Ginger risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Arabs coming at a full gallop, flogging their beasts and uttering piercing shouts. There was also sporadic shooting. He did not know what Biggles intended doing if they reached the rocks first, but he imagined that they would stop and fight it out. He could think of nothing else. It was certain that if they kept on the Toureg would overtake them, probably shoot them down from behind at close range. For the moment it was a race for the rocks.
They reached the outcrop a bare hundred yards ahead of their pursuers, and as a camel’s legs are not constructed for travelling over rock Biggles made for an opening, just such a gully as the one in which Ginger had once landed his Spitfire. A minute or two later, after they had travelled about a hundred yards in the gully, Ginger’s camel, for no reason that he could see, flung up its head and swerved. Unprepared for such a manoeuvre Ginger lost his balance. He made a wild grab at the animal’s neck, missed it, and shot out of the saddle. The halter, to which he clung, broke his fall; then it slipped through his hands and he rolled over and over across the sand. He finished in a sitting position to see Biggles still racing on, evidently unaware of his fall.
‘Hi! Biggles!’ he yelled desperately.
Apparently Biggles did not hear, for he ignored the cry.
A thunder of hooves at the entrance to the gully brought Ginger to his feet in a hurry, revolver in hand. An instant later the Arabs came pouring through the gap in the rock. They must have seen the loose camel which, having got rid of its rider, was standing on the open sand in the supercilious attitude that only these animals can adopt; possibly they saw Ginger as well, for with harsh shouts they pulled their beasts to a skidding standstill.
Ginger, without turning, backed towards the wall, revolver at the ready. He had given up all thought of escape, but was determined to do as much damage as possible before he was shot, as he knew he must be at the end of so one-sided an affair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Biggles stop and then come tearing back. He was sorry about this, for he could not see what useful purpose Biggles hoped to serve. It looked as though he was throwing his life away uselessly.
By this time Ginger had reached the rock wall that bounded the gully, and with his back to it, in deep shadow, he brought a sharp fire to bear on the Arabs, moving his position between each shot. This was necessary, for the Arabs were shooting now – the ragged fire of undisciplined men. They appeared to have no concerted plan of attack, but with a good deal of unnecessary noise, scattered, and began to advance, each in his own way.
By this time Biggles had dismounted and was running towards the spot, keeping close against the rock. He disappeared into deep shadow, but his voice reached Ginger clearly.
‘Can you get up the rock behind you from where you are?’
‘No!’ shouted Ginger. ‘It’s sheer.’
‘Then retire towards me,’ called Biggles. ‘There’s a place here. If we can get on the rocks their camels won’t be able to follow. Keep coming – I’ll cover you.’ Biggles’s gun spat.
Ginger began to run along the gully to the point where he judged Biggles to be; but evidently the move was seen by the Arabs who, with renewed yells and more firing, began to close in. In his heart he felt that the position was hopeless, and his reaction was a sort of reckless abandon that completely eliminated anything in the nature of fear.
‘Come on, Biggles!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s paste the devils!’ Crouching, he turned towards the Arabs who were now fast closing in; but a moment later, to his surprise, for he could see no reason to account for it, they began to retire. Thinking perhaps the Arabs were reluctant to face his fire, with a shout of triumph he dashed forward, shooting until a click told him that his gun was empty. By this time the Arabs were in full flight; they remounted their camels and raced for the open sand. And while he was still marvelling at this extraordinary behaviour there came a sound that brought him round with a gasp. It was the hum of a powerful car. Then a headlight blazed down the gully, flooding the scene with radiance. A machine-gun began its vicious staccato chatter, and he flung himself flat as a hail of lead ripped up the sand and spattered against the rock.
For a minute or two Ginger lay where he had thrown himself, his brain in a whirl at this unexpected development. Then, as he saw the Luftwaffe car come tearing down the gully, and he realized what had happened, he laughed hysterically. The car dashed up, and even before it had stopped a figure with a white bandage round its head jumped out. He recognized Tex.
‘Say, Ginger, what goes on?’ Tex demanded.
Ginger put his gun in his pocket and leaned against the car as Taffy, Henry and Ferocity scrambled out.
Biggles strode up. ‘Where the deuce have you come from?’ he inquired. ‘How did you get here, Tex? I thought you were on the sick list?’
‘So I was, but I got well,’ answered Tex, casually. ‘Say, chief, what’s wrong with your head?’ he added, noticing Biggles’s bandage.
‘It got in the way of a bullet,’ answered Biggles, briefly. He turned to Taffy. ‘So you got the car out? Bit of luck for us; you timed your arrival very nicely.’
‘Luck?’ questioned Taffy. ‘Why, we were looking for you!’
Biggles frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could you have known we were in the desert?’
‘Well, it was this way, look you,’ returned Taffy. ‘When we got the car out we took it back to Salima to refuel, and then came out on patrol as you suggested. We heard the two Spits go home, and soon afterwards, while we were still cruising towards Wadi Umbo, what we took to be the Rapide. So we – thinking everything was all right – had a cigarette, and were just thinking of going home when we got a radio signal from Algy, who was back in the Defiant at Salima. He said the Rapide had landed, but you and Ginger weren’t on board. He reckoned you must have been left at Wadi Umbo, but if you hadn’t been captured you wouldn’t stay there. He thought you might start to walk back, so he asked us to come and meet you. Then we heard the shooting, and here we are. That’s all there was to it.’
Biggles smiled. ‘Nice piece of staff work, Taffy. Matter of fact we were trying to get home on a couple of camels, but Ginger stalled and made a crash-landing. The Toureg were on our trail, and for a minute or two things looked a bit gloomy. As I said just now, you couldn’t have timed your arrival better. But we mustn’t stand talking here. I’ve things to do. The sky will be stiff with Messerschmitts presently. What’s the time?’
‘Half-past three.’
Biggles whistled. ‘Late as that? Then we certainly have no time to lose. Von Zoyton has imported several loads of paratroops, and they’ll be calling on us presently. As we’re fixed, if they once get their feet on the ground in Salima they’ll make a shambles of the place. Stand fast. I’m going to send a signal to Algy.’
‘Don’t forget von Zoyton will hear you,’ put in Ferocity.
‘Oh, no, he won’t,’ replied Biggles. ‘All that’s left of his radio equipment, I hope, is a heap of cinders.’ He went into the car and sat down at the instrument, and was soon in touch with Salima. Having assured Algy that he and Ginger were safe, he ordered the Rapide to proceed immediately to Karga, taking the released prisoners, together with Algy, Angus, Bertie and Tug, who were to return forthwith in the four Spitfires. He closed by saying that the car was on its way home and should be back before dawn.
‘If that works out without any snags, by dawn we should have six Spits and the Defiant,’ announced Biggles to the others, who were watching him. ‘Von Zoyton will suppose that we are down to two Spitfires – not enough to stop his Messerschmitts and Junkers. He’ll strike, as he thinks, before we can get help. I should say his entire crowd will be over at dawn, or soon after. We’ve got to get those troop carriers before they can unload or Salima will be wiped out. Tomorrow ought to see the showdown. L
et’s get home.’
1 Every serviceman carried a wound-dressing kit for emergency first aid.
CHAPTER 16
THE BATTLE OF SALIMA
AFTER A TIRING journey, during which Biggles often dozed, the car arrived back at the oasis just before six o’clock. The moon had set, and the darkness that precedes the dawn had closed over the wilderness. Flight-Sergeant Smythe met the car to announce that coffee and biscuits were waiting in the mess tent. He was in charge at the oasis, all the officers having gone to Karga in the Rapide to fetch the Spitfires. Biggles, pale and red-eyed, led the way to the tent and gulped down the welcome refreshment.
‘Now listen, everybody,’ he said. ‘That includes you, flight-sergeant. I can give you all ten minutes for a bath and brush up; then we must get busy. Von Zoyton has been reinforced by four Junkers troop carriers. He has about sixty paratroops, to say nothing of the men of his own unit. He aims to wipe us out completely. He can want airborne troops for no other purpose. We know now how the Nazis do this operation. The Junkers will either crash-land, or unload in the air under a protecting screen of Messerschmitts. We may safely assume that von Zoyton will lead the show in person. If we had more machines I shouldn’t wait for him to come. I should have a crack at Wadi Umbo before he could get started. But we can’t do that with only three machines, leaving Salima unprotected. The Karga Spitfires may be here in time to give us a hand, or they may not. I hope they will. It will be a close thing, anyway. I reckon the earliest the four Spitfires can get here will be about seven o’clock – twenty minutes after sun-up. Von Zoyton is bound to attack before the heat of the day. If he comes at the crack of dawn we shall have to carry the whole weight of the attack with what we’ve got. Every minute he delays after that gives us a better chance. But the point is this. If those paratroops get on the ground in this oasis, we’re sunk. They carry grenades, flame-throwers, submachine guns – in fact, everything needed for their job. Not only have we none of these things here, bar a couple of Tommy guns, but we are outnumbered six to one. Obviously, then, we must at all costs prevent the Junkers from getting through. Presently I shall go with the flight-sergeant and fix up such ground defences as we can manage. The two Spitfires and the Defiant will leave the ground before dawn and go to meet the enemy.’
