by W E Johns
It was opened after a short delay by the old boatman in his nightshirt. He looked startled when he saw his uniformed visitors, but Biggles soon put him at ease by explaining who they were. ‘May we come in?’ he concluded.
‘Oui, oui, messieurs, enter,’ invited François cordially.
They went in and closed the door.
In the tiny parlour Biggles explained why they had come to see him. ‘I know that you will be willing to help us, because by helping us you will be helping France,’ he went on. As he spoke Biggles took from his pocket his roll of French notes, and in spite of François’ protests he pressed it into his hand. ‘I can’t take the money with me,’ he pointed out. ‘I shall have no means of carrying it in the water; if I tried it would only get wet, and spoiled.’
François demurred, but in the end accepted the money – a big sum for a man in his position.
Biggles then went on to describe just what he wanted him to do, that under the pretence of looking at his lobster pots he should sail along to Cap Martin, pick up the refugees, and take them to the rendezvous. Without hesitation François expressed his willingness to do this. He went quietly upstairs and returned fully dressed.
‘I will go now,’ he said.
‘Yes, you had better start right away to be on the safe side,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Whatever happens, you must be at Cap Martin by half-past two.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You should manage it; there isn’t much breeze, but you’ve got nearly two hours.’
‘If the wind goes I use my oars,’ said François.
‘What about your wife? Is she awake? Does she know about this? I ask because we shall have to stay here for a while.’
‘No, she sleeps,’ answered François. ‘It is better not to tell her. And so you will remain here?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ replied Biggles. ‘We had to come early in order to explain everything and give you a chance to get Cap Martin. We will just sit here quietly.’
‘C’est bon. Au revoir, messieurs.’ François departed.
‘Now we’ve got to kill time,’ Biggles told Ginger, standing where, through the open window, he could watch the harbour. It was too dark to see very much, but splashing indicated that some of the troops were still bathing. ‘I hope they’ll stay there,’ went on Biggles, referring to the bathers. ‘It will be supposed that we are in the party when we take to the water if we are seen. By the way, I propose to take the C.O.’s machine – it will probably be the best of the bunch. It means a swim of about a hundred yards. We’ll land on the buoy, and pull the machine up to it.’
‘What about these uniforms?’
‘I was thinking about that. It’s an awkward business swimming in clothes. I shan’t need mine after I leave here because Algy is bringing my own uniform along. I can put it on later in the machine. What about you? If you leave your Italian outfit here, what are you going to wear later on?’ Biggles smiled. ‘You’ll find it a bit parky, flying in your birthday suit!’
‘You don’t suppose I’m going to join the party looking like Adam, do you?’ answered Ginger coldly. ‘There are ladies, don’t forget. I’ll dump my tunic, but stick to the slacks, also my shirt. We shall have to abandon our shoes.’
Nothing more was said for a little while. Then Biggles remarked, ‘This waiting is a tedious business, but it couldn’t be avoided. Mario had to get back and we had to give François time to do his stuff.’
Not until twenty to three did Biggles move. Then he stripped off his uniform, retaining only his vest, pants and belt. Through the belt he pushed his automatic, and a sheathed stiletto which he took from his pocket.
‘Where on earth did you get that knife?’ asked Ginger.
‘Borrowed it from Mario.’
‘What’s the idea? Are you going to start stabbing people?’
‘Not yet. It’s to cut the mooring rope. We can’t waste time untying wet knots. Got your gun?’
‘It’s in my trousers pocket. My torch is in the other if you need it.’ As he spoke Ginger discarded his tunic and shoes.
‘All right. Let’s get along,’ proposed Biggles. ‘We’d better take these uniforms with us and dump them in the drink; it won’t do to leave them here in case there’s a row, and a search, in which case François would get it in the neck.’
Picking up the now unwanted clothes, they went out and closed the door softly behind them. One or two swimmers still lingered on the quay, otherwise the harbour was quiet. The water lay placid under the stars. Some distance out the silhouettes of the aircraft could just be seen, looking like prehistoric monsters tethered to rocks. Faintly across the water strains of music came from the customs house, where a radio was playing a waltz. Vague shadows could be seen moving against the light of a half-open door.
Biggles lowered himself gently into the water and jettisoned his uniform. Ginger did the same. Ripples spread from the spot, reflecting the cool light of the stars.
Without a word, using a steady breaststroke, they began swimming towards their objective.
1 Ities: derogatory term for Italians.
CHAPTER 18
HOW THE RENDEZVOUS WAS KEPT
NOTHING OF INTEREST occurred during the short swim, which was carried out with greater regard for quiet than for speed. Biggles and Ginger breasted the water together, leaving an ever-widening V to mark their passage across the tranquil face of the harbour. A silvery flush spreading upwards from beyond the distant Italian Alps proclaimed the approach of the moon; reflected in the water, it caressed the ripples as they receded diagonally on either hand to lap at last against the quay.
Reaching their objective, they pulled themselves up on the rusty buoy to rest for a moment to listen, and wring the brine from their hair and eyes. Then Biggles grasped the mooring rope, and bracing himself, drew the big aircraft gently towards him. The rope coming within his reach, Ginger also pulled, hand over hand, until the cabin was level with the buoy.
‘That’s it, hold her,’ breathed Biggles, and reached for the door.
As he did so a medley of sounds occurred on the shore. They began with a shout, which was followed by a number of short blasts on a whistle. Footsteps could be heard, running. Someone rapped out orders in brittle Italian.
Ginger looked with askance at Biggles. He could think of only one reason for the alarm – that they had been seen. ‘They’ve spotted us,’ he said in a low voice.
Biggles looked around and then focused his attention on the customs-house, where a number of men could be seen assembling as if for a parade. Lights appeared, both moving and stationary.
‘No, it isn’t us,’ he said. ‘Those fellows are not carrying rifles. It must be some sort of guard turn-out. Listen.’
Someone appeared to be shouting names. An order was given. The party turned to the right. Another order, and the men began marching along the Quai de Plaisance. By this time sounds of activity could also be heard on the Quai de Commerce opposite.
‘I don’t get it,’ muttered Ginger. ‘What is there on the Quai de Commerce?’
‘Coal bunkers and gas-works mostly. It’s the commercial side of the port. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it has anything to do with us. Let’s keep going. Give me your torch.’
Biggles opened the door of the aircraft and stepped inside. He switched on the torch, and deflecting the beam downwards, started to make a survey of the cabin. The light moved only a short way, then stopped.
Ginger, entering the aircraft behind Biggles, saw a sight both unexpected and disconcerting. Using an Italian Air Force tunic as a pillow, on a bunk lay a man, dressed in trousers and a shirt. He was awake. He had half raised himself on his elbow and was blinking into the glare. He had obviously been sleeping; awakened by the door being opened, he looked dazed at what must have seemed a strange intrusion. Suddenly he appeared to realise that he was in danger, for, letting out a yell, he started to get off the bunk.
Two swift strides took Biggles to him, gun in hand, whereupon the ma
n, evidently a member of the crew, sat down again, stiff with fright.
Biggles tried him first in French, then in English, but the man apparently knew neither language. With a ghost of a smile he murmured to Ginger, ‘Snag number one.’
‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘You keep an eye on him while I have a look at the cockpit,’ answered Biggles. ‘I shan’t be a minute.’ He went forward.
Ginger made signs to the Italian, by tapping his gun, that he would be wise to remain quiet. He could hear someone shouting, but who it was and what it was about he did not know.
Presently Biggles came back. ‘I think everything’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’d better get rid of this chap – we don’t want any more passengers.’ He looked at the Italian and indicated the door.
The man needed no second invitation. He was out like a shot, making for the shore at a fast overarm stroke. Biggles cut the cable. As he came back into the cabin and closed the door a searchlight was switched on. The beam did not fall on the aircraft, but swept across the water near the harbour mouth.
‘It was that fellow shouting that did it,’ muttered Ginger savagely.
‘Possibly,’ answered Biggles calmly. ‘Come on, let’s get away.’ They went through to the cockpit and took their places.
When the twin engines came to life the noise, after the silence, was shattering. Biggles sat with one hand on the master throttle and the other on the control column, giving the motors a chance to warm up, until the searchlight swept back and came to rest on the machine, flooding it with radiance. Looking out of a side window, just beyond the beam, Ginger could see people running about on the quay.
‘I think it’s time we were moving,’ he remarked. ‘Our engines have sort of stirred things up.’
‘I rather expected they would,’ replied Biggles, smiling. ‘Still, I don’t think they dare do much shooting here for fear of hitting the other machines. All the same, we’d better be getting along.’
He eased the throttle open. His face was expressionless as his eyes focused on the narrow harbour entrance beyond which lay the open sea. The flying-boat began to surge forward, increasing its speed as he advanced the throttle. Fifty yards from the harbour entrance it was skimming the water, flinging clouds of spray on either side.
‘We’ve done it!’ shouted Ginger triumphantly.
Biggles did not answer. His body suddenly went rigid. With a quick movement he leaned forward to bring his face nearer to the windscreen.
Dazzled by the light, which was playing on the side of the machine, for a moment Ginger could see nothing; then he made out a black bulk, seeming to fill the opening through which they must pass. He realized at once what it was. High masts left him in no doubt. A vessel of some sort was coming in. Instantly he understood the commotion on the quay. The ship had been signalled, and arrangements were being made for its reception. From their low position they had been unable to see it. He went cold with shock. In the tricky light he found it impossible to tell just how far away the ship actually was, but it looked horribly close.
Biggles thrust the throttle wide open. The engines bellowed. Spray flew. The hull quivered. The aircraft tore on to what seemed certain destruction. Ginger sat still, petrified. There was nothing he could do. He stared at the black silhouette as though it had mesmerised him.
‘Unexpected snag number two,’ said Biggles, through set teeth.
Now it had seemed to Ginger, when he first saw the vessel, that it was actually coming into the harbour, but as the aircraft raced on he perceived that this was not the case. It was close, but, naturally, so near the harbour, it was travelling dead slow. The impression that it was travelling fast was created by the high speed of the aircraft, and as it turned out, the destroyer – as the vessel now revealed itself to be – was still a cable’s length1 from the entrance.
Biggles could not turn, of course, until he was out of the harbour, otherwise he must have collided with the sea wall. Neither could he take off, for the machine, running on a flat surface without a wave to give it a ‘kick’ into the air, was only just beginning to lift. He might have cut the throttle, in which case the machine would have slowed up, so that the force of impact, when the collision occurred, would have been trivial. But that would have ended any chance of escape. So he raced on, still on full throttle, and as he shot through the harbour mouth he kicked on full right rudder. There was nothing else for it, for by this time the black hull was towering above them. Even so, it was a desperate expedient. The aircraft yawed so violently that Ginger clutched at the side, thinking they were going right over. The port wing came down on the water with a smack, flinging up a cloud of spray that blotted everything from sight. He braced himself for the shock of collision which he still thought was unavoidable. Instead, the aircraft righted itself; the spray disappeared aft, and the machine, on a new course, shot past the destroyer with a few feet to spare.
He had another shock when he saw that there were three ships – two destroyers, and what he took to be a tanker. The fact that they were in line ahead had prevented the two rear vessels from being seen. For the same reason there was no risk of collision with them, for the aircraft was now travelling diagonally away from them. Ginger let out his pent-up breath with a gasp, but still he did not speak. A sidelong glance revealed Biggles still sitting as though nothing untoward had happened.
But the incident was not yet over. From the leading destroyer a searchlight stabbed the night. It found them at once. The shore searchlight joined in, and the aircraft, and the water round it, were transformed to polished silver. A moment later all vibration ceased, and Ginger knew they were airborne.
As the Savoia started to climb more searchlights thrust long white fingers into the starlit sky. Lines of tracer bullets2 glittered in the beams. Bursting shells began to tear the sky with flame. Biggles pushed the control column forward for speed, and then zoomed high, leaving the searchlights below him. For a few minutes he flew on, turning first one way then another to mislead the gunners. Then, suddenly, he laughed aloud.
‘By gosh! I thought we were into that leading destroyer. We can’t grumble, but it was foul luck. It shows how the best scheme can come unstuck – one can’t make allowances for that sort of thing. Just imagine it. I don’t think there has been a ship in that harbour for days, yet those blighters had to come in at the very moment we chose to go out. Had they been one minute earlier, or we a minute later, there would have been an almighty splash.’
‘You’re telling me,’ muttered Ginger.
Biggles chuckled. ‘I’ll bet that skipper’s using some language.
‘He was probably struck dumb, like I was,’ growled Ginger. ‘By the way, where are we going?’
‘I’m trying to lead those sharpshooters to believe that we’re heading out to sea,’ returned Biggles. ‘I daren’t turn too soon or they’d know we were coming back. I think it’s all right now.’
He turned in a wide half circle. The roar of the motors faded, and the flying-boat settled down in a steady glide towards the nearest point of land – the tip of Cap Martin, now visible in the light of the moon some miles to the north. Ginger did not fail to notice the wisdom of Biggles’s choice in the matter of time. They had worked under cover of darkness when they most needed it; now they had the light of the moon to enable them to pick up François’ boat.
‘Have you noticed the petrol gauges?’ inquired Biggles.
Ginger admitted that he had not.
‘Take a look.’
Not knowing quite what Biggles meant, but aware that there must be a reason for the remark, Ginger looked at the instrument panel. Then he understood. The tanks were less than quarter full.
‘What a mob,’ he muttered, in a voice heavy with disgust. ‘Fancy being in port all that time and not filling up.’
‘Perhaps they couldn’t,’ replied Biggles drily. ‘Maybe it was because they were short of juice that they put in at Monaco. Since the machines were due to leave in the
morning, obviously they were expecting to refuel before then. If that were so it would answer several questions. That was a tanker just gone in. I’d say that’s what they were waiting for – hence the activity on the Quai de Commerce. It didn’t occur to me to look to see if anything was coming, but the Italians were evidently expecting the ships. Not that it matters now. Can you see the boat?’
Away to the left searchlights were still quartering the sky, seeking the aircraft, but Ginger wasted no time on them. Concentrating his attention on the sea off Cap Martin he made out a small black speck.
‘There she is!’ he cried. ‘They’ve made it.’
Biggles did not answer, but devoted himself to the difficult task of putting the flying-boat on the water in moonlight made deceptive by the waving arms of searchlights. Ginger said no more, knowing that it was no time for talking. He sat quite still, his eyes on the little boat that grew steadily larger and more definite in outline. Occasionally the water reflected a distant burst of flak, and he wondered vaguely what the Italians were shooting at. He had a curious sensation that this was not really happening – that he was watching a film.
They were now low enough for the shimmer on the water to break up into isolated ripples, and the conical hills behind Cap Martin rose ever higher as the flying-boat continued to lose height. As it neared the sea its nose lifted a little, and then, as Biggles flattened out, François’ boat was hidden behind the sweeping bows. There came a splash. Spray flew. Another splash that was drawn out into a long hiss. Powerful brakes seemed to hold the Savoia back. Rocking a little it came to rest.
