by W E Johns
'Buried fiddlesticks. Wait a minute,' Biggles began stamping about on the floor. 'Here it is, whatever it is,' he announced, as the solid sound suddenly gave way to a hollow one. 'Just where you picked up that piece of paper. Find a piece of wood or something to dig with. This is rather fun; we've nothing else to do so it will kill time.'
Algy hunted about with the candle outside the door, and presently returned with an old rusty piece of iron.
'That'll do,' declared Biggles, and began scraping away the earth from the hollow place.
Ten minutes later, taking it in turns, they struck something solid, and, raking aside the loose earth with their hands, exposed an iron manhole cover.
'Gold!' chortled Algy. 'I've always wanted to find a miser's hoard – strewth!'
The exclamation leapt to his lips as Biggles lifted the cover, exposing what lay beneath. What Algy seriously expected to find he did not know, but it was certainly not what he now saw. At first glance it appeared to be a complicated piece of machinery, but a close examination showed it to be a row of large electric accumulators,* some intricate wiring, and a switch.
* Rechargeable electric batteries.
'Here, we'd better cover this up; it's an Admiralty gadget all right; must be,' said Biggles seriously.
'What about switching on the switch to see what happens?'
'Don't be a fool, anything might happen. That switch might explode a mine-field somewhere and blow the fleet up for all we know.'
'Admiralty my foot!' cried Algy suddenly, bending down. 'The Admiralty don't use German machines, do they?'
'I shouldn't think so, why?'
'Look at the name on these accumulators.'
'Gontermann. Berlin. That's the name that was on the paper. Why, of course,' went on Biggles excitedly, 'that label was on the package that brought this stuff over. But we'd better cover this up; whoever it belongs to it's no concern of ours.'
They set to work and in a few minutes had replaced the soil; when they stood up the ground was as smooth as when they entered the hut.
'Come on, it's time we got back to the machine,' said Biggles, blowing out the candle. 'Crumbs! Isn't it dark, watch your step.'
The lapping of the water on the beach guided them towards the sea, and they had almost reached the Vandal when Biggles laid his hand on Algy's arm. 'Hark!' he said. 'Do I hear a machine, or am I crazy?'
'It's an aeroplane all right,' declared Algy, with his head on one side.
'The mist has cleared, and so has most of the cloud, but who on earth would be night flying on such a night as this?' asked Biggles in surprise. 'What a funny sound the engine makes; sounds sort of muffled. By Jingo, it's coming this way, too,' he went on as the sound drew nearer. 'Stand still a minute and see if the engine tells us anything.'
They stood quite still in the darkness, listening.
'Well, I'm dashed if I know,' he growled, 'but if it was daylight I should say there was a formation of machines upstairs; if there aren't several engines up there I'll eat my hat.'
'Big R.A.F. bomber perhaps?'
'The only Service bombers we have are fitted with Rolls Kestrels or Napier Lions, and those we can hear are certainly neither of those. There are half a dozen engines at least, and we've nothing that size in this country.'
'Two or three machines doing exercises perhaps.'
'Must be; can't be anything else as far as I can see. I—'
'Well, I'm dashed,' interrupted Algy breathlessly.
'What's wrong now?'
'There's a light in the hut – or there was. It's gone now.'
You're getting light-headed.'
'Light-headed my eye. Do you suppose I don't know what a light is when I see it? I saw a light in that window I tell you, as if someone had flashed an electric torch.'
'Impossible!'
'There you are, what did I tell you!' cried Algy triumphantly as the window of the hut became a square of dull orange light. 'Someone's lit that candle.'
'We're beginning to see things,' muttered Biggles. 'What the dickens is happening. Come on, let's go back; whoever it is will be able to tell us where we are, and tell us the way to the nearest village. Hark! By James, that machine has cut off its engines, which knocks your suggestion on the head. If there is more than one machine, the chances against all the pilots throttling back at the identical instant are too remote to be considered. There is only one machine up there and it's a multi-engined job. But never mind that; let's go and see who it is in the hut.'
They hurried back towards the building, and Biggles, from a distance of about a hundred yards, was about to hail the mysterious occupant, when an event occurred, or rather a series of events, that turned their thought into very different channels, and warned them for the first time that they were on dangerous ground.
The first indication of this was a deep reverberating roar that swept through the night a few hundred feet above their heads. Biggles clutched Algy by the arm.
'Great Jumping Jupiter,' he gasped, 'that kite's coming in to land or I'm a Dutchman. What the –get down, quick!'
The last ejaculation had been forced from his lips by an occurrence that was almost paralysing in its unexpectedness, yet the speed with which his warning to take cover had been followed by both of them showed that their brains had not lost their wartime alertness. As Biggles muttered the words they had dived into an old grass covered trench from which they gazed speechlessly at the phenomenon.
The water of the creek had turned to a sea of shimmering liquid fire, green in the centre, with red edges. The effect was unearthly, but as their eyes became accustomed to it they began to understand. The creek had been flood-lit, apparently from below. In the centre the light was probably white, but glowed pale green through the water. A circle of ruby lights marked the boundaries. The meaning of it all may not have been apparent to a landsman, but to an airman the matter needed no explanation. The creek had become an illuminated aerodrome, on which the machine above them was about to land. This assumption proved correct, for within a moment or two the invisible aeroplane could be heard approaching again from the direction of the sea. Biggles caught his breath and Algy stifled an exclamation as a gigantic shadow loomed up just beyond the submarine beacons and dropped majestically on to the creek; as the keel touched, the water became a living, leaping sheet of phosphorescence. The huge machine turned slowly and began to taxi towards the shore; as it did so, as suddenly as they had appeared, every light was extinguished. An instant later a single beam of light leapt from the nose of the slowly taxiing machine; it settled on the bank, swept up and down it once or twice, and was in turn extinguished. Only a faint luminous glow from the cockpit marked the position of the giant stranger.
A hail rang out; it was answered instantly from the hut, and a light began to jerk its way towards the beach.
'Don't move,' whispered Biggles, 'the fellow in the hut is coming down to meet them. Now we know what that switch was for. Hark!' A sound of low voices reached them from the direction of the hut. 'There's more than one of them – sounds as if there may be two,' he whispered. 'Keep still, this is interesting.'
Two figures loomed up, one carrying an electric lantern, and passed them at a distance of not more than ten yards. Presently a sound of greetings being exchanged came from the beach.
'It's a good thing the Vandal is out of sight round the corner,' muttered Biggles, 'or that would have put the lid on it.'
'What's going on do you think?' whispered Algy. 'Smuggling?'
'Looks like it – on a big scale, too. That machine is a foreigner; I can just make her out. Looks as big as the Do.X.* There's something fishy here and no mistake; I've never even seen a picture of such a machine, so where it has come from goodness alone knows – S-s-h.'
* The German-manufactured Dornier X Flying Boat. First flown in 1929, powered by twelve engines and designed to carry 72 passengers in comfort, only three were made.
Voices, speaking a foreign language, were approaching, th
is time from the direction of the water. The faint light in the cockpit disappeared, as if the electrical equipment for illuminating the instrument board had been switched off, and in a moment or two, five figures, walking in single file, loomed up in the night. They disappeared in the direction of the hut and the light reappeared at the window.
'Listen, laddie,' whispered Biggles, 'we've got to see more of this. I'm going down to get a closer view of that machine; we may never get such a chance again. I'll find out its nationality, anyway. You creep up towards the hut and see if you can learn anything, but for the love of Mike don't be seen. I shan't come back here; I'll make for the Vandal – you do the same.' He crawled out of the trench and disappeared into the darkness.
Algy lay still for a few minutes, listening, and then began to creep stealthily towards the hut. It was not difficult to approach unseen, for the night was dark, and the grass covered sand beneath his feet deadened the sound of his footsteps. At a distance of about ten yards he again stopped to listen. He could hear voices distinctly, but they were speaking in a language he did not understand, so the conversation conveyed nothing to him. Dare he risk a peep through the window? It was taking a big risk, and he knew it, for if any one of the five occupants happened to be looking in that direction, he could hardly fail to see him. He decided to take the risk; one glance at the mysterious voyagers might prove invaluable. He wormed his way to the dark side of the hut and then crept across to the base of the concrete wall. So far so good. Crouching low, he rounded the corner, and crept along until he was immediately below the square of light. Then, slowly, and with infinite care, he began to rise. The voices sounded desperately close, and in spite of his efforts to still it, his heart pounded violently; it was a form of thrill that he had never before experienced. Inch by inch his head rose towards the corner of the light; then it drew level, and he took in the scene at a single glance.
The five men were in the room. One, in a heavy leather flying coat, was holding up a map, which Algy recognized at once as Europe, on the opposite wall; the others were looking closely at it while he spoke. Two of them, obviously the crew of the flying boat, wore sheepskin thigh boots and thick woollen sweat-ers. The other two, evidently the men who had come overland, wore ordinary lounge suits and overcoats. One was a thin, emaciated-looking fellow with a large nose, like the beak of a bird of prey; the other was inclined to be stout, had a straw coloured moustache and wore a bowler hat. There was nothing outstanding about him; he was of a type that could be seen at any place any time of the day.
The man in the leather coat was obviously the leader, for the others were listening attentively and respectfully as he tapped upon the map with a pencil to emphasize his words. As Algy watched, he placed the point of the pencil on a spot which he had no difficulty in recognizing as the Norfolk coast; probably the very spot on which they now stood. Then, with a swift movement, he swept the pencil across the North Sea to a spot on the eastern side of the Baltic. Several other lines had been drawn on the map from the same spot to various points on the east coast of England, but before Algy could memorize them, the man, of whose face Algy could see nothing except the point of a black beard, took down the map and began to fold it up. They all turned towards the middle of the room and Algy sank down silently.
Not until he was on his hands and knees did he realize how great had been the strain of his surreptitious peep, for he was trembling, and his heart seemed to be up in his throat. He crept like a wraith to the cover of a sand-dune as the door creaked and lay still as death while the light went out and the voices faded away into the night. For perhaps twenty minutes he remained thus, and then, deciding that the coast was clear, began to feel his way cautiously in the direction of the Vandal. He was about half way when the engines of the great flying boat were started up; they swelled into a deep, vibrating hum that receded swiftly into the distance. 'So she's gone off again,' he mused, as he continued on his way. 'I wonder if those other two chaps have gone with it.'
He reached the Vandal and gave a low whistle. There was no reply, so deciding that Biggles had not yet returned, he went aboard and made himself comfortable in the cabin. Half an hour passed slowly and he began to get anxious; at the end of an hour he was definitely alarmed. He jumped down on to the beach and listened; not a sound broke the deathly silence. No light showed in the direction of the hut.
'Biggles!' he called, not too loudly.
There was no reply.
'Biggles!' he called again, raising his voice.
Still no reply.
Something like panic seized him, and casting discretion to the winds, 'Biggles!' he yelled at the top of his voice.
Silence.
An icy hand seemed to clutch his heart, for he knew that the cry must have been heard by anyone within half a mile. He ran to the top of the nearest sand-dune and stood staring into the darkness towards the creek. The moon appeared suddenly from behind a cloud-bank and flooded the scene with silvery radiance. Nothing moved. Not a sound broke the silence of the night. 'Biggles! Hi, Biggles!' he yelled again. There was no answer.
Filled with a nameless horror he began to run towards the beach where the strange aeroplane had been, searching to right and left as he ran. He found footmarks in the sand by the water's edge, but nothing more. For an hour he hunted, looking for what he hoped he would not find, the dead or unconscious body of his friend. At last, weary and unnerved, he sat down on a dune overlooking the sea. 'What could have happened?' he asked himself a hundred times. Could Biggles have fallen into one of the mud swamps and been drowned? Could he have entered the water to examine the aircraft and been carried away by the receding tide? He did not know. Grey dawn came and found him still alone on the edge of the salt marsh. Before him stretched the sea, cold and deserted. Behind lay the waste of barren land, a vast featureless expanse soul-destroying in its utter solitude. At one place only on the far horizon was there a sign of man's presence; the dilapidated arm of an ancient windmill flung a gaunt finger skyward. The only sound was the plaintive cry of the seabirds.
He rose wearily to his feet, suddenly aware that he was very cold, and made his way to the hut, but it was precisely as they had found it the preceding day. 'Well, it's no use staying here,' he muttered bitterly, 'I might as well take the machine back to Brooklands.' He started the engine, climbed into his seat and took off; yet he could not tear himself away from the place. Somewhere there, either in the water, or – he grew cold at the thought – buried under the mud, was Biggles. For half an hour he cruised to and fro, crossing and recrossing his track a hundred times, but there was no sign of the man who was tied to him by bonds of friendship that only years of peril could forge. Suddenly making up his mind he swung the machine round, and with a lump in his throat headed south.
Chapter 2
Ginger Takes A Hand
When Biggles left Algy in order to make a closer inspection of the mysterious flying boat, he had little idea of what he was literally walking into. Had the giant aeroplane been a British machine, he would have put the whole thing down to a secret operation being carried out by the Air Ministry, possibly with the co-operation of the Navy, but quite apart from the aeroplane, the fact that the crew were foreigners discountenanced this theory at once. That the nocturnal visitors were engaged in some nefarious scheme was obvious, and he considered it his duty to find out, if possible, just what it was. If it was smuggling, then it was being done on a very large scale, but if that was the case, why had not the crew brought the contra-band ashore, for there could be no object in the visit unless a consignment of illicit cargo was to be unloaded. The men who had gone up to the hut were empty handed, he was sure of that, and if the size of the machine was any indication, its pay-load was in order of two or three tons – certainly far more than the meagre crew could unload before dawn.
It was not until he was within a cable's length* of the machine that he fully realized how huge it was, and crouching low on the ground he examined it with a professional eye. It w
as a metal flying boat of the high-wing monoplane type, not unlike the famous Dornier Do.X, but painted black. Fared into the leading edge of the cantilever wing* were eight engines, fitted with gleaming metal propellers. The exhaust manifolds were gathered into two large exhaust pipes, one on each side of the hull, that thickened strangely towards the end, and he guessed why the engines made their curious muffled roar. They were silenced. There was no opening in the all-enclosed cockpit, but a door in the huge black hull stood open, and this he assumed gave access to the pilot's seat. Not a sound came from the machine so he approached still closer; it looked as if the entire crew had gone ashore. They would hardly expect visitors, so there was no reason why anyone should stay aboard, he reasoned, glancing over his shoulder at the spark of light that marked the position of the hut. If they were still there, he might have time to have a peep inside. Such a step would be taking a chance, but it was worth it, he decided. Even if they returned and caught him there, what could they do? As a British subject and a retired officer, he would be quite within his rights in making enquiries.
* Approximately 183 metres.
* The main beam in this type of wing is supported at one end only.
Having made up his mind, he walked quickly across the narrow strip of sand, waded into two feet or so of water, and stepped through the open door into the hull. It was pitch dark inside, so he groped quickly for his matches, and shielding the flame with his hands, struck one.
The cabin in which he found himself was empty, but it was only a small one and he made for the door in the after end. It opened easily and he caught his breath at the sight that met his gaze. For a distance of about twenty feet, set on either side of a narrow gangway, were rows of gleaming steel rods. He knew what they were at once, for he had seen the bomb racks of a big bomber before, but in this case they were on a scale larger than he had ever imagined. He realized with a shock that the machine was no smuggler, but a bomber, a foreign bomber of huge dimensions.
