32 Biggles In The Orient

by Captain W E Johns

  "They're still flying pretty," observed Tug after a glance at the Hurricanes.

  "So are we if it comes to that," answered Biggles, glancing at the watch on the instrument panel and making another note.

  Fifteen minutes later he observed that one of the Hurricanes had moved slightly out of position, so that its opposite number had to swerve slightly to avoid collision. Biggles stiffened, staring, nerves tense, but aware that this might have been the result of a moment's carelessness on the part of the pilot. But when the same machine swerved, and began to sideslip, he uttered a warning cry.

  "Look! There goes one of them! " he shouted. "By heavens! Yes, he's going down! "

  Tug did not answer. Both pilots watched while the Hurricane maintained its swerve, getting farther and farther away from the formation, which held on its course. At the same time the nose of the straying machine began

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  to droop, until presently the aircraft was plunging earthward in a dive that became ever steeper.

  "Pull out! " yelled Tug—uselessly. He began to mutter incoherently.

  The Hurricane, still running on full throttle it seemed, roared on to a doom that was now only a matter of seconds.

  "Why doesn't he bale out?" cried Tug in a strangled voice.

  "No use, Tug. He's finished," said Biggles through his teeth, and pushing the control column forward he tore down behind the stricken aircraft. A swift glance revealed the other four machines still in formation, but nose down, racing on the homeward course, which, in the circumstances, Biggles realised, was the wisest action they could take.

  Long before he could overtake the doomed aircraft it had crashed through the tree-tops and disappeared from sight like a stone dropping into opaque water.

  Tug caught his breath at the moment of impact, and then cursed through bloodless lips.

  His face was pale and distorted with fury; his eyes glittered.

  "No use swearing, Tug," said Biggles evenly. "That doesn't get anybody anywhere."

  He went on down and circled over the spot where the Hurricane had disappeared, revealed at short distance by fractured branches. Nothing could be seen. "The crash hasn'

  t taken fire, anyway," he muttered, and then looked at his own instrument dials, in turn. "

  We seem to be still okay," he added. "Do you feel all right Tug?"

  "More or less—just savage, that's all," growled Tug. "Keep watch up topsides," warned Biggles.

  Still circling, without taking his eyes from the scene of the tragedy he climbed back up to two thousand feet. "Listen Tug," he said crisply. "I'm going to bale out." "You're what!"

  "I'm going down."

  "What's the use? The chap in that kite hadn't a hope."

  "I know that, but I'm going down to try to find out just what happened. Unless someone examines one of

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  these crashes we may never know what causes them. This is my chance."

  "You'll get hung up in the trees." •

  "That's a risk I shall have to take."

  "What about Japs? There may be some down there." "I've got a gun in my pocket."

  "But don't be crazy. How are you going to get home?" "Walk, if necessary."

  "But we must be a hundred miles from the nearest of our troops. I can't pick you up.

  There ain't an open patch as big as a handkerchief within seeing distance." Tug spoke in a shrill, protesting voice.

  "All right, don't get excited," returned Biggles. "There is one way you can collect me, when I've seen what 1 want to see. Take a look at that river, about a mile away to the left."

  "What about it?"

  "I don't know how deep it is, but if it has any depth at all it should be possible to put down a seaplane or flying-boat on it. Now listen carefully. After I bale out I want you to return to base, going full bore. Tell Algy what has happened. Tell him to find Raymond and get him to requisition a marine aircraft of some sort from anywhere he likes. I believe the Calcutta Flying Club used to have some Moth seaplanes—but I'll leave that to Raymond. Whatever he gets, you come back in it and pick me up. And when I say you I mean you. Algy will probably want to come, but he's in charge at base and my orders are on no account is he to leave. This is tricky country, and having seen the spot you should recognize it again. Is that clear so far?"

  "Okay. Where do I pick you up, exactly?"

  "I shall be waiting by the river, on this bank, as near as I can get to the larger of those two islands you can see. They stand in a straight reach of river so it ought to be all right for landing. That island is the mark. Take a good look at it before you go because they may be similar islands higher up or lower down the river."

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  "Okay, skipper. Is there some way you can let me know if you get down all right?"

  "I've got my petrol lighter. I'll make a smoke signal. If you see smoke you'll know I'm on the carpet. Take over now, and glide across the crash. There doesn't seem to be any wind to speak of."

  They changed places and Biggles opened the escape hatch.

  Tug throttled back and began a run, at little more than stalling speed, towards the spot where the Hurricane had crashed.

  "Keep her as she goes," said Biggles. "That's fine. See you later." He disappeared into space.

  Tug pushed the throttle open, and having brought the aircraft to even keel banked slightly to get a view below. The parachute was floating down almost directly over the objective. He watched it sink lower and lower until eventually it remained stationary on the tree-tops.

  "My God! He's caught up! " he muttered through dry lips. He continued to circle, watching, and saw the fabric split as a broken branch poked through it. But he could not see Biggles. He could only suppose that he was suspended by the shrouds somewhere between the tree-tops and the ground. It was several minutes before a thin column of smoke drifted up.

  Tug drew a deep breath of relief, and "blipped" his engines as a signal that the smoke had been seen. He turned to the river. For a minute he cruised up and down making mental pictures of the island from all angles. Then, banking steeply, he raced away on a westward course.

  RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

  TUG'S fear that Biggles' parachute would be come caught up in the tree-tops was fully justified; it would only have been remarkable had it been otherwise. Biggles knew this, 48

  so he was not surprised when he found himself swinging in his harness below tangled shrouds and torn fabric some thirty feet above the fern-carpeted floor of the jungle. He was not unduly alarmed, being well satisfied that he himself had escaped injury. By pulling on a line to increase his swing he managed without any great difficulty to reach a bough. In five minutes he had slipped out of his harness and made a cautious descent to the ground, leaving the parachute in the trees, where, he realised, it was likely to remain.

  A party of monkeys, after chattering at the intrusion, swung quietly away.

  Perspiring profusely in the stagnant atmosphere from his exertions he mopped his face with his handkerchief, and after listening for a little while for sounds that might indicate danger, he made the smoke fire as arranged. His petrol lighter, an old letter from his pocket, and some sere undergrowth, provided the means. He heard Tug's answering signal, but he did not move until a fast-receding drone told him that the Mosquito was homeward bound. The sound died away and silence fell—a strange, oppressive silence, after the vibrant roar which had for so long filled his ears. Bracing himself for his ordeal, for he had no delusions about the harrowing nature of the task before him, he made his way to the crash. He had not far to go.

  The Hurricane was much in the condition he expected. Both wings had been torn off at their roots. One hung from a splintered bough a short distance from the wreck; the other, fractured in the middle and bent at right angles, lay near the fuselage. The blades of the airscrew had folded up and the boss had bored deep into the soft leaf-mould. The fuselage was the right way up, more or less intact. The only sound was a soft drip-drip-drip, as liquid
escaped from radiator, tank, or a broken petrol lead. Moistening his lips he walked on to the cockpit.

  The pilot, whom he did not know, a lad of about twenty with flaxen hair and blue eyes, was still in his seat. He was dead. No attempt had been made to use the parachute. A head wound, where his forehead had come into

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  contact with the instrument panel at the moment of impact, was alone sufficient to have caused death, which must have been instantaneous.

  Biggles lifted the limp body out, laid it on the ground and removed the identification disc. THOMAS GRAF ION MOORVEN, R.A.F., it read. He then took everything from the pockets—cigarette case, wallet, personal letters, some snapshots and some loose coins—and having made a little bundle of them in the handkerchief, put it on one side.

  This done, he paused again to mop his face, for the heat was stifling. It may have been the anger that surged through him, causing his fingers to tremble, that made the heat seem worse than it really was. Accustomed though he was to war, and death, there was something poignant about this particular tragedy that moved him strangely, making his eyes moist and bringing a lump into his throat. After months of training and eager anticipation the boy had travelled thousands of miles to meet his death without firing a shot. He had not even seen the enemy who had killed him, the weapon that had struck him down. Fully aware of the risks he was taking he had gone out willingly to seek the thing that had killed his comrades, only to meet the same fate, to die alone in the eternal solitude of a tropic forest. There would be no reward, no decoration for valour. Those at home would not even know how he died. This, thought Biggles, as he stood looking down on the waxen features, was not war. It was murder—and murder called for vengeance. His hand, he decided, would exact retribution, if the power were granted him.

  He drew a deep breath and set about the task for which he had descended.

  First, he examined the body thoroughly, but could find no wound, no mark that might have caused death, apart from those that were obviously the direct result of the crash.

  There was no sign of burning, such as might have resulted from an electrical discharge of some sort. He examined the eyes closely, and noticed that the pupils were dilated. This struck him as unusual, but neither his technical nor medical knowledge could help him to SO

  associate it with a cause of death. He made a mental note of it, however.

  He next turned to the aircraft, starting with the wings. He did not expect to find anything there, for had they in some mysterious way been fractured in the air he would have seen it before the machine crashed. They told him nothing, so he turned to the fuselage, beginning with the motor, paying particular attention to the ignition system. All electrical equipment seemed to be in perfect order. From airscrew to rudder he subjected the machine to such an inspection as he had never before devoted to any aircraft; yet for all his efforts he found nothing, no clue that might remotely suggest a solution to the mystery. Again mopping his face, and brushing away the mosquitoes that were attacking him, he returned to the cockpit. He had already been over it. He went over it again, methodically, but found nothing except normal equipment. He took the map from its recess, unfolded it, studied it on both sides, even smelt it. He was turning away when a small object on the floor, under the seat, caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a slip of paper, pink paper of the sort that is called greaseproof, about three inches square. There was

  printing on one side: WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF CHAR-

  NEYS, LTD., LONDON. NOT FOR SALE. SUPPLIED FOR THE

  USE OF H.M. FORCES ONLY. He raised the paper to his nostrils. It smelt faintly of mint. Smiling wanly he screwed the paper into a ball, tossed it aside and resumed his search.

  Finally, reluctantly, he gave up, no wiser than when he began. There was nothing more he could do, he decided. Tug might return at any time now, so he had better be making his way towards the river.

  One last problem, one that had been in the background of his mind all along, now demanded solution. The aircraft, of course, would have to be burnt, to prevent it from falling into the hands of the enemy. But what about the body? He had no implement with which to dig a grave. There seemed little point in carrying it to the river, even if this were possible. The undergrowth was so thick

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  that he alone, with both hands free, would find the operation difficult enough. Even if he succeeded in carrying the body to the river there would be the question of transport to the base. In any case it would involve prodigious labour and delay, which would jeopardise his life, and Tug's, for no reason outside sentiment. On the other hand he did not like the idea of leaving the body there to become the prey of creatures of the forest.

  He could think of only one method of disposing of it, and that was the way chosen by some of the greatest warriors of the past, the way of the Romans, the Vikings, the Indians. All reduced the bodies of their chiefs and warriors to ashes, burning their weapons, their war-horses, and their hounds with them. After all, many good airmen, including some of his best friends, had gone out that way, he reflected.

  Having steeled himself for this last grim ceremony, he was moving forward when voices at no great distance brought him to an abrupt halt, in a listening attitude. There was no doubt about the voices; with them came a trampling and crashing of undergrowth. Very soon it was clear that those responsible for the disturbance were approaching.

  Biggles drew back and found a perfect retreat among the giant fronds of a tree-fern. In doing this he was actuated by more than casual curiosity. It seemed possible, indeed it seemed likely, that the Hurricane had been seen to fall, in which case enemy troops would be sent out to locate it. There was just a chance that these men were part of the team that operated the secret weapon. If that were so they would be worth capturing for interrogation.

  The voices and the crashing drew nearer. The men seemed to be in a carefree mood.

  Biggles could not speak a word of Japanese, but he was in no doubt as to the nationality of the newcomers. He took out his automatic, examined it, and waited. The voices continued to approach.

  In a few minutes a man burst from the undergrowth.

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  He stopped when he saw the crash, and then let out a shrill cry. A second man joined him.

  Biggles was disappointed. They were ordinary Japanese soldiers, infantrymen, dirty, with the usual twigs attached to their shoddy uniforms for camouflage purposes. Both carried rifles and were smoking cigarettes. No other sounds came from the forest so it was fairly certain that they were alone.

  Their immediate reaction to the spectacle before them was not unnatural. They broke into an excited jabber as they walked on to the fuselage. When one of them pointed at the dead pilot and burst out laughing, after a momentary look of wonder Biggles frowned: friend or foe, to European eyes the sight was anything but funny. When one of them kicked the body every vestige of colour drained from his face. His lips came together in a hard line; his nostrils quivered. Still he did not move. But when one of the men, with what was evidently a remark intended to be jocular, bent down and inserted his cigarette between the dead pilot's lips, and then, shouting with laughter, stepped back to observe the effect. Biggles' pent-up anger could no longer he restrained.

  "You scum," he grated. The words were low, but distinct.

  The two Japanese spun round as if a shot had been fired. They stared in goggle-eyed amazement, no longer laughing, but fearful, as though confronted by a ghost—the ghost of the body they had violated. Superstitious by nature, they may have believed that.

  Biggles spoke again. "You utter swine," he breathed.

  This spurred the Japanese to movement. With a curious cry one of them threw up his rifle. Biggles fired. The man twitched convulsively. Again Biggles' automatic roared.

  The man's legs crumped under him; the rifle fell from his hands and he slumped, choking. The second man started to run. Quite dispassionately, without moving from his position, Biggles took deliberate aim and fired
. The Jap pitched forward on his face, but crying loudly started to get up. Biggles walked forward and with calculated 53

  precision fired two more shots at point-blank range. His lips were drawn back, showing the teeth. "You unspeakable thug," he rasped. The man lay still.

  As the echoes of the shots died away a hush fell, sullen, hot, heavy. The only sound was the hum of innumerable mosquitoes. For a few seconds, breathing heavily, the smoking pistol in his hand, Biggles stood gazing at the man he had shot. Then he walked quickly to the dead pilot, snatched the cigarette from his lips and hurled it aside.

  "Sorry about that, Tommy," he said quietly. "Sort of thing one doesn't expect," he added, as if he were talking to himself.

  Pocketing his pistol he picked up the body, placed it gently in the cockpit and closed the cover. Then, lighting a slip of paper he dropped it by a leaking petrol lead. Fire took hold, spreading rapidly. In a moment the forepart of the aircraft was wrapped in leaping flames.

  As Biggles stepped back his eyes fell on the Japanese. "We've no dogs, Tommy," he murmured; "these hellhounds are a poor substitute, but they'll have to do." Having confirmed that both were dead he dragged the bodies across the tail unit, which had not yet been reached by the flames, afterwards backing away quickly, for the ammunition belts were exploding their charges and bullets were flying. Picking up the handkerchief containing the dead pilot's belongings he walked to the edge of the clearing. There he turned and stiffened to attention. His right hand came up to the salute.

  "So long, Tommy," he said quietly. "Good hunting." -Then, without a backward glance he strode away through the jungle in the direction of the river.

  Behind him, to the roll of exploding ammunition, the smoke of the funeral pyre made a white column high against the blue of heaven. He realised that it might be seen by the enemy and bring them to the spot. He didn't care. He rather hoped it would. He was in the sort of mood when fighting would be a pleasure.

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  It took him the best part of an hour to reach the river, and lie was dripping with sweat when the turgid water cane into view. The only living things in sight were a small crocodile, lying on a mudflat, and a grey heron, perched on a dead limb overhanging the water. There was no sign of Tug. He was some distance above the island that he had chosen for the rendezvous, and it required another twenty minutes of labour, working along the river bank, to bring him in line with it. There was still no sign of Tug, so choosing the crest of a small escarpment for a seat, he lighted a cigarette and settled down to wait. There was nothing else to do. The mosquitoes were still with him. He brushed them away with a weary gesture and mopped his dripping face, which was still pale, and set in hard lines. The strain of the last two hours had been considerable.