26 Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by Captain W E Johns

  nose. It was the Defiant, the gunner in the rear seat crouching over his gun. Angus had arrived.

  Biggles took a deep breath, and looking around saw that the battle was over. A Spitfire was approaching from the north, gliding down to land. Two specks in the sky, fast disappearing, were all that remained of the Messerschmitts. Only he and the Defiant remained over the oasis, so after a last survey of the atmosphere he sideslipped down and landed. He was desperately anxious to know what had happened, for he had been too occupied to keep track of things. The Defiant followed him down.

  One of the first things he saw as he jumped from his machine was Tex, limping in from the desert. There was a crimson streak on his left cheek, and one sleeve of his tunic hung in rags; but his face was wreathed in smiles.

  'Suffering coyotes!' he cried deliriously. 'What a party!'

  'Are you all right?' asked Biggles sharply.

  'Sure I'm all right,' answered Tex cheerfully. 'More or less,' he added. Tye lost a bit of skin here and there.'

  'What about your machine?'

  Tex pointed to a heap of wreckage that lay some way off, from the middle of which a crumpled tail stuck derisively into the air. 'She's finished, I guess. I got one guy, but his pal hit me with a ton of bricks and I lost a wing.'

  Bertie taxied in and stood up in his cockpit, regard-ing Tex with disfavour through a glinting eyeglass. say, look here, I wish you'd look where you're going. Really, you know, you jolly nearly scalped me,' he said severely.

  The sight of a group of figures round the Defiant took Biggles to it at a run. A hush warned him of serious trouble, and a moment later he saw it. An air gunner, a corporal unknown to him, a fair lad with a boyish face, was being lifted carefully to the sand, where his head was pillowed on a parachute. His ashen face and a spreading crimson stain on the breast of his tunic told their own dire story. Angus, looking very upset, bent over him.

  Biggles pushed his way to the front and dropped on his knees beside the wounded gunner Looking up over his shoulder at Angus he said quietly: 'Who is it?'

  'Boy from Wadi Haifa,' answered Angus in a broken voice. 'He volunteered to come with me. I thought I'd better have a gunner in case I ran into trouble. I wish now— '

  'Wishing doesn't help anybody,' interrupted Biggles softly. 'You've nothing to reproach yourself with, Angus. These things will happen in a war, you know.'

  He turned to the wounded man. Grey eyes looked into his own apologetically.

  'Sorry, sir,' came in a faint whisper from the pallid lips.

  'Sorry? What about?' asked Biggles.

  'About giving you—this—trouble.'

  'No need to worry about that,' replied Biggles gently. He had looked on similar scenes too often to deceive himself. He knew it was only a matter of minutes. There was nothing he could do—nothing anyone could do.

  got—one,' whispered the dying gunner, with a twisted smile. 'He fired first—but I got—

  him.'

  'Yes, you got him,' agreed Biggles—a fact which Angus confirmed.

  Nobody else spoke.

  'That's good enough—for me," breathed the airman. 'Wish I could have stayed—and seen—things through. I always wanted—to be—in your squadron—sir.'

  'You're in it,' said Biggles, forcing a smile.

  'Reckon I'm—booked—for topsides —sir.'

  reckon we all are,' answered Biggles grimly. 'It's just a matter of who goes first. Someone has to make a reconnaissance for the others.'

  'That's right—sir.'

  For a little while there was silence, while the sun sank behind the oasis in a sea of gold, causing the palms to throw out long shadows like arms towards the little group. The boy muttered once or twice as his mind wandered, while the light faded from his eyes, serenely, as it faded from the sky. Then with a little sigh his head dropped into Biggles'

  arms.

  Biggles laid the head gently on the parachute and stood up.

  'That's all,' he said.

  shouldn't ha' brought the lad,' blurted Angus.

  'Forget it,' Biggles told him calmly. 'This is war, not kindergarten. To-day it was the boy'

  s bad luck. To-morrow it may be me—or you. You know that. He didn't bleat about it.

  Neither, I hope, shall we, when our turn comes.' He turned to the flight-sergeant. 'All right,' he said in a normal voice. 'Carry him in. We'll bury him to-night. All ranks will attend. By the way, what happened to the bomber?'

  'Went into the ground with the engine full on, sir. Everyone in it must have been killed.'

  Biggles nodded. 'Better bring in the enemy casualties.

  They can be buried at the same time. I want all officers in the mess tent, please. We'll have a check up. You'd better come along, too, Flight-Sergeant, when you've given your orders.'

  Through the quickly-fading twilight, Biggles, with the others following, led the way to the tent.

  Chapter 13

  Biggles Takes His Turn

  When they were inside the tent Tex was the first to speak. `How about von Zoyton?' he asked. 'Was he among the people we shot down?'

  'No,' answered Biggles, shortly.

  `How do you know that?'

  'Because I fancy that had von Zoyton been over some of us might not now be here. I've seen him fly, and there was nothing like his tactics in this evening's affair. You'll find he didn't come. He was probably exhausted after his night in the desert. He'll be over soon, though, now he knows how short we are of machines.'

  `How can he know we are short?' demanded Bertie.

  'Because we only put up three Spitfires against seven hostile machines this afternoon.

  Von Zoyton isn't a fool. Obviously, he will know perfectly well that if we had had more we should have used them.'

  'Of course—absolutely—I didn't think of that,' mut-tered Bertie. 'Good thing you're here to do the thinking.'

  Biggles pulled out a camp chair 'Sit down, every-body, and we'll see how things look. I still don't know exactly how the show finished. All I know is we're down to two Spitfires, and they both need patching—at least, mine does. The tail looks like a sieve. Von Zoyton can't have many machines left, either. He'll have still fewer, I hope, when we've had our innings.'

  The check-up, to which the flight sergeant largely contributed, for he had watched the whole thing from the ground, revealed that the battle had been won at really very small cost. They had lost only one man killed, the volunteer gunner of the Defiant. Tex had been slightly hurt. A cannon shell had exploded in his cockpit tearing a nasty gash in his face; he had also wrenched the muscles of a leg when landing by para-chute. His machine was destroyed. The two other Spit-fires had been damaged, but both were serviceable. On the German side the bomber had been destroyed and its three occupants killed. Three Messerschmitt 109's had also been destroyed for certain, all the pilots being killed. One, apparently, had baled out, but his para-chute had not opened. Another 109, the one that had been chased by Bertie, had been damaged, and might not have reached its base. Bertie had abandoned the pursuit when he had run out of ammunition. The two remaining Messerschmitts had presumably got home. If von Zoyton had come on the show he must have been in one of these, for his body was not among the Nazi dead; Biggles was convinced, however, that he had not been with the attacking formation.

  'It comes to this,' he said, at the end of the summing up. 'We're down to the two Spitfires and the Defiant. Von Zoyton has lost more than we have, but he started with more; at this moment he must be short of machines—unless, of course, he is in a position to call up reinforcements. He won't hesitate to do that if he can get some. One of the outstanding Nazi character-istics is vanity, and it would be gall and wormwood for him to have to admit that we got the better of him. He'll do anything rather than allow that to happen.'

  'What are you going to do about it?' asked Algy.

  'Two Spitfires and a Defiant isn't much of a striking force.'

  'You're right; it isn't. I'd like to get the four Spits
that are at Karga over here right away, but I'm not clear as to how it can be done.'

  'We could use the Defiant to take people to Karga—'

  'Yes, I know,' interrupted Biggles, 'but I wanted the Defiant for another purpose. You see, even if we got the four Spitfires here it wouldn't prevent the Nazis from putting up their magnetic disturbance in the morning and throwing the air liner off its course. As a matter of fact, I had formed a plan when the Nazis came over this afternoon, and I feel inclined to go on with it.' Biggles lit a cigarette before continuing.

  'This is my idea. The scheme has for its first objective the destruction of the Nazi electrical equipment. If we can do that we not only put an end to this compass juggling, but we silence von Zoyton's radio. If that part of the programme was successful, and conditions were favourable, I should strike right away at a second objec-tive. As I told you, the Nazis are holding a Rapide which they forced down intact while it was flying over the route. I should try to get the Rapide, and collecting the prisoners at the same time bring them home in it. That would not only remove the handicap which prevents us from shooting up von Zoyton's base, but would provide us with a transport machine which we need badly. Then, with the prisoners out of the way, and the Karga Spitfires here, we could keep Wadi Umbo on the jump, and at the same time keep the air clear over the route. Make no mistake, as things stand, now von Zoyton knows where we are, Salima is going to be anything but a health resort. I'm sorry to be so long-winded about all this, but I always try to ensure that everyone knows how things are going. Now we know what we want, let us consider ways and means of putting it over.

  'We can't shoot up the Nazis for reasons which I have already explained. That means the job has to be done on the ground. I propose to do it myself, not because I don't think any of you could do it, but because I know just where the lorries are parked. This is the programme as I've mapped it out in my mind. If anyone sees a weak spot, say so. Zero hour will be twelve midnight. At eleven o'clock Algy will fly the Defiant to a point near Wadi Umbo where Ginger and I will bale out. Algy will then return home. At twelve midnight the show will open with Bertie and Tug, in the two Spitfires, shooting up Wadi Umbo aerodrome but keeping away from the southern end of the oasis to avoid hitting the prisoners. They will make as much noise as possible. Under cover of the confusion that should result from this effort, Ginger and I will slip into the oasis. I shall tackle the lorries. Ginger will go to the Rapide and get ready to start up when I arrive. If I see a chance I shall collect the prisoners before joining Ginger in the Rapide, which will take off and fly to Salima. When the two Spitfires see the Rapide take off they also will return home. The Rapide will land here, and as soon as convenient fly on to Karga, taking four pilots to bring back the Spitfires. That's a broad outline of the scheme. Of course, it has one weak point. If Ginger and I can't get the Rapide we shan't be able to fly home, but as far as I can see there's no alternative. We daren't risk a night landing in the Defiant, in unknown country, with rock all over the

  place. The Nazis have cleared an area for an aero-drome, but we could hardly use that.

  Any questions?'

  'But what about the rest of us, look you?' cried Taffy, in a pained voice. 'Don't we get in the game whatso-ever?'

  'Angus can't come because he'll have to remain in charge here. Someone will have to stay, and I say Angus because he had been in the air most of the day and must be dead beat. Tex, with a wounded head and a game leg, is in no condition to fly.'

  'That still leaves me, Ferocity and Henry,' Taffy pointed out. 'Can't we do something useful?'

  'You can form three of the party to go to Karga in the Rapide to fetch the Spitfires,'

  suggested Biggles.

  'We could do that anyway,' complained Taffy. was thinking about the big show.'

  'All right. I'll tell you what you can do,' offered Biggles. 'Walk to the armoured car, taking a working party, and dig it out. If you can't get it out, or if the engine is dud, you'll have a nice stroll home again in the moonlight. If it's all right you can patrol between here and Wadi Umbo in case anyone has to make a forced landing. If you start right away you should have the car dear before midnight.'

  seem to do nothing but chase round the landscape in that perishing battle-wagon,'

  growled Taffy.

  can't give you an aircraft because I haven't any,' Biggles pointed out. Then he smiled. '

  After all, you left your Spitfire at Karga when you came here—without orders. Had you remained at your station I could now have sent you a signal to fly over and join in the fun and games.'

  'All right, sir, you win,' agreed Taffy. 'Come on, Henry; come on, Ferocity! Let's go and examine von Zoyton's tin chariot.'

  'If we can get the four Spitfires here by morning we'll give von Zoyton the shock of his life if, as I think, he's worked it out that we're down to two machines,' declared Biggles. '

  Now let's synchronise our watches and polish up the details of the scheme. In a show like this perfect timing is essential.'

  With the scheme afoot the time passed quickly. The melancholy business of the funerals took up a certain amount of time, as did the evening meal, and it was after ten before all these things had been cleared up. Taffy, Ferocity and Henry, with spades on their shoulders, had long ago set off for the abandoned car. In the end they had decided to do the work themselves rather than take from the oasis airmen who were work-ing full time on the two Spitfires, both of which needed attention.

  Silence utter and complete lay over the desert when, just before eleven, the operating machines were wheeled out to the open sand in readiness for the raid. The great African moon gleamed like polished silver in a cloudless sky. The palms of the oasis, weary after their battle with the sun, hung silently at rest.

  'It's going to be a bit of a squash, I'm afraid,' remarked Biggles to Ginger, as they walked over to the Defiant.

  'We'll get in somehow,' said Ginger.

  'When we bale out, follow me down as quickly as you can,' went on Biggles. 'We don't want to land too far apart.'

  'How do you want me to fly?' inquired Algy.

  'Take her up to twenty thousand. Cut your engine and glide when I give the word. We want to get as

  close as we can, but it won't do for the enemy to hear us. When we've baled out, turn and glide away; try not to use your engine until you are out of earshot of "the aerodrome.'

  Algy nodded. 'Okay. I get it.'

  Biggles finished his cigarette and stamped the stub into the sand. He looked at his watch.

  'All right,' he said, 'let's be going.'

  Algy climbed into his seat. Biggles and Ginger followed, and wedged themselves in the gunner's cockpit—the gun had been removed to make more room.

  The engine came to life, shattering the silence and swirling sand in little clouds across the desert. The aircraft began to move forward, slowly at first but with swiftly increasing speed. The tail lifted. Then the Defiant rose with the grace of a bird towards the dome of heaven. Picking up its course it continued to nose its way upward, without effort, each succeeding thou-sand feet of height thrusting the horizon ever farther away. At first the sand had glistened faintly to the stars, but from fifteen thousand feet the aircraft appeared scarcely to move across a bowl of immense size, the interior of which was as dull and lifeless as the surface of the moon. Indeed, the picture presented reminded Ginger of those he had seen of the moon, photographed through a telescopic lens. Oases were represented by dark spots that might have been no more than clumps of moss. All detail was lost. The only landmark was the ancient slave trail which, as straight as a railway track, crept up over the rim of the world to cut a tragic scar across its face before disappearing into the mysterious shadows that veiled the northern horizon. And still the aircraft thrust its

  way towards stars that seemed to hang like fairy lamps from a ceiling of purple velvet.

  Biggles spoke to Algy. 'Level out and cut the engine,' he ordered. 'There's Wadi Umbo ahead. Five minutes w
ill do it.'

  As the nose came down the drone of the engine died away to a sibilant whisper. The aircraft glided on through a lonely sky, leaving no more sign of its passing than a fish in deep water. Biggles, his face expression-less, watched the ground. The minutes passed slowly, as they always do in the air. But at last he turned to Ginger.

  'Let's go,' he said. 'Give me three seconds to get clear. We should be able to see each other when we get on the floor.' To Algy he said, 'So long—see you later.'

  Algy nodded. He did not speak.

  Biggles climbed out, slid a little way along the fuse-lage, and then dropped off into space.

  Ginger could see him falling like a stone as he climbed on the fuselage and followed his leader into the void. The experience was no novelty, and as soon as his parachute had opened he looked around calmly to make out what appeared to be a mushroom, a thousand feet below and about a quarter of a mile behind in the track of the aircraft. After that there was nothing more to do but wait while the brolly lowered him gently through the atmosphere.

  There was no wind, so he knew that he was dropping vertically. Not that there was any sensation of falling. He appeared to be suspended in space. In fact, he was not conscious of any sensation at all, except perhaps one of loneliness. He appeared to be alone in the world. The silence was uncanny. It was some time before the details of the desert, such as they were, began to draw nearer and take shape. As far as he could make out he would touch down, as was intended, between two and three miles short of the objective, the oasis that lay like a dark stain on a grey cloth.

  Then, suddenly, came a feeling of falling, for no other reason than because the earth seemed to rise swiftly to meet him, and he bent his knees to take the shock of landing. He watched the ground with some apprehen-sion, for he knew that if he struck rock instead of sand it might mean a broken bone. But as it happened all was well, and he landed on the sand as gently as he could ever remember alighting. He did not even fall. The silk, as