For a minute or two Ginger lay where he had thrown himself, his brain in a whirl at this unexpected develop-ment. 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' 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 pres-ently. 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 Fer-ocity.
Òh, 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. To-morrow ought to see the showdown. Let's get home.'
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 Smyth 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 air-borne troops for no other purpose. We know now how the Nazis do this operation. The Junk-ers 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 para-troops get on the ground in this oasis, we're sunk. They carry grenades, flame-throwers, sub-machine 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.'
'Do you think you are fit to fly?' asked Ginger anxi-ously.
shall fly one of the Spitfires,' answered Biggles coldly. 'You will fly the other, because you know better than anyone else how I work in a case like this. Taffy, you will fly the Defiant. Sorry, Tex, but you and Henry will have to take charge of things on the ground.
Don't look so glum; if those Nazis get their feet on the floor you'll have plenty to do, believe me. The three aircraft will leave the ground in fifteen minutes. That's all. Now go and get cleaned up. Ginger, Taffy, Ferocity, stand fast.'
After the others had filed out, Biggles turned to those who were to fly. 'This looks like being a tough show,' he said. shall, of course, try to spring a surprise, for which reason I shall take you up to the ceiling. The Messerschmitts are bound to fly above the Junkers. I aim to go right down through them, which should upset them, if only for a few seconds.
In a show like this seconds count. I shall go after the Junkers. The others will do what they can to keep the Messerschmitts off my tail. In your case, Taffy, I think your best plan would be to adopt the tactics Ball brought to a fine art in the last war. He used to throw himself straight into the middle of the enemy formation and then skid all over the sky, browning the whole bunch, and generally acting as though his idea was to ram anyone who got in his way. If you can get the enemy split up they'll have to watch each other to prevent collisions. Make the most of that. Ginger, do what you can to keep my tail clear while I deal with the Junkers. I'll meet you at the machines in ten minutes.'
Biggles had a new dressing put on his head, and a quick wash, which freshened him up considerably. When he went out he found the oasis a hive of activity. Arms were being distributed and men posted at stra-tegical points. Airmen were struggling under loads of ammunition. Biggles made a quick round of the defences, and then joined Ginger, Taffy and Ferocity at the machines. For a little while, smoking a cigarette, he gazed at the eastern horizon; but as soon as the first pale flush of dawn appeared he trod his cigarette into the ground.
'Come on,' he said. Ìt's going to be heavy going while it lasts, but it sho
uldn't last long.
To-day will see the end of either Salima or Wadi Umbo. When we sight the enemy stay close to me until I give the signal to peel off.'
Biggles swung himself into his cockpit and started the engine; he sat still for a few seconds with his engine idling, and then roared into air which, at that hour, was as soft as milk. Swinging round slowly towards the northwest he settled down to climb.
The radiance behind him became a living flame, and when some minutes later the rim of the sun showed above the horizon to put out the last lingering stars he smiled faintly with satisfaction. It was dawn. According to his calculations, Algy and the Karga Spitfires were still a hundred miles away, but every passing minute knocked five miles off the intervening distance. A glance at his altimeter showed that he was now at twenty thousand feet, but he continued to climb until Salima was no more than a lonely islet in an ocean of sand that rolled away to infinity Ahead, the sky was clear. Biggles examined it methodically, above and below, section by section, for the tiny black specks that would be his first view of the enemy; but they were not in sight. At twenty-two thousand he turned on the oxygen and went on up to twenty-five thousand, at the same time turning a few miles to the north of a straight line between the two oases. Not for a moment did he relax in his ceaseless scrutiny of the sky. His face was like a mask, expressionless. Only his eyes seemed alive.
At last he saw what he was looking for. He spotted the four Junkers first; they were flying a good deal lower than he expected, not higher, he judged, than six thousand feet.
Five thousand feet above them, and about a mile behind, four Messerschmitt 109's followed the same course, like sharks in the wake of a convoy. Where were the rest?
Lifting his eyes Biggles saw three
more machines, perhaps five thousand feet above and a mile behind, the middle layer.
All were on a straight course for Salima. Biggles had anticipated this, which was why he had edged to the north. He was anxious to avoid being seen before he struck. The Nazis had adopted a typical battle formation; there was nothing about it to make him change his plans
As the top layer drew near he frowned. There was something odd about them. Then he saw what it was. They were not all the same type. The leading machine was a Messerschmitt 109 F., an improvement on the 109. This settled one question. If von Zoyton was in the party he would be in the new machine. Where the aircraft had come from Biggles did not know, nor did he care. The machine was there, and that was all that mattered. With the Nazi ace at the joystick it was far and away the most formidable member of the hostile force, worth, probably half a dozen ordinary Messer-schmitt 109's flown by pilots of average ability.
The enemy machines were still flying straight towards Salima. Biggles allowed them to pass. He felt sure that not one of the Nazis had seen the three British machines sitting nine thousand feet above them, or some move would have been made, some signal given.
Von Zoyton would have placed himself between them and his vulnerable troop carriers.
Once behind them, Biggles knew that there would be still less chance of discovery, for von Zoyton and his pack, if expecting trouble, would look for it ahead, in the direction of Salima; so Biggles swung round in a wide half-circle that brought him about two miles behind the enemy machines, on the same course, and still well above. He moistened his lips and braced his body. The time had come. He turned his head to look at Ginger and Taffy
in turn. They were both watching him. He nodded. Then, with his lips set in a straight line by the strain of the impending action he thrust the control column forward. With a wail of protest the nose of the Spitfire tilted down until it was in line with the top layer of enemy machines. Speed, now, was what he needed, if he was to reach his real objective—the four Junkers troop carriers, which from his height looked like four bloated locusts crawling across the dunes.
Forward and still farther forward Biggles thrust the joystick, the needle of the speed indicator keeping a quivering record of his rate of dive. The top layer of Messerschmitts seemed to float up towards him as the distance closed between them. At any moment now von Zoyton might glance in his reflector and see what was coming down behind him, but so far he had not moved. The 109 F. was still cruising on even keel. Biggles could see every detail of the machine clearly. He studied it dispassionately, noting that von Zoyton had even found time to paint his nose and rudder blue; but his hand made no move towards the firing button. For the moment he was not concerned with Messerschmitts; his target was the machines that alone could wipe out Salima beyond recovery. His Spitfire, nearly vertical, flashed past the noses of the three Messer-schmitts.
He went straight on down towards the second forma-tion. He knew that von Zoyton would be tearing after him now, but confident that the Nazi could not over-take him before he reached the Junkers he did not trouble to look back. If all the three Messerschmitts were on his tail, as he guessed they would be, they would have to be careful to avoid collision with the second layer when he went through it. In this way he was for the moment making their superior numbers a handicap, not an asset.
He flashed past the middle layer of the four 109's like a streak of lightning and the Junkers lay clear below, as helpless as whales basking on a calm sea. Down—down—
down he tore, his airscrew howling like a lost soul in agony. A glance in the reflector now revealed a sight that brought a mirthless smile to his lips. The sky behind seemed full of machines, some near, some far, but all following the line of his meteoric drive.
Satisfied thai he had achieved his object in throwing the Messerschmitts into a confusion from which they would take a minute to recover, he took the nearest Junkers in his sights. But he held his fire. The range was still too long, and he had no ammunition to waste on chancy shooting.
Not until he was within five hundred feet did his hand move to the firing button. Then his guns flamed, and the Spitfire vibrated under the weight of metal it discharged. His face did not change expression as he saw his tracers cutting white lines through the air into the fat body of the troop carrier. A fraction less pressure on the control column and the hail of bullets crept along the fuselage to the cockpit. Splinters flew before their shattering impact. A tiny spark of fire appeared, glowing ever brighter.
Biggles waited for no more. A touch on the rudder-bar brought his nose in line with the leading Junkers. Again his guns spat death. Again splinters flew as his bullets ripped through the swastika-decorated machine, which staggered drunkenly before making a swerving turn, nose down.
So close was Biggles by this time that he had to pull up sharply to avoid collision. While in the zoom, the
grunt of guns behind him made him kick out his left foot, which brought him skidding round as though struck by a whirlwind. He had a fleeting view of a 109 as it flashed past.
He jerked up his nose, fired a quick burst at it, and then snatched a glance around to see what was happening.
The picture presented was one that only a fighter pilot sees. The sky was full of aircraft, banking, diving and zooming, as much to avoid collision as to take aim. From the eddying core of the dogfight a number of machines appeared to have been flung out. A Messer-schmitt was going down in flames. Another Messersch-mitt and the Defiant, locked in a ghastly embrace, were flat-spinning earthward. There was no one in the cockpit of the Defiant. From the Messerschmitt the pilot was just scrambling out. Flung aft by the slip-stream he hurtled against the tail unit and bounced off into space. A Spitfire and the blue-nosed 109 F were waltzing round each other. Von Zoyton seemed to be trying to break away, but every time he straightened out the Spitfire dashed in, guns blazing, forcing him to turn. Below, only two Junkers were in sight. They were some distance apart. One was making for the oasis, nose down; the other was circling as if the pilot could not make up his mind what to do. All this Biggles saw in an instant of time.
Without hesitation he roared down after the Junkers that was still heading for Salima.
Again he held his fi
re until the last moment, and then poured in a long, deadly burst. The bullets missed the fuselage at which he aimed; they struck the port wing near the root, and the effect was as if the wing had encountered a bandsaw. It began to bend upwards.
The slight play at the tip, always perceptible in a big metal wing, became a regular flap, horrible to watch. Then the sheet metal began to tear like paper; the wing broke clean off, and whirling aft, passed so close to Biggles before he could turn that he flinched, thinking that it must strike him. The Junkers rolled on its side, while from the cabin, in quick succession, the para-troops dived into space.
Biggles turned away, and looking for the last surviv-ing troop carrier saw that it had gone on, and had nearly reached Salima. Below and behind it parachutes were hanging in the air like scraps of paper wind-blown. It had succeeded, or almost succeeded, in its allotted task, and there was nothing he could do about it—except hope that those at the oasis would be able to deal with any paratroops that managed to reach it. His anxiety on this score was shortlived, and he smiled when he saw the armoured car burst from the trees and race towards the place where the paratroops would land.
Satisfied, he turned away. His head was now aching unmercifully, and he was almost overcome by a fit of nausea. He knew that he had been flying on his nerves; that he had already overtaxed his physical strength and was not in a condition to carry on the fight; yet he could not bring himself to leave the air to a victori-ous enemy. Worried by a growing sense of unreality he began to fear that he might faint. There seemed to be very few machines about, and these were widely scattered; but he could still see four Messerschmitts. One was retiring, but the other three were converging on him. Where was Ginger? Glancing down he was just in time to see the Spitfire strike the ground flat on the bottom of its fuselage, bounce high, stall, and then bury its nose in the yielding sand. Ginger was out of the fight.
26 Biggles Sweeps The Desert Page 15
