Biggles Flies North

by W E Johns

  ‘Sure I will. We shan’t get very fat out of it, but on the off-chance of you developing into a big concern we’ll take a gamble on it—if you’ll give us a contract and a monopoly.’

  ‘Sounds fair to me,’ agreed Canwell. ‘I’ll think that over and give you an answer tomorrow. You’ll stay here the night, I reckon?’

  Biggles looked at the sun. ‘How much daylight have I got left?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean—how much daylight?’

  ‘Well, what time will it get dark?’

  ‘In about a week or ten days it will get properly dark, not before.’

  Enlightenment burst upon Biggles. He realized that they were so far north that the disc of the sun did not drop below the horizon for the whole twenty-four hours, until it went for good for the long winter months. This meant that he could continue on his way without being overtaken by darkness.

  ‘How far is it to Eskimo Island?’ he asked.

  ‘Best part of five hundred miles—as you travel.’ Biggles was relieved. He had supposed that it was even further.

  ‘What direction?’ he asked.

  ‘Due north as near as makes no difference—why, what’s the idea? There’s only two white men north of us here—Angus Stirling and Mose Jacobs. There aren’t two, now I come to think. Mose has gone out for grub.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I know. Mose won’t be coming back, either.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was murdered last night.’

  ‘The deuce he was!’

  ‘Angus is expecting him back before freeze-up. Well, he won’t be coming, which means that if Angus gets snowed in without grub, he’s a goner.’

  ‘By thunder! You’re right there,’ declared Canwell. ‘Poor old Angus. He’s a bit daft, but I’d be sorry to see him go. Who’s paying you to take the grub up?’

  ‘Paying me? Nobody. You don’t suppose I’d let a man die unless some one paid me to save him, do you?’

  ‘Nice work, feller. Can I help?’

  ‘You’ve got petrol here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then that’s all I want. I’ll give Angus his grub, or bring him back if he decides not to stop on.’

  ‘He won’t come, I reckon. If I was you I’d drop the stuff overboard near his shack; that’d save you landing.’

  ‘I shall land if I can.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got a paper I want.’

  Canwell’s eyes clouded with suspicion. ‘What sort of paper?’

  ‘Wilkinson bought his landing-ground off Angus but Angus forgot to hand over the transfer. We’ve got a fellow trying to jump our claim—’

  ‘Meanin’ McBain?’

  ‘Quite right. If we get the transfer we can ask him to find his own field.’

  Canwell nodded understandingly. ‘I get you,’ he said. ‘I heard something from Wilkinson about this dirty deal he’s trying to put over. Well, you can handle my stuff in future —always provided that you are here on time to take it. Gold doesn’t earn nothin’ till it’s in the bank, you understand, so the sooner it’s in, the better. We can’t afford to leave it lying about here. I aim to have a big shipment boxed ready to travel tomorrow, so if you’re here you can take it down. I guess you’ll be tired, though, if you’re going up to Angus’s shack.’

  ‘Not too tired,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘Fine. I shall expect you back here to-morrow, then. But whatever happens the metal’s got to go to the bank, you understand that?’

  ‘You mean—if I’m not here and McBain is, he’ll take the stuff?’

  ‘That’s what I mean. My job is to make this concern show a profit, so personal tastes don’t come into it.’

  ‘Naturally.’ For a moment Biggles was tempted to warn Canwell to be careful of McBain, but he thought better of it, realizing that the traffic manager was the sort of man who would take offence at any attempt to undermine a rival’s character.

  Biggles therefore turned away and attended to the refuelling of the machine. By the time this was completed Canwell had gone back to his work, so Biggles and Ginger climbed into their seats ready to renew their flight northwards.

  ‘The thing that beats me,’ muttered Biggles as he started the engines, ‘is how Sarton got back past us without us seeing him.’

  ‘He might have gone on to where we are going,’ suggested Ginger.

  Biggles started. ‘Gosh! I never thought of that,’ he admitted. ‘Still, I don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘If he got to Angus first and induced him to part with the paper we should find it difficult to get it back.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Well, we shall see.’ He turned and looked Ginger straight in the face. ‘You know, kid, I really ought to leave you here.’

  Ginger opened his eyes wide. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I imagine that the country we shall have to fly over is pretty grim; the sort that if we do hit trouble and have to come down, there’ll be no getting off again. I doubt if we should be able to get back on our feet. Some of these tough lads, like Angus and Mose, might, but we’re not used to it. We—’

  ‘Just give her the gun and let’s get off,’ broke in Ginger impatiently. ‘We’re wasting time.’

  A ghost of a smile played about Biggles’s lips for a moment. Then he lifted a shoulder in an expressive gesture. His left hand felt for the throttle, and in a moment or two the big machine was nosing up into the sky, which had taken on a dull, leaden hue.

  ‘Canwell was right when he said we had no time to lose,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  Biggles nodded towards the sky. ‘Take a look at that. It’s going to snow before very long—and when it starts it’s going to snow for a long, long time.’

  A Grim Encounter

  FOR MORE THAN TWO HOURS Biggles held the Jupiter on its northerly course, flying by compass since there were no landmarks—or rather, no landmarks which could be identified. For the most part the land below appeared to be a sterile wilderness, broken up frequently by mountain groups and ranges, depressing in their utter desolation, their flanks scarred by forbidding glaciers. Several times he made rapid calculations on his writing block, checking compass variation, as was necessary so near the Pole.

  At length the ground became concealed under wide stretches of snow, or ice—they could not tell which. These stretches became wider and wider in extent until at last they merged into a continuous landscape of dull white. The sun appeared to be resting, motionless, on a horizon, flooding the scene with a wan light. Stars appeared in the heavens, glittering like chips of blue ice, but it did not get darker.

  Ginger shivered suddenly, conscious of a terrifying solitude. He thought of Angus, and marvelled that any man should choose to live in such a place of death, even with the possibility of finding a fortune in gold.

  He was about to remark on this to Biggles when a sound reached his ears that caused every muscle in his body to stiffen. He had heard the sound before and knew what it was. It was the unmistakable rattle of a machine-gun. Before he could move, almost before he had thought of moving, the sound came again, this time much more distinctly, and almost simultaneously the Jupiter quivered as if it had been struck by a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  Ginger’s throat turned dry, and the next instant he was clinging desperately to his seat as the Jupiter soared upwards in a wild climbing turn. Bracing himself against the side of the cabin, he looked out of the window, and was just in time to see a Weinkel Transport go tearing past. The window nearest to him was open, and from it projected what appeared to be a short black stick, from the end of which danced a tiny streak of flame. Behind it was the face of the half-breed Chicot, his lips curled back from his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl.

  ‘Use the signal pistol—it’s all we’ve got.’ Biggles’s voice was like cracking ice.

  Ginger glanced at him and saw that his face was white; his eyes glittered curiously.

  ‘Get a move on,’ contin
ued Biggles. ‘I’ll try to put you into position for a shot. If you can hit ‘em it may set ‘em alight. You might hit a prop.’

  A signal pistol against a machine-gun! Even Ginger was experienced enough to know that the odds were nearly hopeless. ‘Need we stop and fight?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘They’ve got the legs of us by ten miles an hour,’ was the curt reply. ‘Use your pistol. Careful you don’t fall out—I may have to throw the machine about.’

  Ginger snatched the short large-bored signal pistol from its pocket, and taking one of the thick cartridges from its loop, thrust it into the breech. Forcing the hammer back with his thumb so that the weapon was at full cock, he put his arm through the window and waited. All he could see was sky, but the pressure inside his stomach—a force that seemed to glue him to his seat—told him that the machine was in a tight climbing turn.

  Suddenly the Weinkel flashed into view, travelling like a meteor in the opposite direction, streaks of orange flame dancing from the muzzle of Chicot’s gun.

  Ginger took swift aim and fired, and knew at once that he had missed. A ball of green fire flashed across the nose of the other machine.

  Sarton, the pilot, must have seen it coming, for he swerved sharply, which probably spoilt Chicot’s aim. As he reloaded Ginger heard the burst of bullets strike the Jupiter somewhere near the tail.

  In an instant the Weinkel had disappeared from his field of view, and he could only wait for it to reappear. It needed all his strength to brace himself against the window, for the Jupiter was never still for a moment. Subconsciously he wondered how long the heavy transport machine could stand such handling without falling to pieces.

  Again the Weinkel whirled into view, this time coming at him almost head-on. The half-breed was no longer at the window. Apparently he had decided that from the cabin his field of fire was too restricted, so he had climbed up so that the top half of his body projected through the upper part of the fuselage between the wings, a position from which he would be able to fire in any direction.

  Ginger realized at once the advantages of this all-round gun-platform, and determined to copy it if his shot missed. He took careful aim at the oncoming machine; unluckily for him, just as his finger was tightening on the trigger, a bullet struck the window frame near his face, and a tiny splinter stung his cheek, causing him to flinch, with the result that his shot went wide. In a flash, following his shot, for which Biggles had waited, the Jupiter whirled upwards and the Weinkel was hidden from view.

  Ginger scrambled back into the cabin and grabbed the remaining cartridges—there were only four—and thrust them into his pocket.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ snapped Biggles.

  ‘I’m going outside,’ returned Ginger crisply.

  ‘Hang on tight.’

  ‘I’ll watch it.’

  Another moment and Ginger had flung back the emergency trap in the roof and was climbing out. With one hand gripping the edge of the trap, and the pistol ready in the other, he looked round for the attacking machine, and saw it on the opposite side of the narrow circle round which both aircraft were racing. The icy blast of the slipstream smote his face and tore at his body as if he had been naked, and he knew that he would not be able to endure the exposure for long without becoming frozen. Furthermore, it was as much as he could do to hang on, for the Jupiter did not maintain a straight course for a moment, for which reason, no doubt, Chicot had failed to score a vital hit.

  Twice Biggles took the big machine into position for a shot, but each time the tearing slipstream spoilt his aim. However, it had this effect; the erratic movements of the Weinkel showed that Sarton was nervous of being hit by a missile which would probably send him down in flames, and his jumpiness, combined with Biggles’s manoeuvring, made Chicot’s task no easy one.

  Ginger had now only two cartridges left, and determined to make the most of them. He had his automatic, of course, and he knew that Biggles also had one, but he also knew that in air combat such weapons are practically useless. His first chance came when Biggles whirled like lightning and tore straight under the Weinkel, passing under it so close that Ginger instinctively ducked, thinking that he was likely to be knocked out of the Jupiter by the Weinkel’s undercarriage. He fired straight up, but the shot, failing to strike a rigid member, went slap through the fabric and out the other side without doing any more damage than making a neat hole which did not affect the Weinkel’s performance.

  With the tears that the icy blast forced from his eyes freezing on his cheeks, he thrust his last cartridge into the breech. He had to put the pistol in his pocket in order to hang on with both hands while Biggles did an Immelmann turn, but he grabbed the weapon again as the Jupiter came out in the position this manoeuvre is designed to effect—on the tail of the opposing machine.

  Sarton must have known that Biggles was screaming down on his tail, and in his panic dived to such an extent that, although Chicot continued to fire short bursts at the Jupiter, now not more than twenty yards from his tail, he could not properly control the jumping gun.

  Ginger clenched his teeth, and taking deliberate aim, fired down between the whirling circles of the Jupiter’s propellers. To his dismay the cartridge misfired. As quickly as his numbed fingers would permit he opened the breech, moved the cartridge slightly so that the firing-pin would strike another place, and fired again. Once more the expected report failed to occur.

  By this time the Jupiter was almost immediately above the Weinkel and fast overhauling it; so much so that Chicot was compelled to turn completely round in order to bring his gun—a squat submachine-gun—to bear. Ginger realized with a horrible choking sensation of fear that if Sarton, unaware of their close proximity, pulled his stick back, both machines would collide with such force that they would be reduced to matchwood. He did the only thing that was left for him to do. He flung the now useless pistol.

  It was only by a matter of a few inches that he did not succeed in what he hoped to achieve; but a miss, they say, is as good as a mile, and so it was in this case. The pistol struck the port engine cowling just behind the propeller, bounced harmlessly, and then dropped off into space. At the same moment Biggles dragged the Jupiter away from its dangerous position, and Ginger, half dead with cold, slid back into the cabin.

  Biggles looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Missed!’ shouted Ginger. ‘No more cartridges. Can you put us in that position again?’

  Biggles merely nodded. He did not seem in the least perturbed, and something of his calm confidence transmitted itself to Ginger, who smiled as far as his frozen cheeks would permit and then staggered into the main cabin, from where he returned an instant later carrying a foot-square box branded with large black letters:

  20 LB. CORNED BEEF

  STOW AWAY FROM ENGINES

  Not without difficulty Ginger dragged this unwieldy weapon up into his recently held position above the fuselage. Biggles had already begun the Immelmann which starts with a steep climbing turn, so that it seemed to Ginger that the world had suddenly broken adrift from its orbit and was spinning with dizzy speed.

  Steadying the box with his left hand, he stared about him through streaming eyes for the Weinkel, and saw it some distance below, circling as if the pilot had temporarily lost them. Then, as if upborne by a current of air, it seemed to float upwards towards him. He knew, of course, that this was simply the effect of Biggles’s dive, which had now begun.

  Wondering if he would be able to force his fast-numbing muscles to act when the crucial moment came, Ginger waited for his opportunity. He had a feeling that he was mad, hoping to knock down an armed adversary with a weapon so prosaic as a box of corned beef. Still, by taking a big risk he did not see why it should not be done, and as far as risk was concerned it was a case of neck or nothing now.

  With a calmness that surprised him he saw Chicot feverishly reloading his gun; saw him train the weapon on him; saw the tiny spurts of flame start leaping from the black muzzle. Twice he h
eard the vicious crack of a bullet boring through the machine, and found time to pray that Biggles had not been hit. For a ghastly moment, as the Jupiter suddenly steepened its dive, he feared that he had, and it may have been the horror of this suspicion that caused him to stake everything on one desperate chance. Raising himself on one knee, he waited while the two machines closed up as though drawn by an invisible magnet; then, as the Jupiter swooped low over the Weinkel, he stood upright and with all his force flung the heavy box outwards and downwards. For one terrible second he thought that he was going too, for he almost lost his balance. Dropping on to his knees, he clawed frantically at the smooth fabric; his questing fingers found a rib under the canvas, and although as a handhold this was poor enough, it stayed his progress long enough for him to grasp the edge of the trap and drag himself back to comparative safety.

  Now during the brief instant of time in which this had occurred his eyes had never left the box; they had followed its course with a sort of morbid fascination. It was clear from the start that it would not hit the fuselage of the other machine; in fact, he thought that it would not hit it at all. Nor would it have done so but for the fact that at the last moment Sarton must have moved his joystick. The movement was so slight that it could hardly be regarded as such; but it was enough. The Weinkel’s wing-tip seemed to move towards the box, which was turning so slowly as it fell that subconsciously Ginger re-read the words on it as they came into view—20 LB. CORNED BEEF...

  The box struck the Weinkel’s wing about four feet from the tip. The impact occurred just behind the leading edge, and from what immediately happened it was clear that the weight, falling on the main spar where the strain was greatest, caused it to break instantly. The whole wing-tip seemed to crumple up like a piece of tissue paper, twisting back on itself like a worm under a clumsy gardener’s heel.

  Fortunately the effect of this was at once exercised on the whole machine. The fractured wing, losing a great percentage of its lift, sagged, causing the machine to fall in that direction. Ginger could imagine the wretched Sarton fighting to right his machine, but in such a case an aircraft is as helpless as a bird with a broken wing. For a second or two the plane zoomed this way and that as the pilot tried to hold his crippled machine on even keel; then the nose followed the dropping wing, and an instant later the Weinkel was spinning earthward.