36 Biggles Breaks The Silence

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles turned the aircraft and allowed it gently to lose height. He flattened out. Ginger held his breath. Nothing happened. Then his nerves twitched as the engines roared again and the machine swung up in a climbing turn.

  Biggles laughed, a short laugh without any humour in it. "See what I mean," he muttered.

  "I thought I was on the carpet, but I must have flattened out about ten feet too high.

  Landing on snow is always tricky, but here, in this grey light, where there's nothing else but snow, it's definitely nasty."

  The next time, however, there was no mistake. There

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  was a sudden vicious hiss as the skis touched. A cloud of fine, powdery snow, sprang high into the air, smothering the windscreen and blotting out the view. By the time it had cleared, as it quickly did, the machine was dragging, rather too quickly for comfort, to a standstill. Ginger gave a heartfelt sigh of relief. He realised that without the skis the machine would have finished up on its nose.

  Biggles looked at him and smiled. "Well, here we are," he said lightly. "How does it feel to be on the bottom of the world?"

  "Pretty chilly," answered Ginger.

  "It'll be colder still outside," promised Biggles. "Let's get down and see."

  IV

  BEYOND MEN'S FOOTSTEPS

  IN two hours, clad in polar kit in a temperature that registered seventeen degrees below zero, a tent had been erected and well packed around with snow. In this, almost the entire load carried by the aircraft had been snugly stowed, leaving only enough space in the middle for the erection of a folding table. Around this packing cases had been arranged to serve as seats. Sleeping bags and blankets had been left in the cabin for the time being.

  It would, Biggles asserted, be warmer there.

  No time had been lost in the unloading operation, Biggles being anxious to lighten the machine as quickly as possible to reduce the risk of the aircraft sinking into the powdery snow which, he was relieved to find, was only a few inches deep at the point on which he had chosen

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  to land—about two hundred yards from the nearest open water. In this matter he may have been lucky, for there - were places when the snow—tiny crystals, not unlike sugar—was much deeper. For this, apparently, the wind had been responsible. Little waves, like ripple sand, showed the direction of it.

  They had this advantage, as Biggles reminded the others. There was no fear of darkness overtaking them, for the sun, at that particular period of the year, did not sink below the horizon, although it got very near to it. The result was, that every day was twenty-four hours of unbroken daylight. Nevertheless, at the normal period of night, the world was bathed in an eerie glow, through which the sun appeared as a monstrous red ball balanced on the distant ice.

  From the aircraft, the landward side—if such an expression can be used—presented a fantastic picture. First, there was a gentle upward slope. Beyond this, ridges of ice, swept clear of the snow by wind, appeared as pale blue or grass-green hills. Some of these had castles and villages of ice piled on them, the illusion being strengthened by warm pink lights where facets of ice reflected the sun.

  When everything was ship-shape a spirit stove was lighted and a meal prepared. It started with hot canned soup and finished with strong, sweet tea, the best stuff Biggles declared—and the Skipper agreed—for keeping the cold out.

  "What do you think is our best way of trying to locate the hulk?" Biggles asked the Skipper, between mouthfuls of bread and jam.

  "There's only one way to go about it that I can see, and that's to take walks out and back in every direction, like the spokes of a wheel, reckoning the camp to be the hub,"

  answered Captain Grimes. "It's no use looking

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  beyond the water line, because if the hulk ever got free she'd go down like a stone.

  Below her Plimsoll line she must have been crushed flat by the ice. That leaves us only half a circle to cover. We might walk a mile or two out, take a turn for about half a mile, and then come home again. In that way we ought to cover all the ground in a day or two.

  If we don't strike her we shall have to move camp and try again. It'll be hard going, but it'

  s the only way."

  "What do you mean by hard going?" asked Ginger. "It doesn't look too bad."

  "Wait till you try walking on the stuff and you'll see what I mean," answered the Skipper.

  "And I'm reckoning on the weather holding. It can change in a flash in this part of the world. The wind's only got to rise, or veer a point or two, and anything can happen. If it starts snowing—"

  "Suppose we wait until it starts snowing before we talk about that," broke in Biggles. "

  No use jumping our fences until we come to them. We'll follow your advice about the walking. I can't think of anything better. You're sure this is the right place?"

  "Must be, within a mile or two. It was a clear day when I took my position and there was nothing wrong with my instruments. I took care of that. I checked up three times, as I always do, so I don't see how I could be wrong. Of course, the ice may have moved, and the hulk with it. But we knew there was a risk of that before we started."

  As if to confirm this statement, from some distance away, on the seaward side, came a grinding, splintering clash, followed by a long, low growl.

  "That's ice on the move now," said Biggles. "Sounded like two bergs bumping into each other."

  "Gives you an idea of what a hope a ship's got when 40

  she gets trapped between a couple of chunks like that," put in the Skipper, grimly.

  "Still, from our point of view the movement is very slow," went on Biggles. "According to the records of the scientists who have been here the big stuff only moves a matter of a few feet a day. I'm talking of the main pack, of course—the stuff we're on now. The smaller pieces that have broken off would move faster than that, no doubt, particularly with a wind behind them. If the hulk is here, or hereabouts, she couldn't have moved far since you last saw her."

  "She was fast enough in the ice then, and had been for many a year; so unless she's disintegrated she ought to be somewhere in the region now," returned the Skipper. "Of course," he added, "if her mast came down under the weight of ice, or anything like that, she'd be harder to see."

  Again from outside came the ominous growl of colliding ice.

  "All right. The sooner we start looking for her, the better," decided Biggles. "I've seen all I want to see of the scenery, and I shouldn't sob my heart out if I never saw it again. Let's get cracking." He got up.

  "Are we all going to walk together?" asked Ginger.

  Biggles considered the question. "I don't think that's necessary," he replied. "I think the best plan would be for one to remain at home to act as cook, guard and signaller. We'd look silly if we came back to find that a lot of seals had knocked everything to pieces."

  "What do you mean by signaller?" asked Ginger.

  "Well, there's always the risk of fog or snow," Biggles pointed out. "If visibility happened to drop to zero it might not be easy for those who are out to find their way back to camp. In that case a pistol shot or two might save an awkward situation. The three walkers

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  needn't stay together. They could walk a few hundred yards apart, always in sight of each other, so that visual signals could be made if need be."

  "That's the way to do it," assented the Skipper. "Safety first is the motto. You can't be too careful. I've heard of sealers getting lost within half a mile of their ship and never being seen again. It happened the very last time I was here. One of the hands was a Swede—a fellow named Larsen. Good sailor he was, too. At the last minute Lavinsky sent him back to fetch a sealskin that had been dropped. I reckon he chose him because he never did like him. Larsen didn't come back, and as the ice was closing in we went without him.

  Those were Lavinsky's orders, and I daren't go against the owners."

  "One would have thought," said Ginger as he
got ready, "that nothing could have been more simple than a job like this, provided the machine always behaved itself. We knew exactly where we were coming and what we were going to do; but I've got an increasing feeling in my bones that we're up against something."

  "I never in my life heard of a salvage operation that went right from start to finish,"

  remarked Biggles. "Something isn't where it should be, or something comes unstuck, somewhere, somehow. Read the records and you'll see that the unexpected is always turning up to make life harder for the people doing the job. But as I said before, we'll talk about trouble when we bump into it." Biggles looked seaward. "All I have to add to that is, thank goodness we didn't come in a marine aircraft. I was tempted to choose a flying-boat, because, with water within range, landing would be a simple matter. When we arrived here there was enough open water in the offing for a fleet of battleships. Now look at it."

  Ginger looked, and saw that the water was almost entirely covered by small detached floes, each an island

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  of ice. "Had we landed out there in a flying-boat we should have been in a mess," he observed. "There isn't a run long enough anywhere to get a marine craft off. But, there, most of the ice seems to be floating away, so it might be all right."

  "And what would happen to a flying-boat in the meantime?" inquired Biggles cynically.

  "One touch of that ice would rip her hull wide open. There's always a lot more ice under the water than there is showing. But that's enough talking. Let's go Grimy, will you stay in camp to wash up and get supper? You'll have to melt snow for water. Skipper, will you take the first beat to the left, keeping as near to the water as is reasonably safe. If you see anything, give me a hail; I shall be next to you."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Ginger, you take a half turn right," went on Biggles. "Don't get too wide. If you see any sign of a change in the weather give me a shout and make for home. Keep an eye on me for signals."

  "Good enough," agreed Ginger.

  "Okay, then. Let's get weaving."

  Each member of the party set off on his respective beat.

  It did not take Ginger long to appreciate the truth of the Skipper's remark about the going being harder than it looked. It was much worse than he expected. He found it hard work, although this had an advantage in that it kept him warm. One thing that he was pleased to notice as he trudged on through the powdery snow: he left a trail so plain that there was no risk of losing it should he have to return by the same route.

  As he tramped on, sometimes slipping on naked ice and often ploughing through snow waist deep, the

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  incongruity of what he was doing suddenly struck him. To look for a object the size of a ship in a snow-covered wilderness, where, he thought, a toy ship would have been conspicuous, seemed absurd. There was just a chance, he was bound to admit, that the ship might be behind one of the several masses of heaped-up ice that dotted the landscape, but the possibility of that seemed so remote as to be hardly worth consideration. The result was a feeling of hopelessness, of the futility of his task—a state of mind seldom conducive to success.

  Away to his left, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, was Giggles, as plain to see as a black beetle on a white carpet. Somewhere beyond him was the Skipper, also looking for a speck on a continent. Ginger could not see him, but he could watch Biggles. At least, he could see him for some time. When, presently, he disappeared, he assumed that either he was beyond the ridge or the higher ice towards which he had been walking. When several minutes passed and he had not reappeared, Ginger stopped, wondering if he ought to do something about it, and if so, what. He did not like to leave his beat; nor did he relish the idea of giving himself a longer march than was necessary, particularly as a slight breeze had sprung up, bitterly cold, to retard his movements. Happening to glance behind him, he noticed with a tinge of uneasiness that his trail, once so conspicuous, had disappeared; and he had not to look far for the reason. The snow was moving. At least, the surface was. The top inch or two seemed to be airborne, giving the surface a rough, blurred appearance. He was not worried about it. Visibility was still excellent; it did not appear to have disimproved in the slightest degree. Cupping his hands round his mouth he sent a hail across the waste. It had a strange, muffled sound. It was then that he noticed that he could no longer see the big pile of ice 44

  towards which Biggles had been marching. This was all the more odd because he could see the place where it had been—or he thought he could. Then, for the first time, a suspicion of the truth struck him. Swinging round he looked for the sun. It was not there.

  The whole length of the horizon was a dull uniform grey. That told him, beyond any shadow of doubt, that something was happening, although he was by no means sure what it was. Visibility still seemed good. But was it? Had it come to this, he wondered vaguely, that he could not believe his eyes? It seemed like it. He shouted again, and listened intently for an answer. None came. Turning about, he began to retrace his steps.

  He had travelled, he thought, about two miles from camp. It had taken him rather more than an hour. He knew the direction of it, but all the same he was worried that the trail had been obliterated. Happening to glance behind him he was even more worried to see that his footprints were being filled in by whirling snow crystals almost as quickly as he made them. Feeling far from happy, he increased his pace.

  It was soon evident that visibility was not so good as he had supposed, but he was still astonished that he could have been deceived so easily. Within half an hour he was struggling along through a vague world in which everything—ground, air and sky—

  seemed to be of the same uniform whiteness. These, he thought bitterly, were the very conditions that Biggles had been at pains to describe. He derived some satisfaction from the fact that he was on the ground, not in the air. The idea of flying in such conditions appalled him. But his exertions did at least keep him warm. Several times he thought he heard gunshots in the distance, but he could not be sure. The reports, if reports they were, and not icebergs in collision, were curiously flat and muffled. That, he 45

  soliloquised, might be due to the fog. He hoped it was so, for by now he should be nearer camp than the sounds suggested.

  The crash of ice not far in front of him brought him to an abrupt halt. He recognised the sound of ice floes in collision. Floating ice meant that he must be near open water. In that case, he thought swiftly, he must be near the camp—that is, if he had followed the true course home. Had he? He thought he had, but there was no means of confirming it.

  How could one be sure of anything in- such conditions, he mused miserably. He walked on, slowly now, and soon saw that in one respect, at any rate, he had not been at fault.

  Before him the ice ended in a cliff thirty feet high. Beyond it was the sea.

  Stopping again he tried to reason the thing out. He now had a landmark—the open water.

  The camp was not far from it, but whether it lay to left or right he had no means of knowing. He shouted. He shouted again, and there was now a ring of anxiety in his voice.

  What really alarmed him more than anything was the absence of gunshots, for he felt certain that Grimy, perceiving what had happened, would be firing signal shots as arranged. He would hardly fail in the main reason for his being left in camp. So there Ginger stood, a prey now to gnawing indecision, knowing that if he moved, and the direction he took was the wrong one, he would only make his case worse.

  In the end he made a plan. It was quite simple. He would follow the edge of the ice-cliff for a quarter of an hour by his watch. If, then, he could not locate the camp by shouting; he would retrace his steps for the same period of time, which would bring him back to the point on which he now stood. He would then do the same in the opposite direction. In this he felt fairly safe.

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  There would be no risk of losing his way because he had the water to guide him. His mind made up, he set off.

  His
nerves, already at full stretch, suffered a jolt when a great grey shape appeared suddenly out of the fog, gliding with a curious swinging motion towards him. Then he recognised it for a Weddell seal. He had seen these creatures from the air without realising they were so big. The animal stopped dead when it saw what was, perhaps, the first human being it had ever seen. Ginger also stopped. Apparently the surprise was mutual. Then the animal, with a grunt, continued on its way without taking further notice of the intruder. It passed within a few yards of where Ginger stood, reached the rim of the ice, made a spectacular dive, and was seen, no more.

  Ginger's adventure ended in a rather ridiculous anticlimax. The haze began to clear as quickly as it had formed. Suddenly, to his joy, he heard voices. He let out a yell. It was answered at once. He walked on towards the sound, and presently the familiar shape of the tent loomed before him. Standing in front of the entrance were the rest of the party.

  "Where have you been?" inquired Biggles.

  "Where have I been?" Ginger was astonished by the question. "I've been lost," he announced curtly.

  "Lost! Where?"

  "In the fog?"

  "In the fog."

  "Are you kidding?" demanded Ginger suspiciously. "No."

  "Didn't you see any fog?"

  "There was a little thin mist but nothing to speak of," returned Biggles. "I lost sight of you, but I wasn't worried. I waved to the Skipper and we came home."

  47

  "Well, where I was the fog was as thick as pea soup," declared Ginger. "I couldn't see a thing."

  "Curious," replied Biggles. "You must have struck a peculiar slant of air. I seem to remember reading something about the fog here often being patchy and quite local."

  "Patchy or not, it had me worried," asserted Ginger, feeling somehow that he had been cheated. He looked at Grimy. "I listened for signal shots."

  "There didn't seem any need," answered Grimy. "I could see the others coming so I guessed you wouldn't be far away."

  "You're quite right—I wasn't," confirmed Ginger. "My trouble was I didn't know it."