18 Biggles In Spain

by Captain W E Johns

  At length the long journey came to an end, and Biggles stopped the cab as soon as he realized that they were in the avenue in which the hotel was situated. 'We shall be less likely to attract attention if we walk,' he said quietly, after he had paid the driver. 'There seems to be nobody about, so finding the paper ought to be easy.'

  Biggles's optimism seemed justified, for not a soul was in sight as they walked briskly past the hotel entrance to the waste plot of land beyond. Biggles stopped when they reached it. 'There's no need for us all to go,' he said. 'Ginger, you stay here and keep cave. Whistle if you see any one coming.' With that he hurried forward.

  Ì can see it,' he told Algy a moment later. `Thank goodness! I had a horrible feeling it might not be there.' Stooping, he picked up the well-remembered ball of newspaper, and tearing it open, removed the ornament from the inside. He was about to take out the paper when a warning shout made him start round. Something between a snarl and an ejaculation broke from his lips.

  From all sides men in the uniform of the Guardia Civil were closing in on them.

  Biggles's face turned pale. 'Ten thousand devils seize that hunchback!' he snapped. 'He laid a trap for us and we've walked straight into it.'

  A score of rifles menaced them as the armed police advanced at a run. An order rang out.

  Suddenly Biggles swung round. 'Ginger!' he roared. 'Catch!' and he hurled the ornament high into the air over the heads of the police.

  Ginger, judging his distance, darted forward. For a moment he stood rigid, crouching like a cricketer waiting for a ball.

  Biggles held his breath.

  So did Ginger, as his eyes watched the curving flight of the ornament. Time seemed to stand still. Then, somehow, the image was in his hands, and he was streaking down the avenue like a rabbit

  making for its burrow with a terrier at its heels. Subconsciously he heard shouts, shots, and the scream of ricocheting bullets. He also heard Biggles's wild yell of 'Well caught!'

  A narrow passage appeared on his left, and he sped down it like a pickpocket with the police on his heels.

  CHAPTER VIII

  GINGER GOES ALONE

  GINGER ran on in a daze, bewildered by the suddenness of the calamity that had separated him from the others. So, hardly knowing what he was doing, he ran blindly, nearly distraught with anxiety for the others and horrified by the responsibility that now rested on him. He was still clutching the ornament in his right hand when it occurred to him that it would be safer in his pocket. In trying to accomplish this it slipped from his fingers and crashed to pieces on the hard road. Snatching up the precious letter, he thrust it into his pocket, and then, seeing no signs of hue and cry, slowed down to a walk.

  Somewhere not far away a bugle was blowing a series of short, jerky calls, but he paid no attention to it.

  He was just congratulating himself on having got clear away when the sound of running footsteps made him throw a nervous glance over his shoulder. He saw at once that his worst fears were realized. Two soldiers were coming after him at a run. They let out a shout when they saw him turn. That was quite enough for Ginger, who resumed his flight incontinently.

  Panting, he burst round the next corner, only to pull up with a cry of dismay, for not fifty yards ahead were fully a dozen soldiers. The fact that they were hurrying in the same direction as he was made no difference to Ginger—the sight of any sort of uniform was enough to induce alarm; and while he stood staring about him wildly, seeking in vain for an avenue of escape, the two soldiers appeared round the corner behind him so that he was now between two fires, so to speak.

  In his emotion Ginger went as far as to contemplate the destruction of the letter, if only to prevent it from falling into Goudini's hands. In fact, he had already put his hand into his pocket with that object in view when the soldiers in front broke into a run and disappeared round a corner, so he ran after them rather than be overtaken by those behind, who were obviously pursuing him—or so he thought. But when he reached the corner, and saw what lay ahead, he recoiled with a gasp of despair. It was a wide square, and it was swarming with soldiers, all surging towards a line of motor transport that stood under some trees on the far side.

  It had just occurred to Ginger that no one was taking any notice of him when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder from behind. Jerking round, he came face to face with a soldier who said something in a language he did not understand, although, naturally, he assumed that it was Spanish.

  `What—what— ?' he gasped.

  A second soldier, a little fellow with a brown, alert face, who had been hurrying on, swung round.

  `Blimey!' said a cockney voice. "Ullo, mate, are you one of our mob ?'

  Ginger stared. He began to think that he was going out of his mind. Slowly it dawned upon him that his fears had been groundless ; that the soldiers had no designs against him. 'Are you English ?' he asked, and then realized how foolish the question sounded.

  `No ; I'm the King of China,' grinned the cockney, his bright eyes twinkling, and then roared with laughter at his joke. 'Fred Summers, from Plaistow—that's me. How's yerself

  ?'

  Ginger smiled wanly. He felt weak with relief. Ì'm Ginger Hebblethwaite from Yorkshire,' he said. 'What's going on herèGoing on! Blimey, that's good. Didn't yer hear the alarm ? They say the spaghetti-wallahs are busting our line, so back we go.'

  `You mean—Italians—General Franco's Italians ?'

  `What else do yer fink I mean ? Come on.'

  Ì see,' replied Ginger vaguely, beginning to suspect that he had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. 'I'm new here,' he explained.

  `Well, that's all right, mate; you stick to me,' said the generous-hearted cockney confidently. 'I'll show yer round.'

  `Round—round where ?' Ginger asked the question, although in his heart he knew the answer. `The trenches, of course. Come on.'

  `But—but just a minute,' stammered Ginger. `You don't understand. I—no, I'm going this way.' He started to back away, for he had no intention of going to a war about which he knew little, and cared less, if he could avoid it. But a brawny sergeant with a waxed moustache cut him off, and bundled the two of them towards the waiting transport.

  `That 's Froggy,' whispered Summers. 'He 's a hot 'un, he is. They say he was in the French Foreign Legion in Africa before he came here, and I shouldn't wonder at it the way he goes on. You watch your step with 'im.'

  But Ginger was barely listening. In a kind of dream he took the rifle that was thrust into his hands, and put some packets of cartridges into the pouch on his belt. But he was still thinking of escape. Twice he tried to break away, but each time the French sergeant, who seemed to suspect his intention, called him back, and he dared not risk it again. For the present, at any rate, he would have to obey orders, that was clear; so he climbed into one of the lorries with his new-found friend. A jabber of foreign languages fell on his ears; the reek of garlic hung in the dust-laden air.

  `You'll be all right, mate, don't worry,' said Summers cheerfully, noticing Ginger's downcast expression. 'I'll keep an eye on you.'

  `Thanks,' replied Ginger wearily, and sank down on a pile of equipment to try to think calmly, for the rush of events had carried him off his feet.

  Only one thing seemed to matter at the moment, and that was that he was on his way to the front with the letter in his pocket, not knowing whether Biggles and Algy were alive or dead. Even if they were alive they might never know what had become of him, he reflected miserably. And the more he thought about it, the more hopeless did the situation appear.

  His morbid thoughts, pardonable in the circumstances,were interrupted by the forward movement of the lorry. A great crowd of women and girls were cheering themselves hoarse ; the troops replied by blowing kisses and singing snatches of songs; but Ginger only stared glumly into the sea of faces. Ànybody would think we were going to a bean-feast,' he thought bitterly.

  Once clear of the square the lorry increased its speed, and so
on they were racing down a dusty road between groves of olive trees and far-spreading vineyards beyond. Women ran out of the houses they passed and cheered the troops on their way. Ginger, still determined to return at the first opportunity, settled down to watch for landmarks. There was nothing else he could do.

  He realized that he hardly knew what the war in Spain was about. It had never interested him. He had a vague idea that it was a civil war in which certain other countries had taken sides, but since he did not even know the original cause of the quarrel he had no sympathies with either side. In

  fact, it made the whole idea of taking part in the war more repugnant. He was deadly tired. So much had happened since the ship had been bombed ; it seemed weeks since he slept in a bed. Twice he caught himself dozing ; and each time he pulled himself together with a start, for he was still trying to follow the direction the lorry was taking. He settled down a little lower on the equipment. Some one put a folded blanket under his head, and looking up, he saw that it was the friendly little cockney. He smiled his thanks. The landscape became a blurred picture of gnarled grey olives, black, pencil-like cypresses, and rolling fields of grapes, under a sky of heavenly blue. He was very warm and comfortable. His eyes closed and this time they did not open.

  When he awoke he noticed that the lorry had stopped, and he realized that it was the jerk that had awakened him. For a moment he could not remember what had happened; then memory surged into his brain and he stared about him in alarm. The clear, pale, eggshell blue tint of the sky told him that the afternoon had far advanced, and he was still marvelling that he could have slept so long when the muzzle of a rifle prodded his ribs, and he scrambled round to see 'Froggy' gesticulating at him. With a guilty start he saw that most of the troops had already dismounted, and were lining up a short distance away, so picking up his rifle he jumped down and joined them.

  Fred Summers saw him coming and hurried to meet him. 'I was just coming back for you,' he said. 'They got me out first to unload some stuff. Well, 'ere we are. What do yer fink of it ? Bit different from old 'Ampstead 'Eath, ain't it ?'

  `Yes, it certainly is,' agreed Ginger, staring about him wonderingly, for while he had been asleep the landscape had changed. No longer the smiling fields of grapes. All around, gaunt mountains thrust their peaks high into the clear sky. He was still staring when a machine-gun started its hateful chatter not far away.

  `What's that ?' he asked.

  `What, ain't yer never 'card a machine-gun before ?' was the surprised answer.

  `Yes, of course,' answered Ginger. 'I didn't exactly mean that. I meant—what is it shooting at ?'

  `Franco, I 'ope.'

  But—'

  `The trenches are just round that next hill,' explained Summers. 'Things are pretty quiet just at this minute, or you'd 'ave known all about it. I've bin 'ere before, and it's a hot shop. There's a big river called the Ebro just round the corner; that's where all the fuss is going on. They say Franco is trying to get across.'

  Ì see,' said Ginger vaguely. He was still by no means clear as to what was happening beyond the fact that he had arrived at the front and that a battle in which he would be expected to take part was imminent. The knowledge depressed him; he realized that to try to get away now would probably see him brought before a firing-squad and condemned to death for cowardice; but he was resolved nevertheless to seize the first opportunity of getting back to Barcelona. Had Biggles and Algy been there he would not have minded so much ; in fact, he might have found the experience interesting; but with their fate weighing heavily upon him he could take no interest in anything. 'I'll get back somehow,' he told himself desperately.

  Further rumination was interrupted by a general stir in the ranks as N.C.O.s hurried up and down getting the troops into column. An order was barked, and the regiment broke into a marching-song as it tramped up the dusty road towards its allotted station. Ginger did not sing. He did not even know the language in which the song was being sung. In any case, the last thing he felt like doing was singing ; on the contrary, he fumed inwardly at the unfortunate series of accidents that had resulted in the present alarming situation. Nevertheless, once he smiled a grim smile, in which there was little humour, as he recalled that Biggles had started off originally on what was intended to be a spot of rest cure.

  He turned envious eyes upwards as an aeroplane, a mere speck in the sky, droned across their line on an unknown errand.

  `Curse that organ-grinder,' muttered Summers at Ginger's elbow, nodding towards the '

  plane.

  Ìt's one of Franco's machines, then ?' asked Ginger, for he did not recognize the type.

  Òne o' them Fiats.' (He pronounced it Fyats, but Ginger knew what he meant.) 'I've seen plenty of 'em. So'll you. If he's spotted us we shall know all about it soon enough.'

  Presently a shell whined overhead and burst about two hundred yards beyond the marching column.

  `There y'are. What did I tell yer ?' snarled Summers. 'You watch the rookies turn green.'

  Ginger noticed that several of the men they him had turned pale, and realized that they were

  under fire for the first time. He himself felt a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach.

  Another shell wailed towards them, and Ginger was not the only one who ducked as it burst viciously in the air just short of the troops.

  Shrapnel,' growled Summers laconically. 'Here comes another.'

  The shell burst some distance ahead, and Ginger grasped the fact that the 'plane now circling high overhead was correcting the gunners' aim.

  `We shall get it in the neck as soon as they get our range,' murmured Summers casually.

  `That 's right. Be cheerful,' returned Ginger, who was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  Before Summers could resume the conversation

  an order had sent the column forward at a brisk double, which was maintained until they entered a narrow defile in the mountains. Ginger caught his breath as they entered it and his eyes fell on a line of wounded men lying beside the path. A doctor and an orderly were busily at work. One of the unfortunate fellows was groaning horribly, and Ginger looked away.

  `You'll see plenty o' that,' remarked Summers calmly. `Yer soon get used to it, though.'

  Ginger was not comforted. He kept his eyes to the front, and breathed a sigh of relief as the head of the column turned into a deep trench cut in the side of the defile. He caught a glimpse of open country and a wide river some distance below and ahead of them.

  `This is the communication trench,' announced Summers. 'Looks like we're going straight into the front line.'

  This expectation proved to be correct, for after proceeding for some distance, during which time the sound of rifle fire grew rapidly nearer, the troops, now in single file, entered a narrow trench that ran at right angles to the communication trench. Men, gaunt and unshaven, were leaning against the far side, firing between sandbags and lumps of rock. Some paid no attention to the new-corners; others grinned and threw coarse jokes over their shoulders.

  "Ere we are,' remarked Summers. He might

  have been announcing their arrival at a London terminus, so dispassionate was his tone of voice.

  Ginger wondered what curious urge had induced the little cockney to abandon peace and security for a war, the result of which could make no possible difference to him. The same could be said of nearly all the other members of the International Brigade.

  They had come to a halt, because the men in front of them had stopped, and Ginger realized from the way they dropped their equipment, loosened their collars and made themselves at home, as it were, that this was his destination. He leaned his rifle against the side of the trench, and walked towards a wide opening in order to see what lay beyond—a step that was, in the circumstances, quite natural. He did actually reach the opening, and was staring down a steep bank below when Summers caught his arm and dragged him aside just as something thudded into the rear wall of the trench.

  `What yer t
rying to do—commit suicide ?' asked Summers, in a voice that was heavy with sarcasm.

  Ginger gazed at him wide-eyed. 'My goodness! I didn't realize—' he began, but Summers cut him short.

  `You won't realize anything long if you go shovin' yer 'ead through 'oles in the parapet,'

  he said severely. 'Take my tip and keep yer skull down till you're told to do something.'

  Ginger stepped aside to permit the passage of two medical orderlies carrying a stretcher between them. On it lay the body of a middle-aged man. He had been shot through the head.

  Ginger turned a white face to his new-found comrade. 'This is awful,' he said in a hollow voice.

  `What—this ?' Summers smiled. 'Why, this ain't nothin'. You wait. Come on, mate. Let's go and find our bivvy and get fixed up.'

  Ginger followed the cockney down the trench.

  CHAPTER IX

  A LUCKY COMBAT

  FOR two days Ginger suffered all the agonies of fear and horror inseparable from modern trench warfare, to which was added a gnawing anxiety every time he thought of Biggles and Algy, or the document that still reposed in his pocket; with the passing of time the chances of its ever being delivered became more and more remote.

  There were times, however, when he forgot everything except the desperate business of preserving his own life, for on two occasions the enemy —for so he had come to regard the troops in the trenches opposite to them—had made determined attacks that had only been repulsed after bitter fighting and heavy casualties on both sides. At such times he had fought as furiously as the comrades who lined the parapet on either side of him ; he had no choice in the matter, for while the war, as far as he was concerned, was an impersonal matter, the success of the attacking troops would in all probability see the end of him; in which case the letter he carried would never reach its destination. So he found himself a position on the firestep, and fired at the attackers with a grim zeal that won the admiration of the cockney friend to whom he had already become attached. Each attack had been preceded by a bombardment from the enemy's artillery, and machine gunnery by General Franco's airmen, which the troops in the trenches could do little or nothing to prevent. Ginger had fired at several enemy machines, and his inability to check their progress had aroused in him a wholehearted hatred of the enemy pilots who—so it seemed to him—dealt death with little risk to themselves.