18 Biggles In Spain

by Captain W E Johns

  `You've done yourself a bit of good, mate,' whispered Summers in his ear. 'Strewth! not '

  arf you ain't.'

  Ì hope I have,' replied Ginger frankly, but he was thinking on altogether different lines from the cockney.

  Presently McLannock came back to him. 'I've just had a word with your C.O.,' he said. 'I think it can be fixed up. I'll be moving off now to the aerodrome. I'll be back in the mornin' maybe. Take care o' yourself till then. By the way, what do they call ye ?'

  `Ginger.'

  `That 's fine. I'll be seeing ye in the mornin'. Adios, and many thanks for hauling me oot fra' the crash.'

  A parting handshake, and Ginger sank limply on to the firestep. 'Gosh! that was a bit of luck,' he murmured.

  `No luck abart that, mate,' objected Summers, who had sat down beside him. 'That was guts. I 'ope you'll get something out of it.'

  Ì hope so, too,' returned Ginger warmly. 'Is there any coffee about ? I could do with some.'

  CHAPTER X

  MORE SHOCKS FOR GINGER

  WHEN Ginger awoke the following morning he was at once conscious of a feeling amounting almost to elation. He knew that the situation had changed for the better, but could not remember immediately what had happened. Then memory, which had been pent up by several hours of sleep, broke loose, and he flung his blanket aside impatiently at the thought of what the day might bring forth.

  Nor was he to be disappointed. After an hour of such anxiety as he had seldom known before, during which time he was obsessed by the fear that he might be killed by a stray bullet before his new plans matured, a messenger arrived to say that he was wanted elsewhere, and that a car was waiting behind the lines to transport him there. In his haste to depart, he nearly forgot something, but he remembered it in time, and asking the messenger to wait, he hurried to the ablution trench where, as he expected, he found Summers washing, whistling through his teeth as he deluged himself with cold water.

  He broke off when he saw the expression on Ginger's face. `Blimey, mate, what's '

  appened ?' he asked quickly.

  Ì'm leaving you; at least, I think so,' Ginger

  told him. believe I'm being transferred to the

  Air Force.'

  Tummy, ain't it dangerous enough fer yer 'ere ?' gasped Summers.

  Ìt isn't that,' replied Ginger. 'I haven't time to explain everything to you now. Maybe we'

  ll meet again—unless you'd care to be an air gunner, if 1 could wangle it ?'

  `Me! Not blooming likely,' returned Summers promptly. 'I'll stay where I ain't got so far to fall.'

  Ginger smiled and held out his hand 'O.K. pal,' he said huskily. 'And thanks for giving me a helping hand. Best of luck.'

  Summers gripped Ginger's hand. 'Same to you, chum,' he said cheerfully. 'Mind you don't fall out. Adios.'

  Ì'll try not to,' Ginger told him, and then, with something suspiciously like a lump in his throat, he returned to the messenger and followed him as he led the way up a communication trench to the support lines, and then on to the track where the lorry had halted, and where a ramshackle car now waited amongst the various paraphernalia of war. The messenger, who spoke only a few words of English, invited Ginger to get into the car, and then set off down the road at a speed that reawakened in Ginger the fear that he might be killed before he reached the aerodrome. However, he bore the ordeal in silence.

  An hour's drive brought them to open country,

  and shortly afterwards Ginger saw unmistakable proof that his destination was at hand—

  a wind-stocking hanging limply in the still, sun-drenched air. Rounding a corner, the hangars came into view.

  The driver pulled up with a jerk in front of a low wooden building, at the door of which a group of men in various degrees of undress, one or two carrying flying kit, were standing. Among them was McLannock, who at once hurried over to the car from which Ginger was now dismounting.

  `So ye've arrived in one piece; guid,' was his greeting. 'The boys are just going off on patrol, so ye'll have to wait 'till they come back before I introduce ye. I've told them what ye did yesterday. I've got to be off mysel' verra shortly, so let's see about this flying. I've a machine waiting. As soon as I see that ye know what to do wi' it, we'll fix things up.'

  `That suits me,' agreed Ginger, praying that he would not bungle the take-off.

  He followed the Scotsman across the brown, hard-baked turf towards the hangars, in which machines of many makes and sizes were standing. Some distance beyond stood a captured Italian twin-engined Caproni bomber which a number of mechanics were examining with interest. He paid little attention to it, for an awful problem suddenly confronted him, a problem demanding a decision of such vital importance that his lips turned dry at the thought of it. Briefly, it was this. Should he, or should he not, abandon Biggles and Algy, and attempt to fly across the frontier into France, whence it would be a comparatively simple matter to reach England ? He realized, of course, that without knowing precisely where the aerodrome was situated, such a flight would entail difficulties, but he knew that he must be in Catalonia, so if he flew north he would, sooner or later, assuming that his petrol held out, arrive somewhere in France. So much he was able to work out by visualizing the map of that part of Europe. He knew that the delivery of the letter should be his first consideration; indeed, Biggles had said something to that effect; but he also knew that once out of Spain he would never get back again, in which case he would be helpless to aid Biggles and Algy, whereas now, if he could find them, they might all get away. In the end he decided to compromise. If by the end of three days he had not found them he would seize the first opportunity of flying to France, where he would post the letter, and then try to get back again, accounting for his absence with the best excuse he could invent.

  As it happened, he had been exercising his brain unnecessarily, as he was now to discover. A suspicion of this first came into his mind when he saw that the machine which some mechanics were pulling out of the hangar was a two-seater, although the type was unknown to him. Jock's next words confirmed it.

  Àh weel,' he said, cheerfully, 'we'll juist see what ye can do. Get in the front seat; I'll take the back. She's fitted for dual, ye ken.'

  Èr—yes,' stammered Ginger, not a little taken aback at this development. He perceived now that the precaution Jock was taking was quite a natural one ; his surprise was occasioned by the fact that he had merely taken it for granted that the machine would be a single-seater, because he knew that Jock normally flew one of that type.

  The Scotsman did not appear to notice Ginger's temporary embarrassment, but after handing him a flying cap and goggles, he spent a minute or two explaining the instrument panel, which, he said, was a Russian arrangement.

  Ànything in the guns ?' asked Ginger, noticing two on the engine cowling.

  Ày, bullets,' grinned Jock. 'Ye never know what ye're going to meet in Catalonia ; it can be a Boche bomber or an Italian fighter—there's all sorts here. If ye're outclassed, ye juist run for it, ye ken. If ye don't think ye can fly her, better say so now; it may save me knocking ye on the head when we get up.'

  Òh, I can fly her,' protested Ginger confidently, for he saw that the machine was a normal two-seater type, and therefore unlikely to show any peculiar vice. In fact, he was a trifle disappointed, for the machine was clearly an old one. He had hoped for something better, something more up-to-date, such as a high-performance fighter. However, he gave the mechanic the signal to swing the prop, and after allowing the engine a minute or two to warm up, taxied out into position for the take-off.

  Ì needn't ask ye any more,' announced Jock over the speaking tube. 'I've seen all I need to know.' Which was no doubt true, because taxi-ing on the ground demands as much skill as flying in the air.

  Àre you ready ?' asked Ginger.

  Àway ye go,' was the brief response.

  Ginger glanced ahead for a mark on which to fly, and then opening the throttle, took the machine into the a
ir. He held her straight until he was well beyond the aerodrome boundary, and then commenced a steady climbing turn. 'Anything particular you'd like me to do ?' he inquired.

  `No. If ye can fly, which I can see for mysel', there's an end to it. But I may as well show ye the line while we're up here. Turn to the right. Mark yon square hill on the left; it's a guid landmark for the aerodrome in bad weather as long as ye don't bump into it.'

  Still climbing, Ginger turned in the desired direction, noting with practised eyes such landmarks as he knew might be useful. The altimeter, being continental, registered in metres, not feet, but this was not entirely new to him, and he soon became accustomed to it, mentally converting metres into feet.

  By the time the River Ebro came into view they were at ten thousand feet, and once more Ginger asked for instructions. He thought the position of the enemy front line had moved, as if there had been a big advance, but he did not trouble to confirm this.

  Ìt's quiet, so ye may as well fly along the line for a bit ; the trenches are plain enough to see,' was the reply.

  `What about the three machines over on the right ?'

  Jock gave a startled exclamation. `Losh, mon, I didna see 'em. They're Fiats. Better get back; we're no match for 'em in this auld pantechnicon.'

  Ginger turned instantly, for he had no desire to find himself involved in a dog-fight. But he flew with one eye on the Fiats which, starting with superior altitude, were rapidly overtaking the two-seater. 'They'll catch us,' he announced calmly.

  Ày, so I see,' muttered Jock anxiously. 'Better let me have the machine.'

  `Have you got a gun ?'

  `No.'

  `The gun control 's on my joystick,' Ginger pointed out. 'I can't use it if you're flying.

  You'd better leave it to me. I shan't fight unless I have to.'

  À'richt. See what ye can do. 'Twas my own fault for coming so far. Maybe if things get too hot ye'd better spin down out of it.'

  Ginger glanced down and saw a terrifying vista

  of rocky crags, for they were still over mountain country. 'I'd sooner take my chance up here than pile up on that stuff,' he said, at the same time pushing the stick forward for more speed.

  Mebbe you're richt,' came from Jock anxiously.

  Ginger, looking back over his shoulder, saw that the three Fiats, now in a loose V

  formation, were less than half a mile behind and fast closing the gap between them.

  Watching the enemy machines closely, he flew on, and presently derived a crumb of satisfaction when, at a range of not less than a quarter of a mile, the leading Fiat opened fire. This told Ginger a good deal. He realized that the leader was new to the business, and possibly nervous, or he would not have opened fire at a distance so far outside effective range. Further, if the leader was inexperienced in air fighting, it was reasonable to suppose that his two assistants were no better. It is upon such observations as this that success in air combat depends.

  By this time the two-seater was down to six thousand, still racing for home, but with a long way to go. Looking back again, Ginger saw that the Fiats had closed up, and were still gaining; and it was at that moment that the first thrill of resentment surged through him. Until then he would have avoided conflict at almost any cost, for he was —for good reasons—anxious to get back to the aerodrome. But it is not easy to accept blows without retaliating, and when presently a bullet struck the two-seater his irritation became cold anger. A snarl from Jock fostered an idea that was fast taking shape in his mind. His lips tightened, as did his grip on the joystick. He glanced up at the sun, now a blaze of white light in the blue sky, and then jammed the joystick forward for speed.

  He heard Jock gasp in dismay, for in such a position they were very vulnerable ; but he was flying with his head turned over his shoulder, and the instant he saw the nearest Fiat tracer streaking towards him he dragged the stick back, and then pulled it into his right thigh. The two-seater zoomed up into the sun like a swerving rocket.

  Ginger was still watching the Fiats. The manoeuvre had—as he had hoped—taken them by surprise, and they hesitated ; unable to look up into the blinding glare of the sun, they were uncertain of the two-seater's position, so being loath to part company, they broke formation and circled, two of them waiting for a move from their leader, or the reappearance of their quarry. This was a normal procedure : Ginger had expected it to happen and had made his manoeuvre with that object in view. The Fiats were where he wanted them. He could see them but they could not see him. His face was rather pale, but a faint smile crossed it as he thrust the stick forward at an angle that sent the machine down like a thunderbolt. One of the Fiats was a little apart from the others, the pilot still circling in obvious indecision. A touch of right rudder brought the nose of Ginger's machine in line with it, but he held his fire. This was his chance, and he had no intention of spoiling it through precipitate action. Not until he was within a hundred feet of it, and had it dead in the centre of his ring sight, did he squeeze the trigger-grip on his joystick.

  At such a range there was, of course, only time for a short burst, or a collision was inevitable. But it could hardly fail to be effective. From the manner in which the Fiat's nose jerked up Ginger knew that the pilot had been hit. How badly he did not for the moment know. The other machines were turning towards him, so he dragged the stick back, and, after holding his breath for an instant, when a collision seemed certain, he zoomed back up into the sun. At the top of the zoom he flicked round to meet head-on the other machines if they had followed him.

  One glance was enough to reveal the situation. One Fiat was spinning earthward. The other two were flying away, one, nose down, in a panic retreat.

  Ginger's gasp of relief was drowned in Jock's yell of triumph.

  `Shall I follow them ?' shouted Ginger, half wild with exultation.

  `No, ye fool,' roared Jock. 'Ye can't catch 'em; they've the legs of us.'

  Ginger pushed up his goggles with a trembling hand, for now that the danger was passed reaction at once set in. He looked down for the spinning Fiat. It took him a minute or two to find it. Then he saw it. It was no longer spinning. It had crashed. The country around was strange, and he realized that he was lost. 'Where am I ?' he asked through the speaking tube.

  À' richt. I'll take her,' said jock.

  Ginger was quite prepared for him to do so. He took his feet off the rudder-bar and settled himself back in his seat with a feeling of pardonable satisfaction. Jock had asked him if he could fly. He had answered that question in a manner more conclusive than anything he could have said. For the first time for three days he felt like singing.

  Jock took the machine home without further incident. Almost before it had stopped running over the dusty turf he had reached over and clapped Ginger on the shoulder. `

  Guid boy,' he said delightedly. 'I couldna hae done it better mysel'.'

  Ginger smiled a trifle sheepishly.

  `Who taught ye to fly like that ?' inquired Jock.

  `Biggles,' answered Ginger unthinkingly. The word slipped off his tongue. He regretted it instantly—not that there seemed to be any serious reason why he should.

  The broad grin on Jock's face died away instantly. It was replaced by a look of curious inquiry. `Who did you say ?' he asked in an odd tone of voice.

  `Wiggles,' repeated Ginger, slowly. There was nothing else he could say.

  `Biggles?'

  `Yes. A friend of mine—my boss really. His proper name is Bigglesworth.'

  Jock glanced around. There was something almost furtive in his manner. Then he got back into his seat and taxied quickly to the hangar, where he jumped out and beckoned to Ginger. `Come over here,' he said, in a voice that made Ginger's heart sink.

  Ginger followed him into a small room roughly furnished as an office. Flying kit hung from pegs on the wall, on which, too, was pinned a map-showing the trench lines, and small circles which obviously indicated aerodromes. He closed the door behind them.


  `What's wrong ?' asked Ginger wonderingly, startled by Jock's sudden change of manner, and unable to find any reason for it.

  The Scotsman faced him grimly. The corners of his mouth were drawn down. 'And so ye'

  re Mr. Hebblethwaite, na doot ?' he asserted harshly.

  `Why, yes—that's right,' agreed Ginger. 'What 's the matter ?'

  Ì'll show ye what's the matter, ye spyin' rat,' snarled the Scotsman, whipping an automatic out of a drawer and thrusting it into Ginger's stomach. `Stand still, ye skunk, before I blow ye in halves.'

  Ginger felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the irate Scotsman in horror and alarm. In a moment of time all his plans had been swept away. 'What on earth are you talking about ?' he

  cried, although in his heart he realized that McLannoch had an inkling of the truth.

  `Ye low-down sneaking spy,' snarled the Scotsman.

  `You're wrong. You're all wrong,' cried Ginger desperately. 'Where did you get that idea from ?'

  `Never mind where I got it from, but I know ye're a spy. Now deny it.'

  Ì'm sorry to have to remind you of it, but a few hours ago I risked being shot to get you out of a mess. Just now I shot down a Fiat. Does that look like the work of a spy ? Should I do that if I was on the other side ?'

  The Scotsman hesitated. Clearly, this was an angle of argument that he found hard to parry.

  `Listen, Jock,' went on Ginger quickly, 'we're both British. I'm going to put my cards on the table. What happens after that is for you to decide. But give me a hearing. I'll tell you how I came to be here—me and Biggles.'

  Again a strange expression swept over McLannoch's face. 'This name Biggles reminds me of something,' he said. 'I've got it. There was a mon o' that name in France, in Ìn two-six-six squadron.'

  Ày, that's right.'

  Àt Maranique.'

  Ày—that 's it.'

  `This is the same man.'

  Ì'll no' believe it.'