by W E Johns
Shaken though he was by shock, Biggles realized what had happened, and a glance towards the hangars confirmed it. A dozen machines were parked in line—but they were not club aeroplanes. They were Messerschmitts, sleek monoplanes bearing the familiar Latin cross, and the swastika of the German Air Force.
The German pilots, laughing, suddenly spread across the road, raising their arms in salute; and, as Biggles jammed on his brakes and stopped, they crowded round him. One of them, a captain, stepped forward, and Biggles steeled himself for the worst. To his utter and complete amazement the German clapped him on the back with every sign of friendliness.
‘Welcome!’ he cried.
Biggles’s brain seemed to go numb, for not by any stretch of the imagination could he make out what was happening. Far from treating him like an enemy, the Germans seemed pleased to see him. He couldn’t understand it at all, and he began seriously to wonder if, after all, the whole thing was not an evil dream. Then, dimly, he began to see daylight—or he thought he did. It was the motor-cycle—or rather, the swastika flags on it. The Germans took him for one of themselves.
But the next remark made by the German captain dispelled this delusion. He took Biggles by the arm in the most friendly manner, although his friendliness had an oily quality which Biggles found it hard to stomach.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were one of us?’ he said slyly, nudging Biggles with roguish familiarity.
Something in the man’s voice made Biggles look at him more closely; and then, for the first time, he recognized him. Doubtless it was the uniform that had so altered him that he had not recognized him at first. He was one of the members of the flying club.
Biggles’s brain raced to keep pace with the situation. ‘But wouldn’t that have been risky?’ he said vaguely, in order to gain time. ‘I thought you were a Norwegian.’
‘So I am,’ was the staggering reply, ‘but I’ve always admired the Nazis—and it was made worth my while to play on their side. There were three of us here in the swim, but none of us guessed that you were in it too.’
At last Biggles understood. Three of the members of the flying club were in German pay, and now that he had arrived on a Nazi motor-cycle they assumed, not unnaturally, that he, too, was in Nazi employ. The knowledge shook him to the very core. Spying was something he could understand; there had always been, and always would be, spies. It was one of the oldest professions in the world, and was, after all, a part of the unpleasant business of war. But what he could not understand, and what he could not forgive, was a man playing traitor to his own country. Yet there were three such men here, men who were far worse than spies; they were renegades, traitors in the most despicable sense.
Biggles swallowed something in his throat and forced a sickly smile. ‘I wasn’t taking any chances,’ he said in German. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he continued, as he saw a new loophole of escape. ‘I’m not officially in the German service—yet. I heard a whisper that some of you were, so I bided my time; but as soon as I saw the troops land this morning I borrowed this motor-bike and headed for the aerodrome in the hope of being able to do something.’
‘You’ll be able to do something,’ the other assured him. ‘We shall need all the pilots we can get, and having seen something of your flying I can recommend you. Ever flown a Messerschmitt?’
‘No.’
‘You will, and you’ll like it. It’s a lovely machine. The trouble will be finding somebody to fight.’
‘You don’t expect much opposition then?’
The other scoffed. ‘None at all. The only military machines in the country are obsolete types.’
‘But suppose the British send some machines out?’ queried Biggles.
The other laughed scornfully. ‘We’ll deal with them when they come,’ he boasted.
‘By the way, is my machine still here?’ asked Biggles in a voice which he strove to keep steady. He had no wish to find himself in the German Air Force.
‘Yes, but you won’t be allowed to fly it. All machines are grounded—the Commandant’s orders.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Of course—very wise,’ he agreed. ‘Well, here I am. What ought I to do next?’
‘You’ll have to wait here until the Commandant arrives, then I’ll introduce you to him. No doubt he’ll be glad to have you in the service, particularly as you know the country. Here he comes now.’
The man, whose name Biggles now remembered was Kristen, nodded towards a big car that came speeding up the road, a swastika flag fluttering on its bonnet.
Biggles’s astute brain had now got the whole situation fairly well straightened out. Kristen, and two other members of the club, had actually got the aerodrome ready for German occupation. A number of Messerschmitts, flown by regular German officers, had already landed. The new Commandant of the station was just arriving to take charge of operations. He, Biggles, was assumed to be of Nazi persuasion, and might, if he played his cards properly, actually be admitted into the German Air Force as a renegade Norwegian. The prospect nauseated him, but he felt that if it offered a chance of escape he would be foolish not to take it. There might even be some satisfaction in beating the Germans at their own underhand game. In any case, he knew that if ever it was learned that he was British he was likely to have a bad time. Should the Germans learn his real name, and the Nazi Intelligence Service hear of his capture, then things would look very black indeed, for they had his record and had good cause to hate him.
The assembled pilots clicked their heels as the Commandant’s car came to a stop and he alighted.
‘Hauptmann Baron von Leffers,’ whispered Kirsten.
There was some delay while the Commandant spoke to the officers, some of whom got into their machines and took off. Von Leffers watched them go and then beckoned to Kristen.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘you have done well. Presently you will be given one of our machines, but before that I want to go over with you the list of all machines and accessories that you have here. You have it prepared?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
The Baron looked at Biggles. ‘Who is this?’
‘He is one of us, but as yet his appointment has not been confirmed.’
‘So? How is that?’
Kristen explained that Biggles had not been very long in the country and had been flying his own machine. He was, he asserted with more confidence than Biggles’ statement warranted, entirely in sympathy with the Nazis, and would like to fly for them.
‘You have your own plane?’ queried the Commandant.
Biggles bowed German fashion. ‘Ja, Herr Kommandant.’
The Baron smiled drily. ‘You must have plenty of money?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘I had some, but I have spent most of it. Flying is an expensive pastime.’
‘It won’t cost you anything now,’ returned the Baron. ‘I’m afraid we shall have to take your machine. You will be paid for it, of course—after the war.’
‘Quite so, Herr Kommandant.’
‘And you would like to fly one of our fighters?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
‘Have you any experience of fighting machines?’
‘Yes. I was a test pilot for a while in America.’
In making this statement Biggles was telling the truth; for once, in America, he had tested some machines for the British Government with a view to purchase.
‘We will see about it,’ the Baron promised curtly, and, beckoning to Kristen, walked away.
Biggles was left alone. He was not sorry, for he wanted time to think. He was far from pleased with the situation, but he realized that it might have been worse—a lot worse. He was at least still free, and he only wanted to find himself alone in an aeroplane—any aeroplane—to make a bee-line for home. It was for this reason, of course, that he had agreed to the suggestion of his flying a German fighter, for a Messerschmitt would suit him just as well as his own machine—better, in fact, since it was both faster and had a longer range. I
n any case, to dispute the suggestion would at once have made him an object of suspicion. The immediate future was still obscure, but he was prepared to match his wits against those of the Germans.
His chief fear was that he would be followed from Oslo by the fellow whose motor-cycle he had taken, and recognized. And it was for this reason that his first action was to put the machine in a shed out of sight. Then, with the idea of escaping forthwith if it were possible, he made his way to the hangar in which his machine was kept, but a glance showed him that this was now out of the question. The hangar was full of Germans; what was even worse, they had already dismantled all the light aeroplanes to make room for the fighters, and were stacking the components against the end wall. Perceiving that nothing was to be gained by remaining there, particularly as several of the Germans were glancing at him suspiciously, he made his way to what had once been the club-house, but was now the officers’ quarters.
As he strolled across, a curious smile played for a moment round the corners of his mouth. His Norwegian ‘holiday’ seemed to be shaping into something very different.
Presently he encountered Kristen, who, for some reason not altogether apparent, seemed to have taken him under his wing. It appeared that Kristen was one of those fussy, busy people who get satisfaction out of making other people’s arrangements for them. Perhaps it flatters their vanity. Anyway, up to a point this suited Biggles quite well, and he played up to the man’s weakness. At the moment, no doubt on account of the Nazi invasion and the part he had played in it, Kristen was looking very pleased with himself.
‘Have you finished with the Commandant?’ inquired Biggles, adopting a meek, almost humble, air. He spoke in German.
‘It is useful that you speak German so well.’
Biggles nodded.
‘Yes, I’ve given the Commandant all the information about the place,’ went on Kristen. ‘Of course, it’s unlikely that such a little aerodrome will get as much limelight as the big air bases, but we shall make our mark—you watch it.’
‘Yes, I shall certainly watch it,’ said Biggles seriously, and he meant it.
‘By the way, I’ve brought you this.’ Kristen held out a red armlet bearing a black swastika, within a white circle.
‘What’s that for?’ inquired Biggles.
‘To wear. You won’t be able to get a uniform until to-morrow, perhaps not for a day or two; in the meanwhile the Commandant says you are to wear this. It will show that you are not an ordinary civilian and may save you trouble with the guards.’
‘Thanks.’ Biggles took the armlet and fastened it on his sleeve.
‘We may as well go and have a bite to eat,’ suggested Kristen.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Biggles, and they walked together to the officers’ mess. He smiled as they went in, for it had been the club dining-room. In a few hours it had been converted into a Nazi military depot. More than once, as he ate the food set before him, Biggles smiled faintly as he wondered what his comrades would think could they see him, swastika on sleeve, calmly eating in a German mess.
Later in the day the Commandant sent for him, and after a close interrogation, in which Biggles’s statements were supported by his Norwegian papers of nationality, he was admitted into the German Air Force on probation with the rank of Leutnant.*1 No uniform was yet available, but the Baron promised to procure one for him in the near future. In the meantime Biggles was to wear the swastika armlet.
Biggles didn’t like this; nor did he, in fact, like the whole arrangement, but since refusal to accept the conditions would unquestionably jeopardize his freedom, if not his life, he thought it expedient to accept. He promised himself that it would not be for long.
Indeed, within five minutes of leaving the Commandant’s office he was making new plans for flight. He still hoped that it might turn out to be a simple business after all. Heavy gunfire could be heard in the distance, and machines, chiefly Messerschmitts, were constantly coming and going; so he found Kristen and asked him frankly if he could make a flight. The not unnatural retort to this request was, ‘Why so soon? What was the hurry?’ Biggles answered, reasonably enough, that as he was now in the Air Force but had never flown a Messerschmitt, it was time he put in a bit of practice.
To his disappointment his request was refused, not on account of any suspicion on Kristen’s part—that was obvious—but because no machines were available for such a purpose. They were all in use.
So Biggles had to make the best of it. He nodded and walked away. His time, he thought, would come. He was rather at a loss to know what to do next, but this, as it turned out, was decided for him—and in no uncertain manner. Rounding a corner of the officers’ quarters he came face to face with the officer whose motor-cycle he had borrowed. He had just stepped out of a large touring car in which sat three men wearing the uniform of the dreaded Gestapo.*2
Chapter 3
Across The Frontier
Coming face to face as they did they recognized each other instantly, and never did Biggles’ presence of mind stand him in greater stead. Before the man could speak, and while his brows were still darkening with anger, Biggles clapped him on the shoulder, laughing at the same time.
‘So there you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was hoping you’d come along. I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened this morning, but I was in the dickens of a mess—and in a hurry. I should have been at the aerodrome the moment our troops arrived, but the fool woman at my hotel forgot to wake me. You were all busy, so rather than worry you I tried to get to the aerodrome by myself. As you saw, I borrowed a bicycle. Then, after the accident, knowing that you’d have no difficulty in getting another machine, I borrowed yours and dashed along here. I would have seen to it that you got it back, of course.’
While he had been speaking, out of the corner of his eye Biggles saw Kristen coming towards him. He now looked at him and cried, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ asked Kristen, hastening his steps.
‘My machine was here.’ Biggles didn’t say what machine.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Biggles turned to the Gestapo agent. ‘There you are.’
In the face of this evidence the German accepted the explanation, but not with very good grace.
‘You’d no right to take my machine,’ he growled.
‘I admit that,’ agreed Biggles readily. ‘But don’t make a fuss about it, there’s a good fellow, or it may lead to trouble for all of us.’
‘Where is my motor-cycle now?’
‘Here. I put it in the shed for safety. I’ve reported to the Commandant, so I can now take it back to Oslo if you like.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ was the gruff reply. ‘I’ve borrowed a car from one of these miserable Norwegians—he won’t want it again. The car suits me better than the motor-cycle. Still, you’d better take it back to Oslo some time.’
‘Where shall I find you?’
‘Leave it in the garage of the Nordic Hotel.’
‘Certainly,’ Biggles promised. ‘Have a glass of beer while you’re here? I feel I owe you a drink.’
‘No, I haven’t time now. I must get back. Naturally, I had to find out who it was who made off with my machine.’
‘Of course.’
The German went back to his car, and Biggles drew a deep breath of relief. It had been an awkward moment. Kristen was still standing there, but he announced that he was on his way to the hangars where he had a job to do.
Biggles gave the fellow a dark look as he departed. True, he had been of service to him, but not willingly. Had he known the truth it would have been a different story. As far as Biggles was concerned the man was worse than a spy; he was a traitor, and that was something he could not forgive.
He decided to go over to see if the motor-cycle was still where he had left it. It was, and as he gazed at it a fresh scheme took shape in his mind. It did not make so much appeal to him as his original plan for getting out of the country. But the
motor-cycle was, after all, a fast vehicle, and it was not far to the Swedish frontier. Sweden was still a neutral country, and if he could get across the frontier into it there was no reason why he should not assume his real nationality, and tell the truth—that he was a fugitive from the Nazi invasion of Norway. He would report to the nearest British Consul, who could, no doubt, make arrangements for his immediate return home. Thinking it over, Biggles decided that it was a reasonable plan, and decided to put it into operation forthwith.
The sun was now far down in the west, and he reckoned that he had only about half an hour of daylight left; but this did not bother him; indeed, he decided that darkness would probably suit his purpose better than broad daylight. He examined the petrol tank and found that it was nearly full, so as there was nothing to delay him he wheeled the machine out and started the engine. Several Germans were about, but none took any notice of him, and in a few minutes he was cruising down the main road.
It was an anxious journey, for he realized that every man was his enemy. The Norwegians, seeing his Nazi armlet, would hate the sight of him. Any German, were the truth known, would shoot him on sight. Nazis of all ranks were everywhere—in cars, on motor-cycles, in armoured cars, and even light tanks; and Biggles was aghast as, for the first time, he saw how widespread the German movement was. It was obvious that far more Germans had landed than he had at first supposed. He wondered vaguely what the Allies were doing about it all, but of course he had no means of knowing.
The traffic grew more congested as he neared the frontier, chiefly with refugees trying to escape from the country—going anywhere to evade the Nazis. German soldiers and Storm Troopers were turning them back, and from observations made by the people Biggles learned that many of these same Nazis had been living in the country as ordinary citizens, and were known to them. In other words, they had been planted in the country before the invasion actually occurred. Thus Biggles learned of the treachery that enabled the Nazis to effect the landing. Still, his armlet and the swastika-beflagged motor-cycle served their purpose, and took him anywhere he wanted to go. Indeed, on more than one occasion Nazi troops held up the traffic to let him pass.
