Biggles Defies the Swastika

by W E Johns

  A further point not to be overlooked was this. He was supposed to be acting under von Hymann’s orders, and while his telephone message might be sufficient to allay suspicion for the time being, unless he showed up pretty soon, or reported again, von Hymann, too, would start wondering what had happened to Hendrik.

  Now in introducing the town of Narvik into his message to von Hymann Biggles was prompted by one reason only. From scraps of conversation overheard he had gathered that a British force was landing there. British troops might be landing at other places as well for all he knew, but owing to the suddenness of the German attack the whole country was in a state of confusion. Nobody seemed to know what was happening.

  At the back of Biggles’ mind, when he had rung up to speak to von Hymann, was a vague idea of getting ‘Bigglesworth’ out of the country. That is to say, if he could lead von Hymann to believe that Bigglesworth had fled the country, via the British-held port of Narvik—a not unreasonable possibility—then the hue and cry would die down. Von Stalheim would be informed and would probably return to Germany. Brandt might go, too, leaving Biggles to do his work in a less unhealthy atmosphere. So, if this could be brought about, it would be a useful stroke of work. But could it? Obviously, it was not going to be easy to get to Narvik, or anywhere else for that matter, for not only were more and more German troops arriving in the country, but the Norwegians themselves were mobilizing and putting up a stiff resistance. So it seemed that he would have to pose as a Gestapo agent when talking to the Germans, and as a Norwegian when intercepted by Norwegians. He would have to adopt a dual personality. He still had a Norwegian passport as well as his Gestapo ticket, so he could use either as circumstances demanded, and as he was still in civilian clothes he felt that this ought to be possible.

  There was one final point that worried him. In Oslo he had picked up information which the British authorities would be glad to have, but this information would be of no value unless he could pass it on immediately, for the position was changing every few hours. Could he reach the British forces? He did not know, but he could try. If he succeeded in getting into the town of Narvik he would get a message through to von Hymann from there, to the effect that Bigglesworth had escaped. At the same time he would ask permission to return to Boda, and stay there until he got Colonel Raymond’s permission to leave the country. He was anxious, desperately anxious, to get out, not so much on account of the danger of his task as his dislike for the work he was doing. Spying as a profession had no appeal to him, although more than once he had been forced to do it. In the present case only a sequence of unforeseen circumstances had combined to thrust him, against his will, into the unenviable position in which he now found himself. He much preferred the straightforward life of a fighting pilot, which, really, was what he was.

  He looked again at his map, noted the shortest way to his objective, started the car, and set off on his long journey.

  Biggles covered fifty miles in fair time, although, as was inevitable, he was stopped several times by German patrols, but on the production of his pass he was allowed to proceed. Once he found himself near some brisk fighting and took refuge in a peasant’s cottage—posing, of course, as a Norwegian. The peasant told him of a detour by which he could avoid the battle, and he lost no time in taking it. Now, having passed the extremity of the German forces, he started to run into Norwegian patrols, who also stopped him. But when he showed his Norwegian passport, and said that he was on his way to Narvik to offer his services to the British, no obstacle was put in his path. The noise of war died away behind him, but progress was slow on account of the state of the road, particularly in the passes where the snow was still deep. Naturally, the farther north he got the more arctic the conditions became, and once he was compelled to wait for a snowstorm to blow itself out before he could go on. He was desperately tired, but matters were too urgent for him to rest—at least, for the time being.

  On and on he drove into the darkness of the night. He passed a signpost pointing to Trondheim, away to the west. There was firing there, too, but who was responsible for it he did not know, for he was still unaware that Germans had landed at several places on the coast. Leaving Trondheim far behind, and reaching a village called Stol, he halted. He was so weary that he was beginning to sway in his seat. To proceed farther in his present state would be to court disaster by accident, so he went to the inn. The landlord and his wife were still up; several villagers were there too, all discussing the calamity that had befallen their country. Biggles introduced himself—as Hendrik, of course—said that he was on government service and was on his way to Narvik. He was worn out, so could he have a bed for the rest of the night?

  The kindly souls assured him that he might, but would he please tell them what was happening in Oslo? They had a wireless set, but they knew it was in German hands and they were anxious to know the truth. Biggles told them as much as he thought was good for them. Afterwards he fell on his bed and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  As soon as it was daylight he had a good breakfast and continued his journey. The scenery had always been wild, but now it grew rugged in the extreme, far more savage than it had seemed from the air. On all sides towered mountains, gaunt, still white with snow. The lower slopes bristled with countless conifers. For the most part the road ran through valley or gorge, but not infrequently it followed a cornice round the mountain side so that sheer cliff rose on the one hand and a fathomless void dropped away on the other. The surface of the road got worse and worse.

  But Biggles was not concerned with these details. He was concerned only with reaching his objective, which had become a sort of mania. Once, from an eminence, he caught a distant view of the sea far away to the left, and he knew that he was now in the narrow northern end of Norway. Shortly afterwards the road struck a fiord, one of the many deep-thrusting arms of the sea for which Norway is famous, and thereafter it more or less followed the coast. He breathed a sigh of relief when, from the top of a hill, he saw a town in the distance that he knew could only be the port for which he was bound.

  He might not have seen the sailors had not one of them deliberately exposed himself, making strange signals. Biggles stopped at once. As the man drew near—he was little more than a lad—Biggles saw that he wore the uniform of an officer of the British Mercantile Marine. It was dirty and torn.

  The man came nearer. ‘Me British sailor,’ he said, pointing to the braid on his sleeve. Then he pointed to his mouth. ‘Me hungry—no food,’ he continued.

  That he was telling the truth was obvious for his face was pinched and pale. It was apparent that he assumed Biggles to be a Norwegian, and therefore a friend.

  Said Biggles, coolly, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  The sailor started violently. ‘Great Scott! Are you a Britisher?’ he asked joyfully.

  Biggles did not answer the question. ‘What are you doing here?’ he repeated.

  ‘We were torpedoed off the coast—the trawler Sea-goer.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. Me and some of the ship’s company managed to swim ashore. That was two days ago. We’ve been on the run ever since—without a bite of food.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘In my party—seven.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to Narvik?’

  The sailor stared. ‘To Narvik? That’s the last place we’re likely to go—unless we’re caught and taken there.’

  Biggles sensed a disturbing implication in the statement. ‘Why, what’s wrong with Narvik?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘The Germans have got it.’

  Biggles was speechless while this staggering piece of information sank in. ‘But—but I thought the British had landed there?’

  The sailor laughed harshly. ‘There was talk of them landing there, but they’re not there yet, you can take that from me. The fiord is stiff with Jerry destroyers. They’ve got the town.’

  Biggles’ scheme crashed to the ground. ‘What are you trying
to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Find someone to hide us until our fellows arrive, or else find a ship to pick us up. That’s why we’re sticking near the coast.’

  ‘Do the Germans know you’re ashore?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. They’ve been chasing us.’

  ‘Where are the rest of you?’

  The sailor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Hiding in a little dell.’

  Instinctively Biggles glanced in the direction indicated, and as he did so a movement caught his eye. He looked again and saw that he had not been mistaken. A German soldier was creeping towards them, taking cover between the rocks. Others were there too, to left and right. Quickly Biggles looked behind him and saw more Germans advancing stealthily through the trees that cloaked the side of the hill.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the sailor sharply, taking alarm from the expression on Biggles’s face.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck, old man,’ returned Biggles quietly. ‘We’re surrounded. Are you armed?’

  ‘We haven’t a weapon between us.’

  ‘Then you’d be wise to give yourselves up. There’s no sense in throwing your lives away uselessly.’

  ‘You’re talking about us. What are you going to do?’ asked the sailor suspiciously.

  Biggles could already see a plan by which the incident might be turned to good account, but it depended largely on the courage and fortitude of the sailor. He drew his automatic.

  ‘What the–’ began the sailor aghast, but Biggles cut him short.

  ‘Answer my questions quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m a British spy, and I’m going to put my life in your hands. I’ve got to get back to England with vital information. Got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped the sailor.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Evans—Bill Evans.’

  ‘It’s in your power to help me—and the country. Will you do it? You’ll be taken prisoner, anyway, so it won’t make things any worse for you.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘First, put your hands up. That will lead the Jerries to think I’ve captured you.’

  The sailor raised his hands.

  Biggles went on quickly, for he could see the Germans fast closing in.

  ‘They think I’m a German agent,’ he said. ‘After you’re taken I shall come to question you. I shall ask if you had anyone else with your party. At first you will refuse to answer, but under pressure you’ll admit that a Britisher named Bigglesworth attached himself to you. When I ask what’s become of him you’ll say he left you—stole a dinghy and rowed out to a steamer. Got the name right?’

  ‘Bigglesworth.’

  ‘That’s it. Actually, I’m Bigglesworth, and I’ve got to make it look as if I’ve escaped out of the country—understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. That’s all. Act as you never acted before. Remember, however tough your plight may seem, mine is a lot worse. One slip and it’s a firing party for me.’

  ‘By gosh! You’ve sure got a nerve,’ muttered the sailor admiringly. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Thanks, pal. If you get back home and I don’t, find Colonel Raymond of British Intelligence and tell him that you saw me, and that I did my best. Prime your friends about Bigglesworth, but don’t tell them more than you need, and on no account let them know it’s me. Simply tell them to remember that Bigglesworth got away on a ship—a slim fellow with fair hair. Now take me to the others.’

  Still with his hands up, Biggles walking close behind him with the pistol raised, the sailor marched stiffly into the dell. The others sprang up in dismay when they appeared.

  ‘Hands up, everybody,’ ordered Biggles curtly. ‘March out into the open in single file.’

  ‘Do what you’re told, boys,’ said Evans tersely.

  Slowly the weary sailors raised their hands, and at the expression on their faces Biggles nearly weakened. He would have much preferred to fight side by side with them.

  ‘Out you go,’ he said shortly.

  At that moment the German troops sprang up and ran forward. An officer was at their head.

  Biggles received them with a cold smile. ‘You’ve arrived at a useful moment,’ he said harshly, showing his Gestapo pass. ‘I saw these fellows skulking among the rocks so I went after them. You’d better get them to a safe place.’ As he spoke he took out his armlet and replaced it on his sleeve.

  The German officer, who was quite young, was all politeness. ‘Leave them to me,’ he answered. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you shouldn’t have risked your life as you did. These fellows are a desperate lot and they might have attacked you. We’ve been following them for some time, to round them up.’

  ‘No harm done,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘I must get on, so I’ll leave you to finish the job.’ With a curt nod he got back into his car and drove on into the town.

  Even before he reached it he saw that what the sailor had told him was only too true. German troops were everywhere, and five destroyers lay in the fiord. There was also a number of flying-boats and seaplanes.

  He went straight to General Head-quarters and asked to see the officer in charge of operations. He had to wait a few minutes; then two senior naval officers came out and he was shown in.

  A Colonel, with his adjutant at his elbow, received him coldly but politely. From their manner Biggles judged that they had little love for the Gestapo, but feared them too much to be anything but civil. He showed his pass.

  ‘I’m looking for an English spy named Bigglesworth,’ he said without wasting words. ‘He bolted from Oslo, heading north. We have good reason to think that he was coming here. Have you any English prisoners?’

  ‘Yes, we have a few.’ The Colonel looked at his adjutant.

  ‘Eighteen, sir, I think.’

  ‘Have they been examined?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is Bigglesworth among them?’

  ‘He may be, but if he is he didn’t give that name,’ answered the adjutant.

  ‘I’d better see them,’ said Biggles curtly.

  The adjutant took him to a small schoolroom which was being used as a prison camp. Several sentries were on guard. The prisoners were paraded. They stood in a line, coldly hostile, defiant, in spite of the state they were in, for they all looked as if they had been through a bad time. There were one or two Air Force uniforms, but most of the men were sailors. One, a leathery-faced old salt, cursed Hitler and everything German in a steady stream of invective.

  Biggles glanced at him. ‘Shut up!’ he snapped, ‘or I’ll give you something to curse about, Schweinehund.’ He walked slowly along the line.

  Now all this, of course, was merely play-acting, part of the scheme that had now crystallized in his mind. He would certainly not see the man he professed to be looking for, nor did he expect to recognize anyone; so he merely glanced at the faces as, with the adjutant and an armed soldier following, he walked slowly down the line. But when he came to the seventh man he stopped dead.

  It was Algy.

  Chapter 6

  The Navy Arrives

  How Biggles kept control of himself at that ghastly moment he never knew. For two palpitating seconds he stood stock still, while he felt the blood draining from his face. Then he walked on, looking for Ginger, who he felt must be there too. But of Ginger there was no sign, so he walked back along the line to Algy, feeling that he ought to make some excuse for stopping in front of him.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’ he asked harshly.

  Algy didn’t move a muscle. Actually, he had got over his shock at seeing Biggles, for he saw him immediately he entered the room—long before Biggles saw him.

  ‘You may have seen my picture in the papers,’ sneered Algy. ‘I won the world championship at snakes and ladders—up one minute and down the next.’

  There was a titter along the line.

  Biggles spluttered with rage, German fashion. ‘Si
lence!’ he bellowed. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. ‘He isn’t here,’ he told the adjutant. ‘Let us go back to the Colonel—I must speak to him again.’

  They returned to head-quarters.

  ‘Did you find your man?’ inquired the Colonel.

  ‘No,’ answered Biggles shortly. ‘There’ll be trouble if he gets away. He’s a dangerous man. I must ring up my chief in Oslo.’ He broke off and glanced over his shoulder as from outside the door came the sound of quick footsteps. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  The door opened. An N.C.O. came into the room and saluted. ‘Seven more prisoners, sir,’ he announced.

  ‘Good,’ said Biggles sharply. ‘My man may be among them. Bring them in here—you don’t mind, Colonel? I only want to see their faces.’

  ‘Bring them in.’

  The seven prisoners, the seven sailors whom Biggles had encountered on the hill-side, were marched in. Every face was expressionless.

  Biggles scrutinized each man in turn. ‘Who is the senior officer?’ he snapped.

  ‘I am,’ growled Evans.

  ‘Were there any more of you?’

  Evans did not answer.

  ‘Answer me!’

  Still the sailor maintained a stubborn silence.

  Biggles’s jaw set in true Prussian fashion. ‘I think you forget where you are,’ he grated. ‘I hope it will not be necessary for me to remind you. Were there more than seven in your party?’

  Evans hesitated. ‘There was one more, but he left us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get back to England, I suppose. He found a dinghy, and without waiting for us, rowed out to a steamer. But he wasn’t really one of our party.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As we walked down the coast we met him coming up. He said he had escaped from Oslo.’