by W E Johns
Biggles waiting for no more. With the adjutant about to detail men to watch him, and von Stalhein due to arrive in half an hour, he felt that Boda, from being unhealthy, had become malignant. He walked briskly away into the moonlight, realizing that he was now virtually a fugitive, yet forbidden by his code of honour even to attempt to escape while Algy was there looking for him. Where was Algy?
In sheer desperation Biggles began walking along the boundary of the aerodrome, whistling quietly, aware that now people on the aerodrome were looking for him the very minutes of his freedom were numbered. He broke into a run, and finally, in sheer desperation, called Algy by name. But there was no reply. Sick at heart he hurried on and completed a circuit of the aerodrome. Looking at his watch he saw that half an hour had elapsed since von Stalhein had rung up. The moon was now high, making it dangerous for him to move about.
Despondent, and hardly knowing what to do next, he made his way to the hangars, taking care to keep within their deepest shadows. Watching, he saw a car coming up the private drive that led from the main road to the club-house. Outside the orderly room, which was less than a hundred yards from where he stood, it stopped. A slim figure alighted and moved quickly. It was von Stalhein.
Biggles watched him for a moment with a peculiar smile on his face; then he walked quickly towards the main road. He felt that whatever Algy’s predicament might be, no useful purpose could be served by remaining where he was. He could not stay at Boda. If he did, capture was inevitable, and once that happened all hope of helping Algy—or himself for that matter—would be gone. While he remained at large there was still a chance—not a very bright one, admittedly, but a slim chance is better than none at all.
Now in order to reach the main road it was necessary for him to walk across the open moonlit area traversed by the drive. There were no trees, no bushes, nothing to offer cover, for these, as is customary near aerodromes, had been removed to prevent them from becoming obstructions to the movement of aircraft. He had gone only a few yards when there was a shout behind him. Looking back he saw Kristen, running, followed by a car—von Stalhein’s car.
Kristen shouted. ‘Hi! Stop! They want you in the office.’
‘You’re telling me,’ muttered Biggles grimly.
He could, he thought, outrun Kristen, but there could be no escape from the car, which had now increased its speed and was fast overtaking him. Seeing that flight could no longer avail him, he drew his pistol and waited. He was in no mood to face von Stalhein’s triumph.
As the car drew level a head appeared at the window, and he saw that the driver wore a German uniform greatcoat.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ said a calm voice, in English.
For a split second Biggles stood transfixed, his lips parted, his expression almost one of idiocy. Then he gulped, and flung himself into the car.
The driver was Algy.
‘Where would you like to go, sir?’ he inquired whimsically, after the manner of a taxi-driver.
‘Anywhere,’ gasped Biggles, ‘but get going and make it fast.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Algy swung into the main road and pressed the accelerator flat.
Chapter 10
On the Run
For perhaps a minute neither Biggles nor Algy spoke. As a matter of fact it took Biggles that time to recover from the shock. Then, ‘where the dickens did you spring from?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, I was just hanging around, you know, in case I was wanted,’ returned Algy lightly.
‘Where did you get that uniform?’
‘It’s only a greatcoat. I borrowed it from the souvenir chest of the ship I was in.’
‘Oh, yes—I remember now; Ginger told me about it,’ nodded Biggles. ‘Where did you get this car?’
‘It was standing outside station head-quarters.’
‘You know to whom it belongs?’
‘Too true I do. I saw von Stalhein get out.’
Biggles laughed hysterically. ‘Strewth! Last night I pinched his plane; now we’ve got his car. We shall have to drop him a line and thank him for providing us with transport.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ continued Algy, ‘I was hanging around near head-quarters hoping to see you—which I did. I saw you break cover and make for the road, and it was obvious that you were in a tight spot. Von Stalhein’s car was standing where he had left it, so, knowing how you hate walking, I thought I might as well bring it along.’
‘Thanks, laddie,’ said Biggles seriously. ‘You were just about in time. Things were getting hot—too jolly hot.’
Algy grinned. ‘So I gathered. But isn’t it time we decided where to go?’
‘Ginger’s waiting for us in the fiord,’ declared Biggles. ‘We ought to try to get to him, but I’m afraid we should never get there in this car. Von Stalhein will get on the phone and warn his patrols to be on the look-out for us. Of course, it would take a bit of time to warn everybody, so there’s a chance that we might reach Oslo. If we go on at this rate we ought to do it in twenty minutes, and that will hardly be long enough for von Stalhein’s crowd to get barricades up. Make for Oslo.’
‘And then what?’
‘Let’s wait until we get there before we decide that. We may have to leave the car and hide, and hiding will be easier in a city than in open country. We’ll make for the harbour. There were some flying-boats there the last time I saw the place. For your information, I’m a member of the Gestapo; I mention that because I’ve got a pass in my pocket which may help us.’
‘Will it still work, do you think?’ queried Algy. ‘Won’t von Stalhein take steps to have the bearer of it arrested?’
‘Unquestionably; but with the country in this state it will take him a but of time to notify every German in Norway. Speed now is everything.’
‘So you’ve seen Ginger? What had he got to talk about?’
‘He gave me the low-down on everything. Afterwards I sent him to England with some information, and when he came back he brought me over to Boda. He should be back at the fiord now. Unfortunately I got there too late to stop you coming to look for me. Incidentally, in the information I sent back to Raymond I told him about Boda, and suggested that our bombers came over and knocked the place about a bit. That was one of the reasons why I was in a hurry to get you out of it.’
‘This may be our boys coming now,’ put in Algy, peering upwards through the windscreen.
Looking through the window, Biggles saw that the sky was ablaze with searchlights. At a terrific height specks of flame marked the burst of anti-aircraft gunfire.
‘By Jingo! You’re right! Those are our fellows,’ declared Biggles. ‘They’ve come at a good moment. When they start dropping their loads on the aerodrome the people there will have something else to think of besides telephoning to Oslo about us.’
‘I hope a bomb lands rights in von Stalhein’s lap,’ muttered Algy vindictively.
‘That would be a pity,’ protested Biggles reproachfully. ‘It would take half the interest out of life.’
‘It would make life a thundering sight easier,’ snorted Algy. ‘I’m all for a quiet life, and this is not my idea of it.’
‘By gosh! Look at that flak!’ broke in Biggles. ‘There’s a chance that when von Stalhein tried to get through to Oslo he found all the wires engaged, giving air-raid warnings. Hullo! There goes the first crump*1,’ he went on quickly as the flash of an exploding bomb lit up the sky.
‘Shall we stop and watch the raid?’ suggested Algy.
‘Not on your life. I was caught in one at Stavanger last night, and that will last me for a long time. Let’s push on to Oslo.’
As they sped down the road Biggles gave Algy a brief account of his adventures since he last saw him at Narvik, and Algy described his, although having talked to Ginger, there was little that Biggles did not know.
By the time these notes had been exchanged they were running through the suburbs of Oslo. They were stopped only once, at a cross-roads, but the Gestapo
pass worked as usual. Whether von Stalhein had been unable to get through to Oslo on the telephone, or whether his conversation, or the subsequent arrangements, had been upset by the raid, they did not know, but it was evident that the patrol knew nothing about the car being taken. As far as the occupants were concerned, as both were—or appeared to be—in German uniforms, there was nothing in their appearance to arouse suspicion.
Biggles guided Algy to the port, and thence to the lane from which he had watched von Stalhein and Brandt emerge from Gestapo head-quarters.
‘This will do,’ he said. ‘Stop here. It’s unlikely that anyone will touch the car. Let’s walk.’
They got out of the car, closing the doors, and stood for a moment while they made a quick reconnaissance. Everything seemed quiet. There were a few soldiers about, and two storm-troopers were as usual on duty outside the Hotel Port. Biggles pointed out the building to Algy and told him what it was.
‘Never mind about that—where are these planes you spoke about?’ demanded Algy impatiently. ‘I’m getting nervous.’
Biggles’s eyes explored the harbour, but not a single machine could he see.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said simply.
‘What!’
‘I’m afraid it’s true. The last time I was here there were at least a dozen machines on the water. If it comes to that, there were also far more vessels here then than there are now. Where the dickens have they all gone? Something must have happened. Just a minute—you wait here. I’m going to find out what’s going on.’
‘How?’
‘By walking across to those troops and asking them—or listening to their conversation. I’ll also have a good look at the harbour and make sure that there isn’t a machine available.’ Biggles walked away.
He was gone about ten minutes.
‘Here, don’t leave me like that again,’ protested Algy when he returned. ‘I can’t speak German like you can, and if I’d been questioned by anybody I should have been sunk. Well, did you find out anything?’
‘Yes. It seems that we’ve landed an expeditionary force—in fact, two or three as far as I can make out. The nearest is just south of Bergen. Another landing has been made at Trondheim.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘It doesn’t, unless we can get to one of those places. But it’s worth knowing.’
‘Did you find a machine, that’s what I want to know?’
‘No.’
‘So what? We can’t stay here. We’ve got to get some place, and before daylight, too. I’m nearly asleep on my feet, anyway.’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘The question is, dare we use the car?’
‘It’s risky.’
‘There’s no doubt about that, but we shan’t get far on foot—even when we’ve decided where to go.’
‘How far away is Bergen?’
‘The best part of a hundred and fifty miles, but I gather that the landing has been made somewhere south of the actual town, so the distance may not be more than a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty miles.’
That’s a long way. How far is it to Ginger—to Fiord 21?’
‘About thirty miles farther on to the north. Our nearest point of contact with our people is Bergen. We might try getting through that way. If we can’t, we’ll go on to Fiord 21. We shall have to go on there sooner or later, anyway, to make contact with Ginger and let him know that we’ve got clear of Boda; but since Bergen is nearer, we might borrow an aircraft or get someone to run up to the fiord with a message for Ginger.’
‘Yes, that sounds the best plan,’ agreed Algy.
Biggles nudged him. ‘Just a minute. Don’t speak while this fellow is going by.’
The man to whom Biggles had referred was in civilian clothes, and Algy assumed, not unnaturally, that he was a Norwegian. With bent head, as if deep in thought, he was walking quickly along the pavement. Not until he drew level with the car did he raise his head and look Biggles in the face.
Recognition was mutual and instantaneous. It was Brandt, the existence of whom Biggles had almost forgotten. He was, no doubt, on his way to his head-quarters at the Hotel Port.
The German opened his mouth to shout, but the only sound that passed his lips was a grunt. Biggles’s left fist shot out and took him in the pit of the stomach; then, as his head jerked forward, Biggles right flashed up in a vicious hook to the jaw. Brandt went over backwards; his head came into violent contact with the wall at the back of the pavement, and he lay still. The whole incident occurred in two seconds.
Biggles looked swiftly up and down the lane, then at Algy. ‘This fellow knows me,’ he said by way of explanation, for Algy, who had, of course, been unaware of this, had stared at the proceedings with amazement. ‘We daren’t leave him here,’ went on Biggles tersely. ‘Help me to get him in the back of the car.’
Not without difficulty, for Brandt was a heavy man, they bundled the limp body into the rear seat, from where it slid in a heap to the floor.
‘You get in the back and take care of him,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I’ll drive. I know my way about better than you do.’
As he spoke Biggles got swiftly into the driving seat. Algy jumped in behind. The doors slammed. The car shot out into the road and cruised up the main street.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Algy.
‘We’ll stick to our plan and make for Bergen. If we can’t make contact with the British force there we’ll push on to Fiord 21. I’d go right on to the fiord if I was certain we could get there, but now these landings have been made there’s no knowing what we shall run into.’
‘What are we going to do with this fellow? Are you going to take him with us all the way?’
‘Not on your life. We’ll dump him at some lonely place from which it will take him a long time to get into touch with Oslo.’
Biggles drove on into the night, heading north. For twenty miles he travelled at a cruising speed, careful not to attract attention to himself by fast driving; then, reaching a wild stretch of country, he stopped.
‘We’ll leave Brandt here,’ he said quietly.
The German was now semi-conscious. That is to say his eyes were open, but he seemed dazed—as doubtless he was, for the blow he had received on the head was a severe one.
‘Gestapo policy would be to bump him off, and so remove all risk of his setting the country on to us,’ murmured Algy reflectively.
‘Probably you’re right, but Gestapo policy isn’t ours,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘Let’s get on.’
Leaving Brandt half sitting, half reclining, against a rock where he would be seen by the first passer-by when daylight came, they re-entered the car and continued their journey.
‘We must be getting pretty close to Bergen,’ remarked Algy after a long interval of silence.
‘It can’t be more than ten miles,’ replied Biggles.
‘If our fellows landed there, then there must be Germans here too,’ said Algy thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t it struck you as odd that there’s no sound of a battle?’
‘Yes, there’s something funny about that,’ agreed Biggles. ‘However, we’re likely to run into troops at any moment. If we do I’ll ask them what’s happening.’
Before long they reached the German forces. There was no need to seek them. The car was stopped by a patrol.
Biggles got out, his pass in his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said casually. ‘We’ve got orders to keep watch for suspicious characters. What’s happening here?’
The German he addressed, a sergeant, did not question his presence there, or his authority. ‘It’s all over,’ he startled Biggles by stating.
‘All over—what do you mean?’
‘The British have gone.’
‘Gone?’ Biggles was flabbergasted.
‘Yes—we kicked them back into the sea.’
Biggles laughed, but there was little humour in his voice. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Well, we’ll get on. By the way, we’re patrolling the c
oast northward; will there be any difficulty about getting through?’
‘If you keep straight on there may be,’ replied the sergeant. ‘There are barricades across the road and troops are moving. But if you take the next turning to the right it will take you right out of the battle zone.’
‘And if I turn left again farther on will that bring me back to the coast?’ Biggles had taken out his map and was looking at it in the light of a headlamp.
‘Yes, you could do that,’ agreed the sergeant.
‘Then we’ll try it,’ declared Biggles, folding the map and putting it back into his pocket. He got into the car and drove on.
‘Phew! That was a bit of a bone-shaker,’ said Algy in a strained voice. ‘I wonder what made our fellows withdraw?’
‘It’s no use guessing,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘We’ve got to get to Fiord 21 now, or we shall be in a mess. We’ve got to get there before daylight, too. There is this about it, we’re not likely to run into any opposition so far north. You try to get a spot of sleep. Later on you can relieve me at the wheel and I’ll have a map. The worst of these jobs is, one doesn’t get time to eat or sleep.’
‘Good thing we’ve had a bit of practice at it,’ observed Algy, smiling weakly. He snuggled back, in his seat and closed his eyes.
Biggles drove on. He was tired to the point of exhaustion, and it was only by keeping a fierce hold on himself that he prevented himself from falling asleep over the wheel. He seemed to have been driving for an eternity. At last, as the grey of dawn stained the eastern sky, realizing that his endurance was at an end, he stopped the car and nudged Algy, who awoke with a start.
‘Take the wheel,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m about played out.’
They exchanged seats, and Biggles sank back with a weary sigh.
It seemed that he had no sooner closed his eyes than he was being violently shaken.
‘Brace yourself,’ said Algy tersely. ‘We’re there—or as near as we can get to the fiord by staying on the road. What had I better do with the car?’
