by W E Johns
‘Anything you like—we shan’t need it again,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Perhaps you’d better drive into that gully just ahead. Nobody’s likely to see it there, and it won’t give rise to inquiries should the Germans come along.’
Algy obediently drove the car off the road into a narrow gorge, the sides of which were thick with stunted firs. They got out at once, closed the doors and returned to the road. By the time they reached it pink dawn had lighted the wild landscape, enabling them to see for a considerable distance, but to their relief no one was in sight. Some distance to the left lay the sea; nearer, a jagged ridge marked the crest of the cliff that hemmed in the fiord.
‘Thank goodness,’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘If Ginger hasn’t got into trouble we’re as good as home.’
Walking briskly, they soon reached the ridge. Throwing themselves flat, for it was a nasty drop into the fiord, they looked down. Neither spoke, although Algy hissed through his teeth.
Ginger’s machine was not there. But the fiord was not abandoned. On its placid surface floated a squadron of Dornier flying-boats.
Chapter 11
Complications
Biggles was the first to break the silence. He lay still, staring down into the fiord.
‘It looks as if I was not the only one who realized that this fiord would make a useful operating base,’ he said bitterly.
‘You’re dead right there,’ agreed Algy, gazing down into the fiord, which presented a scene of lively animation. In addition to the flying-boats there were two store-ships, from which were being unloaded war materials of many descriptions. A large green and brown camouflaged tent had already been erected on the one spot available, and into this the stores were being carried by several men. A little group of pilots sat on the rocks near the machines, smoking.
‘What do you suppose became of Ginger?’ asked Algy, after he had gazed at the scene for a few minutes.
‘We can only guess,’ returned Biggles slowly. ‘If he was here when this crowd arrived they might have sunk him before he could get off the water. Not necessarily, of course. He would certainly hear them coming, and by acting quickly might have got clear. On the other hand, if he came back and found this lot here, obviously he wouldn’t land. From the fact that I can’t see any trace of his machine, or any quantity of oil on the water, I’m inclined to think he got away. In that case, knowing that we intended coming here, he’d stick around. There need be no doubt about that.’
‘Then where is he now?’
‘He might be sitting in another fiord not far away, or he might have gone off to get a load of bombs to knock the daylight out of these Dorniers.’
‘The question is, what are we going to do about it?’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Laddie, there are times when you ask the most difficult questions. I’m dashed if I know what to do for the best, and that’s a fact. Personally, I should like to curl up and have a nice long sleep, but this doesn’t seem to be either the time or the place for a nap. We’re not out here on a pleasure cruise; we’re here primarily to gather information about the enemy. If, incidentally, we can make life hard for him, then it’s up to us to do it. We ought to let our people know that these Dorniers are sitting here. They’ve got some scheme on, no doubt. By watching them we may learn what it is. In any case, we daren’t go away, because if we do we shall certainly lose touch with Ginger. Sooner or later he’ll come back, and our only chance of making contact with him is to remain here. Give me a minute to think.’
Biggles was still squatting among the rocks that lined the rim of the fiord, concentrating hard, when from out of the west came the roar of aero engines.
‘There they are,’ hissed Algy, pointing to a line of tiny black specks that had emerged from the thin mist that hung over the sea. ‘They look as if they’re coming straight to this spot.’
By this time Biggles was on his knees, stiff with excitement. ‘You’re right,’ he rapped out. ‘They’re our boys, too, if I know the sweet song of Merlin engines.*1 By gosh I’ve got it. Ginger has fetched them to bomb the place. Keep your head down. This is going to be a warm spot in a minute.’
As they drew near, the machines, which it was now possible to identify as Skuas*2 of the Fleet Air Arm, dived steeply. The Germans, of course, had seen them coming, and everything below was in a state of something like panic. Some of the pilots were getting into their machines. Mechanics ran for cover, or hastily mounted machine-guns. Engines burst into life. Smoke poured from the funnels of the store-ships, but, generally speaking, the Germans had no time to establish an adequate defence.
Lying on the rocks Biggles and Algy watched the raid with bated breath. In line ahead, the British machines, flying low, swept up the fiord, and as they passed over the German camp a cloud of bombs went down. Spouts of water leapt high into the air, while echoes flung back the thunder of the explosions. After the first salvo the watchers could see nothing, for the fiord was filled with smoke, above which circled the Skuas, dropping the remainder of their bombs, or, when these were exhausted, firing into the rising cloud of smoke with their machine-guns.
Biggles, watching the machines, had no difficulty in picking out Ginger’s seaplane, for it kept a little apart from the rest.
‘There he is,’ he told Algy. ‘We’ve got to attract his attention. He’ll be on the watch for us.’
He sprang to his feet, but before he could do anything in the way of making a signal the smoke, rising from the fiord as from the crater of a volcano, hid everything from view.
‘Confound the smoke,’ snarled Biggles. ‘It’s going to jigger us. For all we know Ginger may have already spotted us. If he has he’ll land on the fiord—or at the entrance to it. I’ll tell you what. You stay here in case the smoke clears, in which case he’d be more likely to see you up here than down below. I’ll go down to the water to see if he has landed. If he has I’ll dash back here and let you know.’
Biggles made for the landslide which, as far as he knew, was the only way down into the fiord. The smoke was still rising, so visibility improved as he went down, and by the time he reached the water level he could see for some distance. He noted that one of the store-ships was in flames; the other appeared to have run aground. At least five of the Dorniers had been wrecked; two had been beached, and the remaining two were taxi-ing at high speed towards the open sea. But he was not concerned with these things at the moment, for Ginger was just landing. As soon as it was on the water the seaplane swung round and roared towards the place where Biggles stood.
Ginger, white with excitement, stood up in the cockpit and yelled, ‘Where’s Algy?’
‘He waiting on top!’ shouted Biggles. ‘We weren’t sure if you’d spotted us. Stand fast—I’ll fetch him.’
Without wasting words, Biggles set off back up the landslide, little guessing what he was to find at the top.
Algy had followed his instructions to the letter; that is, he had remained on the edge of the cliff overlooking the fiord. And, lying there, he distinctly heard Ginger hail Biggles—and, in fact, heard the brief conversation that passed between them. Yet, knowing the danger of departing from a fixed plan, he dared not leave the spot, for the smoke was thick around him, and there was a risk that if he started down the landslide he might pass Biggles without seeing him. If that happened then Biggles would arrive at the top only to wonder what had become of him. What he did was to fling his German greatcoat aside, for it impeded his movements more than a little; at the same time he stood up ready to make a dash towards Biggles the moment he saw him. He heard someone coming, and he thought, not unnaturally, that it was Biggles, although it struck him that there was a lot of noise being made by one person. Then, before he could move, out of the smoke burst a crowd of Germans—a few officers and the rest mechanics. One of the officers was still carrying a submachine-gun, with which, presumably, he had been firing at the raiders. The instant he saw Algy he covered him.
The whole thing was so unexpected, and had happened so su
ddenly, that Algy had no time to do anything. Indeed, at that moment he wouldn’t have given a fig for his life, for the Germans were wild with excitement, and seemed likely to fire at him anyway. At point blank range they could hardly miss. In the circumstances, self-preservation came first, and Algy probably did the wisest thing he could do. He put his hands up.
Panting, the Germans closed in around him.
‘So we got one of you,’ said the officer who carried the machine-gun, in fair English.
Algy nodded ruefully. His brain was still in a whirl.
The officer smiled. He appeared to bear Algy no particular animosity. ‘Hot work, eh?’ he said, as one pilot to another.
‘Very hot,’ agreed Algy bitterly, wondering what was going to happen next.
At that moment Biggles appeared over the rim of the fiord, not ten yards away. He stopped dead when he saw the crowd, but then came on again. He saw at a glance what had happened—that somehow Algy had got mixed up with fugitives from the raid.
‘Hullo, what’s all this?’ he asked.
‘We got one of them,’ answered the officer who had spoken to Algy. Then a puzzled expression leapt to his face. ‘Where have you come from?’ he inquired. ‘You weren’t one of us.’
As we know, Biggles was in German uniform, but as the officer had remarked, he was not one of the squadron that had been raided. Obviously it was no use trying to pretend that he was.
‘I was just flying into the fiord when the British arrived,’ he announced calmly. ‘There wasn’t room to turn. Then the bombs burst and in the smoke I couldn’t see a thing. I managed to get down, only to crash against the rocks and sink my machine. After that I did what you evidently did—saw about getting out of the way until the British had gone.’
The German officer laughed. He seemed to be a cheerful sort of fellow. It was obvious that no suspicion of the true state of affairs had entered his mind. Indeed, there was no reason why it should.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said. ‘The British didn’t waste any time in finding us and smoking us out.’
Biggles got off this dangerous subject. ‘What are you going to do with this prisoner?’ he asked—speaking, of course, in German.
‘We shall have to take him with us. We can’t do anything else.’
‘And where are you going—I’m a stranger in these parts myself.’
‘So am I,’ confessed the officer readily. ‘It looks as if we shall have to walk, and try to find a telephone to get into touch with head-quarters. I’m afraid there will be trouble about this. We’d got an important assignment.’
‘In that case I’ll come with you,’ said Biggles wearily.
Meanwhile, Ginger, standing in his cockpit down on the fiord, could not understand why Biggles and Algy did not come. Naturally, he expected them down immediately, but when the minutes passed and they still had not come, he realized that something had gone wrong; but what it was he could not imagine. Presently, as the smoke began to clear, a rifle cracked and the bullet zipped through his fuselage. A moment later another whistled unpleasantly close to his head, and looking across the water he saw that the sailors on the store-ship which had run aground were shooting at him. Obviously he could not remain where he was, for he would soon be under the fire of every German who had survived the raid. All he could do was open the throttle and take off, hoping that from the air he would be able to locate the others and somehow pick them up.
He soon saw them; he also saw the Germans and guessed pretty well what had happened. There was nothing he could do, and when the Germans opened fire on him with rifles and a machine-gun he lost no time in removing himself from such a dangerous position. The other British machines had already disappeared out to sea. For a little while, from a distance, he watched the party walking inland along the edge of the cliff. Then, feeling utterly helpless, he turned away and headed north.
Biggles and Algy watched him go—without comment, of course, for their attitude towards each other was that of captor and captured. Algy strode along with a mechanic on either side of him. Biggles stayed with the officers. Some were glum; others were cheerful, and, where Algy was concerned, inclined to be sympathetic. They were well able to appreciate his position.
They came to a farmhouse where they stopped, drank milk, and made a frugal meal. The Norwegian to whom it belonged was in no case to refuse what was asked of him. After a short rest they went on to the main road—the same road over which Biggles had passed earlier in the day. And while they were standing on it, undecided which way to go, a motor-cyclist storm-trooper came tearing along. He stopped and dismounted when he saw the party, and was soon told what had happened.
‘I shall have to let head-quarters know about this,’ he declared. ‘I’m on the trail of two British spies, and they may have had something to do with the raid. You’d better keep your eyes open for them.’
He actually made this request to Biggles, who promised that if the spies fell into his hands they would have short shrift.
As the motor-cyclist went on Biggles wondered why he had addressed him, and saw for the first time that he was the senior officer of the party, in that he was an Oberleutnant—or wore the uniform of one—whereas the others were only Leutnants. He determined forthwith to take advantage of this, and from that moment more or less placed himself in command of the party.
‘I’m by no means sure that we did right in leaving the fiord,’ he told the other officers. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m by no means clear as to what has happened there. Head-quarters may send new machines up, so I’m wondering if, instead of wandering about the country like this, out of touch with everybody, it wouldn’t be better for us to go back there.’
What Biggles really wanted was time to think, to form a definite plan. At present he had none, and the appearance of the motor-cyclist made it only too clear that they could not continue for long to move about the country without being arrested. Moreover, the farther they got from the fiord, the farther they were getting away from Ginger, their only contact with home, and their only means of escape. He noted that from time to time squadrons of German planes passed high overhead, all heading northward, and he asked the Germans if they knew the meaning of this.
The senior Leutnant smiled knowingly. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said softly.
His manner was so mysterious that Biggles was intrigued. At the same time he was conscious of a disturbing uneasiness.
‘No, I haven’t heard anything,’ he said.
‘Then you were not on the same job as us, that’s certain.’ The Leutnant hesitated, but then went on, confidentially. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ he whispered, ‘but the British North Sea Fleet is sailing into a lovely trap.’
Biggles did not move a muscle. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘Well, to start with, they are going to land troops at Narvik—our Intelligence people know that for a fact. To cover the landing the British fleet will use, as a base, Westfiord, which is handy. Our spies watched them survey the place for that purpose, and they’re heading straight for it now. But what they don’t know is this. Since they were there we have been busy. We’ve stuffed the fiord with magnetic mines*3 until it is as full of them as a pudding is of plums. When the ships sail in there’ll be one big bang, and that will be the end of them. Meanwhile, the British troops won’t know this. They’ll attempt to land at Narvik and then our planes will shoot them to bits. Our machines are concentrating up there now for that purpose.’
Biggles felt a cold hand settle over his heart. He moistened his lips. ‘You’re quite certain about this fiord, Westfiord, being full of mines?’
‘I ought to be,’ grinned the German. ‘My squadron put them there. That’s what we’ve been doing.’
Biggles smiled—but only with his lips. There was no humour in his eyes, for this staggering piece of news and its deadly significance altered all his ideas. The trap sounded such a likely one that he did not doubt the authenticity of it for a moment.
Algy was
standing close enough to hear what had been said, but his expression did not change. His eyes met those of Biggles only for a moment, but they held a question.
As far as they were concerned, from that moment escape became of secondary importance. The only thing that mattered was getting a warning to the ships of the Royal Navy engaged in the enterprise, and to the commander of the troops bound for Narvik.
Said Biggles to the Leutnant: ‘I believe two of your machines escaped when the raid started. D’you think they’ll come back?’
‘They’re almost certain to, if only to see what has happened,’ returned the German without hesitation.
‘In that case,’ observed Biggles quietly, ‘I think we’d better get back there. The machines would at least enable us to get into touch with headquarters.’
‘I think you’re right there,’ agreed the other. ‘What about the prisoner?’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter was a minor one. ‘It looks as if we shall have to keep him with us—for the time being, at any rate.’
‘He may get in the way,’ demurred the Leutnant. ‘Remember, he’s a pilot, so it won’t do to let him get near an aircraft.’
Biggles nodded. The last thing he wanted was to be parted from Algy. ‘Trondheim is the nearest depot,’ he pointed out. ‘And that’s nearly forty miles away,’ he added. ‘The only thing we can do with the prisoner for the moment is to keep him with us. If a machine comes into the fiord we may be able to get rid of him then, either by flying him up to Trondheim, or by sending him to Oslo.’
‘Yes, that seems to be the best plan,’ agreed the Leutnant.
They set off back towards the fiord.
Chapter 12
Desperate Measures
It was past midday when they got back to the fiord, to find that it had more or less settled down. There was a fair amount of wreckage floating on the water. One of the store-ships had burnt itself out; the other was still aground, in spite of the efforts of the survivors of both crews to get her off. A little party of airmen, apparently odd members of the squadron that had dispersed when the raid occurred, were sitting or standing about the spot where the store-tent had stood. Biggles noted that, as so often happens, the sailors and the airmen, members of two services, kept apart from each other, as if they were acting under separate orders—as no doubt they were. Those airmen who had remained at the fiord greeted the return of the others with cheers.
