by W E Johns
Chapter 15
The Last Round
It was a good half-hour before Biggles heard with satisfaction the sound that he had so anxiously awaited; it was the tramp of feet coming up the gangway. There was a challenge; it was answered; the footsteps came on again, now on the deck, towards the head of the companion-way. Biggles walked up and down past the cabin door.
A minute later there appeared at the end of the corridor a procession consisting of four persons. First came a naval officer, in oilskins, a belt on the outside carrying a revolver-holster. He was followed by two seamen, also in oilskins, carrying rifles. Between them, looking very forlorn, marched Ginger. He did not even glance up as the party came to a halt in front of the door where Biggles awaited it.
Biggles saluted, unlocked the door, and threw it wide open. The party went on inside. All eyes were on Algy, for enough light entered from the corridor for him to be seen. Biggles brought up the rear.
As soon as he was across the threshold he dropped the point of his bayonet until it was pointing at the officer’s back. ‘The first man who moves or makes a sound dies,’ he said quietly, but distinctly.
Every head, including Ginger’s, turned.
Biggles stood like a statue just inside the doorway. His eyes met those of the officer. ‘One sound and it will be your last,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re desperate men. Algy, take his revolver. Ginger, collect the rifles.’
None of the Germans made a sound, nor did they protest; they seemed stunned, which was hardly surprising. Such movements as they made were slow, and they were disarmed almost before they realized what was happening.
Biggles now came inside and closed the door. ‘Take thier oilskins and caps, then tie them up,’ he ordered. ‘Use the rest of the sheet, and the flex.’
As soon as this had been done he took the blanket, cut it into three pieces with his bayonet, and tied them over the prisoners’ heads. ‘They’ll do,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s go. We’ve no time to talk now, but there’s one thing I must know.’ He turned to Ginger. ‘Did you get that message through to the fleet?’
Ginger started. He seemed to be in a dream. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he confessed. ‘I looked for it until I ran out of petrol, then —’
‘Never mind the rest,’ cut in Biggles. ‘That’s all I want to know. We’ve got to get that message through somehow. There’s still time, but there’s only one way. A hundred yards along the beach there’s a Dornier flying-boat. We’ve got to get to it. If there’s trouble on the way and I drop out, don’t wait for me. Go on to the machine. One of us at least ought to reach it. The fleet must come first. Let’s get into these oilskins and caps; in the dark we ought to pass for the escort returning ashore having delivered the prisoner. We’ll try to bluff our way through. If that fails we shall have to fight.’
He put on the officer’s oilskins and cap. As the others followed suit with the remaining garments he looked them over critically. ‘You’ll do,’ he announced. ‘Let’s march off.’
With Biggles at the head, the little party marched along the corridor to the companion-way. A dozen steps took them to the deck. Biggles did not stop, but went straight on to the gangway where a guard stood on duty. The night was cloudy, with rain threatening, so it was not until he was almost within touching distance of the guard that he saw, just beyond, near the stern, in the dim glow of a partly obscured lamp, two other men. One he recognized instantly by his figure; it was von Stalhein. The other appeared to be the captain. Biggles distinctly heard von Stalhein say, ‘I must go below now; I want a few words with this new prisoner.’
Biggles did not alter his pace. The man on duty stiffened to attention as he passed, but said nothing. They went on down the narrow gangway to the rocks, which were deserted. Here Biggles paused for a moment to get his bearings, and it was while they stood thus, in the silence, that he heard von Stalhein speak to the man at the head of the gangway.
Said he, in the harsh peremptory tones which German officers employ when addressing subordinates, ‘Did somebody go ashore just then?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the man. ‘It was the guard that brought the prisoner aboard.’
Von Stalhein uttered an exclamation of annoyance. ‘I wanted to speak to that officer,’ he snapped, presumably to the captain. Footsteps moved swiftly towards the companion-way.
‘We’ve got to get a move on,’ said Biggles softly. ‘He’s going below. In three minutes he’ll discover that his birds have flown. We’ll make for the aircraft. Keep close, and don’t make any noise unless it becomes necessary.’
They walked quickly along the beach to the point where the air squadron was stationed. Biggles hoped that no sentry would have been posted actually on the beach, but in this he was disappointed. A figure loomed up in the darkness.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ rapped out a voice.
A split second later, before Biggles could reply, there was a shout from the boat, now some seventy or eighty yards away. ‘Stop those men!’ roared a voice.
The sentry took a pace nearer. ‘Who are you?’ he asked suspiciously, for he had, of course, heard the shout.
‘Here’s my warrant,’ answered Biggles casually, taking a pace nearer as though to show a pass. At the last moment he moved like lightning. Grabbing the sentry’s rifle with his left hand, he brought the butt of his revolver down on his head.
The sentry collapsed like a wet blanket.
By this time there was a commotion on the boat; von Stalhein’s voice, shrill with anger, could be heard above others.
‘Run for it,’ said Biggles tersely, and sprinted along the beach until he was opposite the Dornier, which was anchored a few yards out.
He discovered the reason why it was so close as soon as he plunged into the water, for the beach shelved quickly, and he was wet to the waist by the time he reached the cabin door. Without waiting to see how the others fared, he ran forward and hauled up the anchor. By the time this was done the others were aboard, the flying-boat rocking with the abruptness of their entry.
‘Algy, you take the centre gun-turret,’ he ordered curtly. ‘If there’s no machine-gun, use your rifle, but don’t start shooting until we’re rushed. Ginger, stand by me and watch the shore. Tell me what happens. Use your rifle when you have to.’ With that Biggles dropped into the pilot’s seat, switched on the petrol and ignition, and felt for the starter.
‘There’s a crowd coming along the beach; I can hear them, but I can’t see them yet,’ said Ginger in the manner of a radio commentator. ‘I can hear von Stalhein telling people to rush the machine,’ he went on. ‘The flying personnel are turning out. They’re manning the searchlight.’
‘Keep them back,’ ordered Biggles, and the starter whirred. But the engine was cold and nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing happened.
Ginger’s rifle spat, and the single report was followed by the crash of a machine gun somewhere close at hand. In the middle of the pandemonium that followed the engine came to life. Simultaneously several shots were fired at the machine. Ginger staggered back and flopped down, grabbing his shoulder. His rifle clattered to the floor. ‘They’ve got me,’ he muttered. ‘Go on, it’s only my shoulder.’
Algy’s gun was playing a vicious tattoo on the crowd rushing towards the aircraft, but it was drowned in the roar of the engine as Biggles opened the throttle. The Dornier surged forward across the smooth surface of the fiord.
‘We’re away,’ cried Ginger weakly, pressing his hand on his wound.
But Biggles was not so sure. He couldn’t see a thing. To make matters worse, the searchlight suddenly came on, and the beam, sweeping low across the water, came to rest on the flying-boat, dazzling him. Actually, it was this light that gave him his position, for he knew where it was stationed. The difficulty was, it was only possible to take off straight down the centre of the fiord, and if he veered to either side he was likely to collide with the cliffs that hemmed it in. Knowing the position of the searchlight, he swung the a
ircraft round until it was facing what he thought—and hoped—was the right direction, and pushed the throttle wide open. He dared not delay any longer, for shots were now striking the machine, and he knew that it only needed one in a vital place to put it out of action.
Bending forward to peer through the windscreen into the blackness ahead, he held the joystick forward, and waited. The stick tightened as the machine gathered flying speed. He gave it another few seconds to be on the safe side and then took it off the water.
Algy’s gun ceased firing and presently he appeared.
‘Have a look at Ginger,’ ordered Biggles. ‘He’s been hit. There ought to be a first-aid outfit on board.’
Algy disappeared into the cabin, and presently came back with the outfit. ‘I’ve got it,’ he called. ‘Incidentally, I see we’ve got a load of bombs on board.’
‘Have we though?’ A curious smile crossed Biggles’s face as he said the words. He looked down. Now at two thousand feet, just below the clouds, the coast-line and the outlines of the fiord could easily be traced. He could not actually see the boat from which they had just escaped, but he knew roughly where it was, and he swung round in a wide curve to fly back over it. Two or three other searchlights had now joined the first, and their beams criss-crossed the sky in search of him. Flecks of flame showed where flak was bursting, but the fire was not intense and caused him little concern. A glance over his shoulder revealed Algy attending to Ginger. Then he went on with his eyes on the target. His hand moved to the bomb release and the load of high explosive went hurtling down, to burst with a glare that lit up the sky like lightning. It was, of course, impossible to ascertain what damage had been done, but satisfied with his parting shot, Biggles turned towards the west, and soon the coast was a dark shadow behind him.
He was now faced by two problems, although they were to a great extent linked together. The first was how to warn the fleet of its danger, and the second, how to get home in a German machine without being shot down by British anti-aircraft defences. He felt that if he could solve one, the other might solve itself. That is to say, if he could make contact with the fleet, or any British patrol vessel fitted with wireless, the warning would be flashed out, and they, at the same time, would be picked up. The trouble was, he had no idea of the position of the fleet. Thinking it over, he saw that an alternative would be to fly straight on home. It would come to the same thing in the end, for a radio message would soon stop the fleet. After some consideration he decided that an attempt to locate the fleet might end, as Ginger’s flight had ended, in running out of petrol before the object was achieved; he resolved, therefore, to go straight on towards England. If he passed a patrol ship on the way, well and good. He would try to land near it and get the skipper to send the all-important warning.
Algy, having got Ginger comfortable, joined Biggles in the cockpit.
‘How is he?’ asked Biggles.
‘Not bad. The bullet got him just under the collarbone and went right through. He’ll be all right after a day or two in hospital. How are we going to get on the carpet without being shot to bits by our own people?’
‘I’ve just been thinking about the same thing,’ answered Biggles. ‘If there was a torch on board we could signal in Morse.’
Algy made a search, but came back to say that he couldn’t find one. ‘There are a couple of parachutes, some flares, and some parachute-flares,’ he announced. ‘If you can get over the coast I wouldn’t mind going down on a parachute to arrange for a landing. I could at least stop the guns —’
‘No use,’ broke in Biggles. ‘Apart from the risk of being shot down while crossing the coast, it would take too long.’
‘Then how about landing on the water if it isn’t too rough?’ suggested Algy.
‘And find ourselves in the middle of the main minefield? It runs right down the coast, you know. Not for me. Our best chance, I think, is to risk everything and go right on—unless we spot a ship on the way.’
‘If we do it will shoot at us.’
‘In that case we’ll pretend to be hit and land on the water. Then we should be picked up. Let’s have a look at the water for a start. Get ready to drop a parachute flare.’
Biggles took the Dornier down to a few hundred feet, and in the light of a parachute-flare saw that the sea was comparatively calm; but it seemed that the flare was seen by other eyes, too, for almost at once, no great distance away, a searchlight stabbed the sky. Biggles didn’t wait for the flak which he knew would follow. Blipping*1 his engine to attract attention, he went straight on down and landed on the water, where a few minutes later, the searchlight picked up the machine.
‘We should look silly if that vessel turned out to be a Hun,’ remarked Algy.
‘The chances of a German ship being in the North Sea are so small that we needn’t consider them,’ Biggles told him confidently.
His confidence in the Navy keeping the sea clear of enemy shipping was justified a few minutes later when the slim outline of a British destroyer loomed up in the gloom. Naturally it carried no lights. The airmen were already hailing it, yelling that they were British, to prevent a mistake that might end in tragedy.
‘Who are you?’ came a voice, amplified by a megaphone.
‘British prisoners escaping in a German plane,’ roared Biggles. ‘Please pick us up.’
Further explanations at that stage were unnecessary, but the destroyer was taking no risks, and its guns were trained on the aircraft as it came alongside.
In five minutes the three friends were aboard her, talking to her commander in his cabin. Ginger, with his arm in a sling, looking rather pale, was present, for he had insisted on making light of his wound.
‘My name’s Bigglesworth,’ announced Biggles without preamble. ‘I’m a Squadron Leader in the R.A.F. These are two of my officers. We’ve just come from Norway.’
The skipper started. ‘Why, I’ve heard of you,’ he declared. ‘Aren’t you the fellows who got the message through to the fleet, warning it to keep out of Westfiord?’
Biggles stared. ‘Then the fleet’s all right?’
‘You bet it is.’
Biggles sank down in a chair and wiped imaginary perspiration from his brow. ‘Phew! That’s a relief,’ he muttered. ‘But how did it happen—I mean, how did the fleet get the message?’
‘I don’t know the details,’ answered the captain. ‘All I know is that one of our Intelligence blokes—a fellow named Bigglesworth, so it was said—got into touch with the skipper of a trawler. The skipper sent a signal to the Admiralty, and the Admiralty issued fresh orders to the fleet. That’s all there was to it.’
‘But the trawler was sunk by a torpedo,’ burst out Ginger.
‘That’s right—but that happened afterwards. The skipper had already been in touch with the Admiralty. Shortly afterwards another signal came through from the same trawler, this time an SOS, to say that they had been torpedoed and were sinking. One of our destroyers hurried along and picked up most of the survivors. Apparently some time was spent looking for the fellow who had brought the message about the trap that had been laid for the fleet, but he couldn’t be found.’
‘For a very good reason,’ put in Ginger, smiling. ‘He had already been picked up by the U-boat. It was me.’ He looked at Biggles. ‘So that’s how it happened.’
‘That’s it,’ continued the skipper. ‘I’ll put you ashore as soon as I can. Meanwhile, is there anything you want?’
‘Plenty,’ returned Biggles promptly. ‘Among other things a bath, a square meal, a comfortable bunk, and home.’
‘If that’s all, I think we can supply the lot,’ grinned the naval officer. ‘We’re going back to port to refit—in fact, we’re setting a course for home right now. Come below and I’ll fix you up with the rest.’
‘Lead on,’ invited Biggles.
Five hours later, without misadventure, the destroyer steamed slowly into an east coast port. The comrades, washed and refreshed by a short sleep, w
atched the landing-jetty creep nearer.
‘Do you see what I see?’ murmured Ginger.
‘I think so,’ replied Biggles. ‘You mean Colonel Raymond? I expected that he’d be here. I got the skipper to send a signal saying that we were aboard.’
As the destroyer was made fast Colonel Raymond came briskly across the gangway. ‘Welcome home,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Between ourselves, I was just beginning to wonder if you ever would get home,’ he confessed.
‘You didn’t wonder about that as much as we did, I’ll warrant,’ remarked Biggles grimly. ‘If you’ve come here to say that something, somewhere, is waiting to be done, then I’ll tell you right away that you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘Oh dear! I’m sorry to hear that,’ announced the Colonel in a pained voice.
Biggles looked at him suspiciously. ‘Then you had got something on your mind?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I had a little idea,’ admitted the Colonel. ‘I’ve got my car here, and I thought perhaps a bite of dinner at the Savoy —’
Biggles caught him by the arm. ‘That’s different,’ he declared emphatically. ‘If that’s the next mission, let’s get right along. When you hear what we’ve got to tell you I think you’ll agree that we’ve earned it.’
Footnotes
To return to the corresponding text, click on the asterisk and reference number.
Chapter 1
*1 German: Non-commissioned officer e.g a Sergeant or Corporal.
*2 A member of an elite force of highly trained troops.
Chapter 2
*1 German rank of Pilot officer.
*2 German Nazi secret police.
Chapter 4
*1 German rank equivalent to Lieutenant in the army or Flying officer in the Air force.
*2 In making this statement Biggles was stating the truth. See Biggles Flies North.
*3 Captain von Stalhein. For Biggles’ first contact with von Stalhein see Biggles Flies East now published by Red Fox.
