21 Biggles In The Baltic

by Captain W E Johns

  Ginger climbed into his seat ; the machine raced across the dew-soaked turf and in a few moments was in the air, heading northward.

  As soon as they were at a thousand feet Biggles switched on the navigation lights, clearly revealing their position to anyone on the ground. He was only just in time, for a searchlight beam was already feeling its way towards them; but as the lights came on it swung away so as not to dazzle (as the operator evidently thought) the pilot of one of his own machines.

  Ginger chuckled. The scheme was working. Indeed, it worked far better than they could have hoped, for not once were they challenged either by searchlights or anti-aircraft guns. They had one shock, and that was when an enemy machine, also carrying lights, came close to them, and actually flew for a short distance beside them. But apparently the deception was not suspected by the pilot of the German plane, for presently it turned away and disappeared into the night.

  As they crossed the coast-line Ginger let out a yell of triumph. Biggles did not answer, and leaning forward to see why, Ginger saw him staring ahead with a tense expression on his face, revealed in the luminous glow of the instruments. `What's wrong ?' he cried.

  Biggles's answer was terse. 'I may be wrong, but that looks like fog ahead.'

  Hardly had the words left his lips when a wisp of clammy moisture clutched at the machine, and the next instant everything was blotted out.

  With his eyes on his instruments, Biggles switched off the navigation lights, which could no longer serve them, and easing the stick back,

  started to climb. He knew that it was no use trying to get under the fog, for he was already flying so low that to fly lower would be dangerous. There was just a chance, however, that if the fog proved to be no more than ground mist he might be able to get above it and see through it; for it is a curious fact that what at a low altitude may be an opaque blanket, can become transparent from a great height. But when the Willie-Willie had climbed to 5,000 feet, and was still fogbound, he knew that height would not help them; still he went on climbing, and shortly afterwards emerged into a cold, tranquil world of utter loneliness, beautiful in a way, but almost terrifying in its desolation. Overhead, the moon and stars gleamed in the dark blue vault of heaven, throwing a silvery sheen on the ocean of cloud that lay below, an expanse as flat as an Arctic snowfield, stretching as far as the eye could see. Just above it roared the Willie-Willie, with its shadow, surrounded by a misty halo, keeping it company.

  With his eyes on the compass Biggles flew on. Half an hour passed and he knew that they must be somewhere near their base, but no break appeared in the all-concealing blanket that lay below. He dare not go down now for fear of colliding with the rock, so he started to circle, hoping to find a break in the fogbank ; but it was in vain.

  Two courses now lay open to him. Either he

  could turn away from the base, and, flying by instruments, endeavour to put the Willie-Willie down on the open sea, or he could continue circling in the hope that the fog would disperse before his petrol ran out. This, however, was unlikely, for he had only an hour's petrol left, and he knew from experience that the fog would probably persist until it was banished by the rising sun. If the fog did not disperse, then in an hour he would have to go down anyway, so he decided to go down while there was still petrol in his tanks ; otherwise, even if he did get down safely, he would find himself adrift on hostile waters.

  The steady roar of the engine died away as he cut the throttle and raised the landing wheels that would not again be needed; at the same time he pushed the joystick forward.

  With the air humming a mournful dirge through the slowly rotating propeller, the machine glided down to the silvery plain that seemed to stretch to eternity, as smooth and level as a frozen sea. For a few seconds the floats ploughed into it, tearing it up like cotton wool ; then the fog took the machine into its clammy grip.

  Biggles sat quite still, his eyes on the altimeter needle. Minutes passed, minutes as long as hours, while the needle crept back round the dial-4,000 . . . 3,000 . . . 2,000 . . . 1,000.

  Still the gloom persisted. The acid test was now to begin. The needle continued its backward revolution, quivering slightly, over the hundred-feet mark.

  Biggles had this advantage. He was not landing on unknown country where there was a risk of colliding with a hill, a high building, or trees. He had set the altimeter at sea-level, and to sea-level they were returning. He could, therefore, fly to fine limits.

  Inexorably the needle sank, ticking off the hundred marks on the dial. Biggles had pushed up his goggles and was leaning over the side of the cockpit, blinking the moisture off his eyelashes as he stared down into the void. Two hundred feet, and there was still no sign of the black water which he knew was there ; a hundred. . . .

  Ginger held his breath and braced himself for the shock which he felt was inevitable. The altimeter needle came to rest on the pin. Zero I Simultaneously a dark indistinct mass loomed up below.

  The machine flattened out as Biggles snatched the stick back and held it level. The dark mass disappeared, returned, and then showed as black as ink. Biggles pulled the stick right back into his stomach. The Willie-Willie lurched sickeningly, and then sank bodily.

  Splash! A cloud of spray rose into the air. For half a minute the machine forged on, drenching itself with water. Then it came to rest. Biggles flicked off the ignition switch; the propeller stopped its rhythmic ticking. Silence fell. Silence utter and complete.

  He unfastened his safety belt. 'Well, we are at least on the floor,' he said philosophically.

  `So what ?' asked Ginger.

  `We sit here until the fog lifts,' returned Biggles. `We can't do anything else. I only hope Algy got home before all this muck came down.'

  CHAPTER VII

  COMBAT I

  FOR some time Biggles sat on the back of his cockpit, deep in thought. Actually, he was doing mental arithmetic, going over in his mind the course he had flown, trying to work out roughly how near—or how far—they were from the base. After a while he gave it up, realizing that even if they knew the direction of the islet it would be a most hazardous business trying to get into the cove ; the chances were that they would run on the rocks at the foot of the cliff—or be carried on to them by the swell ; and even if they managed to secure a handhold, the idea of trying to climb the cliff was not to be considered. It looked impossible in daylight, let alone on a foggy night. The thing that worried him most was that he did not know how fast or in what direction they were drifting. That they were drifting he had no doubt whatever, for there are few places on any ocean entirely free from currents. A four-knot current to the south might, when the fog lifted, leave them in full view of enemy coastguards, with consequences that could hardly fail to be tragic.

  His reverie was interrupted by Ginger, who had climbed out and was standing on one of the floats. `What the dickens is this thing in the water ?' he said.

  Biggles had been vaguely aware that the machine had jarred slightly against some floating object, but thinking that it was only a piece of driftwood he had paid no attention to it. He joined Ginger on the float, and, without speaking, stood staring at a round object that was just awash.

  `That's the third one of those things we've passed,' said Ginger in a puzzled voice.

  `What do you mean—we've passed?' asked Biggles sharply.

  `What I say.'

  `But the thing, whatever it is, must drift at the same rate as ourselves, so how could we pass it? It must be the same one

  He broke off, and groping under his leather flying coat, took a box of matches from his jacket pocket. A match flared up, casting a small circle of yellow, misty light. 'Good heavens!' he cried aghast as he peered forward at the object. 'It's a mine. We've either come down in a minefield or we've drifted into one.'

  The mystery was now explained. They were drifting, but the mines were stationary because they were anchored.

  Ginger dropped on his knees and fended the mine away from the float,
actually holding it by one of the horns, contact with which might have caused it to explode. 'For the love of Mike let's get clear of the infernal thing,' he muttered desperately.

  Biggles said nothing, but he knelt beside Ginger on the float and helped him to push the machine clear.

  `What can we do about it ?' questioned Ginger.

  `Nothing. This knocks any idea of taxi-ing on the head. We've only got to bump into one of these things—once. We can't move till daylight, that's certain.' Biggles lit a cigarette and smoked it reflectively.

  The night wore on. Several times they saw mines and frequently had to fend the machine clear; but at last came a long interval when they saw none, and Biggles expressed a hope that they were clear of the minefield.

  `What 's the time ?' asked Ginger.

  Biggles climbed to the cockpit and looked at the

  watch on the instrument board. 'Three o'clock.' Ànd it won't start to get light until half-past six.' Àbout that,' agreed Biggles.

  `How far do you reckon we're away from the base ?' was Ginger's next question.

  Ì've no idea,' admitted Biggles. 'We've no indication of how fast we're drifting. I think we must be some way away from the island though, because of these mines. I can't think of any reason why there should be a minefield near the islet. That doesn't mean that the Boche hasn't got a reason, though.'

  After that they fell silent again. What seemed

  to be an eternity of time passed; they could do nothing but sit still and watch for mines, although as a considerable period had passed since they had seen one, it looked as if Biggles's surmise that they were clear was correct.

  It was, Ginger judged, about six o'clock when he heard a faint sound in the distance. He noticed that Biggles had evidently heard it too, for he stood up, listening, staring in the direction from which it had come. 'What did that sound like to you ?' he asked.

  Ìt sounded like a whistle,' answered Ginger. 'I suppose it isn't possible that we've drifted near the island, and that's

  `No. Smyth wouldn't whistle if he was looking for us. He'd hail. Hark!'

  Ì can hear an engine,' asserted Ginger.

  `So can I. It's coming towards us, too.' Ìs it the motor-boat ?'

  No—the beat is too heavy. Great heavens! Look out, it's nearly on us.'

  It seemed as if at that moment the fog lifted slightly, for suddenly the muffled beat of powerful engines became clear and strong. Biggles flung himself into the cockpit, and then hesitated. He knew that if they remained where they were they were likely to be run down; on the other hand, if he started the engine the noise would drown all other sounds, and they were likely to collide with

  the very thing they sought to avoid. A swift glance over his shoulder showed him that Ginger was in his seat. Simultaneously the deep-throated boom of a ship's siren shattered the silence.

  Biggles waited for no more. He started the engine, and began taxi-ing away from the point from which the sound had seemed to come. Hardly had the aircraft got under way when a towering black shape loomed over it. Biggles jerked the throttle wide open and the machine plunged forward. Even so, he thought it was too late, for they were right under the bows of the vessel. He flinched as it bore down on them, and the next instant what appeared to be a monster as large as a cathedral was gliding past them, leaving the plane careering wildly on the displaced water. Above the noise of his engine Biggles heard a bell clanging, and a hail, but he did not stop, for he knew that any ship in those waters was almost certain to be an enemy. A searchlight blazed suddenly, a spectral beam through which the fog swirled like smoke.

  By this time the Willie-Willie was tearing over the water as fast as Biggles dare take it, for the wake of the huge vessel, which he realized from the searchlight must be a warship, was catching them broadside on, threatening to capsize the comparatively frail aircraft. He could see nothing; even the ship had once more been swallowed up by the fog, and the searchlight with it. For perhaps

  five minutes he went on ; then, satisfied that they were clear, he throttled back, leaving the propeller ticking over. Slowly the machine came to rest and he stood up in his seat.

  Jumping halibut,' he muttered irritably, 'this is getting a bit too much of a good thing.'

  `What was it, anyway ?' asked Ginger in a strained voice.

  À Boche cruiser I think,' replied Biggles. 'It was going dead slow on account of the fog, or it would have cut us in halves. The look-out saw us, too, but I doubt if they could make out our identification marks, so they would naturally assume that we were one of their own machines, forced down by the fog.'

  Ìn that case they'll probably stop and look for us.'

  `They may stop, but I don't think they'll do much looking in this murk. They're more likely to try to give us their position, supposing that we are only too anxious to be picked up. There they go,' he added, as the bellow of a siren boomed across the water.

  For half an hour the cruiser remained in the vicinity, sending out frequent blasts; but at the end of that time the eerie sound grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether—much to Biggles's relief, for the fog was beginning to turn grey with the coming of daylight.

  Nevertheless, some time was yet to pass before

  visibility began to improve. Not for nearly an hour did the luminous white disk of the sun appear, low down on the eastern horizon, to prove that the fog was lifting. Slowly the area of dark-green water round the Willie-Willie widened, until it was possible to see a mile in every direction. Knowing that it was now only a matter of minutes before the mist would disperse altogether, Biggles took off and began climbing for height. As he expected, it was possible to see through the fast-thinning vapour, and presently he made out the black mass of Bergen Ait, far to the north-west. He headed towards it and glided down in the cove just as Algy was preparing to take of in search of them.

  Ì thought you were goners,' he said.

  `You'd have thought so if you'd been with us, and that 's a fact,' returned Biggles, who was staring at the water in the cove, where a number of seabirds were flapping, as if they found it difficult to get off. Streaks of bright colour showed everywhere. 'Where did all this oil come from ?' he asked.

  `From the submarine, I imagine,' answered Algy. 'There 's oil all over the place.'

  Àh—of course ; I forgot.'

  Ìt wasn't only oil that drifted here from the submarine,' went on Algy. 'One of our bombs must have fairly split it in halves, and I fancy the skipper must have been in the act of sending a signal—at least, a whole lot of papers have drifted here. Take a look at this.' He pointed to a book bound in blue oilskin that lay on a rock, with stones between the pages so that the air could dry them.

  Biggles took one look at it. 'Sweet spirit of Icarus!' he gasped, slowly turning the pages. Ìt's the German secret code. We shall have to let the Admiralty know about this. What a stroke of luck. Hark!'

  For a few seconds they all stood motionless in a listening attitude. Then Biggles took a pace forward, staring up at the sky, now a pale egg-shell blue. One tiny black speck broke its pristine surface, a speck that grew rapidly in size. Nobody spoke, for they all recognized it. It was a German Domier flying-boat.

  `Get under cover everybody,' ordered Biggles.

  He turned and darted along the catwalk towards the signals room, but in a few minutes he was back at the mouth of the cave where the others were still watching the movements of the enemy aircraft through a hole in the tarpaulin. Ìt's looking for the submarine we sank yesterday morning,' he said. 'It has sent out several signals; Roy picked them up and I've just decoded them. Incidentally, you were right about the sub. ; it was signalling when our bombs hit it.'

  `The Dornier 's coming this way,' observed Algy from the tarpaulin.

  Biggles joined him. 'You're right,' he said.

  `He's coming lower, too. I'm afraid he's spotted the oil—yes, by gosh, he has. He's coming right down to have a closer look at it. If he follows it to this rock we're sunk.' H
e stepped back as the Dornier suddenly dived towards the cove. The roar of its engines vibrated through the cave.

  `He 's going to circle the island,' declared Ginger, with alarm in his voice.

  Ìf the wireless operator starts tapping out a message about the oil there'll be a destroyer here in a brace of shakes,' muttered Biggles. 'Even if he doesn't signal he's bound to report it when he gets back, which will mean the same thing. They are bound to send some sort of boat out to see where the oil is coming from. I'm afraid we've got to stop this chap getting back.' He turned and ran along the catwalk to where the Willie-Willie was moored. `Briny, get that tarpaulin down!' he yelled as he cast off.

  The others had followed him along the catwalk. Ì'm coming!' shouted Algy, jumping into his machine.

  `Please yourself ; the more there are of us the better chance we shall have of getting him.

  Once we show ourselves we've got to get him.'

  Biggles's final words were drowned in the roar of his engine, and the Willie-Willie surged towards the entrance. To Briny, who was dragging back the tarpaulin, he shouted,

  'Where is he ?'

  `Round the other side of the rock, sir,' bawled Briny.

  `Which way did he go ?'

  `Round to the left.'

  Biggles waited for no more; he shoved the throttle open and the Willie-Willie tore across the cove in a cloud of spray. Another moment and it was of the water, banking steeply to the left.

  Biggles's object was, of course, to come up behind the German 'plane, which he assumed—from the information Briny had given him—was still circling the island in a left-hand direction. He was, therefore, unprepared for what happened next. Actually, Briny's information had been correct, but what he could not be expected to know was that the Dornier had turned about on the far side of the island and was now coming back towards him. The result was that Biggles, rounding the towering black shoulder of the central mass, nearly collided with him. Both pilots saw each other at the same moment ; both banked vertically, and in a split second had raced past each other in opposite directions, before there was even time to think of shooting.