by W E Johns
‘He did not, for the simple reason he didn’t know the name of it himself. It was always referred to by von Schonbeck as The Island. That’s what I meant when I described it a moment ago as an unknown island. In fact, incredible though it may seem, the island may not have a name. It may not be shown on Admiralty charts.’
Biggles’ eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Is that possible?’
‘Easily. Perhaps we had better have a word or two about islands. In your study of Admiralty charts you must have noticed, scattered about the oceans, tiny specks against which occur the letters, E.D.?’
‘I always understood they meant, Existence Doubtful.’
‘Quite right,’ confirmed the Air Commodore. ‘These are mostly islands which have been reported as having been sighted by ship’s captains, but could not afterwards be found by Admiralty survey ships or other craft. Unfortunately for us, the South Indian Ocean is particularly rich in such islands. I have been over at the Admiralty making inquiries about some of them.’ The Air Commodore picked up some slips of paper that lay on his desk.
‘For example, there is Swain Island,’ he resumed. ‘It was first reported by Captain Swain in 1800. He did not land. Several ships have seen the island since, and yet, absurd though it must seem in these days of swift transport, we still don’t know where it is. In 1830 a Captain Gardner fixed the position of Swain Island, yet when two of our survey ships went out it was not to be found. In 1841 Captain Dougherty passed the island at three hundred yards and kept it in sight all day. He has described it in some detail. Later it was seen by a Captain Keates. It was seen in 1885, 1886 and 1890. In 1893 a Captain White sailed round it and reported it to be eight miles long and eighty feet high. No one has seen it since. Every attempt to find it has failed. In recent years Captain Scott, the famous Antarctic explorer, sailed over the spot and reported soundings of three miles! As late as 1932 the Admiralty erased the island from its charts; but it is hard to believe that all those captains could have been wrong. Yet where is the island? We don’t know. Nobody knows — except possibly von Schonbeck, if it happens to be his secret base. Unfortunately Swain Island is not an isolated case. There are several islands that seem to be playing this glorified game of hide-and-seek, so you see how complicated becomes our quest for this slippery Nazi and his U-boat? Take the Auroras. Here we have a group of islands playing the same game. They were first reported in 1762. And the Royal Company Islands which, having been on our charts for years, were removed by the Admiralty in 1904 because no one could find them. But let’s not waste time on islands that may or may not exist. The story of one is the story of all the others. Let’s consider South Indian Ocean islands that do exist. They alone are enough to give us a headache, for there are plenty of them scattered over a few million square miles of ocean. They are all uninhabited. Some have not been visited for thirty or forty years. In fact, there are very few people alive who have seen them, let alone landed. Any one of them might be von Schonbeck’s island.’ The Air Commodore indicated a spot with his long pointer.
‘First, there are the Crozets,’ he went on. ‘It’s quite a big group. The largest is Possession Island. Then we have St Paul Island, Prince Edward Island, Macdonald Island and the Heard Islands. Here we have Penguin Island, a sheer rock rising a thousand feet out of the sea which has never been landed on. Here we have Flog Island, Inaccessable Island, Earl Island.’ The Air Commodore moved his pointer. ‘Over here we have the Apostle group, two large islands and ten smaller ones. I must tell you that some of these islands are the peaks of extinct volcanoes — and not so very long extinct, either. They hold boiling springs. If you stir the ground it smokes, reeking of sulphur. On the other hand, some of the islands are of considerable size. Kerguelen Island, for instance, is forty-five miles long by eight miles wide.’
‘And do you mean to say, sir, that no one lives on an island of that size?’ Ginger asked.
‘I do. The chief trouble is, there is no communication with anywhere. Kerguelen is two thousand one hundred miles from the nearest inhabited land. Who’s going to live in a place like that? One might as well live on the moon. Fancy having toothache, and the nearest dentist over two thousand miles away! Then again, these islands are not the voluptuous desert islands of romantic fiction. They are bleak, cold, inhospitable, treeless. None has been fully explored. There are quicksands to contend with — glaciers, torrents, roaring waterfalls. Deep fiords cut into them as they do into the coast of Norway. On ninety-nine days out of a hundred the wind comes screaming across thousands of miles of ocean to vent its fury on its first obstruction.’
‘Then nothing lives on these beastly islands — what?’ murmured Bertie.
‘Oh yes. There is quite a lot of wild life — sea-birds, seals, penguins. There are rabbits, wild hogs and wildcats, descendants of domestic animals left behind at some time or other by passing ships. It must be possible to live on at least some of these islands, though, for in 1821 the survivors of a ship named The Princess of Wales were on the Crozets for two years before being picked up. As far as the Admiralty is aware the last visit to the Crozets was in 1901. This is what Admiralty Sailing Directions have to say about Kerguelen: “Notwithstanding its natural defects and desolate character it is not without value. It has safe and commodious harbours and an abundance of fresh water. Kerguelen has never been explored, the boggy nature of the interior making this extremely difficult. The western coast is under the constant bombardment of gales and high seas.” The Air Commodore tossed the paper he held on to his desk. ‘Well, there it is. Von Schonbeck is undoubtedly making for one of these islands, on which he has hidden a treasure worth five million pounds; but from what I have said you will have gathered a rough idea of what sort of job you will have to find him.’
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘I was wondering when you were coming to that.’
The Air Commodore laughed. ‘You didn’t suppose that I was giving you a lecture on islands merely to pass the time, did you?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No, sir. But why pick on us? I mean, how does the Yard come into the affair? I should have thought the matter was one for the services — the Navy or the Air Force — to handle.’
‘In a way it is,’ admitted the Air Commodore. ‘But the thing is one of those complicated affairs that occur from time to time. Strictly speaking, the rounding up of the U-517, of all U-boats, is the Navy’s business. From the criminal angle, the shooting of Muller and the civilian who tried to stop Thom, the matter is one for the German police. Situated as they are there is little they can do, so they have asked for our co-operation. Then there is the question of the gold. It was heavily insured, and the companies concerned came to us, the proper civil authority, to protect their interests. We automatically watch the political side. As a result of this, to prevent overlapping, the Government has put the investigation into the hands of the Yard, with power to call on the fighting services should they be required. We have in fact invited the Navy and the Air Force to co-operate by calling on them for assistance. So far they have failed to achieve any result. Now, I’m afraid, ships are out of it. If von Schonbeck has slipped through the cordon which the Admiralty threw from the English Channel to the Shetlands, and it begins to look as though he has, he must be well on his way. What course he will take on reaching the Atlantic we don’t know, and it would be futile to guess. What we do know is that his objective is in the South Indian Ocean. But, as you will see from the map, that particular ocean covers a large portion of the earth’s surface. To search millions of square miles of open water by surface-craft, for one solitary U-boat, would take years. Our only hope of covering such a vast area is by employing aircraft, and that is where you come in. As it is, von Schonbeck may reach his objective and scoop the pool before we can get there.’
‘But how are aircraft going to operate in the locality of these islands, with the nearest base more than two thousand miles away?’ demanded Biggles.
‘There will be a base nearer than that,’ declar
ed the Air Commodore. ‘We are going to establish one.’
‘Where?’
‘Kerguelen Island. Five million pounds are at stake and that’s a lot of money. The British supply-sloop, Tern, is already on its way to Kerguelen from the Falkland Islands, carrying food, stores, oil, petrol, and other things you will be likely to require.’
‘And we, presumably, shall take up residence on Kerguelen, and from there proceed to engage ourselves in a task compared with which the finding of a needle in a haystack becomes a simple matter?’
‘That, exactly, is the idea,’ agreed the Air Commodore.
‘You’ll pardon me for saying that it doesn’t set me on fire with enthusiasm.’
‘It should be interesting.’
‘What should be interesting — the sea? Millions of miles of nothing but water? Water in large quantities always looks alike to me. There’s a limit to the time I can look at it without getting bored.’
The Air Commodore smiled. ‘When can you be ready to start?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘Tomorrow, I suppose. That is, we can start ambling towards the Southern Hemisphere. I take it that we can make our own arrangements for getting to Kerguelen?’
‘Of course.’
‘When will the Tern be there?’
‘She’ll be there before you.’
‘And having found the U-517, what do we do about it — always bearing in mind that if von Schonbeck spots a British aircraft prowling around he’ll know why it is there... and not forgetting that his ship carries the latest thing in anti-aircraft guns?’
‘You’ll report its position by radio and endeavour to keep it in sight.’
‘Why not sink the blighter and have done with it — if you see what I mean?’ suggested Bertie.
The Air Commodore looked pained. ‘By the time you find the U-517 it will probably have the gold on board. Five million pounds at the bottom of the Indian Ocean is no earthly use to anyone.’
‘Of course — absolutely. Silly ass I am — what?’ murmured Bertie apologetically.
‘How many men comprise the crew of the U-517?’ asked Biggles.
‘Twenty-five, including the captain — all selected seamen.’
‘Rather more than we could handle if we caught up with them somewhere.’
‘Definitely. This crew fought the British Navy for three years — and got away with it. They must be tough. We’ll get them if we can, but the gold must be our first consideration. Any more questions?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so, sir. If anything occurs to me I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’d better start making arrangements.’
‘Good. The Navy is still on the job. If we get any signals I’ll pass the information on to you. You get yourselves to Kerguelen for a start. The Tern will be there. The skipper has orders to reconnoitre for the best landing-area. He is letting us know the precise position. You’ll have to use a marine aircraft, of course — presumably a flying-boat.’
‘I don’t feel inclined to try putting a land machine down in a bog,’ murmured Biggles.
‘Quite. With a flying-boat, from Kerguelen you’ll be able to cover a pretty wide area. There’s really no need for me to warn you, I know, but for Heaven’s sake be careful with your navigation. Sitting here, Kerguelen may sound a big mark to fly on; but there’s an awful lot of water where you’re going, and if you miss the island there’ll be nothing between you and the South Pole.’
‘I’ll watch it,’ promised Biggles, rising. ‘Come on chaps — we’d better look out our winter woollies.’
CHAPTER III
Von Schonbeck Strikes First
‘There is always a peculiar fascination in watching a ship put to sea, but on this occasion it means more than usual — a lot more.’ Biggles spoke. With the others standing beside him he was watching the Tern, a speck in a world of restless water, standing away to the western horizon, with the wind, blowing half a gale, tearing the smoke from her funnel and beating it down into a backwash of flying spray.
A fortnight had elapsed since the conversation with Air Commodore Raymond at the Yard, a busy fortnight in which they had transported themselves from the centre of civilisation to the fringe of the known world. In that time there had been no word of von Schonbeck or the U-517. Not that this surprised Biggles. As he remarked, with the oceans of the world from which to choose, the cleverest U-boat commander in the Nazi service would not find it hard to disappear.
For the rest, the preliminary preparations had gone, to use a well worn expression, according to plan. The captain of the Tern, a cheerful young lieutenant who had been invalided from the Fleet Air Arm, had done his job well, both in his selection of a site for the base and its establishment. At the end of a long, almost land-locked creek, protected on the windward side by a range of gaunt hills, had been erected two iron-roofed Nissen huts of service pattern. One was the mess, living-and sleeping-quarters. Packing-cases served for chairs and table. The most conspicuous article of furniture was a small but powerful radio instrument. The other hut housed the stores — tinned foods, spare parts, emergency repair kits and a few cases of small-arms ammunition. A short distance from these buildings was the ‘dump,’ consisting of three circular erections of hand-picked stone, covered with tarpaulins, securely anchored against the wind. These contained petrol in the regulation four-gallon cans, oil, and a dozen depth-charges, aircraft type. A spring-fed burn, gushing noisily close at hand, provided unlimited water.
With the departure of the Tern the radio was the only link with the outside world, a world that now seemed as far removed as the moon. There would be no transmitting though, Biggles decided, except in case of emergency, for the obvious reason that signals might be picked up by the enemy, who was also equipped with wireless; but there was no reason why they should not listen to messages from home. Von Schonbeck, of course, would be able to hear these; but he would not know to whom they were directed, for the Yard call signal, for the Kerguelen base, consisted only of the cypher X L. Conversely, the party on the island would be able to pick up any messages sent out by von Schonbeck, although as far as they were aware there was no reason why the Nazi should use his wireless.
The last ‘leg’ of the outward flight had been made in one hop from South Africa. Two aircraft were in commission, both of the same type to prevent duplication of spare parts.
They were twin-engined, flying-boat, amphibious monoplanes of the Tarpon class, war machines that had been specially designed for long-distance marine convoy work, and which were still on the secret list when the war ended. In the design of this aircraft, high speed, which is not essential for convoy work, had been sacrificed for robust construction and endurance-range, the two qualifications, declared Biggles, most to be desired for the task on hand. For reasons of weight limitation, armament had been arranged more for defence than attack: two fixed machine-guns mounted one on either side of the hull firing forward, and a similar mobile weapon covering the tail. The attack weapon of the Tarpon, against hostile marine craft, was the depth-charge, and the hull was equipped to carry two such charges of five hundred pounds each. In other respects, with the exception of some small arms, rifles and automatics which Biggles had added, the war-load was normal for a naval aircraft during the closing months of the war.
Biggles had flown out in one, with Ginger as second pilot. Algy and Bertie had flown the other. Biggles had resolved that in the ordinary way only one machine would be in the air at a time, the other remaining in reserve. He had no intention, he asserted, of marooning himself on a place like Kerguelen, without a means of getting off it. True, the Air Commodore knew where they were, and could always send out a ship or a relief aircraft; but it might be some time before the relief vessel arrived, and should a casualty occur the delay might mean the difference between life and death. Moreover, the only way help could be called was by radio, and should von Schonbeck pick up the SOS he might decide to come along and investigate — a contingency which, in view of the nu
mber of men at the German’s command, Biggles preferred to avoid. Hence the two Tarpon aircraft.
The Tern had remained with them for two days. Then, after a final cheery meal on board, the robust little vessel had set off on the return passage to its station. Those who were to remain watched it forging its way, sometimes half hidden by spray, across a desolation of water.
Ginger looked about him. The scene, both land and sea, was as melancholy a spectacle as could be imagined. It was a world without colour. The land, what could be seen of it, was mostly sheer rock: grim, black, basaltic cliffs. The sea was black; not the clear blue-black of ink, but a greenish black, except where the wind caught it and whipped the surface to slaty-grey. The sky was like a dome of lead. A curtain of cloud, unbroken by a single rift, stretched from horizon to horizon. There was a feeling of rain in the air. Far to the south, an iceberg, draped in tenuous mist, was drifting sluggishly across the face of the water. A few gulls wheeled, screaming defiance at the intruders.
Ginger walked a little way to the crest of a hill that commanded a view inland. It was just the same. Not a tree broke the barren skyline. Not a roof. Nothing but rock and harsh, wiry grass pressed flat by the everlasting wind. The dominating impression conveyed by the picture was utter loneliness; not the friendly loneliness of a quiet spot in rural Britain, with telegraph poles on the horizon and the distant hum of traffic in the air, but a vast hostile loneliness that was like a cold hand on the heart, reminding a man what a puny thing he is compared with Nature untamed.
Ginger walked back — rather quickly — to the others. The Tern was hull down.
‘Let’s go inside and have another look at the map,’ suggested Biggles.
They went in. Biggles unfolded his map on a packing-case and studied it for a little while without speaking. He had ringed the base in red ink. From it, radiating like the spokes of a wheel, were pencil lines to other islands. Beside each line was marked the distance and the compass course.
