by W E Johns
‘I suppose the first place to explore is Kerguelen,’ said Biggles, glancing up. ‘From the air it shouldn’t take long. If von Schonbeck’s secret depot is somewhere here on the island we ought to see it. I can’t believe that a number of men can use any place for three years without leaving traces visible from above, no matter how careful they may be. But there is one big snag against aerial reconnaissance. I own that I did not realise it until we got here and saw the sort of place we were in. If von Schonbeck is in fact established on Kerguelen, he’ll see us — or our aircraft — before we see him.’
‘What of it, old boy?’ asked Bertie.
‘Only this,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘Not being a fool, von Schonbeck will realise instantly why an aircraft is in this part of the world. He’ll know that it doesn’t take many men to maintain a machine. He may decide to play the same game as ourselves. That is, he may come gunning for us. He has twenty-five men. There are four of us. I don’t object to numerical odds, within reason, but if the hare suddenly became the hunter we might find ourselves in a mess. We should have to bolt — and consider ourselves lucky if we got away. That would be a pretty state of affairs to report to Raymond, wouldn’t it?’
‘But we could call Raymond on the radio and tell him where von Schonbeck has his hideout... if I make myself clear?’ suggested Bertie. ‘Raymond could send out a whole bally fleet of destroyers.’
‘Yes, he could,’ admitted Biggles, with bitter sarcasm. ‘And by the time they got here von Schonbeck would be a thousand miles away with the gold under his conning tower.’
‘By Jove! Yes. Never looked at it like that — silly ass I am,’ muttered Bertie.
‘If we can’t fly to make our reconnaissance, what’s the answer?’ asked Algy.
‘We shall have to fly, of course,’ returned Biggles. ‘But before we take off I think we ought to do a bit of footwork, to make sure that the Nazis are not sitting on our doorstep. When we have made certain that they are not within striking distance, at any rate, we can start flying.’
‘But if we spot the submarine depot it comes to the same thing,’ asserted Ginger. ‘How are four of us going to attack twenty-five?’
‘We couldn’t,’ admitted Biggles. ‘Our play would be to sink the sub, if it was in shallow water, or put it out of action. That would keep the Nazis here, as safe as if they were in prison, until the Navy could collect them.’
‘This is all assuming that the Nazis are at their base,’ put in Algy. ‘What happens if we spot the U-517 at sea? We shall have no means of knowing whether or not it has the gold on board. If we sink the sub, bang goes the gold, and the whole object of the expedition will sink with it. If we don’t sink the sub it will simply submerge when it sees us and get away. Then we have to start looking all over again.’
‘I’ve considered all these snags,’ averred Biggles. ‘Frankly, I can’t see how we can make a definite plan. The only thing we can do is wait until we do spot the submarine, and then act for the best as the conditions suggest. We’re just as likely to spot the sub at sea as in some anchorage. No doubt it will travel on the surface for normal operations — I mean, until it hears us or sees us. Anyway, whether we like it or not, von Schonbeck will have to spend a certain amount of time on the surface to charge his batteries. During the war that was usually done at night. We may do some night flying — high-altitude work — while there is a moon. The best thing of all would be to find the submarine base while the U-boat is absent, perhaps before it gets here, and destroy the fuel supply. Von Schonbeck must be relying on finding oil at his secret base. Without it he would be helpless. He couldn’t get anywhere. He’d just have to stay where he was, and that would suit us very nicely. The big question is, has von Schonbeck reached his base yet? We don’t know and we’ve no means of finding out until we spot the sub, in which case its course should tell us something. Admiralty experts know pretty well the speed of the U-517 class of submarine, and they assured me before I left London that it couldn’t get here to Kerguelen, if this was its objective, before the twenty-fourth. This is the twenty-first. If they are right we still have three days. They may be wrong. Von Schonbeck may have a card up his sleeve. Again, the sub may not be heading for Kerguelen. The gold may be on some island nearer to the mainland.’
‘It all sounds pretty vague to me,’ sighed Bertie.
‘It is vague,’ admitted Biggles. ‘We shall just have to do the best we can with the data available. We’re here, anyway, and that’s a start. We’ve no time to lose. Once von Schonbeck gets to his hideout it won’t take him long to load up his gold and turn his nose towards South America. We must nab him before he starts on that tack or we shall need more than luck to catch him. If—’
Biggles broke off, tense, in a listening attitude, as from far away there came three unmistakable gunshot reports – a single shot closely followed by two more. He looked at the others, sprang to his feet and made for the door. Before he could reach it, the hut vibrated with the long dull roar of a distant heavy explosion.
Another moment and Biggles was outside the hut, gazing in the direction in which the Tern had last been seen. Twilight was darkening a world already gloomy, so at first nothing could be seen except the vast expanse of empty sea; but after a little while it became possible to discern a smudge of smoke being blown along the horizon by the wind. Without a word Biggles ran to the nearest aircraft, cast off and jumped aboard. The others followed. Biggles was busy for a moment in the cockpit. The engines came to life, to roar – as it seemed – defiance to wind and wave. The machine moved, swinging round in a swirl of foam to face the open sea. In two minutes it was in the air, heading for the smoke which was now dispersing.
‘What was it, do you think?’ asked Ginger, who was sitting next to Biggles.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Biggles in a hard voice, ‘but I’ve got an idea. I hope I’m wrong... but I’m afraid ...’
He zoomed to a thousand feet and then put the aircraft back on even keel. What he was thinking Ginger did not know — but he could guess. For his eyes, too, were on the smoke. There was nothing else. Whatever had been under it, to cause it, had gone. From their elevated position the Tern should be in view. But it was not. There was nothing beside the smoke — nothing except the grey, heaving ocean.
Reaching his objective Biggles banked slightly, continuing the bank into a circle, looking down through a side window with eyes that were never still. ‘Look for a conning tower or a periscope,’ he snapped. ‘If you see anything start to break surface, yell.’
Ginger did not answer. He, too, was staring down. There was little to see — a spreading patch of oil, some debris and a raft on which two men were lying prone. They did not move. He moistened his lips, which had gone dry.
Said Biggles: ‘I’m going down. Keep watching.’ He subjected the area to a final searching scrutiny and then landed near the raft, taxiing on until one wing was over it. ‘Take over,’ he ordered curtly, and climbing out ran along the wing until he could drop on the raft.
Out of the corners of his eyes Ginger saw him take one look and clamber back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have her.’ He dropped into his seat and took off, climbing steeply to resume his scrutiny of the ocean.
‘How about those fellows? Are we going to leave them there?’ asked Ginger.
‘There’s nothing we can do for them — they’re dead,’ returned Biggles shortly. ‘I daren’t hang about. We might get what they got.’
Algy came forward. ‘What was it — the Tern?’
‘Yes. With a hole blown in her side by a torpedo, she must have gone down like a broken bottle.’
‘How do you know it was a torpedo?’
‘It couldn’t have been anything else. She didn’t blow herself up and gunfire wouldn’t have sent her down in five minutes. Two men got away on that raft. I remember them well — two nice lads, they were. Now they’re dead. Riddled with bullets. There can’t be many swine in the world who’d do a thing like that. Von Sc
honbeck is one of them. This is his hunting-ground. He’s back at his old game.’
‘Does that mean he knows we’re here?’ asked Algy.
‘Not necessarily. At least, it’s unlikely that he knew when he fired the torpedo, although he probably knows now.’
‘Then why should he do a thing like that?’
‘The Tern was a British ship. Spite would be ample motive for a Nazi of von Schonbeck’s type.’
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Ginger.
‘The skipper of the Tern knew all about the U-517,’ answered Biggles. ‘In fact, he told me that he’d been ordered to keep an eye open for her. I’d say the ship spotted the submarine, running on the surface, and fired a shot across her bows to halt her. Von Schonbeck answered with a torpedo. The Tern would see it coming and have time to fire two more shots before it hit her. One torpedo was enough. After that von Schonbeck followed his usual procedure of destroying evidence by machine-gunning the survivors.’
‘To do that he must have stayed on the surface.’
‘Of course. He dived when he heard us coming.’
‘You think he heard us?’
‘Bound to. Had we not come along he’d probably still be on the surface, gloating.’
‘So he knows we’re here?’
‘He knows there’s an aircraft in the vicinity. He may not know why, but from what we know of the man he must have a pretty good idea.’ Biggles raised his eyes from the water. ‘Well, it’s no use looking for him now; he’ll stay submerged until he’s well out of the area.’
Biggles flew back to the base and landed. No one spoke while they were tying up. Ginger was depressed, appalled, by the tragic end of the Tern and its cheerful company. Grim-faced, Biggles strode on to the hut. He waited until the others were inside, with the door shut, before he spoke.
‘This makes a difference,’ he said, dropping on to one of the packing-cases that served as chairs. ‘We’ve got to go back to war conditions. The first thing is a black-out... and when I say black-out I mean a real black-out. Von Schonbeck will have guessed by now that we are after him. At any rate, he must know that an aircraft is here; but he doesn’t know where it is based, and I don’t want him to know. No lights after dark, or he soon will know. The U-517 carries guns — heavy guns, too. If von Schonbeck located us he might well attack us. He could sit a mile away and shell us to blazes. But let’s have supper and turn in. Tomorrow we’ll give Kerguelen the once-over.’
‘Von Schonbeck has a big advantage,’ observed Ginger moodily. ‘He can hear us when we’re on the move, but we can’t hear him.’
‘Nevertheless he has a handicap that doesn’t affect us,’ asserted Biggles.
‘What is it?’
‘Oil. Oil is to a submarine what his scent is to a fox. He can’t move without it. The latest submarines are fitted with every conceivable device to prevent oil from escaping — special valves on the propeller shaft, and so on — but she still can’t move without leaving a trace. It’s impossible to keep the deck clear of oil. The guns need oil to keep them working smoothly. When a submarine dives some of that oil comes off, and in a smooth sea it only needs a few drops of oil to leave a stain, perhaps a trail. A sub that has been at sea for a long time, due to general wear and tear and perhaps a leaky plate or two, leaves a trail that can be seen for miles. The trouble during the war was, thousands of ships were on the move, all leaving trails. Damaged tankers were spilling hundreds of tons of oil. Planes were crashing in the sea, all spilling oil. But there’s nothing here to spill oil — except the craft we’re looking for. Okay. Fix a blanket over that window, somebody, and I’ll light a candle.’
CHAPTER IV
Biggles Looks Round
After a fairly comfortable night, a night that passed without incident except that Ginger was more than once awakened by the howling of wildcats, break of dawn found Biggles outside the hut surveying the sea for signs of the U-517, and the sky for indications of probable weather conditions. The others joined him.
The prospect was not one to arouse enthusiasm. In the wan light of early dawn, land and sea looked even more depressing and bleak than on the previous evening. Ginger made a remark to this effect, whereupon Biggles replied, dryly, that as according to Admiralty Sailing Directions these conditions persisted for three hundred days of the year, the sooner they accustomed themselves to them the better. ‘I was hoping to catch sight of the U-boat,’ he added, ‘but no doubt von Schonbeck is too wily a bird to surface near his latest sinking, knowing that an aircraft is in the offing. Still, we know he’s arrived, and that’s something. Moreover, he can’t be far away. I don’t mind telling you that the sinking of the Tern has made me sick and savage. It makes our account with this cold-blooded Nazi a personal one. Really, we ought to report the sinking to headquarters, but I don’t feel inclined to risk giving our position away by using the radio. It will have to wait. Let’s have breakfast and get busy.’
The meal over, Biggles picked up his binoculars. ‘Before we start flying operations, as I suggested yesterday, I think we ought to have a look round from the nearest high ground to make sure that the U-517 isn’t skulking in some hole within earshot. Algy, I shall have to ask you to stick around here and keep an ear to the radio in case any signals come through. I aim to be back by lunch-time, so see what you can turn out in the grub line.’
Biggles, Ginger and Bertie, set off, heading for a towering rock massif that rose up behind the camp at no great distance. During the climb, from time to time Biggles paused to scan the sea and the coastline through his binoculars, but each time he returned the glasses to their case without comment. The summit was reached in just over an hour, and from there a long and careful reconnaissance was made of the view it commanded.
For some time nobody spoke, probably because there was no specific object to call for remark; but Ginger, as he surveyed the scene, was appalled by the fearful character of the place. It was worse, far worse, than anything he had imagined. To left and right ran a rugged coastline, sheer rock in most places rising straight out of the sea, sometimes to a height of not much less than a thousand feet. Into these cliffs, untold ages of corrosion had cut narrow inlets of depths varying from a hundred yards to a mile or more. Within these confines the water lay black and still. Here and there a mass of cliff had fallen, leaving numerous small islets to provide a perch for gulls, penguins and seals — the only living creatures in sight. Not a tree, nor even a bush of any size, could be seen. The only growth was a stiff wiry grass that bent under the breeze. This did not grow in broad patches, in the manner of turf; it occurred only in low-lying areas and sprang up in the form of great tussocks.
Said Biggles, pointing to some that lay below them: ‘I should be sorry to have to walk through that stuff. I’d wager it’s peat bog between those tussocks. It looks like moss, and so it is, but if you stepped on it you’d probably go straight through up to the neck. I’ve seen that sort of stuff before, in northern Canada.’
Inland, the terrain rose in a succession of steps and screes to a considerable height before falling into what appeared to be a vast central basin, too distant for details to be observed.
‘I say, old boy, what a place, you know, and all that,’ remarked Bertie.
‘As you say, it’s a place,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Place is the word. The Nazi Higher Command knew what it was doing when it selected this God-forsaken area for a secret base. Not much risk of interference. Von Schonbeck has this advantage, and we should do well to remember it: having been cruising in these waters for three years he probably knows every hole and corner. We know nothing about it, and the chart shows very little, so if it comes to a matter of hide-and-seek he’s likely to win the game. Take a look.’ He passed the glasses to Bertie, who, after a while, handed them on to Ginger. Through them the stark inhospitality of the island could be fully appreciated.
‘Before we go back we’ll cut across to that shoulder of rock on the right,’ decided Biggles. ‘It blots out a lo
t of the sea that lies behind it. We may as well have a look at all there is to see while we’re at it.’
‘It all seems a pretty hopeless business to me, old lad, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ observed Bertie, as they descended. ‘Instead of tearing up and down and round and round these bally rocks why not shoot across to the Magellan Straits and wait for the blighter to show up — nab him as he goes through — if you see what I mean?’
‘It happens that the territory on either side of the Straits is not British, and there’s no airfield, anyway,’ answered Biggles.
‘We could sit on the sea.’
‘The sea would be more likely to sit on us,’ asserted Biggles. ‘From what I have heard of the Magellan Straits even the biggest ships reckon to take a pounding going through, in which case it makes no appeal to me as a parking-place for an aircraft.’
‘Absolutely, old boy — absolutely,’ agreed Bertie.
On the way to the new objective the party had to pass near the inner end of an inlet of some size. Here the rocks had tumbled down in a wild chaos of boulders to end in a short, rough shingle beach. Biggles stopped, looking at something. Putting up his glasses he looked again. Presently, without a word, he changed direction towards the object that had claimed his attention. Reaching it he said quietly: ‘We needn’t wonder what happened here.’
‘Poor wretches,’ breathed Bertie. ‘Tough luck — what?’
Ginger did not speak. There was really nothing to say. What lay before them told its own story, and the story was one of shipwreck and disaster. A few rotting timbers that had once been a ship’s lifeboat lay just above the high-water mark. Strewn about were some empty biscuit tins and a water keg. More poignant than these was an oar that stood up with its lower part held in a cairn of stones; it had fallen askew, but from the blade still hung the tatters of what had once been a man’s shirt. Nearby, under the lee of a rough windbreak of stones, lay five skeletons.
