by W E Johns
‘Where?’
‘Corbie Island. In view of what we’ve seen that seems to offer the best chance. Even if the U-boat isn’t actually there we might learn something.’
‘Such as?’
‘If the place has been used at all. If von Schonbeck is in the habit of using the island there are certain to be traces of his visits. If the gold is there he is bound to go there eventually, in which case he might find us waiting for him.’
‘You’ve picked on Corbie Island on account of the course taken by the whaler, I suppose?’ put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass.
‘Yes.’
‘But the whaler wasn’t actually heading for Corbie Island,’ reminded Ginger.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ argued Biggles. ‘Don’t forget there is some doubt — a big doubt, in fact — as to the position of the island. You can bet your sweet life that if anyone knows just where it is it will be von Schonbeck. From a high altitude we ought to be able to spot it, even if it means quartering several hundred miles of water. I’m going to look for it, anyway. I’ll take Ginger along — and a couple of depth-charges, in case they’re needed.’
Bertie looked disappointed. ‘I say, old boy, isn’t it time we had a cut in?’
‘Perhaps it is,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But for the moment I’d sooner play safe. In these waters you never know what you’re going to run into, and I should feel a lot happier knowing that we had a machine in reserve. You and Algy stand by for a signal. If we need help I’ll call you out. You’ll get a turn presently.’
‘As you say, old warrior,’ sighed Bertie. ‘You know best.’
Biggles finished his coffee and got up. ‘Okay. Let’s refuel and get off.’
Twenty minutes later, with Ginger at his side and two depth-charges on board, Biggles-took off, and climbing steeply for height, headed for the estimated position of Corbie Island. Looking down, Ginger observed from the ‘white horses’ that now flecked the sea that the wind had freshened to half a gale. For a short distance from the southern tip of the island a flat area marked the oil trail but, as Biggles had predicted, it was fading quickly in the more turbulent water.
For an hour Biggles flew on, his eyes for ever roving the forbidding waste of water. Icebergs came into sight far away on the starboard bow, and soon afterwards, the whaler.
‘Take a look at her,’ invited Biggles. ‘She’s back on her old course — that is, the course she was on when we first spotted her, before our arrival caused her to change it.’
‘Are you going over to her?’ asked Ginger.
‘No,’ decided Biggles. ‘She wouldn’t tell us anything if we did. We shall do better by keeping clear. The horizon is getting too hazy for my liking. Maybe it’s only local; cold air in the region of the icebergs might cause that. If the wind veers to the north, bringing in warm air, it will probably get worse. We may have a look at the ship on the way back, but first of all I want to locate Corbie Island and plot its exact position.’
An hour later the aircraft was over the spot where Corbie Island should have been, according to the chart. It was not there. No land of any sort, not even a lonely rock, broke the endless procession of waves. Biggles re-checked his calculations and found them correct.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he remarked. ‘We can’t blame the Admiralty. They gave us fair warning with the letters E.D. This is where we begin looking.’
‘In which direction are you going to start?’ inquired Ginger.
‘The direction that the whaler was taking before she altered course,’ returned Biggles. ‘When she turned she was heading for the South Pole. Her skipper must take us for complete fools if he thinks we are to be kidded that he has business there. I’m more convinced than ever that the ship is making her way to Corbie Island. There’s no other landfall she can make. And if the whaler is heading for Corbie Island she is being guided by von Schonbeck, or his men, not by the Admiralty chart.’
Biggles swung away on his new course. For twenty minutes he did not speak. Then a grunt of satisfaction left his lips. ‘There it is,’ he muttered. ‘That’s the island. So it does exist. It’s only about eighty miles from the estimated position, and that isn’t such a big margin of error considering the expanse of water involved. If we achieve nothing else we shall at least be able to correct the Admiralty chart,’ he concluded dryly.
The aircraft flew on towards the island, now revealed as a strip of land some ten miles long by two or three miles wide, as rugged, barren and windswept as Kerguelen. Biggles made no attempt to conceal from possible watchers his intention of surveying the island, knowing such a course to be futile; for even if he took cover in the cloud layer overhead the engines would be heard — must already have been heard — by anyone on the island.
So he throttled back and began a long glide towards his objective, with the result that by the time it was reached the aircraft was down to a thousand feet.
‘By gosh! There’s the sub!’ cried Ginger suddenly. ‘She’s there! We’ve got her!’
Biggles said nothing. The need did not arise, for he could see clearly the object that had provoked Ginger’s exclamations. It was the submarine — or a submarine; and there could only be one underwater-craft at such a place. It was lying hard against a natural rock-quay, well sheltered from the weather in a snug little cove with an entrance wide enough to permit the passage of a fair-sized vessel.
Ginger kept his eyes on the mark. ‘I don’t see anyone moving,’ he observed.
‘If the sub is there you can bet the crew isn’t far away,’ returned Biggles grimly.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to give von Schonbeck something that should keep him on that lump of rock until the Admiralty can send a destroyer along to pick him up,’ answered Biggles. As he spoke his left hand moved towards the bomb release. With the other he straightened the aircraft until it was gliding on a direct course for the U-boat.
‘Look out!’ shouted Ginger suddenly, in a voice shrill with alarm, as nearly a score of men dashed out from places in which they had evidently been hiding.
Biggles did not answer. He flicked the throttle wide open and held on his course. The engines roared and the machine gathered speed.
An instant later the flak came up. And it came in such quantity and with such accuracy that Ginger was startled and amazed.
‘Those fellows have had plenty of practice,’ said Biggles through his teeth. His expression did not change nor did his eyes leave the mark.
Ginger held his breath. The aircraft still had a quarter of a mile to go and it was rocking through a hail of tracer shells and machine-gun bullets. It was hit, not once but several times. Ginger could hear metal ripping through wood and fabric. It seemed like suicide to go on, but he knew it was no use saying anything; knew that nothing would cause Biggles to abandon his attack while he still had a wing to keep the machine airborne. He felt the machine bounce slightly as the depth-charges left their racks, and was shifting his position to watch their downward track when an explosion nearly turned the machine on its back. It plunged wildly as it recovered, but even so he thought they were down. Then, with fabric streaming from the port wing, Biggles was taking evading action, and taking it desperately.
‘Did I get her?’ he snapped, the object of the attack still paramount in his mind.
Ginger looked down but could see nothing clearly for smoke. He noted, however, that the smoke came from the position where the submarine had been. ‘I don’t know,’ he told Biggles. ‘If you didn’t hit her it was a pretty close miss.’
Still pursued by fire the aircraft was down to a hundred feet, racing over the sea with the island slipping away astern.
‘There’s nothing more we can do here. I’m going flat out for home,’ declared Biggles tersely.
‘I shan’t burst into tears over that,’ answered Ginger. ‘One run through that stuff was enough.’
Biggles swung round on the homeward course. ‘You’d better have a
look at things,’ he ordered. ‘I’m afraid we were hit pretty hard.’
‘I can smell petrol,’ replied Ginger.
Proceeding with his inspection he saw that the aircraft had suffered considerably. There were several holes in the hull. Splinters of wood and broken glass lay about. Both wings were lacerated. A whole section had been torn out of the port wing where it had received the direct hit that had turned the machine over. These things did not worry him unduly, for the modern military aircraft is built to withstand punishment. The main thing was, the engines were still running, and while they continued to do so the machine would probably remain airborne. What did worry him though was the smell of petrol. Petrol was in fact slopping about the floor. Making his way to the main tank, two clouds of suffocating spray told their own story. He went back to Biggles.
‘We’ve got it in the main tank,’ he reported. ‘Two holes — bad ones.’
‘Can you plug them?’
‘I doubt it, but I’ll try.’
‘Don’t overdo it. If you feel the fumes are getting you down come back to me. We’ll land and do the job afloat.’
‘You’ll never get down on that sea — it’s running a gale,’ declared Ginger. ‘The hull is holed, anyway.’
‘Do what you can.’
Ginger retired to the tank, and with the equipment provided for the purpose succeeded in plugging one of the holes. The second one was beyond him, but he did the best he could with it. When he had finished the inside pressure was still forcing petrol through the leak.
Gasping for breath, for the fumes in the cabin were suffocating, he staggered back to Biggles and reported the situation.
Biggles glanced at the petrol gauge on the instrument panel. ‘We shan’t get home,’ he answered calmly. ‘Call Algy on the radio and ask him to come out to meet us. Tell him to stand by to pick us up when we hit the drink.’
‘Do you think we shall last as long as that — I mean, till he gets here?’ asked Ginger anxiously.
‘Frankly, no,’ returned Biggles evenly. He altered course slightly. ‘What are you doing?’ queried Ginger.
‘Making for those icebergs. There should be slack water under the lee of them. We shall stand a better chance there than on the open sea. Tell Algy what we’re doing. Give him the position of the island, too. Tell him the sub is there, and my orders are that he carries on if he fails to find us in twelve hours.’
‘Von Schonbeck will pick up the signal,’ warned Ginger.
‘We can’t prevent it,’ said Biggles. ‘Get busy. We haven’t much time.’
‘Okay.’
Ginger went off to the radio compartment. One glance was enough. The instrument was a shell-shattered wreck, damaged beyond all hope of repair. He went back to Biggles, relieved that the aircraft was still running fairly smoothly. ‘No use,’ he reported tersely. ‘The transmitter looks like a cat’s breakfast.’
Biggles’ jaws clamped a little tighter. ‘I doubt if it would have helped us much even if it had been in order.’
‘How — why?’ asked Ginger sharply, not liking the expression on Biggles’ face.
‘Take a look outside.’
Ginger looked out through a smashed side window, and understood. Grey mist was closing in all round. There was no horizon.
‘The wind’s swinging round to the north,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘I was afraid of it. It’s been inclined that way all day. The fog’s getting worse, and it’s getting worse fast. We should just have time to reach the ‘bergs.’
‘That’ll be a lot of use if we’re blanketed in murk,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘Algy won’t be able to find us even if he comes looking when we don’t turn up.’
‘Sitting on a ‘berg won’t be as bad as rocking on the open water trying to keep the sea out, ‘ asserted Biggles. ‘There’s the ice, straight ahead. We should just about reach it.’
Biggles’ prophecy was not far out. By the time the outlying ‘bergs were reached the engines were choking as the fuel petered out; and the mist had thickened to a white clammy fog. There was fairly smooth water in the lee of a big ‘berg, and towards this Biggles turned the aircraft. It did not take long to go down, for the machine had been forced to under a hundred feet to keep the sea in sight.
‘I’m going down on that slack water,’ announced Biggles. ‘We’ll see how she goes when we get her down. If she fills with water faster than we can bale it out, or plug the holes, I shall try to run ashore on that floe at the tail of the big ‘berg. I’ve enough petrol in the gravity tank to do that.’
‘Get as close as you can,’ implored Ginger. ‘That water looks cold.’
‘I daren’t land too close for fear of tearing our keel open on submerged ice,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’ll do the best I can, but I’m afraid we’re going to get our feet wet.’
He landed about a hundred yards from the big ‘berg. It was an anxious moment, but nothing happened except that the water started pouring through the holes instantly, as was to be expected.
‘We’re filling,’ warned Ginger, who was watching. ‘She’ll be awash in five minutes if you stop.’
Biggles did not answer. He switched over to gravity, and under this new brief lease of life the engines carried the aircraft on and up a shelving bank of ice. There was a nasty crunching sound as the keel grated. In a few yards the friction brought the aircraft to a halt; and there it remained, half ashore, the tail trailing in the water, rocking gently in the swell.
Ginger crawled out on to the ice and tried to haul the machine higher, but in this he was unsuccessful.
Biggles joined him. ‘We have at least got our feet on something solid,’ he observed optimistically. ‘I think the machine will ride all right where she is unless a big sea washes her off, or’ — he turned his eyes to where the high end of the ‘berg towered above them — ‘or unless that pile falls down on us.’
‘Is it likely to?’ asked Ginger, consternation in his voice.
‘Quite likely. Lumps of ice break off a ‘berg as she melts. A blink of sunshine melting one side can cause a ‘berg to overbalance and turn turtle.’
‘Then I hope the sun stays where it is,’ said Ginger fervently. ‘Don’t tell me any more horrors.’ He stared at the white pall that now hemmed them in. ‘Curse the fog,’ he muttered.
‘Unfortunately cursing it won’t shift it,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘There is this about it. The thing cuts two ways. If Algy can’t find us, neither will the whaler. Of course, there’s a snag, and it’s a nasty one — or it will be if the fog persists. We’re drifting, and even when Algy realises that we must be ditched he will have no means of checking our drift.
Consequently, if the fog lasts for any length of time we shall be miles off a straight course to the island. He won’t know where to look for us. I hope we don’t drift too far north.’
‘Why north, particularly?’
‘Because north is the direction of the temperate zone. The farther north we drift the faster will the ice melt. But let’s have a look at the machine to see if there is anything we can do. It’ll be something if we can put her in a condition to keep afloat — in case the ice starts melting under our feet.’
Ginger stared into the fog, blowing on his hands, for the air was bitterly cold. The breeze seemed to be dying. The only sound in the frozen world in which they stood was the crash and crunch of ice as distant ‘bergs collided. He shivered.
‘Come on,’ said Biggles shortly. ‘Let’s get busy.’
CHAPTER VIII
Algy Takes a Hand
As the afternoon gave place slowly to a long dreary twilight, or the twentieth time — or it may have been the thirtieth — Algy left the hut, made an anxious reconnaissance of the sky and returned to Bertie, who was sitting by the radio.
Bertie raised his eyebrows.
‘Not a sign,’ informed Algy.
‘Really?’ Bertie looked puzzled. ‘But I say, old boy, what on earth can they be doing?’
Algy shrugged. ‘Ask me
something easier. But I can tell you this. There’s a change in the weather. It’s getting colder. I’ll tell you something else. If Biggles isn’t back in half an hour we shall know he won’t be coming back. He’ll be out of petrol. That is, if he’s been in the air all this time Of course, there’s a chance that he may have landed somewhere — Corbie Island, or maybe on Kerguelen.’
‘What I don’t understand is, why he hasn’t made a signal — being as how he’s so late — if you see what I mean?’ murmured Bertie. ‘He must know how anxious we are, and all that. This bally instrument is dead. Not a squeak.’
‘So you said before,’ answered Algy. ‘That’s what I don’t like about it. Everything seems to have gone off the air. That may be coincidence, or it may not.’
‘You think maybe there’s something cooking?’
‘Maybe. No use guessing. We can only wait.’
‘How about going off in the spare machine to see if we can spot anything?’
‘Not yet,’ decided Algy. ‘You know what a stickler Biggles is for orders. He said stay here. If he came back in a hurry and found we’d beetled off on our own account he’d have a few short sharp words to say about it. We’ll give him a bit longer.’ Algy looked at his watch. ‘If he isn’t back in say, half an hour, we’ll go and have a dekko. I can’t help thinking that if he was in trouble, ditched, for example, he’d get in touch with us. In fact, one would think that would be the first thing he’d do. We’ll give him a bit longer.’ Algy sat on a packing-case and stared at the floor.
Half an hour passed. The radio remained dead. The only sound that came from outside was the distant lap of water and the melancholy cries of sea fowl. Algy dropped his cigarette, put his heel on it and got up. ‘Okay,’ he announced. ‘Something’s wrong. Let’s go and have a look round.’
Picking up his flying-cap he walked to the door, opened it, but instead of passing on he pulled up short on the threshold with an exclamation of dismay.
