by W E Johns
‘What’s wrong old boy?’ asked Bertie quickly.
‘Fog,’ answered Algy. ‘Fog, of all things. We’re grounded.’
Bertie walked to the door and stared at a blanket of grey mist that was slowly blotting out the scene. He did not speak.
‘That settles any argument,’ said Algy wearily, ‘Biggles must have seen this coming. If he could have got home he’d have come home. He’s down, somewhere — and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘We can keep an ear open for him — put out flares and that sort of thing, if he should turn up,’ suggested Bertie.
‘We can listen, but I don’t think we shall hear much,’ retorted Algy dubiously.
His pessimism was justified. As darkness deepened the fog closed in, enfolding everything in its clammy embrace.
‘We may as well go inside and make ourselves comfortable as stand out here in this perishing pea soup,’ said Algy at last.
They went in and closed the door. Bertie lighted a lamp and for a while they discussed the situation that had arisen. But at the finish, as Algy remarked, there was still nothing they could do about it. ‘While this fog lasts we’re tied to the carpet,’ he averred. ‘If it lifts at daylight we’ll have a look round. Meanwhile, we may as well get some sleep.’
Dawn, to his unspeakable relief, found the fog lifting, or dispersing. ‘By thunder! It’s cold,’ he exclaimed. ‘There must be ice about. Let’s grab some coffee and get away.’
Ten minutes later the reserve machine was in the air with Algy at the controls, heading in the general direction of Corbie Island, the last known objective of the missing aircraft; and the flight that followed was similar to that made by Biggles the previous day.
Visibility was still far from good; indeed, after going some distance, right across their course a heavy bank of fog still clung to the sea.
‘Better go over that stuff,’ advised Bertie.
‘No,’ argued Algy. ‘I’m staying low, where I can see the drink. Biggles may be on the water and I’m not going to risk passing him.’ Taking the machine down to a hundred feet he put the nose of the aircraft into the fog, and a minute later received such a shock as he had seldom experienced. His eyes were on the water, just discernable through the mist.
Something — he knew not what, unless it was a highly developed instinct for danger — made him look up and glance ahead. A white mass of what at first he took to be opaque mist towered above him. For a second the curious irregularity of its outline puzzled him; then, suddenly, he realised that what he saw was not mist, but solid ice. Snatching in his breath from sheer shock he dragged the control column hard over into his thigh, and as the aircraft swung back over its course, zoomed high. A gasp of relief left his lips as the machine merged into clear air.
‘Here, I say, old boy, what are you playing at?’ protested Bertie, who had been staring down at the water and so had not seen the ‘berg.
‘That fog has too many solid patches in it for my liking,’ muttered Algy grimly, moistening his lips. ‘We nearly rammed a thousand tons of ice. I ought to be kicked from here to Halifax for not having the sense to realise what was causing that murk. I’ll take your advice and go over the top.’
‘Absolutely — I should jolly well think so,’ murmured Bertie. ‘No joke ramming a beastly iceberg.’
The aircraft roared on.
Clearing the fog-belt Algy saw an open sea ahead. He scanned it quickly and anxiously, but of the missing aircraft there was no sign. ‘I’m going right on to Corbie Island,’ he told Bertie.
‘Suits me, old lad,’ replied Bertie.
They were nearly an hour finding it, for, like Biggles, they quickly ascertained that it was not at the position shown on the chart. Circling, and climbing at the same time, it was Bertie who saw the remote speck of land creep up over the horizon.
‘Yes, that must be it,’ agreed Algy, when Bertie called attention to it. ‘We’ll go and give it the once-over. If Biggles isn’t there then I shan’t know where to look, and that’s a fact.’
A reconnaissance of the island revealed nothing — that is, no mark of occupation.
‘There’s a jolly little cove down there, suit a submarine very nicely I should think,’ remarked Bertie as they circled.
‘I see it,’ returned Algy. ‘I don’t see anything in it though. In fact, I don’t see anything here to detain us. We might as well get back.’ He turned the nose of the machine on the homeward track.
The only thing that happened during the first part of the return trip was that the weather definitely improved. Indeed, a streak of pale turquoise-blue sky appeared behind a rift in a cloudbank. In view of this Algy was not surprised to note that the fog-belt had dispersed, leaving the drifting floes and ‘bergs in plain view. Not that these meant anything to him. There was no reason why they should. As masses of ice they were merely things to be avoided — or so he thought until a shout from Bertie brought his eyes round, questioningly.
‘Look! Over there!’ cried Bertie, shaken for once from his inconsequential manner.
Following the direction indicated Algy saw what appeared to be an extensive black scar on a floe that formed the tail of an iceberg of considerable size. For a little while, as he flew nearer, losing height, he reserved his opinion; but when, with a sinking sensation in the stomach, he observed the charred and blackened remains of an aircraft, he knew the worst. Or he thought he did.
‘That’s them,’ he said in a voice that he did not recognise as his own. ‘They must have done what I nearly did — tried charging through the fog and hit the ‘berg. They were burnt out. We’ll go down.’
Bertie did not answer.
Algy went down to make a safe landing as near to the wreck as he dare, afterwards taxiing on to the edge of the floe. Having made the aircraft fast they went on together.
There was no doubt in Algy’s mind as to what they would find. With the wreck he was not concerned. His eyes probed it, looking for two bodies, for experience told him that those in the machine could not have escaped. But he could see nothing that looked remotely like a body; and when at length he stood right against the burnt-out wreck, and could still see no bodies, he uttered an exclamation of amazement in which there was a suspicion of rising hope. ‘They’re not here,’ he said in an incredulous voice.
‘But I say, that’s odd — deuced odd,’ declared Bertie, polishing his monocle furiously.
‘I don’t get it,’ asserted Algy, looking around. ‘Hello! What’s this?’ he went on sharply, and moved swiftly towards a stain on the ice some twenty paces from the wreck. It was red. There was one small splash with a few odd drops round it.
‘I say, old boy, that’s blood,’ said Bertie, stooping. ‘One of them must have been hurt.’
‘That’s obvious,’ returned Algy. ‘All the same there’s something queer about this. If one of them was hurt badly enough to make a mark like this surely there ought to be a trail of blood leading from the machine to this point.’
‘One of them might have been pitched out when the machine struck the ice,’ suggested Bertie.
‘It’s just possible, but in that case I should have thought the mark in the ice would have been more definite,’ returned Algy. He examined the ice critically. ‘Yet I don’t know,’ he went on pensively. ‘There are faint signs, marks, that a body could have made, lying here. But where are they now? With the machine burnt out they had no means of getting off this ‘berg.’ He turned bewildered eyes to survey the seascape. Nothing moved anywhere, only icebergs, icebergs with dark blue water between them. A feeble sun glinted on the tips of the big ‘bergs. ‘I don’t know how it was possible, but the indications are that the injury that produced the blood was caused after the machine landed,’ concluded Algy.
‘Here, I say, what about this for an idea?’ went on Bertie. He pointed to a tall pinnacle of ice that rose above the floe on which they stood. ‘Now then. If a plane collided with the top of that ‘berg it would be bashed about no end. Lu
mps of ice would be knocked off and fall to the bottom. I don’t see any broken ice. And by Jove! I’ll tell you something else. If a plane collided with solid ice the longerons would be buckled like corkscrews — wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ conceded Algy.
Bertie pointed to the remains of the machine. ‘The longerons are as straight as crankshafts,’ he declared.
‘True enough,’ agreed Algy. ‘What you mean to say is, the machine didn’t crash?’
‘Absolutely’
‘But if it didn’t crash why should they land here?’
Bertie shook his head. ‘Ah! Sorry, old boy, but I don’t know the answer to that one.’
‘Okay. Then let’s say that for some reason unknown Biggles landed here voluntarily,’ resumed Algy impatiently. ‘So what? Neither Biggles nor Ginger would be likely to set fire to the machine.’
‘No, they would not,’ agreed Bertie.
‘Then who did?’
‘You tell me,’ pleaded Bertie. ‘I’m no bally detective.’
Suddenly Algy took a pace forward and for a moment stood staring at something that projected from the blackened engine cowling; then he wrenched it out and held it up for Bertie’s inspection. ‘Look at that!’ he exclaimed in an understanding voice. ‘That isn’t part of an aircraft. That’s a piece of shell casing. Flak, by thunder! That’s the answer. Now we’re getting somewhere. Biggles found the submarine. He bombed it and got shot up. Remember the two depth-charges he carried? They’re not here. Why not? Because he used them. Fool that I am for not spotting that immediately. The machine was hit, forced down and landed here. That’s it. That’s what happened.’
‘And what happened next?’ queried Bertie.
‘The machine took fire on landing and was burnt out. One of them must have been wounded but didn’t start to bleed until he was clear of the machine.’
Bertie nodded slowly. ‘All right. One was wounded. He lay on the ice, bleeding. The other stood by. Then I suppose they both jumped into the sea?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Algy.
‘Then what happened to them?’
Algy walked back to the bloodstain, stared at it for a little while, and then started casting around in increasing circles. He stopped suddenly and let out a yell. ‘Here we are!’ he cried. ‘This is the way they went.’
Bertie joined him and saw at his feet odd spots of blood forming an irregular trail.
Following it, he quickened his pace when he saw a small object lying on the ice some distance ahead. Reaching it, he picked it up. It appeared to be a small piece of bloodstained rag.
‘That’s Biggles’ handkerchief,’ said Algy in a dull voice.
They continued to follow the trail, with the drops of blood occurring farther and farther apart. It ended where the ice ended at the sea.
Automatically Algy raised his eyes and followed the trail out to sea as if it continued there. He started and clutched Bertie’s arm. ‘My God! Look there!’ he cried in a strangled voice.
Bertie looked. A quarter of a mile away two polar bears were swimming strongly towards another ‘berg.
For a little while time stood still. Without speaking, Algy and Bertie watched the bears reach their objective, clamber on the ice and then turn to stare at them. One uttered a hoarse growl. Its breath showed white, like smoke.
‘I don’t think it’s much use looking for bodies — here,’ said Algy.
‘Nor I,’ returned Bertie.
They turned away.
CHAPTER IX
What Happened on the Ice
Algy’s summing up of what had occurred on the iceberg was orrect to a point.
Following their discussion on the situation Biggles had made a systematic inspection of the machine in the hope that it might be made serviceable as a surface-craft, if not as an aircraft. ‘What I should really like to know is, did I hit that submarine?’ he remarked as he worked.
‘If you didn’t actually hit it you were pretty close,’ Ginger assured him.
‘I don’t know much about submarines, but I imagine that any sort of serious damage would keep the U-boat where she is for some time,’ went on Biggles. ‘Quite aside from that she wouldn’t dare to put her nose into any civilised port where there was a properly equipped workshop.’
Proceeding with the examination, it was eventually decided that while at a proper service station the machine might be made airworthy, situated as they were nothing they could do would achieve that object, even if fuel was available.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do except wait,’ announced Biggles. ‘Algy should find us when the weather clears. The thing I’m most afraid of is, if he goes to Corbie Island looking for us he may get what we got. With both machines grounded the outlook would begin to look dim.’
‘Very dim,’ muttered Ginger. He started as from no great distance came a splintering crash. ‘What the deuce was that?’ he demanded.
‘Two ‘bergs colliding, I imagine,’ returned Biggles. ‘Or else—’ He broke off and looked hard at the ice on which they were standing.
‘Or else what?’ inquired Ginger anxiously.
‘Or else it was a big ‘berg breaking up,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘This ice is damp. It’s giving. We must be drifting north.’
‘And the fog is lifting,’ asserted Ginger. ‘Look – there’s another ‘berg. And there’s—’ He broke off, staring.
There was no need to say more. The fog was, in fact, lifting, so that other ‘bergs could be seen. But it was not ice that had so suddenly frozen Ginger’s tongue. It was the whaler.
Fog-bound like themselves the ship lay hove-to less than a mile away.
‘Quick,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Get out of sight.’
They moved swiftly, but even so they were too late. A shout from the whaler came eerily over the dark water.
‘They’ve seen us,’ said Biggles.
‘They’ve seen us all right,’ declared Ginger bitterly. ‘They’re lowering a boat. What are we going to do about it?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t fight a whole ship’s company and it would be silly to try. Funny thing, I clean forgot the whaler. I suppose there’s nothing remarkable about her turning up here. They’ll have seen the aircraft so they’ll know who we are. Well, it will be interesting to see just who is running the ship.’
‘A lot of good that’ll do us, if they follow their usual practice of bumping off anyone who gets in their way.’
‘Oh well, we shall see,’ murmured Biggles.
The whaler’s life-boat forged on towards the ‘berg under the impetus of six oars. Two men sat in the stern. Both wore navy blue reefer jackets over grey sweaters. On their heads were peaked caps bearing weather-faded gold badges. One, an elderly, heavily built man, with a broad flattish face in which were deeply set small calculating eyes, held the tiller. His companion was a different type. He was tall. His face was thin and colourless, and set in such hard lines that it might have been carved out of grey granite. His eyes, pale blue, were on the castaways.
Biggles walked slowly to the edge of the ice and waited. ‘They’re Nazis all right,’ he said in a low voice to Ginger, who stood with him watching the oncoming boat. ‘Just look at those faces, and those square heads. I’ve never been able to decide whether Nazis are born with something in their mentality that gives them faces like that, or whether it is something they acquire.’
‘What does it matter, anyway?’ growled Ginger. ‘They look as though they had never laughed in their lives.’
‘They probably haven’t,’ murmured Biggles.
The side of the boat grated gently against the ice. The rowers shipped their oars. Two jumped ashore and held the boat while the two officers in the stern got out. Both carried automatics. The heavily-built man, from his manner obviously the senior, eyed Biggles with a sort of grim satisfaction.
‘So!’ he exclaimed.
‘So what?’ inquired Biggles. ‘Why
the armament?’
The Nazi did not answer. His eyes lifted and surveyed the aircraft. ‘So!’ he said again.
‘It is them,’ said his companion, speaking in German.
The other walked on slowly towards the aircraft. The two sailors who had come ashore picked up rifles that had been lying in the boat and motioned to the castaways that they were to follow. Presently all six came to a halt a short distance from the machine.
‘Anyone would think they’d never seen a plane before,’ breathed Ginger.
‘It isn’t that; it’s merely that they have a pretty good idea that they’ve seen this one before,’ returned Biggles.
Without haste the burly man turned and addressed Biggles in fair English. His voice was harsh and his manner domineering. ‘What you do here?’ he demanded.
‘We were waiting to be picked up,’ answered Biggles. ‘We had a forced landing.’
‘What brought you to these waters?’
‘My own business.’
‘Ah! And what was that?’
‘Suppose I ask some questions?’ retorted Biggles. ‘What ship is that out there? Who are you? And what are German naval officers doing on a ship of the Norwegian Mercantile Marine?’
‘My name is Thom, Leutnant Thom,’ was the answer. ‘That may mean something to you?’ The German eyed Biggles quizzically as if to note the effect of his words. ‘The Norwegian ship you speak of has been taken over by the German Navy.’
‘You’ve heard, of course, that the war is over?’ queried Biggles evenly.
‘That is where you are wrong,’ was the curt reply. ‘For some of us the war will never be over. Heil Hitler!’
‘That war-cry is out of date, even in Germany,’ said Biggles.
The German walked over until he stood within a yard of Biggles, facing him. ‘What were you here looking for?’ he asked.
‘I’ve found what I was looking for,’ returned Biggles softly.
Without warning, without the slightest hint of what he intended, the German’s left arm flew out like a piston rod straight into Biggles’ stomach. The blow was followed by another, from the right fist. It took Biggles in the face with a vicious smack and stretched him on his back on the ice. He lay still. Blood flowed from his nose across his face to make a little pool on the ice.
