by W E Johns
‘If the U-boat is likely to leave a trail why not follow it?’ suggested Ginger.
‘What’s the use of following a trail if you can’t hurt the thing making it?’ returned Biggles. ‘Even if we had more depth-charges, and improved on Bertie’s bombing, Raymond wouldn’t thank us for sending the gold to Davy Jones. That isn’t the idea. And there’s no sense in burning petrol for nothing; if we happened to run into a gale it would take us all our time to get home, anyway.’
‘We could look and see if the U-boat is leaving a trail,’ pressed Ginger.
‘Take a look at the weather,’ invited Biggles. He pointed.
Glancing up, Ginger saw black squall clouds racing low across the sky. A rising wind was tearing the surface off the water. ‘Okay,’ he said in a resigned voice.
A check disclosed that of the original Norwegian crew twelve were still alive, including those who had been picked up on the ice-floe. One had been killed during the fight on the whaler, and three others wounded, although not seriously. One of the shore party had a slight gunshot wound. Of the Nazis, apart from Thom, three had been killed and four wounded. It turned out that the captain of the whaler had been murdered by the Nazis when the ship had been seized, but the first mate was still alive and asserted that he was able to take the ship to port.
‘What are we going to do with the prisoners?’ asked Algy.
‘We certainly can’t clutter ourselves up with them,’ answered Biggles. ‘There seems to be quite a dump here, with food and medical stores, so I think the best thing is to leave them here to look after themselves for the time being. We’ll notify Raymond at the first opportunity; no doubt he’ll send a ship out to take them off.’
One other point of interest came to light. The whaler, as Biggles suspected, had taken on board most of the reserve oil from the secret base at Kerguelen, the Norwegians explaining that it had been von Schonbeck’s intention to use the whaler as a mobile base, and perhaps as a blind to hide his activities. For this purpose he had, as was known, put a Nazi crew on board from his own ship.
‘Which means that his own crew must be shrinking,’ observed Biggles.
After a short debate the matter was left thus: the Norwegians were to take their vessel to Biggles’ base at Kerguelen, from where, after refitting as far as possible and restoring their wounded, they could make their way to their home port of Oslo, to report their version of the affair to their owners and the Norwegian Government. This would leave the airmen free to pursue the U-boat in the remaining aircraft. In the first place, however, they would have to return to base to refuel. They would take up the hunt from there.
‘Do you think you will catch these swines?’ Axel asked Biggles.
‘I think we have a fair chance,’ was the reply. ‘If our depth-charges have strained some of the U-boat’s plates, and that seems likely, she will leave an oil trail that we should have no difficulty in picking up. Once we find the trail we’ll play cat and mouse with her until we catch her on the surface.’
‘The one snag is,’ he told the others later, when they were on board the machine, ‘now von Schonbeck has the gold we mustn’t sink him if it can be avoided. Of course, now he knows that we’re after him he may change his plans. He may give South America a miss and decide on some other hide-out. He has a lot of places to choose from. However, we’ll talk about that later.’
He took the machine off and headed for Kerguelen.
* * *
1 R.A.F. slang: torpedoes.
CHAPTER XIII
Von Schonbeck Tries Again
Leaving the Norwegians to follow in the whaler in their own time Biggles set his course for base. There was a delay as the aircraft passed over the area where the U-boat had disappeared, some time being employed in searching for indications of her track; but crested waves were now chasing each other in endless procession across the ocean, and with spindrift flying above them reconnaissance was hopeless and yielded nothing.
‘I’m afraid it would need a lot of oil to show on a sea like that,’ observed Biggles critically. ‘If this weather persists for any length of time we’re going to have a tiresome job picking up the trail. We may never find it. In fact, everything may now depend on the weather. It raises another possibility. If the sub is damaged, and if the sea gets worse, she may not be able to ride it out, in which case she’ll go to the bottom taking the gold with her and no one will ever know for certain what did happen. That would be a most unsatisfactory end to the story.’
The machine went on to make a somewhat hazardous landing at the Kerguelen base. The water inside the cove was calm enough, but the air above it was tormented by treacherous gusts, due to the rugged nature of the terrain. In these the aircraft bucked and rocked before sliding down to rest in the sheltered anchorage. The machine was soon made fast, and under Biggles’ orders it was refuelled forthwith in case it should be needed in a hurry. The party then retired to the hut for a quick bath and a badly needed meal. While they were eating, from time to time Biggles threw anxious glances at the window and the howling gale that now raged outside.
‘It looks like working up for a real snorter,’ he remarked. ‘It’s no earthly use going out in that. We might as well make up our minds to it and settle down to take it easy.’
He was right. The storm persisted, with squalls of hail, sleet and snow. It raged all that night, all the next day and all the following night. With visibility zero the airmen could do nothing. They were grounded. Biggles spent most of the daylight hours staring out of the window, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes, seldom speaking except to refer to the situation. The others, knowing what the enforced inaction was doing to his nerves, fell quiet. Of course, they too felt the strain — or rather, the slackening of the strain and the inevitable reaction.
‘What I’d like to know is this,’ remarked Biggles once, flicking the ash from his cigarette. ‘How much oil had von Schonbeck got aboard when he pushed off? He went in a deuce of a hurry, don’t forget. Most of his reserve fuel was in the whaler. He’d need full tanks to make the Magellan Straits — that is, if he’s sticking to his original plan. We were on the whaler when she made Corbie Island, and after that we were always on it or near it. I can’t recall seeing or hearing anything like refuelling operations. On the other hand, of course the submarine may have been lying there with full tanks. It’s an important point. After running through a sea like this the state of her tanks will play a vital part in the game, because they’ll control her endurance range. But there, it’s no use guessing. I wonder how the whaler’s getting on? Undermanned as she is the crew must be having a pretty thin time out there in that perishing murk, with ice about.’
‘I can’t help thinking we ought to radio Raymond and tell him the position,’ put in Algy, moodily.
‘And I can’t see that it would do any good,’ returned Biggles curtly. ‘He’s too far away to help us, considering the time factor. If it comes to that we should be no better off if we had a dozen planes here. They’d all be grounded. If von Schonbeck picked up our signal — and you can bet your sweet life he’s listening for signals — it might do a lot of harm. It would tell him that we’re still on the job and perhaps give him an idea of where we’re working from — if he doesn’t know already. Radio silence will keep him guessing. It’s better that way.’
On the morning of the third day the storm blew itself out. The wind dropped to an occasional gust and the sea began to subside. Biggles, his irritation gone, became the very spirit of activity.
‘I’m getting off right away, taking Ginger with me,’ he announced crisply. ‘I don’t know when we shall be back. We may be some time. If von Schonbeck has managed to ride out the storm he should be a long way off by now; but he won’t be outside our range, I think, because he wouldn’t risk running at full speed through a heavy sea. Still, he’s an old hand at this game and we shall have to be prepared for tricks — tricks like laying false trails by means of oil barrels with holes punched in them to allow the
oil to seep out.’ Biggles spoke to Algy. ‘When we come back, if we’ve found nothing you can carry on. If necessary we’ll fly complete circles at increasing distances until we do strike the trail.’
‘There may not be any trail. The storm may have washed it out,’ suggested Algy.
‘Maybe. But the sea is down now and if the sub is still travelling she’ll be leaving signs which we ought to see as we cut across them. There is this in our favour. There aren’t likely to be any other craft about to mislead us.’
‘And suppose you find the trail — what then?’ inquired Algy.
‘I shall follow it,’ answered Biggles. ‘If the sub is running under water, which is unlikely, or if she dives when she sees us, I shall call up Raymond, pin-point the position, and ask him to throw a cordon of anti-submarine craft round the whole area. The sub won’t be able to sit on the bottom in these waters; they’re too deep; and if the engines are running sound detectors should pick them up. Sooner or later the sub will have to surface if only to charge her batteries; and even if von Schonbeck realises that he is being dogged he’ll have to carry on because he wouldn’t dare to risk running out of fuel. It’s a long way to the Magellan Straits. If his tanks dried up he’d be finished. He’d be a mere hulk, a floating tin can with no means of getting anywhere and at the mercy of the first storm that blew along. Diving wouldn’t save him. A few near misses with depth-charges would either send him to the bottom or bring him to the surface. But the first thing is to find the submarine. By the way, you fellows keep an eye open for the whaler. It’s time she was here. Come on, Ginger.’
Biggles strode down to the machine, which was soon in the air, flying under the usual leaden sky over a sea that still heaved in the aftermath of the recent storm. But the wind had died away and the waves were fast going down.
‘In a couple of hours, if there’s no more wind, she’ll be flat calm,’ said Biggles confidently, as he climbed for height. ‘I’m setting a course to fly a big arc right across the region between Corbie Island and the Magellan Straits,’ he announced. ‘Keep your eyes open and tell me if you see anything — anything at all.’
‘Okay,’ acknowledged Ginger, and the search began.
For more than two hours the Tarpon roared on an outward course across a sullen waste of water. Nothing was seen. Absolutely nothing. Not even an iceberg or a solitary whale.
Ginger, aware that they were hundreds of miles from home, or, for that matter, from the nearest land, regarded the featureless expanse below with rising apprehension. He could not help remembering that the best aero engines sometimes fail, that they were over the loneliest place on the globe, and, moreover, at about the limit of the range. From his manner Biggles might have been unaware of this. Consequently Ginger drew a deep breath of relief when the nose of the machine began to swing round.
‘Queer,’ said Biggles. ‘Dashed queer. I would have wagered twelve months’ pay that the submarine was losing oil. If there was oil we should see it.’ This was obviously true, for the sea now lay as tranquil as a pond.
‘He may have changed his mind and gone another way,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Then he must have another oil dump somewhere or he’d never make a landfall,’ declared Biggles. ‘He’s a long way to go, even to South America. I’ll try farther out.’
For about twenty minutes Biggles flew on, and then turned for home on an even greater circle than the outward journey. Ginger said nothing but he was far from happy. Biggles was taking chances, which was not like him. They were cutting the petrol supply fine, even in still air. A head wind now would be worse than a calamity. It would be fatal, inevitably fatal. However, his fears proved groundless, and the aircraft reached its base with only failure to report.
‘Refuel and take over,’ Biggles told Algy wearily. ‘Try a different track.’ He started as if a thought had occurred to him. A puzzled frown creased his forehead. ‘By the way, where’s the whaler?’
Algy shrugged. ‘She hasn’t come.’
Biggles’ frown deepened. ‘Hasn’t come? What the deuce can she be doing?’
‘The bally storm may have delayed her,’ suggested Bertie.
‘Of course it would,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘But a whaler is built for salt water and she’d see it through. Storm or no storm she should have been here before this. Good Lord!’ His eyes opened wide. He pursed his lips. ‘I wonder...?’
‘Wonder what?’ prompted Algy.
‘That ship is loaded with oil and von Schonbeck knows it. I wonder if he’s had the nerve to turn back and ... It’s the sort of thing he might do. I ought to be kicked for not considering the possibility.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Algy. ‘There’s probably a simple explanation for the delay. It’s far more likely that the whaler slipped under the lee of Kerguelen while the storm was on instead of battering her way against it.’
‘It might be,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ll tell you what, Algy. Fill up with petrol, and for a start fly back towards Corbie Island to see if you can spot the whaler coming. That’ll settle any argument. Take Bertie with you for a breath of fresh air. This hut stinks like the fo’c’sle of a Dutch onion boat.’
‘Here, I say, old boy, I was only making Irish stew,’ protested Bertie. ‘Jolly good stew, too. Try some?’
‘We’ll take a chance,’ agreed Biggles, smiling.
Algy went off, taking Bertie with him, and soon afterwards the roar of engines announced their departure.
As Algy swung round the northern tip of the island on a course for Corbie, he flew as a man flies on a simple routine operation. He was quite sure that he would see the whaler ploughing along bound for the aircraft base; and the last thing he expected was anything in the nature of excitement. And at first events fell out much as he expected. In five minutes he spotted the whaler slogging along the lee of Kerguelen, northward bound.
‘There she is,’ he told Bertie casually. ‘I was right. She’s been sheltering from the storm. I’ll go down and give them a wave; then we’ll beetle back and let Biggles know it’s okay.’
In accordance with this simple programme Algy cut his engines and, altering course slightly, began a long glide towards the ship. But as he drew near his easy attitude changed. He stiffened, bending forward to peer through the windscreen. Bertie did the same.
‘Am I seeing things or is there something queer about that ship?’ muttered Algy.
Bertie screwed his monocle in his eye and looked again. ‘If you ask me, old boy, I’d say she’s been dragged through hell backwards. Must have been the bally storm that knocked her about — what?’
‘Not on your life,’ snapped Algy. ‘The wave wasn’t created yet that could tear that hole in her side. She’s been shelled, and hit — and hit hard. By thunder! Biggles was right. Von Schonbeck has been at her again. I’m going down.’
‘Here, take it easy, old boy,’ murmured Bertie uncomfortably. ‘She may have the beastly Nazis on board, and all that.’
‘No!’ shouted Algy, as they swept low over the whaler. ‘That’s Axel standing on the wheelhouse. He’s waving. He wouldn’t be allowed to do that if there were Nazis on board. I’m going to risk it.’
He swung round, dropped a wing and side-slipped down, to land and come to rest about a cable’s length from the whaler. Axel appeared at the rail, beckoning, so he taxied on until by scrambling along a wing he was able to grab a rope which Axel threw to him. In a minute he was aboard. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked breathlessly.
He asked the question automatically, for he knew what the answer would be. At any rate, he had a pretty good idea of it. The condition of the ship, as he saw it from close range, told its own story. On reaching the deck a swift glance around confirmed everything, if confirmation were needed. The superstructure was a wreck. Standing gear was a shell-torn tangle. Splinters lay everywhere. There were bloodstains. Old Leatherface sat at the foot of the mainmast, cheeks grey under their tan. Some members of the crew were trying to clear up the mess. P
umps were working. All this Algy took in at a glance before turning horrified questioning eyes to Axel.
‘The submarine shelled us — but we still have the ship,’ announced Axel, smiling ruefully.
‘But what happened?’ persisted Algy.
‘When the storm was bad, being short-handed we decided to run into the cove at the southern end of the island for the night,’ said Axel simply. ‘The submarine was there. We did not know it. It was dark, very dark. But in the morning there she was, getting oil from the tank on shore. There was much oil on the water. It may be the oil from the tank, or perhaps what your captain said was right, and the submarine is damaged. I do not know. But when we are seen the Nazis run to their guns and fire. We slip our cable and back out, but we are hit many times. It was bad.’
‘When was this?’ asked Algy quickly.
‘This morning.’
‘And where is the submarine now?’
‘When last I see her she is in the cove.’
Algy’s manner became brittle. ‘Can you handle the ship?’
‘Yes. We are making water, but hands are at the pumps and I think we shall be well.’
‘Good. Bring her along. I must let my chief know about this.’
‘Yes.’
‘See you later.’
Algy scrambled back along the wing to drop into the cockpit. ‘The submarine has been at Kerguelen all along,’ he told Bertie tersely.
‘She’s lying in the cove at the southern tip of the island, presumably the one where Biggles found the dump. The whaler tried to get in and was shelled. Axel says she was still there when he left. I’m getting back.’
The engines roared, and the aircraft, after cutting a creamy scar across the black water, rose into the air. Five minutes later it was down again, at its base. Algy jumped ashore and raced for the hut. As he neared it the door was thrown open and Biggles appeared, his face asking a question, as if he had seen Algy’s haste.
