Biggles' Second Case

by W E Johns

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘We’ve flown over worse country.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t think you ever heard me say that I enjoyed it,’ replied Ginger.

  The unexplored interior of the island now presented a panorama as forbidding as could be imagined. Near at hand, the first impression was of a bleak, lonely expanse of rolling moorland, dotted everywhere with dark grey stone, either loose boulders or outcrops of the bedrock. The low areas were occupied by sheets of black, evil-looking water of unknown depth. Beyond this foreground, as the terrain rose it broke into tier after tier of rock ridges terminating in a tremendous massif of peaks, with glaciers streaking the ravines and depressions. What lay in the valleys between the mountain ranges was a matter for conjecture, for all that could be seen from the air was sombre shadows through which water, spilling off the rock slopes in numerous falls and cascades, forced a tortuous course. In one place smoke rose in a tenuous cloud, betraying the volcanic nature of the island. Looking at this harsh picture Ginger found it easy to understand why the island had never been properly explored, much less surveyed.

  Biggles pointed to a pass that cut through the nearest range; it looked as though it had been smashed open by a giant axe. ‘If von Schonbeck wants to get into the mountains that’s the way he’ll go,’ he asserted. ‘There’s no other way that I can see. We’ll try that one first, anyway.’

  The Tarpon, flying at a thousand feet, roared on, and five minutes later Biggles’ surmise maturedinto fact. ‘There they are,’ he said briefly.

  Peering down the others saw a line of men, mostly in pairs, moving like sluggish ants towards the pass. They were as yet perhaps two miles from it, having covered some ten to twelve miles since leaving the sea.

  ‘The dirty dogs haven’t made a lot of ground,’ observed Bertie.

  ‘That ground is probably a lot rougher than it looks,’ answered Biggles. ‘Moreover, they wouldn’t be able to take a straight line. They’d have to go round the lakes, and those outcrops of rock. Apart from that, look at the loads they’re carrying.’

  ‘The bullion boxes,’ breathed Ginger.

  ‘That’s why they’re marching in pairs,’ said Biggles. ‘For two men one of those boxes must be a heavy load; but von Schonbeck isn’t going to leave it behind — no fear. There he is, marching ahead. He’s looking up at us — you can see his face.’

  ‘They haven’t got the boat with them,’ observed Algy.

  ‘They may have parked it somewhere near the sea. As it is, they’re carrying about as much as they can manage.’

  Ginger could see the men. ‘Fourteen,’ he counted aloud. ‘One way and another we seem to have accounted for a few since we started.’

  ‘How about accounting for a few more?’ suggested Algy. ‘Our fixed guns need warming up — we haven’t used them yet.’

  Biggles did not answer immediately. He went into a wide flat turn, watching the men below struggling on, obviously with difficulty, towards the hills.

  ‘We can’t go on flying round them indefinitely. Next thing we shall be out of petrol,’ prompted Ginger.

  ‘I’m going to give them a chance,’ decided Biggles.

  ‘Nobody in his right mind gives a mad tiger a chance,’ growled Ginger. ‘Nazis don’t appreciate chances; they’ve proved that often enough. A chance will only give von Schonbeck an opportunity to trick you.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll do that,’ returned Biggles softly. ‘I can’t help feeling that some of those men may be ready to pack up. They must know the game is finished. I hate killing a rat in a trap. A beast can’t help being what it is. Pass me that message bag — or, better still, take over for a minute. Don’t go too close to them.’

  Ginger glanced at Algy, smiling wanly. Bertie’s eyes met theirs in turn. Each knew he was thinking the same thing. This was Biggles all over. Having got his man on the spot he had to give him a chance. That was his code, just as von Schonbeck’s code was the Nazi code. It seemed silly — yet was it? wondered Ginger. A lot of people around the world respected this strange British idiosyncrasy.

  They watched Biggles write his message, and sign it. He read it over to them: ‘Pack up. Leave the gold where it is. Start marching back and you will be treated as prisoners of war. Suggest you let your men decide for themselves. Continuance towards the mountains will signify your refusal of these terms, in which case we shall take action to stop you.’

  Flying on over the fugitives he dropped it overboard. It fluttered down. Watching, those in the Tarpon saw it strike the ground about a hundred yards from the men, who halted while one of them ran out, picked it up and handed it to von Schonbeck. Dropping their loads the Germans mustered round their leader in a little group, a position in which they remained for some minutes, during which time the aircraft continued to circle.

  ‘What goes on?’ muttered Ginger suspiciously.

  ‘They’re probably talking it over,’ returned Biggles, banking slightly to keep a clear view below. ‘Hello!’

  The ejaculation was prompted by a sudden movement. The group broke up in a manner which could only mean disagreement. Five men broke away from the main body and started running. Guns flashed. Puffs of smoke spurted. Three of the runners fell. One turned and fired back at the main body, scoring a hit. The two surviving runners went on to take cover behind an outcrop of rock.

  ‘Some of them have had enough, anyway, and I don’t wonder at that, when they see what’s ahead of them,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Amazing, isn’t it, how these Nazis so often finish up by shooting each other. God save us from such a hellish creed. Well, it looks as if von Schonbeck has decided to go on. He has lost six more of his men. That leaves eight. Yes, there they go. They’re having to abandon some of the gold, but they’re hanging on to as much as they can carry. Gold. Gold and blood. The old, old story. Funny how the two things go together. Well, if that’s how von Schonbeck wants it, that’s how he can have it. Hold your hats — we may get something back.’

  Biggles swung the Tarpon round and put his nose down in a steep dive.

  A line of tracer bullets rose gracefully to meet it.

  Short jabbing flames spurted from the muzzles of the Tarpon’s twin guns. Two lines of bullets flashed down.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Clean-Up On Kerguelen

  The result of the Tarpon’s dive was to send the U-boat crew running for cover, of which plenty was available in the form of loose rock. Two men fell, although one of them, apparently only with a slight wound, continued to crawl on to what he evidently considered a safe place.

  ‘That leaves six,’ muttered Biggles, as he zoomed up after the attack. On the ground, all that could now be seen were the gold boxes, lying where they had been abandoned.

  ‘Now what?’ inquired Algy. ‘You can’t get ‘em while they stay as they are. They can afford to stay there, but we can’t hang around. As soon as it’s dark they’ll push along into the hills.’

  ‘Every word you say is true,’ agreed Biggles. ‘That’s why we can’t allow that to happen. I’m going down.’

  Ginger looked startled. ‘You mean — land?’

  ‘There’s nothing else we can do,’ averred Biggles. ‘It will start to get dark in an hour or two. We shan’t have time to go home for more petrol. We’ll settle this business right here and now. I’m not going to risk losing touch with von Schonbeck at this stage of the proceedings.’

  ‘It’ll be four of us against six, old boy,’ Bertie pointed out.

  ‘Oh no it won’t,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘As soon as we’re on the carpet Algy can take off again and fetch Axel and his Norwegians. I’m sure they’ll be glad to be in at the death.’

  ‘By Jove! I say, that’s an idea,’ declared Bertie.

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘The point is, where do we get down? I’d like it to be ahead of them if possible, or at any rate on their flank, so that we can keep them where they are. I hate walking, and if it comes to a race up those slopes we may lose.’
>
  Casting about, Biggles descended on an area of what appeared to be smooth moss, between a quarter and a half a mile from the fugitives. Here, curiously enough — or it struck Ginger as curious at the time — there were no rocks; just a broad flat patch of thick sphagnum moss of many hues — green, yellow, orange, red. It was on this, after a cautious survey of the surface for obstructions, that Biggles landed. And as his wheels touched, and the full weight of the aircraft settled down on them, he knew that something was wrong. The machine rocked in a most extraordinary way, as if it were rolling on soft eccentric wheels. The others noticed it and looked through the side windows to see what caused the phenomenon.

  Ginger cried: ‘What the dickens!’

  Then, suddenly, he knew. The aircraft was rocking, bouncing up and down with a slow sickening movement. All around, in the proximity of the aircraft, the earth seemed to be rocking, too. At first he thought that their landing had been coincidental with an earthquake — a not unnatural assumption, for that was the general impression created, and the island was, after all, volcanic. The moss was literally quaking — but not the distant view. The hills were steady enough. The quake was curiously local. It was when he realised this that the first suspicion of the truth struck him, and when the truth did dawn on him his mouth went so dry with shock that he could hardly swallow.

  The aircraft, still bouncing slightly, finished its forward run.

  ‘Sit still everybody,’ said Biggles, in a quiet but tense voice. ‘We’re on a bog.’

  No one moved. No one spoke while the aircraft came gently to rest. The rocking movement ceased. The moss assumed its original firm appearance.

  ‘Take it easy,’ cautioned Biggles. ‘Things may not be as bad as they seem.’

  ‘I should jolly well hope not,’ muttered Bertie, who had turned slightly pale, ‘I once saw a chappie in a bog. He—’

  ‘Tell us about it some other time,’ interrupted Algy, through his teeth.

  ‘Shut up a minute,’ put in Biggles curtly. ‘This is no time for fooling. You’d better get the hang of what’s happened. We’re on the worst sort of bog. What we have landed on is really a thick layer of scum, over water or soft mud, on which moss has grown. The scum is only floating. That’s why it rocked when we touched down. The scum sagged under our weight. If our wheels break through the crust we can say goodbye to the aircraft. I should say the risk of that is pretty big at the moment because our weight is all concentrated on one spot. We must alter that. The only way we can do it is by getting out. Algy will stay. As soon as the others are out he’ll take off — or try to.’

  ‘What’s wrong with taking off right away?’ asked Ginger anxiously.

  ‘I daren’t risk trying to get off with this load on board. The lighter the machine the better chance she’ll have.’

  ‘Here, I say, old lad. You’re not suggesting that Algy leaves us standing on this bally crust, or whatever it is?’ said Bertie in a horrified voice.

  ‘If we step out we’re liable to go straight through,’ asserted Ginger.

  ‘Just a minute, don’t get so excited,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Nothing much has happened yet, and nothing may happen. I’ll get out first to test the ground.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ protested Algy.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take a rifle in each hand. If my legs go through the rifles will catch on the moss and support me. If that happens you’ll have to haul me back and we’ll try something else. The idea isn’t original. In bog countries people walk about with a plank for the same purpose that I, not having a plank, am using the rifles. If the crust supports me — okay. The others will follow. Keep a fair distance apart. We’ll make for the rising ground in front of us, where the rocks start. That’s the end of the bog.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Algy, with some concern.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ declared Biggles confidently. ‘Even if your wheels break through the wings will support the hull. Your job is to get off and fetch the Norwegians — but you’ll have to find another place to land when you come back. I’ll get out now. Sit still, the rest of you.’

  The others watched while Biggles opened the escape hatch. Then, taking a rifle in each hand, and holding them as far away from his body as possible, he stepped out. His feet sank into the moss; black water oozed up round them, and the immediate area sagged a little under his weight; that was all.

  ‘Okay!’ he called. ‘I think it’s all right.’ He thrust one of the rifles back into the cabin, and holding the other at right angles from his body he started walking slowly towards the nearest rocks, about a hundred paces distant. Slight as the movement was, it was sufficient to set the whole bog rocking again. Tense with suspense those in the aircraft continued to watch, watched while Biggles, maintaining an even pace, not even hurrying when he was near the rocks, made the passage.

  Pent-up breath escaped from those in the aircraft when Biggles jumped to show that he was on firm ground. He sat on the nearest rock and waved.

  ‘My godfathers!’ exclaimed Bertie. ‘What a bally nightmare. I’ll go next.’ Adjusting his monocle and taking a rifle he walked slowly to the rock where Biggles was waiting, smoking a cigarette.

  Ginger followed. A few yards from the firm ground his impatience overcame caution and he made a rush for safety. Instantly his feet went through the scum and he found himself standing waist deep in coal-black mud. The others hauled him in.

  ‘You dirty fellow,’ said Bertie, wrinkling his nose. ‘By gad! How the stuff stinks.’

  ‘I thought I was going to be sick,’ explained Ginger. ‘That bouncing feeling got me in the stomach.’ He wiped his forehead.

  Biggles faced the aircraft and waved to Algy to take off. ‘Von Schonbeck must have heard the machine land,’ he told the others. ‘If he sees it take off again maybe he’ll think we’re all away.’

  There was no talking while Algy took off. For fifty yards the machine rocked as though it was riding an ocean swell; then Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘It’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll make it. He’s practically airborne.’

  A few seconds later daylight appeared under the Tarpon’s wheels. Algy climbed a little way, and then, turning, headed back for the cove.

  ‘We’re well out of that,’ observed Biggles. ‘Let’s see what von Schonbeck is doing.’

  Walking fast he struck off on a course which, he explained, he hoped would cut across the Nazis path before they could reach the comparative safety of the hills.

  After five minutes’ sharp walking, from the top of a rise the Nazi party came into view, less than a quarter of a mile away, still making for the pass. Progress was slow, for four of the men were staggering under a heavy weight.

  ‘He’s had to abandon most of the gold, but he’s hanging on to as much as he can move,’ observed Biggles. ‘He can’t bear to let it go. The gold bug must have bitten him badly, as it’s bitten others. Well, he’ll see where it will get him. Come on.’

  The party now moved forward at the double, still taking a line that would cut off von Schonbeck from the hills. And this, curiously enough, was achieved before they were seen — or, at any rate, before von Schonbeck, perceiving his danger, took steps to prevent it. A shot rang out and a bullet zipped through the scrub near Biggles’ feet. He dropped flat, motioning the others to do the same. ‘This will do,’ he said.

  The Nazis had by this time taken cover, so that they could not be seen, but their position was revealed by some loud talking. In particular, von Schonbeck’s voice could be heard, pitched high.

  ‘I fancy he’s having a job to hold his men together,’ remarked Biggles.

  A moment later three men broke cover and ran as if to take up fresh positions outflanking the attackers. Biggles fired. The man at whom he aimed stumbled and pitched forward on his face. Bertie and Ginger fired together, apparently at the same man. He fell. The survivor of this futile counter-attack, bending low and swerving, ran back. Biggles fired and missed.

  ‘They
won’t try that again,’ he observed. ‘Two down... that leaves four. Apparently von Schonbeck intends to fight it to a finish. Well, that suits me.’

  There was now a period of calm. Biggles worked his way forward a little, as did the others, to close the distance; but the Nazis were behind cover and could not be seen. Four bullion boxes had been stacked together, and Biggles suspected that the Nazis were behind them. Refusing to risk casualties by a frontal attack he began to creep towards a new position from which the boxes could be enfiladed; but by the time he had reached it twilight had dimmed the scene, and all that could be seen distinctly was the silhouette of the mountains against the sky. The rest of the world lay in shadow, vague, menacing, lonely. Somewhere in the distance a bird wailed.

  A salt wind, bitterly cold, sighed across the dismal moorland.

  Presently, on this breeze, came a drone, a drone that grew swiftly stronger.

  ‘Here comes Algy,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Goodness knows where he’ll get down,’ answered Biggles, looking worried. ‘This is a tricky place at any time, but in the light I’m afraid it’s asking for it. But there’s nothing else for it.’

  The aircraft came on, and presently it could be seen, flying low. The bog, apparently, was Algy’s landmark, for he flew straight to it, and then came on to sweep low over the scene of operations. Whether or not Algy saw the opposing parties on the ground, was not, at this juncture, apparent. It turned out subsequently that he did not. Biggles dare not risk standing up for this would have meant exposing himself to the enemy’s fire.

  However, Algy went on, and after circling once or twice went down. His engines cut out and the aircraft merged into the colourless background.

  The others listened, trusting to their ears to tell them what their eyes could not. Every sound of an aircraft landing was of course familiar to them. They heard the hum of the wind over the lifting surfaces. Then came a sharp, vicious thud.