Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘It would be, Major,’ said the Frenchman, ‘but these villains clearly know what they’re up to. There is a place not far from here called Wazzaba — a strange place in the middle of the desert. It used to be a salt-mine worked by slaves, but they left it long ago. I think it has water, and it would be a perfect place for criminals to hide until the hunt for them dies down. Perhaps we could see if there is any trace of them?’

  ‘Is it far?’ said Biggles. ‘We’re getting pretty low on petrol.’

  ‘Ten minutes, Major Bigglesworth. Certainly no more.’

  ‘O.K.’ said Biggles, ‘we’ll go and have a look.’

  But Captain Lecombe had an optimistic sense of distance, and the ten minutes that he said would bring them to Wazzaba passed without a sign of life or habitation in that glaring wilderness. Ten more minutes passed and Biggles started getting worried.

  ‘How much further?’

  ‘Two minutes. Just two minutes,’ shouted the Captain excitedly. ‘We’re almost there.’

  In fact, it was nearer twenty before they reached a spot where the desert changed into something like the surface of the moon, with rocks, craters and some ruined walls.

  ‘Wazzaba,’ said the Captain. ‘Still no sign of them. Do you think that you can land?’

  ‘No alternative, old chap,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘We’re almost out of petrol.’

  ‘You know, I’m getting worried, Algy.’ Ginger said. ‘It’s not like Biggles to have been gone so long without a message, and I know the Cormorant had barely half a tank of fuel aboard.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ said Algy, ‘particularly with that Captain Johnnie to take care of him. Probably landed somewhere in the desert for a spot of lunch or something.’

  ‘But there’s nowhere in the desert for a spot of lunch,’ said Ginger.

  ‘There’s bound to be, old man. Let’s just have a drink and take things easy. Hair of the dog and all that sort of thing. Chin-chin!’

  But Ginger was a worrier, and when they had finished lunch — braised kid, boiled artichoke and goats’ milk cheese — he insisted on taking Algy through the heat of the early afternoon to inquire at the French Legion Headquarters for news of Biggles and the Cormorant. There was none, but the Duty Officer insisted there was no need to worry. There were many places in the desert where an aeroplane could land, and Captain Lecombe was an officer of great experience.

  ‘He’d better be,’ said Ginger.

  By late afternoon it was obvious that something had gone wrong. Even the Adjutant at French Headquarters was admitting it, saying he would alert the Legion’s desert patrols, and promising that if no news arrived next morning a full-scale search would start.

  ‘But what’s the use of that?’ said Ginger. ‘They could have flown several hundred miles, and it might take days to reach them. In this heat they wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Eh alors, monsieur!’ said the Adjutant. ‘What else would you have us do?’

  ‘Can’t you use an aircraft for the search?’

  ‘An aircraft, monsieur? Here in Timbuctoo? You must be joking. The only thing we have that flies is a dirigible belonging to the Artillery.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘A dirigible. A cross between an airship and an ordinary balloon. It has an engine, and it takes a crew of four. But it hasn’t flown for years, and no one knows how to use it.’

  Ginger’s ears pricked up at this.

  ‘Where is this dirigible affair?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure, monsieur. In one of the store-rooms I imagine. I’d have to make inquiries.’

  ‘Would you mind doing so at once?’

  The Adjutant shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Certainly, monsieur, if you’re interested, but don’t expect too much. As far as I remember, even the Artillery abandoned it.’

  Ginger waited while the Adjutant telephoned, and finally a small man in a corporal’s uniform arrived, saluted, and asked what he could do. His name was Dutoit, and he said, yes, he had once worked on the dirigible and knew all about it. Could he show it to the Englishman? Certainly. But he must warn the Englishman that it was no longer serviceable.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Ginger. ‘Just let me see it.’

  Half an hour later, Ginger was back at the campement.

  ‘Well Algy, Nobby, I’m afraid that we have work to do.’

  ‘Really, Ginger!’ exclaimed Algy with a yawn. ‘All this heat, and poor old Biggles lost in that flaming desert, and you talk of work! Have a heart!’

  ‘But that’s the whole point, Algy. I think I’ve hit upon a way of finding him — from the air.’

  ‘You mean you’ve found an aircraft, Ginger? You’re a blinking wizard.’

  ‘No, Algy, not an aircraft — a balloon. I’ve just been looking at it. It’s in a pretty good old mess, but I’m certain we could make ii work. The envelope needs repairing and the engine will require all Nobby’s genius to make it work, but there’s several dozen cylinders of hydrogen, and they tell me it can cruise at thirty miles an hour.’

  ‘Ginger, you’re mad,’ said Algy. ‘Stark raving mad.’

  Ginger flushed at this. ‘Probably I am,’ he said, ‘but if you can think of any better way of finding Biggles, I for one would like to hear it.’

  If anything, Ginger had been over-optimistic in his report on the balloon. Parts of the great silken envelope were badly ripped. Ants had attacked the wooden gondola, whilst the engine — a two hundred horse-power Peugeot water-cooled affair driving two separate propellers at the rear — seemed to be totally seized up.

  ‘Well, old boy,’ said Algy when he saw it, ‘I suppose the jolly old dirigible could be restored — in about a month, with twenty fellows working on it. But even then I’m not sure I’d care to fly in it.’

  Ginger nodded.

  ‘Normally I’d agree with you entirely, but Algy, can’t you see that it’s our only way of ever finding Biggles now? If we don’t get to him before tomorrow night, the old boy’s had it.’

  Ginger’s enthusiasm was contagious, and as soon as word got round of what he wanted, he had all the volunteers he needed. An enormous drill-hall was turned into a makeshift workshop to repair the fifty-foot-long envelope of the balloon, and shifts of soldiers, under the supervision of the tiny Corporal Dutoit, laboured through the night. Others helped Ginger on the gondola, but the hardest work of all was Nobby Smyth’s. With Algy to help him he totally rebuilt the engine in the Legion’s workshop. Few slept that night, but by dawn the work was almost done. The long grey envelope of the balloon was dragged into the open air. The guy-ropes were attached, the gondola put in position, and the slow work of inflating the balloon began.

  It was a strange and moving sight as this ancient, all-but-forgotten balloon started to come to life. It grew before their eyes, gradually taking shape as the hydrogen hissed into it from the long black cylinders, and it was soon rising up and tugging at the guy-ropes in the morning breeze.

  ‘How’s that engine, Nobby?’ Ginger shouted.

  ‘Can’t promise anything,’ said Nobby Smyth, ‘but I’ve done my best. I think she’ll be O.K.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Ginger. ‘Now Algy, have we everything we need? Maps, compass, water, petrol, food?’

  ‘Probably forgotten something absolutely vital,’ Algy responded with a laugh, ‘but I’ve done my best. At least it makes a change from aeroplanes. O.K. Nobby, start her up!’

  From below, Nobby swung one of the propellers, the engine coughed and then roared to life. More hydrogen hissed into the balloon, the troops released the guy-ropes, and the old dirigible with Ginger and Algy aboard rose in the brilliant early morning sun and headed for the desert.

  ‘Strange experience,’ said Algy. ‘Not all that sure I like it. Rather too peaceful to my way of thinking.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ said Ginger, as he watched the last of Timbuctoo disappear behind them in the morning glare. ‘I find it rat
her restful. Only hope that the old envelope holds. We had a dreadful job repairing it. You and Nobby seem to have excelled yourselves with the engine.’

  This was true, for the Peugeot engine was now purring happily behind them, driving the two big propellers which carried the dirigible forward at a steady pace.

  ‘Nobby really is a genius with engines,’ said Algy. ‘He practically rebuilt the thing from scratch. But tell me, Ginger, just what is the plan? Where could Biggles be?’

  ‘Well,’ replied Ginger, ‘I spent some time last night with the Adjutant, working out the places where they might have landed. There are several of them. There’s a small oasis just north of here called Yoraga, and several other spots where the tribesmen camp. They could be at any of them, and there’s the old salt-mine of Wazzaba right out in the desert ...’

  Ginger passed Algy the map and together they began to work out their direction.

  It was nearly noon, and Biggles was sheltering from the blistering Sahara sun in the dim interior of the mine-shaft — a narrow tunnel slanting down into the unwelcoming bowels of the desert.

  ‘Idiot!’ he kept saying to himself. ‘Confounded idiot! To have let myself run out of petrol — and at my age too.’

  He stared venomously across at Captain Lecombe — ever since the brandy and potato crisps had run out that morning, relations had been growing strained. There had been no sign of the murderers — nor, for that matter, of anything that moved, except for a number of large black bats which hung suspended from the tunnel roof and came alive at dusk.

  ‘Extraordinarily stupid way to go!’ said Biggles angrily. ‘Stuck in a hole in this confounded desert!’

  ‘Courage!’ said Captain Lecombe. ‘My comrades will arrive. They’ll be searching for us with their camel patrols. They’re bound to find us in the end.’

  ‘It’ll be the end all right,’ said Biggles bitterly. ‘I’m sick to death of this already. Where the heck is Algy?’

  ‘Major Bigglesworth,’ began the Legionnaire sternly, ‘there is no point at all in getting yourself excited. Conserve your energies and be patient. Your friends can’t possibly help you, for as I keep telling you, there are no aeroplanes in Timbuctoo. Just wait, and the camels of the Foreign Legion will rescue us.’

  ‘It’s another sort of camel that I want,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Please?’ asked the Captain.

  ‘A Camel is an aircraft that I used to fly in the war, and jolly good it was too,’ said Biggles stiffly.

  This made the Captain laugh. ‘You had a flying camel, Major Bigglesworth? And I had a flying carpet!’

  His laughter irritated Biggles and rather than submit to it, he rose and left the tunnel for the desert glare outside.

  ‘Foreigners!’ he muttered to himself. As he did so he heard a strange noise from the distance. It was not an aeroplane and couldn’t be a car. For several minutes he was puzzled and stood scanning the horizon. Then, suddenly, he seemed to go berserk.

  ‘Captain!’ he yelled, ‘Captain! Come and see! They’ve got a bally airship!’

  ‘Pity to have to leave, old chap,’ said Biggles with a rueful smile. ‘I’ve started to get quite attached to Timbuctoo.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Algy. ‘It rather grows upon a fellow, and I’ll miss the old dirigible.’

  It was two days after the rescue from the desert, and the Cormorant was serviced and refuelled for the return for England. Quite a crowd had turned up at the airstrip on the outskirts of Timbuctoo to see them off — Madame Matatah and her boss-eyed husband, half the French garrison, and many of the people who had turned up at Biggles’ birthday party.

  ‘No sign of your friend, Captain Lecombe,’ said Ginger with a laugh.

  ‘Can’t say that I expected him,’ replied Biggles. ‘It was a dreadful loss of face for him when you two scallywags turned up to rescue us. And then, when it turned out that his precious murderers had escaped down the river after all, he felt an even bigger idiot.’

  ‘Still, all the others seem to see the joke,’ said Ginger, ‘and the Adjutant appears delighted with us for repairing his dirigible. Corporal Dutoit has been promoted Sergeant to take charge of it. By the way, Algy, what was in that telegram that arrived for you this morning just before we left? Anything important?’

  ‘It was personal, old boy,’ replied Algy, pulling something of a face.

  ‘Come, come,’ said Biggles. ‘We can’t have any secrets from each other. What was it, Algy? Woman trouble?’

  ‘Dammit, Biggles! How on earth d’you guess?’

  ‘Ah-ah!’ said Biggles. ‘I know you rather better than you think. So what’s happened?’

  ‘It was from Deborah. She’s left me for the tennis coach at Hurlingham.’

  ‘Oh Algy,’ Biggles said, ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry. It’s a tragedy, a real tragedy, isn’t it Ginger?’

  Ginger nodded and began to laugh.

  ‘That’s what comes of going off to Timbuctoo,’ he said.

  Algy began to laugh as well, as Biggles opened up the throttle and the Cormorant sped across the airstrip and began its climb into the early morning sky.

  ‘Probably as well,’ said Algy philosophically. ‘You know I never really cared for tennis — and Deborah hated aeroplanes. I think that Timbuctoo has saved us both a lot of real unhappiness.’

  7

  The Great Race

  The dining room of the Blazers’ Club has seen Prime Ministers and potentates, press lords and Presidents, yet by a firm tradition of the Club all visitors, however eminent, are treated just like any ordinary guests. So there was no reason why James Bigglesworth should have realised on meeting Lord Elberton who on earth he was, not that it would have made much difference if he had. Biggles paid little heed to rank. He had a simple way of judging anyone he met — either the fellow was all right, or he wasn’t. Lord Elberton seemed distinctly in the second category.

  It was an evening late in 1934 and Colonel Raymond had taken Biggles off to dinner at his Club as something of a consolation prize for several very boring jobs he had recently performed for the British Secret Service. They sounded glamorous enough — a flight to Budapest to fetch Karminsky, the Hungarian cypher king, three weeks in Italy trying to discover the performance figures of the new Savoia-Marchetti long-range seaplane, a visit to a factory outside Paris where Duval, the great explosives expert, was rumoured to be manufacturing an aerial torpedo that had their Lordships at the Admiralty distinctly worried.

  It suited Colonel Raymond to employ a freelance operator he could trust implicitly, yet disown if anything went wrong. And, thanks to no fault of Biggles’, go wrong they had. Karminsky had changed his mind at the last minute and refused to come, the Italian seaplane sank on its trials on Lake Garda, and the great Duval had blown up his factory and himself. As a perfectionist, Biggles found it difficult to cope with failure and these three setbacks in a row had depressed him terribly. Algy had done his best to cheer him up — as Algy always did — but Biggles remained firmly in the dumps, and it was the faithful Algy who had finally rung Colonel Raymond to suggest he have a word with him — hence the invitation out to dinner in the hallowed precincts of the Blazers’ Club.

  The dinner had been excellent as ever — the best smoked salmon this side of the Firth of Forth, a partridge slaughtered at Balmoral, claret from the cellars of a former President of France — and as the meal progressed, Biggles’ spirits had undoubtedly improved.

  ‘The trouble is, sir,’ he confessed to Colonel Raymond, ‘I really feel I’m getting soft.’

  ‘Never heard such nonsense in my life,’ replied the Colonel, jabbing at the Stilton with an eighteenth-century silver scoop, ‘you and Lacey are the toughest pair of fliers it has been my privilege to meet.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. But the fact is that it’s been years since the ending of the war. We’ve flown a lot, we’ve been around the world, and been delighted to perform the occasional odd job for you, but I feel that we require a ch
allenge.’

  Colonel Raymond gave an icy laugh.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d had enough of them to last a lifetime, Bigglesworth my boy. But, if that’s what you really want, I’ll have to see what I can do.’

  This was the point at which the small man sitting opposite them butted in. He was a gnome-like creature with a large head, hooded eyes, and a fringe of thin white hair around a naked cranium.

  ‘That’s what all the bored young idiots these days are saying. Challenges my foot! Why don’t they get off their backsides and do a job of work for once?’

  Biggles was just about to drink his port and, rather than embarrass Colonel Raymond, took no notice. But the small man opposite was clearly in no mood for giving up.

  ‘It makes me sick, you know, to hear the way they talk. Mollycoddled lot. Never do anything for themselves. It’s always other people who must look after them and pay for their mistakes. That’s why the country’s in the mess it’s in.’

  ‘At least they won the war for you,’ said Biggles, doing his best to hide his mounting anger.

  ‘That’s what they always say. Pure self-pity, nothing else. This present generation loves feeling sorry for itself. They think the world owes them a living.’

  ‘And what about your generation, if we’re being personal, sir?’ asked Biggles quietly. ‘Weren’t you the ones who landed us in the war, and then left us to do the fighting for you?’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Bigglesworth!’ said Colonel Raymond quickly, and turning to the small man opposite, added, ‘I suggest we change the subject, sir!’

  ‘Blowed if I will,’ the man retorted. ‘I believe in saying what I think, and since your friend has chosen to insult me, I can only say that were I a younger man myself, I’d give him the answer he deserves.

  ‘And if you were a younger man,’ said Biggles evenly, ‘I’d punch you on the nose.’

  Colonel Raymond rose abruptly.

  ‘Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time we left.’