Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘How bad is it?’ asked Biggles quickly.

  Smithson shook his head.

  ‘Go and see for yourselves. It couldn’t be much worse.’

  Biggles was the first inside the hangar.

  ‘Well, Algy, dear old chap,’ he muttered, ‘It doesn’t look as if we’ll get to Southend — let alone to Singapore.’

  ‘You’re sure you know who it was?’ inquired Lord Elberton.

  Colonel Raymond nodded bitterly. ‘No doubt at all. The chaps in Special Branch have traced him to the German Embassy — a secretary attached to their trade delegation. Blighter by the name of Krueger. Been on our files for years. Several people have identified him as being near the airport on the night the fire occurred.’

  ‘So why don’t you arrest him, man!’ exclaimed his Lordship with a vehemence that Biggles recognised at once.

  ‘Lord Elberton,’ replied the Colonel wearily, ‘you know as well as I do why I can’t. There’s not a scrap of proof that would stand up in court, and anyhow, the wretched fellow’s covered by diplomatic privilege. If we tried to arrest him we’d have the Foreign Office on us like a ton of bricks. No, I’m sorry gentlemen — there’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘But this is preposterous! Preposterous!’ shouted Lord Elberton. ‘What do you blighters at New Scotland Yard imagine that we pay you for?’

  The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply, and it was Biggles now who butted in.

  ‘One question, sir. Have you discovered why the Huns wanted to destroy the Swallow? I mean, it is a little strange to take so big a risk over a single aeroplane.’

  Colonel Raymond looked up sharply. ‘Good question, Bigglesworth. Something I’ve been asking myself ever since I heard the news. I sent out a query to our fellow in Berlin about it. His reply might interest you. He thinks that someone rather high up in the German government is determined that their entry in the Singapore air race will win at any cost.’

  ‘You mean as a matter of national prestige?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No, rather more than that. It’s almost as if it had become a personal affair.’

  ‘And did your man find out who was behind all this?’

  ‘No. No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Then he should have done,’ barked Elberton.

  ‘Not a great deal we could do about it if he had,’ replied the Colonel logically.

  ‘Well, I’m not satisfied,’ said Elberton. ‘Not satisfied at all, and I intend to raise the question in the House of Lords. Good God, man, do you realise how much that aeroplane of mine cost? The time and talent that have gone into it? And now to have to scratch it from the race like this! The whole thing is a damned disgrace.’

  ‘Now, steady on, sir,’ interjected Biggles. ‘I don’t think you’re being fair to Colonel Raymond. And who said anything about scratching from the race?’

  ‘Well, obviously we’ve got to, man. There’s no alternative. The Swallow’s ruined.’

  ‘Then so are we my Lord. You seem to be forgetting that we have a little bet.’

  ‘Oh, come now Major. Surely you don’t think that I’d insist on that, given the circumstances? I may be a hard man, but I like to think I’m fair.’

  ‘Lord Elberton,’ said Biggles gravely, ‘I was brought up to believe a bargain is a bargain and a bet’s a bet. I’ve never been defeated by a German yet, and I don’t intend to be defeated now. As far as I’m concerned, the bet’s still on. All I would ask of you is help from all your people down at Winchester to rebuild the Swallow.’

  ‘You’ll never do it, Major Bigglesworth. There are only six days left before the race begins. The thing’s impossible.’

  Biggles smiled coolly. ‘That’s another thing that I was taught when I was a boy in India. When you decide to do a thing there’s no such word as “impossible”.’

  For Biggles and Co., the race to Singapore began that morning — a desperate race against the clock to get the Swallow rebuilt in time. The flat at Mount Street was vacated, and Biggles, Algy and Ginger Hebblethwaite moved into the hangar at Winchester. For the next six days it was their home and their headquarters.

  At first sight, the damage to the Swallow seemed appalling — the fuselage was gutted by the fire, the tail destroyed and the undercarriage had collapsed.

  ‘You really think we’ll get to Singapore in this, old chap?’ said Algy with a hollow laugh. ‘You must be joking!’

  But Nobby Smyth was not so pessimistic.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said to Biggles, ‘there were times in France when we had to deal with worse than this. Remember when von Richthofen brewed up the hangars and the workshops at Maranique with incendiary bombs? We still got the Squadron in the air. At least the Swallow’s engines are all right, and the cockpit and forward section are more or less untouched. I can’t promise miracles, but at least we’ll have a go.’

  And have a go they did. For the next four days the labour went on round the clock, with shifts of workers from the factory slaving through the night. Biggles and Algy joined them, whilst Ginger served as Smyth’s assistant. The noise at times was deafening, and no one had much sleep. But gradually, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the Swallow was reborn. The race was due to start on Saturday. By Wednesday night the tail and fuselage had been rebuilt and the hangar reeked with the fumes of dope and varnish. By Thursday morning, the entire body of the aircraft was raised from its trestles and the rebuilt undercarriage put in place. On Thursday night no one slept as the final checks were made and the wiring and controls meticulously installed. And then on Friday morning, just as dawn was breaking, the doors of the great hangar were drawn back, and a cheer rose from the weary men inside as the Swallow cautiously emerged to face the world outside.

  ‘This calls for a little celebration,’ exclaimed Algy.

  But Biggles, hollow-eyed with tiredness, said, ‘No, old lad. We’ve just been making up lost time. We’ve still a lot to do before we celebrate.’

  Normally the testing of a brand-new aeroplane takes weeks. Algy and Biggles did the whole thing in a day. Just after breakfast-time the Swallow’s twin Rolls-Royce engines started up, the chocks were pulled away, and taxiing trials began. By lunchtime she was in the air. Whilst Biggles and Algy grabbed a hurried snack, adjustments were completed, and they were soon back in the cockpit for yet further trials, which went on till dusk made further flying dangerous.

  ‘Well, what d’you think of her?’ asked Ginger.

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I could be happier, but she’ll have to do. At least she flies and Smyth will be working flat out on her all tonight. We can’t do any more.’

  ‘But what about you and Algy?’ Ginger asked, solicitously. ‘You’re both done in before you start.’

  ‘Oh, we’re all right,’ said Biggles gamely. ‘We were brought up on lack of sleep.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, and you know it,’ replied Ginger. ‘The pair of you will crack up long before you get to Singapore if you go on like this. Why don’t you and Algy drive across to Croydon straight away in the Bentley, have a good dinner there, and spend the night in the hotel. I’ll fly the Swallow over first thing tomorrow morning. That way at least you’ll both have had a good night’s sleep before the race begins.’

  Biggles bit his lip, then said, ‘Good notion, Ginger. Thanks. We’ll do exactly as you say. But just one thing — go easy with the Swallow when you fly her over. If you prang the old crate now, I’ll not forgive you.’

  It was a fine September morning, and it could have been a gala Saturday at Croydon Airport as the entries for the biggest race in history started to assemble on the tarmac under the shadow of the squat tower of the airport hotel. Most of the planes had flown in the day before, and when Algy and Biggles strolled down from the hotel breakfast room, they started sizing up the opposition. The mechanics were already scurrying like ants around the aircraft, making last-minute checks and adjustments. Take-off was billed for ten o’clock, a
nd already there was a touch of frenzy in the air. Lamartine, the famous Frenchman, seemed to be having hysterics as his mechanic changed his sparking plugs. Charlie Bray’s big white Cessna monoplane was being wheeled out from its hangar, and Watanabe, the bespectacled Japanese air-ace, was grinning like a cheerful frog as he posed for photographs beside his biplane with the rising sun painted on the tail.

  ‘What news of the Huns?’ muttered Algy to Biggles as they passed among the crowd of journalists and fans. ‘Doesn’t appear to be a sign of them.’

  ‘Probably suffering from a guilty conscience — or simply scared of a touch of their own medicine,’ replied Biggles grimly. ‘From what I hear they’re keeping their aircraft under wraps until the last minute, just to make sure nothing can go wrong. It’s in that hangar over there, with a gang of specially imported German thugs to keep the nosey parkers off the premises. Pity we didn’t do the same, old thing.’

  Algy nodded. ‘Any news of the crew?’

  ‘Under wraps as well. Old Elberton has done his best to get their names, but even he has failed. There’s something very fishy going on, old trout. Not that I’m particularly concerned. All that worries me now is the Swallow. She should be here by now. What d’you think old Ginger’s playing at?’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Algy, glancing at the big clock on the hotel tower. ‘We’ve still got fifty minutes. I’ve arranged for lastminute refuelling. Hallo, what’s this?’

  The doors of the German hangar were opening, and a hush fell on the crowd as they caught their first glimpse of the gleaming aeroplane within.

  ‘Ho-ho!’ said Algy, ‘so that’s what all the fuss has been about. Looks pretty powerful. Twin-engined, swept-back wings. Must be a special version of the Heinkel bomber we’ve been hearing so much about. Dirty dealings apart, it looks as if we’ll have our work cut out.’

  As he spoke, the German aeroplane was towed across the tarmac and swung into position for the start.

  ‘Very pretty piece of hardware,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Where the heck is Ginger? P’raps we’d better get ourselves togged up and ready while we’re waiting.’

  When they had changed into their flying suits (with just a touch of superstition, Biggles had brought along his ancient Sidcot suit) the stewards were already announcing the departure draw. To avoid the danger of the aircraft taking off together, it was decided they would leave at five-minute intervals, and Lord Carbury’s curvaceous daughter had the honour of drawing the pilots’ numbers from one of her father’s old top hats. It was a chance for the press photographers to take their final pictures, and the competitors were soon lining up along the tarmac for the draw.

  ‘Hi-yah, Biggs, you ole palookah,’ shouted the fresh-faced Charlie Bray. ‘Where’s your aeroplane? Wanna borrow mine?’

  ‘I wouldn’t risk it, Charlie. Not if you had anything to do with it. No, our old crate is on its way. She’ll soon be here. Incidentally, Charlie, any sign of our friends from Deutschland?’

  The American shook his rumpled head. ‘Perhaps that plane of theirs doesn’t need a pilot.’

  ‘I’m not so sure if this isn’t the answer to the mystery now,’ said Algy.

  A large Mercedes from the German Embassy had driven out from the front of the hotel, and as it sped towards them they could see two men in flying gear sitting behind the chauffeur. Suddenly Algy shouted with amazement.

  ‘Biggles! By the Kaiser’s cami-knickers, do you see who it is?’

  The car drew up near the table where Lord Carbury’s daughter stood smiling, with her father’s topper in her hands, and a leather-clad figure descended and saluted. There was an unmistakeable scar that ran from his hair-line to the angle of his jaw.

  ‘I should have known,’ hissed Biggles. ‘Von Stalhein!’

  There was no time however now for useless speculation. The draw had started and one of the earliest to have his name chosen from the hat was Charlie Bray.

  ‘Yippee!’ he shouted, giving Lord Carbury’s startled daughter a resounding kiss.

  Lamartine, the Frenchman, was another of the lucky early leavers. Several unknowns followed, and then Biggles heard the name he hated more than any other in the world.

  ‘Number sixteen, Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein of Germany, with his co-pilot, Herr Ludwig Ingelbacher.’

  ‘Wonder who Ingelbacher is when he’s at home?’ whispered Algy.

  ‘Shh!’ said Biggles as the draw continued.

  ‘Followed by Major James Bigglesworth of Great Britain and his co-pilot, Captain the Honourable Algernon Lacey.’

  ‘He’ll have us flying right behind him,’ muttered Algy.

  ‘Not for long, old boy,’ said Biggles. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Some people think the war stopped with the Armistice Where the flaming heck is Ginger?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Biggles. He’ll get here on time if I know Ginger. Now, this looks interesting. Count Frankenstein is about to pay us his respects!’

  With the completion of the draw, the pilots were dispersing to their aircraft to await the beginning of the race, but von Stalhein and Herr Ingelbacher were advancing towards them. The Hauptmann clicked his heels and bowed with elaborate Teutonic courtesy.

  ‘Ach, Major Bigglesworth! We meet again.’

  Biggles gave the Prussian the iciest of nods.

  ‘A pleasure to be up against a real enemy,’ replied Biggles. ‘But von Stalhein, I never realised that you could fly. I thought sabotage was more your speciality.’

  A flash of hatred blazed for a moment in the Junker’s eyes, but he replied with studied self-control. ‘That was wartime and the war is over, Major Bigglesworth. Now with the peace this old dog has, as you British say, learned new tricks. But where is your aircraft, Major? Fifteen minutes now to starting time. You’re running things a little close.’

  ‘Precision timing, von Stalhein,’ replied Biggles airily. ‘We had a spot of trouble with some friends of yours who should have known better, but that’s been dealt with now. Unless I’m much mistaken this is our aircraft now, warmed up and ready for the race.’

  Even as he spoke the graceful silhouette of the Swallow skimmed across the boundary of the airfield, flashed past the hangars and with perfect airmanship landed and came taxiing towards them.

  ‘I expect that we’ll be seeing more of one another, von Stalhein,’ said Biggles. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, there is work to do.’

  Beneath his apparent calm, Biggles was furious with Ginger for the delay, but as the hapless Yorkshireman explained, there had been trouble with the starboard engine and he and the mechanics had been up all night replacing it.

  ‘Get her refuelled fast,’ said Biggles. ‘Everything else O.K.?’

  Ginger nodded. ‘We’ve done our best with her, and Smyth deserves a medal if anybody does.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll remember to bring one back for him from Singapore. Ready, Algy? Looks as if the show is just about to start.’

  But there was one final interruption. As the stewards checked the line-up for the start, a big Rolls-Royce came screeching up and a tiny figure with a large bald head got out.

  ‘Holy mackerel!’ Algy groaned. ‘Old Elberton himself. What does the old trouble-maker want? He could have waited till we’re in the air.’

  ‘Ah, Major Bigglesworth, Captain Lacey! Glad that I’m in time,’ piped the ancient millionaire. ‘Just thought I’d come to wish you both good luck. Trumper and I have been to Fortnums and we’ve a little something just to keep your spirits up en route.’ As he spoke, his bull-like chauffeur brought a massive hamper from the boot of the car and humped it over to the Swallow.

  ‘Think you’ll have room for it?’ he queried.

  ‘I should just say so, sir,’ answered Biggles. ‘Even if it means dumping Algy. Terribly decent of you, sir, and much appreciated.’

  His Lordship raised his hand.

  ‘Please, Bigglesworth, don’t thank me. Makes me feel uncomfortable. And don’t forget, that
bet of ours still stands.’

  ‘We won’t forget,’ said Biggles, with a grin.

  ‘Well, how’s she going, Biggles?’ Algy inquired as the coast of England disappeared behind them in the morning haze.

  ‘Like a dream, old boy. I never thought we’d make it, but by gosh, it’s all been worth it.’

  The plane was flying like the thoroughbred she was and Biggles was in his element at last. The double cockpit was cramped — particularly with Lord Elberton’s hamper between the seats — but the two friends could take turns at the controls, and they had already overhauled several of the slower entrants in the race. Algy was navigating and according to their plans the first stop would be Athens, in eight hours’ time.

  ‘Any sign of von Stalhein?’ Algy asked.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘That Heinkel is the only plane that really worries me. She could be a bit faster than we are, Algy. Still, for that matter, so is Charlie’s Cessna. But I can’t believe they’ve got the range that we have.’

  ‘Nor the experience, old bean. Von Stalhein’s not a real flier and the true test will come once we get over Asia Minor on the next leg to Karachi. That’s what will really sort out the men from the boys.’

  A slow smile spread over Biggles’ still boyish countenance. ‘Revenge will be very sweet,’ he said.

  The Swallow was flying on a straight line to Athens, and in perfect autumn weather they saw northern France and the Black Forest float beneath their wings. By mid-afternoon Biggles was already gaining height to approach the Dolomites, and it would soon be time for Algy to take over.

  ‘How’s about some grub, old bean?’ he inquired.

  ‘Algy, my dear chap, gluttony will be your downfall,’ he replied. ‘Still, if you must, you must. There are some raisins and potato crisps underneath your seat, but go easy with them, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Potato crisps be blowed,’ said Algy mutinously. ‘What about his Lordship’s hamper?’

  ‘Algy, you know your self-indulgence never ceases to amaze me. This is supposed to be a record-breaking flight, not a gourmet tour. Still if you must, you must...’