by John Pearson
The first shadows of the Mediterranean dusk were shrouding Athens in a purple haze as they came in to land. The Parthenon was on its little hill, the street lights twinkling far below and a crowd had gathered at the airport.
‘Quite a reception committee by the look of it, old scout,’ said Biggles cheerfully, but then a note of horrified amazement crept into his voice.
‘Good grief!’ he said. ‘The blighter’s already here before us.’
As he pointed to the tarmac, Algy could see the object of his consternation — von Stalhein’s Heinkel was at the far end of the runway like a huge grey shark.
Algy whistled softly through his teeth.
‘Just how the heck d’you think he managed it?’ he asked. ‘I never thought he had the range to beat us.’
‘Must have done, old fruit,’ said Biggles philosophically. ‘But never say die, Algy lad. It’s quite a stretch from here to Singapore and a lot can happen on the way.’
Under the rules of the competition, and to avoid the danger of fatigue and night flying, the competitors were to spend the night at Athens, before flying on at daybreak to Karachi. But before going off to their hotel, Biggles and Algy spent some time watching the mechanics working on their aircraft and picking up the news of their competitors. Several, it seemed, had scratched already, and all the others, lacking the Swallow’s range, had been forced to stop en route to refuel. But Charlie Bray’s Cessna was not far behind them, and while they talked to the mechanics his powerful single-engined aircraft roared in to land, closely followed by Solario, the Italian ace.
‘Hi folks! How’s tricks?’ bawled the shambling American as he swung down from the cockpit. ‘Boy, could I use a drink! You joining me?’
‘You bet,’ said Algy. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Not bad, not bad. That poor damned Frenchman Lamar-something copped it in the Alps. Tried drilling Mont Blanc with his propellor. Mont Blanc won.’
‘Good Heavens! Is he dead?’
‘Probably. There was a dreadful mess on the mountainside. But say, how did that Kraut get here before you?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ said Biggles.
Later that evening over dinner in the Hotel Grande Bretagne the mystery of von Stalhein’s record speed to Athens cropped up again. Von Stalhein and his bullet-headed co-pilot were already celebrating with a number of their countrymen at a far table when Algy, Biggles, Charlie Bray and the British Consul entered. The Consul, an egg-like man called Owen, had once been in the Marines and had already responded to a request from Biggles for an all-night guard on the Swallow.
‘Rather too many accidents have happened,’ as he put it. ‘Don’t want one of von Stalhein’s merry men starting an accidental bonfire underneath the Swallow.’
‘Quite,’ said the Consul diplomatically, and later in the meal he suddenly remarked, ‘Oh, by the way Bigglesworth. How much petrol will you be carrying tomorrow to get you to Karachi?’
‘Nearly 2,000 gallons,’ Biggles answered. ‘Why?’
‘Something very odd about von Stalhein’s plane. She uses less than half that.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Biggles. ‘As far as I can see, she’s powered with standard B.M.W. aero-engines. If anything, they’re more powerful than ours. You must be wrong — mustn’t he, Charlie?’
‘Sure,’ said the American. ‘My crate’s single-engined. Even so, I had to stop in Rome to refuel. You’ve got it wrong, buster.’
‘Not at all,’ said Owen. ‘The Shell manager here’s a friend of mine, and he was puzzled too. When the Heinkel was refuelled she had 900 gallons, which was all her tanks would take.’
‘And yet we know von Stalhein plans to fly non-stop to Karachi,’ interjected Algy. ‘What’s the blighter up to, Biggles?’
‘Why don’t you go and ask him?’ replied Biggles, glancing pointedly across the room to where the Germans had begun to sing their wartime drinking songs. Von Stalhein was sitting back, his monocle in place, gazing at Biggles with a cold smile on his lips.
‘Somehow I don’t think he’d tell me,’ Algy answered.
Next morning, just as dawn was breaking, the fliers were assembled at the airport waiting to be off. The time-keepers were in place, and von Stalhein’s Heinkel, with the twenty-minute start that it had won the day before, was first to leave. Then it was the Swallow’s turn — and for several anxious moments it seemed as if the starboard motor would refuse to start. But finally it fired, coughed, then roared to life, and the great plane, weighed down with its massive load of fuel, swept up to greet the rising sun and headed for the sea.
This time the two friends flew with a grim determination quite different from their cheerfulness the day before. Both knew quite well that if the Germans managed to repeat their previous performance, they had no chance of winning now. But this was something neither would admit, and Biggles was intent on urging every ounce of power from the Swallow’s engines as they sped above the coast of southern Turkey. Soon they had reached the coast of Syria, and half-an-hour later, somewhere past the city of Aleppo, they picked up the line of the Euphrates which they followed down towards Baghdad. They had a tail wind here, but as they knew only too well, von Stalhein would be sharing their advantage.
‘You realise,’ said Algy, ‘that if what Owen said last night is true, that blasted Heinkel should be landing at Baghdad for fuel. It will take half an hour at least, and we’ll still beat them to Karachi.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Biggles. ‘But keep your eyes skinned as we fly across Baghdad. If von Stalhein is refuelling, he’ll still be there.’
But there was no sign at all of the Heinkel on the dusty runway at Baghdad.
‘You see, old lad,’ said Biggles, trying to disguise the hopelessness he felt, ‘the blasted bird has flown.’
‘But how?’ said Algy furiously. ‘I just don’t get it, Biggles. Unless that plane of his has learned to fly on lighter fuel, it’s just not possible.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘Von Stalhein’s up to something, Algy. I don’t know what it is, but I know von Stalhein and I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw Lord Elberton’s Rolls-Royce. Obviously he has staked everything on winning this confounded race.’
‘Like us, old boy.’
‘Except in his case I imagine that the German government’s involved as well — along with the prestige of their air force and von Stalhein’s whole political career. Algy, old scout, we’re going to find out exactly what that tricky Prussian’s up to. I don’t mind being beaten fairly, but I’m dashed if I’ll be cheated — and particularly by von Stalhein.’
It was a gruelling flight across the Persian desert, and there were dust storms in Baluchistan that made it necessary to fly at 18,000 feet and switch to oxygen. The great plane bucketed and twitched like a leaf in a December gale, but the two friends knew their job and slap on time the gleaming waters of the Arabian Sea appeared. By five o’clock the Swallow was beginning its approach run to Karachi. Biggles was at the controls with Algy navigating, and as they swept across the airport, Algy shouted, ‘Biggles, my dear old boy, I think we’ve beaten them. There’s not a sign of them.’
‘Perhaps the dust storms caught them — but I wouldn’t count on it. At all events we’re equal with them now,’ said Biggles happily.
‘Perhaps those dust storms forced them down,’ said Algy brightly. ‘I don’t know about that fellow Ingelbacher, but von Stalhein’s not the most experienced of pilots. Dreadful pity if they’ve crashed, eh Biggles?’
But he spoke too soon, for shortly after the Swallow landed, and long before the two friends had finished supervising the refuelling and routine maintenance of the engines for the following day’s long haul over India and the Bay of Bengal to Singapore, there was a roar of engines from the west, and von Stalhein’s Heinkel was soon coming in to land. Algy glanced at his watch.
‘Twenty-eight minutes behind us Biggles. That means we’re neck and neck. Everything
depends on tomorrow.’
They watched the two Germans climb down from the cockpit and Biggles could not resist shouting out to them.
‘Bit slow today, von Stalhein! What went wrong?’
‘Ach!’ growled von Stalhein, glaring at the friends with evident disbelief. ‘How did you get through those storms? They carried us off course, but tomorrow we will show you Englishmen.’
‘Perhaps you will, von Stalhein, and perhaps you won’t. But tell me one thing. How does that aeroplane of yours consume so little fuel?’
Von Stalhein was evidently tired, for he made no effort to conceal his anger at the question.
‘What are you suggesting, Major?’ he replied.
‘Nothing at all,’ said Biggles innocently. ‘But I’d like to know how you managed to get here using less than half the fuel we needed.’
Von Stalhein glared at him, then curled his lips into a derisive smile.
‘As you should know, Major Bigglesworth, our German scientists are the finest in the world, and that aeroplane of yours is out of date already. Not even you, Major Bigglesworth, can possibly defeat the power of Germany.’
‘We’ll see about that tomorrow,’ replied Biggles steadily.
Von Stalhein clicked his heels, ‘Jawohl,’ he said.
‘Dashed pity about poor old Charlie Bray,’ said Algy, over dinner at the Karachi Club that night, ‘but absolutely typical. Just fancy trying to fly underneath a dust-storm with a single engine!’
‘Original as ever, dear old Charlie, but at least he’s safe, judging by the reports. Probably come rocking up here on a dromedary in a fortnight’s time. None of the other entrants seems to have got much further than Baghdad. So that leaves only two of us, old fruit. Britain against the Huns. Quite like old times!’
Biggles grinned in keen anticipation at the thought of the final battle he and Algy would be waging next day in the skies of Asia. It was a private duel with von Stalhein, a battle for the survival of Biggles and Co., and now it was something more. The honour of the Empire was at stake.
Biggles glanced around the Club at the portraits of the kings and governors and viceroys that adorned the walls. Now he was back in India he felt the magic of this strange land of his birth.
‘You know, old chap,’ he said as he finished the last mouthful of a delicious Chundra chicken curry, ‘it makes a fellow proud to be carrying the flag for all of this.’
Algy nodded as he crumbled a chapatti. ‘I know exactly how you feel. But to be practical, old scout, just how do we propose to ditch that blinking Hun? It’s obvious there’s dirty work afoot, but it’s also obvious, to me at any rate, that von Stalhein’s Heinkel is faster than the Swallow. And we still haven’t discovered how the blighter’s flying all that way without refuelling.’
‘Perhaps he’s right,’ mused Biggles. ‘Perhaps those German scientists have devised a way of halving fuel consumption. Always have been crafty devils.’
‘Poppycock!’ exploded Algy. ‘There’s something nasty in the woodshed, Biggles, and unless we find out what it is, I fear Lord Elberton will soon be riding in the poor old Bentley.’
According to the official stewards, the Swallow was some fifteen minutes ahead of its competitor, and so accordingly next morning the two friends were the first to leave Karachi. Biggles was smiling now, and Algy recognised his mood from those far-off days in Squadron 266 when they were really up against it. An enormous orange-coloured sun was blazing up from the horizon. A pie-dog started howling, then the boundless silence of the early morning shattered as the Swallow’s engines roared in unison. Biggles raised his gloved hand to the watching stewards, and then in a hurricane of dust the Swallow was away on the last and crucial stage of its flight to Singapore.
Soon they were over the tobacco-coloured heartland of the great sub-continent — Ahmadabad and Baroda disappeared behind them in that clear-cut morning light. Then came the great Narbada River and the mountains of Satpura.
‘You know,’ said Biggles pensively, ‘when I was a kid in India I used to dream of flying just like this. It’s hard to believe that it’s come true.’
‘I know,’ said Algy. ‘It seems like yesterday. Strange things, aeroplanes. Once you’ve really caught the bug you’re hooked for life. Perhaps von Stalhein feels the same, but somehow I doubt it.’
‘Talking of whom,’ said Biggles, ‘we must begin to keep our eyes skinned now. He may be managing to overhaul us.’ But by midday, when they reached the eastern Ghats and prepared for the long haul east across the monsoon-swept Bay of Bengal, they had seen nothing in the sky except the lonely kite-birds floating lazily below them. They crossed the coast above the town of Vishakhapatnam, then changed course slightly to avoid a typhoon that had been reported sweeping up from southern India. As they did so, Algy gave a shout, and pointed far below.
‘Do my eyes deceive me, Biggles?’ he exclaimed.
‘A flying-boat!’ said Biggles. ‘What on earth’s it doing here? What is it?’
Algy snatched a pair of powerful binoculars from the rack above their heads and gazed at the far-off aeroplane.
‘Looks like a big one, Biggles. Holy smoke, old boy! It’s one of those latest Dornier jobs we read about in Flight Magazine. Built in Bremen — still officially on the German secret list.’
As Algy said this, Biggles’ eyes hardened into points of steel.
‘I think, old scout, we may have stumbled on von Stalhein’s little secret after all. With any luck that Hun down there hasn’t spotted us and we have the advantage of the sun behind us. We’re going up, old boy. I want to see what happens.’
The throb of the Swallow’s engines rose an octave as he opened up the throttle and eased back the joy-stick.
‘Make sure you keep that Dornier in sight,’ he shouted gleefully. ‘That’s all I ask.’
By now the Dornier was several miles away, but Algy’s eagle eyes could see it circling a spot in the ocean.
‘What the heck’s the blighter doing?’ he muttered to himself. ‘There’s nothing in the sea. Biggles, old chap, we’re wasting time.’
‘Hang on,’ said Biggles. ‘We’ll give it a few more minutes.’
‘If you say so,’ grumbled Algy. Then suddenly he gave a whoop. ‘Look, Biggles. There! By all that’s holy, it’s that blasted Heinkel! And the Dornier is coming up to meet it.’
As he watched through the binoculars he could see the unmistakeable swept-back wings of von Stalhein’s aircraft far below. The flying-boat was soon above it and for a moment it appeared as if the two planes would collide. But they flew together and a second later, Algy saw something snaking down from the flying-boat towards the Heinkel.
‘Biggles, just take a look at this,’ he shouted, thrusting the binoculars towards him. ‘What’s going on?’
As Algy held the Swallow on its course, Biggles began studying the scene below him with a practised eye.
‘Ho-ho!’ he said, with sudden satisfaction. ‘I think we have the answer now to the secret of that Hun’s success. You know what they’re doing, Algy? They’re refuelling in mid-air. Very nifty. Alan Cobham’s been experimenting with it, of course, and our German friends have evidently picked up the idea. So much for those magic engines of von Stalhein’s Heinkel.’
‘But it’s against all the rules. He’ll be disqualified.’
‘But how d’we prove it, Algy lad? Here in the middle of the ocean we’ve got no witnesses. That’s what’s so devilishly clever.’
‘We could photograph it.’
‘But we haven’t got a camera. No, old chap, there’s only one thing for it. Action stations, Algy. Here we go!’
As he said this, Biggles swung the Swallow round, and with the engines screaming, hurled her down as he used to dive his Sopwith Camel out of the sun onto a pack of unsuspecting Halberstadts below. It was a dizzying descent, but Biggles’ ancient skill had not deserted him. Down, down they went, with the bright blue ocean rushing up to meet them. The German planes were straight ahead
by now and in that one brief moment Algy glimpsed the terrified expression on the pilot’s face. Even Algy was certain they must crash, but Biggles had complete control. This was the sort of knife-edge flying he had learned in combats on the Western Front, and just as collision seemed inevitable, he pulled the Swallow to one side and flipped its wings so that it passed between the two big German aircraft. At the same time, there was a resounding thud as the leading edge of the Swallow’s off-side wing sliced through the fuel pipe connecting the big flying-boat with von Stalhein’s Heinkel. Algy glanced back in time to see the petrol spewing from the severed pipe into the sea below. A slow grin spread across his features.
‘Nice flying, maestro! Very nice indeed! I’d give a lot to see von Stalhein’s face right now.’
‘A pleasure I can do without,’ said Biggles happily. ‘And now, full-speed ahead for Singapore. With any luck we’ll be in time for dinner.’
Ten days later there was a gala night at the Savoy Hotel, with Biggles and Algy, as outright winners of the London to Singapore air race, the guests of honour.
‘This is the part that I could do without, old bean,’ said Biggles as he struggled with his boiled shirt and white bow-tie. ‘Any idea where Mrs Symes has put my medals?’
‘She was cleaning them. She said they needed it,’ said Ginger.
‘Lot of nonsense, all this carry-on,’ grumbled Biggles. ‘Anyone would think we’re on the music-hall. Algy, for cripe’s sake, deal with the confounded journalists.’
‘Then, who’ll accept the cheque?’ asked Algy with a laugh.
‘I will,’ said Biggles firmly. ‘Ah well, chaps, into the lion’s den!’ he added as all four members of Biggles and Co. crammed themselves into Algy’s Bentley, and headed for the hotel.
In fact, the evening was a great success, and when the speeches and toasts were over, and Biggles had his cheque for £50,000 safely in his pocket, Lord Elberton appeared, his bald head gleaming like a billiard ball beneath the chandeliers.
