by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: INVITATION TO SUICIDE
CHAPTER II: PLOTS AND PLANS
CHAPTER III: DAWN PATROL
CHAPTER IV: THE WAR-DRUMS SPEAK
CHAPTER V: WAR IN THE JUNGLE
CHAPTER VI: AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER
CHAPTER VII: BIGGLES HEARS THE NEWS
CHAPTER VIII: EVENTS AT COTABATO
CHAPTER IX: VISITORS AT LUCKY STRIKE
CHAPTER X: FEE WONG COMES BACK
CHAPTER XI: MONSOON
CHAPTER XII: A HECTIC NIGHT
CHAPTER XIII: ADVENTURES ON THE RIVER
CHAPTER XIV: MORE SHOCKS
CHAPTER XV: DISASTER AT LUCKY STRIKE
CHAPTER XVI: GINGER GOES BACK
CHAPTER XVII: THE END OF YASHNOWADA
CHAPTER I
INVITATION TO SUICIDE
“GOOD morning, Bigglesworth. Come right in.” Biggles’s old chief, Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, rose from his desk with a smile, hand extended, to greet Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, better known in the R.A.F. as “Biggles of Biggles’ Squadron.”
“I want you to meet Captain Rex Larrymore,” he went on, indicating a small, keen-faced, sun-burned man whose most outstanding features were a head of close-clipped red hair, and bright, almost brilliant blue eyes. Their colour may have been emphasized by the hair, but Biggles thought he had never seen eyes so piercingly blue.
“Larrymore,” continued the Air Commodore, “this is Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, the officer I told you about. If there is a man in the service capable of weighing up the pros and cons of your proposition it is he. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that if my opinion counts for anything, the final decision of the Air Council as to whether this enterprise should be undertaken or not will depend upon what he thinks. Take a seat, Bigglesworth, and I’ll tell you what this is all about. Have a cigarette?”
“Thanks.” Biggles lit his cigarette and pulled up a chair.
“The story, briefly, is this,” resumed the Air Commodore. “Captain Larrymore has come to us with an idea. As an idea it has much to recommend it, but as a practical proposition—well, presently I’ll ask for your opinion. I had better tell you right away that Larrymore was a pilot in the last war; he still holds an ‘A’ Licence, having until recently had a light plane of his own, so from the technical angle he knows what he is talking about. Apparently, some years ago he decided that the only interesting way to earn a living was to do something unusual. He became a prospector, specializing in gold and diamonds. He soon discovered, however, that all the territory within reasonable reach of civilization had been thoroughly combed, so he made up his mind to break new ground. This is usually a long and tedious way of working, so, as he was a pilot, it was not unnatural that his mind should turn to aeroplanes. In short, to reach places hitherto regarded as inaccessible to white men he determined to use a light aircraft. For a location he chose the big and wild island of Borneo. I will now ask Larrymore to carry on.” The Air Commodore turned to his red-haired visitor. “Please continue.”
Captain Larrymore stubbed his cigarette. “For a time,” he began, looking at Biggles, “I didn’t have much luck. My difficulty, as you will readily appreciate, was to find suitable landing-grounds. Eventually, however, I discovered one that suited my purpose admirably. It was in mountain country, near Mount Mulu, which runs up to eight thousand feet. My aerodrome is lower than that—at about four thousand. Mind you, this spot would not be everybody’s choice. It is surrounded by a sixty-mile belt of sheer forest, real untamed jungle. Outside that, at the foot of the hills, there is a thirty-mile belt of bamboo swamp through which no white man has ever made his way. Indeed, as far as I know, no one has ever tried to get through it. I doubt if it’s possible. Just as no one has ever been able to get in, no one could get out, so the chief worry with my landing-ground was this: if I had a crack-up, by landing badly on my aerodrome for instance, I should be there for good.
“The aerodrome—we’ll call it that—is a queer place. On account of its altitude it is on the fringe of the moss forest. As perhaps you know, in Borneo, when you climb up out of the main jungle, you strike these amazing moss forests—the moss being due, I suppose, to the humidity and the heavy rainfall. My discovery of the landing ground was a fluke, and I’ll tell you how it happened. One day my engine packed up. I thought I was for it. The only place I could see where a crack-up was not absolutely inevitable was what I took to be a lake. To my amazement it was not a lake at all. It had been one, I think, but the water had gone, leaving a short bluish moss which from the air looks exactly like water.”
“That seems queer,” put in Biggles. “Why doesn’t vegetation grow at this particular spot?”
“Because there is practically no soil. It must have been washed away by the water. You’re right on the bedrock. You can see the cracks where the water ran out—due, I imagine, to volcanic disturbance at some time.”
Biggles nodded. “I see. Carry on.”
“Well, I put my motor right, and then had a look round. It didn’t take me long to discover that I’d had a wonderful stroke of luck. In places the cracks were full of silt, which I soon ascertained was diamondiferous gravel. I flew down to Brunei, in Sarawak, and loaded up with stores to last me for a month. Then I went back to my dry lake and started work.”
“On your own?” queried Biggles.
“Yes, absolutely by myself. I preferred to work alone.”
“ I see.”
Captain Larrymore continued. “My first job was to clear up a really safe runway; as you would expect, there were a number of rocks and old tree-trunks lying about. I don’t know why I didn’t think of natives, but I didn’t. I hadn’t seen a sign of any on my first landing. On my second day, however, I looked up to find that I was being watched by as wild a gang of Punans—that’s the tribe—as you could imagine. I was some way from my machine, so I thought it was all up. There’s only one thing to do in a case like that. Fighting is out of the question, so I strolled over to the wild men, casually, and saluted. It was a nasty moment.”
Biggles grinned. “I’ll bet it was.”
Captain Larrymore nodded. “As it happened, my luck held. I spotted that one of them, a big fellow whom I took to be a chief, had an arm bandaged with a lot of dirty leaves. In dead silence I unwrapped it and had a look at the wound. My gosh ! You never saw such a mess as his arm was in. Someone had run a spear into it and it was a mass of pus. Still without speaking, I fetched the medical outfit I always carry and dressed the wound. Well, that was that. My head didn’t go into the tribal collection. These people aren’t cannibals, but they’re head-hunters in a big way. With them head-hunting is a sport—it occupies much the same position as football does here. Their favourite weapon is the sumpit—that’s the Malay word for blowpipe. They carry a nice line in poisoned darts. I got the chief’s arm well and we became good friends. Indeed, Suba—that’s the chief’s name—got his boys to help me with my work when I needed labour. That was two years ago. Now I’ll come to the point.
“During the next two years I established a very snug little aerodrome. I built a house and a hangar out of Mipas palms, and generally made myself comfortable. Me and the Punans were like that.” Captain Larrymore crossed his fingers. “I got to know most of them by name. There are about five hundred of them, and you can get an idea of how wild they are when I tell you that I was the first—in fact, the only white man they have ever seen.”
“You were still on your own?” interposed Biggles.
“You bet your life I was,” declared Larrymore. “Prospectors don’t share their secrets with anyone. I was finding some nice diamonds — nothing big, you understand, but useful; and there was always a chance that any day
I might make a real strike. Another thing I must tell you is this. Every time I flew down to Brunei for stores I brought back with me, in cans, more petrol and oil than I needed, and in that way I built up a useful dump against a rainy day. That’s how things were when the war started in the Far East. Of course, I didn’t know anything about the Japs landing in Borneo until I made one of my periodical trips to Brunei. I was nearly caught. In fact, I should have been if they hadn’t fired at me, for I was just going to land. I guessed then what had happened. Back I went to my private aerodrome. I told Suba about it, but he wasn’t particularly upset. There was no reason why he should be—he always imagined he was dead safe from outside interference. I wasn’t so sure about it, so I loaded up to capacity with petrol, and with my parcel of diamonds in my pocket I flew across to Surabaya, in Java. I just had time to fill up again with petrol when the Japs landed there, so I pushed on to Australia. From there I came back to England. I got back last week.”
“You’ve had an exciting time,” murmured Biggles.
“A bit too exciting,” asserted Captain Larrymore. “Now I’ll finish the yarn. On the way home I did a spot of thinking. Naturally, I kept in touch with what was happening, and my idea was born. It is this. There is, in the middle of Borneo, a ready-made aerodrome that the Japs don’t know anything about. British aircraft operating from it could play the very devil with the Japs. I’m not thinking so much about shooting down their planes as shooting up their bases, ports and lines of communication. They wouldn’t know where the deuce the machines were coming from, yet a bunch of sound pilots would be able to strike—from close range, that’s the point—the very places that the Japs must consider absolutely safe. Get the idea?”
Biggles nodded. “Go on. This is most interesting.”
“That’s really all there is to it. Of course, the scheme would take a bit of organizing; but if a squadron of machines, flown by pilots who were prepared to take a chance, could tuck themselves in at Lucky Strike — that’s what I call my place — they would certainly be a thorn in the side of the enemy. That’s all. I came along to the Air Ministry with the idea for what it’s worth. I was told to see Air Commodore Raymond, and he said he’d ask your opinion.”
The Air Commodore pushed the cigarette box towards Biggles. There was a faint smile on his face as he asked, “Well, what do you think about it?”
“What you really mean is, would I take a squadron out to this place?” answered Biggles slowly.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you hadn’t already decided in your mind to do the job you wouldn’t have sent for me,” replied Biggles.
The Air Commodore smiled. “You’re too shrewd, Bigglesworth. Well, I may as well admit it, you’ve hit the nail on the spot that drives it home. What about it?”
Biggles turned to Captain Larrymore. “I don’t know these Punans, I can’t speak their language, and I don’t know the district. Would you, if I went out, be prepared to come along and effect the necessary introductions?”
“You bet I would,” answered Larrymore promptly. “That was my idea. If you went on your own you would probably get a poisoned arrow through your gizzard or a spear in your back. I was lucky, but in the ordinary way my friend Suba doesn’t encourage visitors.”
“You don’t think he’ll object to us barging in?”
“Not if I’m with you. He’ll do anything I say. Suba and his crowd of warriors might turn out to be useful allies in more ways than one. These tribesmen are at home. They know every tree in the forest, every valley, every hill and every game-track. In jungle country that’s an enormous asset. The Japs couldn’t get within miles of the place, even if they tried, without being seen. These Punans are real jungle folk. They have that wonderful knack of fading into the shadows without a sound. They are more silent than the wild creatures themselves. They’re immune from fever. In the country I’m speaking about, a hundred such men are worth a thousand regular troops.”
“What about air reconnaissance? You don’t think the Japs would spot us if they flew over?”
“Not a chance—unless machines were left standing in the open, which would be silly. The Punans are experts at—I won’t say camouflage, because that’s a purely artificial device—I’d say protective colouration, which, with them, is instinctive, as it is with some animals. You couldn’t see their village from fifty yards. They’ll build us hangars and sheds so like the forest that you may find it hard to spot them, even knowing they are there.”
“ Good! That certainly is most valuable. Naturally, everything would depend on not being spotted. What language do these people speak?”
“A dialect of their own, but it’s mostly Malay. You needn’t worry about that. I’ll act as interpreter.”
Biggles turned to the Air Commodore. “I’d like to think about this, sir, with a chart in front of me. It would help me if I knew how far you are prepared to go.”
“As far as you think necessary. You can have anything you want.”
“Do you mean that—literally?”
“Well—er—yes.”
“I don’t want any doubt about it, sir. Frankly, this proposition of dumping myself inside a ring of enemy armies and aerodromes looks like an invitation to suicide, although we might do a great deal of damage before we were found out and bumped off. Obviously, success is bound to depend largely on the efficiency of the aircraft used. Because you think—not without reason—that you’ll never see the machines again, I’m not going to be palmed off with a lot of obsolete crates.”
The Air Commodore stroked his chin reflectively. “Of course not.”
“In organizing my outfit I should want to be certain that I should have at my disposal, without any haggling, not only the aircraft and equipment which I consider best suited for the job, but the closest co-operation possible. This is an unorthodox operation. Its best chance of success is unorthodox methods, and I don’t want the Air Ministry to say ‘you mustn’t do this’ or, ‘we can’t do that.’ If I run the show I want to run it my way, and I may decide on unusual tactics. In short, sir, if the job is going to be done, it must be done properly; otherwise it would be a waste of time, personnel and machines.”
“I quite agree. That’s fair. If you take on the job, Bigglesworth, I’ll give you my word that you shall have absolute carte blanche in the matter of equipment and outside co-operation.”
Biggles nodded. “Very good, sir. I’ll think it over.” Biggles turned to Captain Larrymore. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Savoy.”
“Any particular reason for wanting to be there?”
“None.”
“Then how about coming back with me to my station? We’ll discuss the thing together. In making my plans I shall need all the local data you can let me have. I’d also like you to meet my boys—the lads who will do the job.”
“That suits me down to the ground,” declared Captain Larrymore.
The Air Commodore looked at Biggles. “Are you going to tell your fellows about this?”
Biggles thought for a moment. “Not yet. I shall have to take them into my confidence before the start, for one thing because I think it is essentially a show for volunteers, and secondly, they’ll have to make special provision in the way of tropical kit. I shall tell Lacey —as you know, he’s my senior Flight Commander—right away, because he’s had nearly as much experience in these matters as I have, and I value his opinion.”
“And when can I expect your report and recommendations?”
“I ought to be able to manage it by to-morrow—or to-night, if you care to slip down. If you could afford the time I think it would be a very good thing if you came along and joined in the discussion. It would save time in the long run. You would be able to say right away whether we could, or could not, do this or that, or have such equipment as I may think desirable.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” averred the Air Commodore after a glance at his engagement pad. “Are you goi
ng back right away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll come with you.”
CHAPTER II
PLOTS AND PLANS
BIGGLES was silent most of the way to the aerodrome, and when, after dinner, he took the Air Commodore, Captain Larrymore, and Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacey into his office, he had more or less decided on the broad outline of a plan. He gave Algy a resume of the project, and then went on: “This seems to be a job for a small, compact, but heavily armed unit, with a big machine, a weight carrier, to maintain contact with the outside world and bring in supplies. All aircraft would have to be fast, capable of long-range interception and ground attack.
“That sounds like Beaufighters,” murmured Algy.
“That, in fact, is the machine I had in mind,” answered Biggles. “I think three should be enough. That would employ six officers. We should need others in reserve.”
“Forgive me for butting in, but I’m a bit out of touch with things,” put in Captain Larrymore. “What sort of machine is this Beaufighter?”
Biggles answered: “The Beaufighter is a twin-engined two-seater fighter—probably the most heavily armed fighter in the world. There are four cannon under the nose and six Browning machine-guns in the wings. There are more guns in the rear cockpit, which is a power-operated turret behind the pilot. The Beau was designed for heavy striking power, high diving speed and big loads. Four petrol tanks carry five hundred and fifty gallons of fuel, which gives the machine a range of fifteen hundred miles. Speed is rather more than three hundred and thirty miles an hour. Ceiling is around twenty-nine thousand feet. Entry is by hatch under the fuselage. There’s also a special emergency escape hatch. It’s a quiet aircraft, and lands slowly—of course there are air-brakes. It’s fully equipped for any job it might be called on to do. There’s an intercommunication telephone for pilot and gunner. The tail wheel retracts as well as the undercarriage.”
“Sounds marvellous,” murmured Larrymore.
“I should say it’s the ideal aircraft for the job,” asserted the Air Commodore. “The range is important. You could hit at the enemy in Thailand, Indo-China, Malaya, the Philippines, Sumatra, Java—in fact, operating from a central base you could cover practically the whole of the Dutch East Indies.”
