by W E Johns
“What about a communication machine?” asked Algy.
“I think a Consolidated Liberator would suit us best,” replied Biggles. “Again, we’ve got high speed, long range and a big load. With a range of three thousand miles a Liberator could keep us in touch with India, Ceylon or Australia—Port Darwin, Australia, would probably be the most convenient.”
“The Liberator is a big four-engined job,” muttered the Air Commodore. “Remember, you’ve got to get in and out of what is really an improvised aerodrome.”
“It’s got a tricycle undercarriage, which makes for easy landing, and the big Fowler air-brakes pull it up quickly,” Biggles pointed out.
The Air Commodore nodded. “That’s true. All right, let us say three Beaufighters and a Liberator.”
“The Liberator will spend most of its time going to and fro between Lucky Strike aerodrome and Australia,” resumed Biggles. “It will have to keep us going with everything—spares, petrol, oil and food—besides acting as a heavy bomber should we need one urgently.” Biggles turned to Captain Larrymore. “How much petrol have you got stored at the aerodrome?”
“I should think there must be nearly two thousand gallons.”
“I’m afraid that won’t last us long. Still, the Liberator, whatever else it brings, can always make up its disposable load with drums of petrol. Its load, speaking from memory, is about four thousand pounds weight.”
“If you ran short of fuel I could probably get some to you,” the Air Commodore observed. “You won’t use radio, of course?”
“No, we daren’t risk it—at least, not from the aerodrome. In the ordinary way the Liberator will have to carry despatches. I don’t see why we shouldn’t use radio in the air, though.”
The Air Commodore looked dubious. “This Liberator is going to be your life-line,” he remarked. “If it failed to get through one day you’d be in a mess.”
“That’s a risk we shall have to take, but it can be minimized to some extent by doing as much night flying as possible.” Biggles lit a cigarette. “Well, sir, that’s the scheme as I see it—a unit of three Beaufighters serviced by a Liberator. It might be a good thing to have another Beaufighter standing by at Darwin in case I lost one.”
Air Commodore Raymond made a note in his book. “We can easily fix that. Now, what about personnel?”
“I shall need all my regular officers. It will take six to operate the Beaufighters, and two the Liberator. That leaves two in reserve. When they are not required on the island they can man the guns of the Liberator. Six really efficient mechanics under Smyth, my old flight sergeant, should be enough for the ground team. I don’t know how we shall go for sickness—there’s almost bound to be some, I imagine.” Biggles turned again to Captain Larrymore. “How’s the malaria?”
“Not too bad,” answered Larrymore. “We’re up pretty high, you know, and you don’t get many mosquitoes above three thousand feet. Still, it’s a wise precaution to take quinine regularly.”
“I see. It’s as well to know these things. All these details will have to be settled before we start.”
The Air Commodore sat back. “That seems to be everything. How long before you can get away, Bigglesworth?”
“You’d better give me a week, sir.”
“Which way will you go out?”
“The four machines could fly out together. The Liberator is as fast—slightly faster, in fact, than the Beaufighters. We ought to be able to do the trip in three hops—Middle East, India or Ceylon, and then Borneo. To keep out of trouble crossing Europe I should make that part of the journey after dark.”
The Air Commodore stood up. “Good! I’ll get busy, working on the assumption that you will leave England at, shall we say, sunset, one week from today?”
“That’s it, sir.”
And so it came about that fourteen days later, after an uneventful journey, just as dawn was breaking, three Beaufighters and a Liberator glided down into the unknown heart of the Japanese-occupied island of Borneo.
All the machines were painted green, the Beaufighters carrying distinguishing marks in the form of one, two and three red bands round the respective fuselages. The arrangement of the crews was to be, subject to the vicissitudes of war, a permanent one. In the leading machine was Biggles, with Flying Officer Ginger Hebblethwaite as spare pilot and gunner. The machine with two red bands was flown by Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacey, with Flying Officer Tug Carrington for partner. The third Beaufighter, carrying three red bands, was flown by Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie, with Flying Officer Tex O’Hara occupying the gunner’s turret. Slightly below the protective curtain of Beaufighters was the Consolidated Liberator, with Flight Lieutenant Angus Mackail at the control column, chosen for the job because of his uncanny skill as a navigator. In the seat beside him, to guide the machine to its destination after Borneo was reached, was Captain Rex Larrymore, while manning the guns were the remaining members of Biggles’s squadron who had done so well during the Battle of Britain—Flying Officers Taffy Hughes, Ferocity Ferris and Henry Harcourt, each the tried and trusted comrade of the others. In addition to its commissioned passengers the Liberator also carried the aircraftmen who had been selected by Biggles and Flight Sergeant Smyth for the difficult task ahead. The aircraft was loaded to capacity with food, tools, medical supplies and other portable equipment.
Suddenly, in accordance with a prearranged plan, the Liberator forged ahead, and, guided by Captain Larrymore, led the way through jungle-clad mountains towards what appeared to be a lake, but what was, in fact, Captain Larrymore’s secret aerodrome.
One by one the machines landed and taxied behind the Liberator to the narrow end of the landing-ground. Here engines were stopped and the crews alighted, yawning and stretching their limbs after the long flight from India.
Standing on a carpet of short, bluish-coloured moss, Ginger surveyed the scene: There was not a soul in sight. All was strangely quiet.
“Your friends seem to have departed, Rex,” observed Biggles to Captain Larrymore.
“Don’t you believe it,” was the smiling answer. “There are a thousand eyes watching us from those innocent-looking palms, I’ll warrant. Watch this.” Cupping his hands round his mouth, Rex uttered a cry that sounded like “Ay-eesh, Ay-eesh!”
Instantly the jungle came to life. There was a wild yell, and from it poured hundreds of brown men of such savage appearance that Bertie began moving towards his machine.
“Here, I say, old chappie, I don’t like the looks of these pals of yours,” he remarked nervously. “The blighters aren’t even civilized—if you see what I mean.”
“I reckon they’re about as wild as they make ‘em,” answered Rex, laughing. “But you’ve nothing to worry about.” He stepped forward, and in another minute was gripping the arms of one of the most magnificent savages Ginger had ever seen. He stood a full six feet four inches in height, with arms of proportionate size; muscles rippled under the skin of a mighty brown torso —or what could be seen of it, for it was festooned with an amazing assortment of articles, from teeth and claws to empty cartridge cases and tin lids. Hanging from one ear, in the manner of an ear-ring, was a splendid ivory tusk. His head was crowned with a foot-high hat, not unlike an inverted saucepan, decorated with brilliantly coloured feathers cleverly interwoven. Rings of brass and copper wire encircled his wrists and ankles. His only garment was a short Malay sarong.
Rex brought him forward. “Meet Suba, the mighty hunter,” he cried.
Introductions were effected, Suba nodding with savage dignity.
“You had better tell him why we’ve come, Rex,” suggested Biggles.
Rex addressed the chief for some minutes in his own language. When he had finished the chief raised his right hand and said one word: “Tabek.”
“That means it’s okay,” declared Rex. “Tabek is a greeting only used between friends.”
“That’s fine,” said Biggles. “Now we had better get busy in case a Japanese plane s
hould come over.”
For the rest of the day Lucky Strike aerodrome was a scene of almost frantic activity. Rex distributed some presents, after which the Punans went to work with a will. Five hundred pairs of hands made rapid progress in the work of erecting four hangars just inside the fringe of the moss forest. They were constructed out of the mighty forty-foot fronds of Mipas palms, beautifully arranged so that the rain, when it came, would be shot off. Living quarters were constructed for officers and airmen, and temporary store-houses were run up to accommodate the stores as fast as they were unloaded from the machines. Biggles selected the spots where the buildings were to be erected, while Rex spent most of the day talking with the chief and his senior warriors, describing as well as he could what was happening in the world, the progress that had already been made by the yellow invaders from Japan, and how the British airmen, with their aeroplanes, hoped to hamper their efforts—with all of which Suba was in full agreement. He had the intelligence to realize that even he in his remote retreat might one day be invaded if the Japanese tide of conquest was not stopped.
At sunset Biggles made a tour of inspection. He had good reason to be satisfied, for everything was snugly housed, and there was nothing to indicate that a squadron of aircraft was installed in the heart of enemy-occupied territory. At the finish he called all ranks into the long bungalow that was to serve as a mess-room, and was now lit by a hurricane lamp, to take stock of the situation.
“Well,” he said, “we’re here. You all know why we have come. It is not to sit here and protect ourselves. It is to do as much mischief to the enemy as we can. Don’t set too much store on the fact that we are surrounded by what appears to be an impenetrable belt of jungle; always remember that if things go wrong that same jungle may turn out to be a menace, a barrier that may keep us here for the duration, perhaps for the rest of our days. Obedience to orders will reduce the risks we are running. Officers will refrain from taking chances except when circumstances justify them. They will avoid air combat rather than seek it, for the success of this operation will be judged, not by the number of enemy machines we shoot down, but by the damage we do without loss to ourselves. The enemy are in a position to replace casualties more easily than we are. I hope there will be no casualties. Hit and run—that must be our policy. The harder we hit and the better we run afterwards, the more likely shall we be to hit again another day. By striking at the bases where the enemy considers himself absolutely safe we may cause a tremendous amount of confusion. How long we last will depend to a great extent on the ground staff. They will have to work unceasingly, for in a humid climate like this fabric rots very quickly, and metal fittings rust. Don’t fool about with the natives. If some of their customs strike you as funny, remember that yours are just as funny to them. We don’t want any friction. Don’t wander about in the forest—it’s full of creeping, crawling things that bite and sting. Everyone’s first job is to keep fit. We’ve no medical officer, so if anyone falls sick it means transportation to Australia. Quinine will be issued daily against fever, and it’s up to everyone to take it.
“I have in my pocket a number of objectives which the Higher Command is anxious to reconnoitre; we shall take photographs of them—not very exciting work, perhaps, but in this way we may pick up information as to the disposal of enemy forces that will have greater results than perhaps some of you suppose. We are surrounded by thousands of islands, large and small, set in a tropic sea. Among these islands are enemy transports, aircraft carriers, submarines, invasion barges, and so on. We shall try to locate them. We shall also try to destroy them. We start work tomorrow. Mr. Mackail will proceed in the Liberator to Australia. His job will be to keep us going with stores, fuel, ammunition, bombs and other supplies. That’s all. I advise everyone to get a good night’s rest. Any questions?”
“Are we allowed to use the jolly old radio?” asked Bertie.
“That will be a matter of discretion,” answered Biggles. “Obviously, we shall never transmit from this base, or from anywhere near it; but since we can’t operate without being seen, in which case the enemy will soon know that we’re about, there is really no reason why we should deny ourselves radio facilities when there is no risk of giving anything away. There are bound to be times in the air when I shall want to speak to other machines—or perhaps some of you will wish to speak to me. It boils down to this; Never use radio when there is a chance of it giving away our position here.”
“What is to be the first objective?” inquired Ginger. “Before going to bed I should like to spend a little time on my maps, to get the general geography of the whole area fixed in my mind.”
“I think a look round near home, to see what’s about, is indicated,” replied Biggles. “I shall take a camera. We’ll head north-east for a start; when we hit the coast of British North Borneo we’ll follow the coast of Sarawak down to Kuching, the capital. We ought to find something there. Then we’ll make a detour back home. I don’t want anybody, ever, to fly straight home, particularly if he is being followed. That’s all. All machines will leave the ground an hour before dawn.”
CHAPTER III
DAWN PATROL
THE sky was still brilliantly spangled with stars when, the following morning, the Liberator took off on its long journey to Darwin, Australia, taking with it, as gunners, Ferocity Ferris and Henry Harcourt. The three Beaufighters followed it into the air soon afterwards, but swung round on a different course, leaving Taffy Hughes and Captain Larrymore in charge of the base.
As Biggles climbed, Ginger looked down with curious interest on one of the last remaining strongholds of truly virgin jungle. It stretched away on all sides, to fade at last into mysterious shadows. Mist filled the valleys. Through it rose the black precipitous mass of Mount Mulu and other lofty peaks, unnamed, unknown, unmarked on the map. Moving through the air as he was, in the fastest and most scientific vehicle that human ingenuity had been able to devise, it was not easy to believe that a few thousand feet away, crouching in their lairs, were some of the wildest and strangest creatures left on earth; that the forest at which he now gazed was the home of the great ape called orang-outang, elephants, pigmy rhinoceros, leopards, buffalo, enormous pythons, flying squirrels, the weird scaly monster called pangolin, poisonous centipedes and blood-sucking insects by the million. In the forest, too, flourished the strangest of all flowers, the Rafflesia, with flowers eight feet across, stinking of death and corruption.
Ginger shuddered at the thought of a forced landing.
The machines, in loose formation, roared on through the lonely sky, always climbing, until after twenty minutes’ flight, far ahead the sea could be seen shimmering to the stars.
Reaching the coast, Biggles turned to follow it, while Ginger studied sea and land for signs of enemy occupation. For a long time, while the tropic dawn broke in a blaze of colour inconceivable to those who have never seen it, he saw nothing—that is, no sign of life or movement. Then a curious little drama came into view, although at first it was not apparent as such. The sea was flat calm. Across it, like scars, were two long wakes, the wakes of small vessels. Both were on the same course, one far behind the other. The leading one appeared to be a small native craft, perhaps a fishing-boat, little larger than a sailing dinghy. The boat behind, rapidly overtaking it, was also small, but it carried no sail. Its creamy wake made it clear that it was fitted with a high-powered engine.
And while Ginger watched, without particular interest, he saw something that gave him cause to wonder. A flash of flame, followed by a puff of smoke, spurted from the rear vessel. A minute or two later water splashed into the air beside the sailing-boat.
Ginger spoke to Biggles on the inter-communication telephone. “Take a look below. Something seems to be going on.”
“What’s happening?” asked Biggles.
“The power-boat is shooting at the sailing-boat — look, there it goes again. What do you make of it?”
“I think we’ll go down and have a dekko.
I’ll tell the other machines to circle for a while.”
The nose of the Beaufighter went down in a steep dive. Ginger, watching the two vessels below, saw the power-boat swerve suddenly and race towards the land.
“Ah-ha!” he said, “he doesn’t like the look of us. I fancy we’ve caught a Jap at his dirty work.”
Biggles did not answer. He took the Beaufighter down to a couple of hundred feet over the sailing vessel, and circled. White faces looked up. Arms waved a greeting.
Biggles’s voice, when he spoke to Ginger, was excited. “By gosh! They’re Europeans!”
Swinging round, he raced after the motor-boat, now well on its way to the shore. It did not need the Japanese flags in the stern to reveal its nationality. A burst of machine-gun fire spoke even more plainly.
“They seem inclined to argue,” muttered Biggles on the telephone. “That suits me fine.”
And as he spoke he brought his full armament to bear.
The motor-boat seemed to disappear under a cloud of spray. Biggles held his fire until he was within two hundred feet, and then zoomed high.
“That ought to be enough,” he remarked. “We can’t afford to waste ammunition.”
His opinion proved to be correct. By the time the Beaufighter had turned the motor-boat was awash, fast settling down. In another minute it had disappeared beneath the tranquil sea, leaving half a dozen figures splashing on the surface.
“I think we can safely leave the rest to the sharks,” said Biggles imperturbably. “We can’t do any rescue work, anyway.”
“What about the people in the sailing dinghy?” asked Ginger.
“Not being able to land on water we can’t do anything about them, either. They’re probably refugees from the Philippines. There must be many on these islands.”
