Biggles In Borneo

by W E Johns

  “That’s a pretty tall order,” answered Biggles. “There are about ten thousand islands in these waters. What are we supposed to do—call at each one in turn?”

  “It isna an order,” returned Angus. “The Air Commodore just mentions it in case we see anybody that looks like the general. Losh, I’m tired. I’ll help myself to a spot of sleep if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead,” Biggles told him, and turning to the flight sergeant, who was standing by, ordered him to see about getting the big machine unloaded. He then read the despatch, but finding that it contained no more than Angus had related, he put it away and turned to Ginger.

  “Let’s go and try to locate these fellows in the jungle,” he suggested. “The rest of you stand by until we get back. We shan’t be long.”

  A few minutes later the Beaufighter was in the air, skimming the tree-tops on a north-easterly course. Ginger studied the ground closely, but could see no sign of Rex and the Punans—not that he expected to. Nothing could be seen except the tops of trees rising and falling in undulations, with a steady slope towards the distant sea. Here and there it was possible to get a glimpse of a broad mysterious river, sometimes placid, sometimes white with foam as it tore through a gulch in the mountains. It was up this stream, presumably, that the white men had entered the island in their desperate effort to escape from the Japanese.

  Ginger was still staring down when Biggles’s voice came over the telephone. “ Tally-ho! I think we’ve found something.” With the words the Beaufighter began to climb.

  Looking ahead, Ginger saw, not without surprise, a seaplane. It was a type of aircraft that he had never seen before, but as it was neither British nor German he assumed that it was Japanese.

  Very soon Biggles confirmed this. “It looks like an old Kawanishi,” he observed. “It carries a crew of two. They haven’t seen us—they’re much too interested in something on the ground.”

  The Japanese aircraft was, in fact, circling repeatedly at a low altitude. The rear gunner was crouching over his gun, which pointed downward in a manner that suggested he had either been using it against a ground target, or was about to do so.

  “We’d better dispose of the opposition before we try to see the object of attraction,” remarked Biggles in a hard voice. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he’s after, though.”

  The combat with the Japanese aircraft was hardly worthy of the name. It was obvious that both pilot and gunner apprehended no danger whatever, for they continued to circle, devoting their entire attention to the ground. Biggles merely manoeuvred the Beaufighter between it and the sun, and then, going in close, shot the aircraft to pieces. This occurred at such a low altitude that the crew could not have used their parachutes even if they had not been hit by bullets, and the whole thing fell into the trees where the jungle at once hid it from view. After a swift reconnaissance of the sky for other possible aircraft, Biggles went down to the tree-tops, and after cruising up and down for a minute or two, came upon something for which he was not unprepared. Half submerged in shallow water near the bank of the river was a boat. It was lying at a bend, where the swirl of the water had thrown up a strip of beach in the shape of a crescent moon.

  When Ginger first saw the boat it appeared to be abandoned. There was no sign of life.

  But as the Beaufighter roared low over it a white man ran from the fringe of jungle near the spot. He looked up at the aircraft, gesticulating violently. Biggles took the Beaufighter still lower; in fact, he came down the river with his wheels nearly touching the water, a position from which it was possible to see two other men. One was sitting up, and the other lying in the shade of a palm.

  Ginger spoke sharply to Biggles. “Those fellows are in a bad way.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” answered Biggles, pulling the Beaufighter up to turn back over the spot.

  “Rex must still be a good day’s journey away.”

  “Quite that.”

  “He may never find these chaps.”

  “We can indicate the spot from the air,” Biggles pointed out.

  “What about me going down with the emergency box, to give them a hand until Rex arrives?” suggested Ginger.

  “Are you talking about baling out?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s risky. Ten to one you’ll fall in the river or get hung up in the trees.”

  “The river is shallow near the boat or it would be out of sight,” protested Ginger. “I think we ought to take a chance to help those chaps. A few hours may make a lot of difference, apart from which it would encourage them to know that help was on the way.”

  Biggles hesitated. “All right—if you feel like taking a chance,” he agreed.

  “I’ll risk it,” declared Ginger. “Come up the river as slowly as you dare.”

  “Okay.” Biggles turned the Beaufighter, and lining up with the stream, brought the machine along at little more than stalling speed.

  With the emergency box and the portable medicine chest under his left arm, Ginger went to the escape hatch. See you later,” he called, and slid through.

  His jump was well timed, but as Biggles had prophesied, he fell into the trees. When he saw what was going to happen he bunched himself, raising his knees to his chin and protecting his face with his arm. Fortunately he did not strike a big branch; he crashed through the smaller ones, disturbing a school of monkeys which fled, shrieking. The parachute fabric caught in the branches ; it was torn to shreds, but it broke his fall, and he landed in a heap of swampy ground with the torn shrouds, the emergency box and the medicine chest beside him. As he picked himself up he heard a crashing in the bushes, and a white man, thin and pale from fever or exhaustion, or both, stood before him.

  “By Jove!” cried the stranger. “That was a stout effort. Are you hurt?”

  “No, thanks,” replied Ginger, rubbing his bruises. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Hebblethwaite — Ginger for short. I dropped in to see if you needed help.”

  “We need plenty,” was the answer. “We’re in a bit of a mess. I’m Jackson, late of the British Consulate at Manila. I’m all right, but the two fellows with me—they’re Americans—are in a bad way. The Japs are hot on our trail, too.”

  Ginger nodded. “That’s about how we worked it out, so we decided to do something about it.”

  Picking up the equipment, the two men made their way to the river, where Ginger made the acquaintance of the two Americans, named Gray and Flannagan, who turned out to be the pilot and gunner of a United States naval aircraft. As Jackson had said, they were both in a bad way—not, as Ginger had supposed, from fever or gunshot wounds, but from flogging by the Japanese. To say that Ginger was horrified would be to put it mildly. The medicine chest was brought into use, and as soon as they had been made fairly comfortable Ginger was told the facts. They were brief.

  Jackson, the Britisher, had been at Manila when the town had been captured by the Japanese. He had tried to escape in a pearling lugger, but had been captured and taken with other prisoners to the island of Mindanao. There he had met the two American airmen, who had been shot down on a reconnaissance flight. They had tried to escape, and in doing so had struck a Japanese soldier. For this, on being recaptured, they had been brutally flogged—treatment that drove them to a frenzy and made them all the more determined to get away. This, with the help of Jackson, they had been able to do. They had taken a sailing-boat with the object of eventually reaching Australia. They had been pursued, and would have been caught by a motor-boat had not a British aircraft unexpectedly appeared out of the blue and sunk the Jap.

  Ginger grinned. “That was us,” he remarked vaguely.

  The rest was much as he had supposed. The three fugitives had got to Borneo. Without food or water, they had been compelled to come ashore in the hope of obtaining both.

  They were again discovered, so had taken to the jungle. Japanese soldiers, guided by a seaplane, were following them. The seaplane had fired at them repea
tedly and sunk their boat, with the result that they were stranded, exhausted, without food, with the Japanese behind them, and the unknown jungle, and possibly head-hunters, in front of them.

  Their joy when Ginger informed them that a British unit was still operating from the heart of Borneo, and that a relief party was on the way to pick them up, made any risks he had taken well worth while.

  “What we’ve got to do is dodge the Japs until the rescue party arrives,” he concluded. “Haven’t you fellows any weapons?”

  “Not one,” answered Jackson. “What’s our best plan do you think? We can’t do much in the way of marching, I’m afraid.”

  “I think we’d better stay where we are,” replied Ginger after considering the situation. “We couldn’t get through the jungle, and we should probably get lost if we tried. The best thing is to stay by the river where we can be seen from the air. Biggles—that’s my C.O. — knows where we are, and will guide the relief party to the spot. It seems to be a case of who will get here first —the relief party or the Japs.”

  * * *

  1 Knife, often curved or with a wavy blade.

  CHAPTER V

  WAR IN THE JUNGLE

  As it happened, the Japanese arrived first. Ginger heard them before he saw them. He had passed a miserable, restless night, tormented by myriads of minute sand-flies and mosquitoes against which there was no protection. He spent most of the night scratching himself, and listening to the strange noises that came out of the jungle.

  Just before dawn silence fell, and in the distance he heard what he thought was a human shout. He was not quite sure of this, realizing that it might be one of the monkeys that swarmed in the trees. Presently the sound came again, nearer, from the lower reaches of the river. The other three were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, oblivious to mosquitoes and everything else, this being due in large measure to the fact they had eaten their first real meal for over a fortnight. He was loath to awaken them, so he walked down the river as far as the sand-bar would permit, and then climbed a tree that commanded a view of the long straight reach of water lying beyond. One glance and his fears were realized.

  Coming up the river were five canoes. The paddlers were natives, but the men packed in them were Japanese soldiers. They were examining the banks of the river as they came, presumably for signs of the fugitives who, as their boat had not been passed, must be somewhere ahead of them.

  Ginger realized that when they came to the spot where the boat lay half submerged they would know at once that the three white men were not far away. Unfortunately there was no way of concealing or destroying the boat.

  Not a little worried, Ginger returned to the sleeping men, narrowly avoiding stepping on a hooded cobra that lay curled up on the sand. It reared, hissing. Ginger side-stepped and ran for his life. Actually, at the moment he was more concerned with the approaching Japanese than with the beasts of the jungle. He woke Jackson first, he being the fittest of the three.

  “The Japs are coming up the river in canoes,” he informed him.

  Jackson scrambled to his feet. “I was afraid of that.” He pointed to the boat. “Even if we hide they’ll see that, land, and come after us.”

  “I know, and I don’t see what we can do about it,” answered Ginger. “There’s just a chance that we may find a hiding-place in the jungle.”

  “We shall be smothered with leeches,” warned Jackson.

  “That’s better than being smothered with bullet-holes,” Ginger pointed out grimly.

  As it happened they were saved from this desperate resort, for while they were getting the two Americans to their feet there came the sound for which Ginger had secretly been hoping. It was the roar of aircraft. A minute later, not one but three Beaufighters appeared. By this time Ginger had flung some fairly dry reeds in a heap and set fire to them, so that a column of smoke rose upwards. This was in order to let Biggles know they were still in the same place. He had no means of sending a message, so he could not tell Biggles about the Japanese; he could only hope that he would see them, and felt pretty sure that he would.

  Thereafter things happened quickly, and with a good deal of noise. Ginger did not witness the destruction of the canoes, but he saw the Beaufighters diving, and heard the roar of their guns. Pandemonium broke loose in the jungle. Parrots screamed and monkeys howled.

  Later, Ginger learned that three of the canoes had been sunk in midstream; the other two had managed to reach the bank, and the occupants had taken cover under the trees.

  Presently Biggles’s Beaufighter, recognisable by its single red band, came cruising low up the river. As it passed over the sand-bar a small object fell from it. It turned out to be a cigarette tin. In it was a scrap of paper on which had been pencilled the message : “Stand fast. Rex is near you. Taffy.” Ginger realized that Taffy had taken his place in the gun-turret of Biggles’s machine.

  Having dropped the message, the Beaufighter turned and rejoined the other two machines that were now raking the edge of the forest with their guns.

  “The relief party is near us,” Ginger told his companions.

  “So are some of the Japs,” answered Jackson grimly. “Look.” He pointed.

  Following the line of his finger, Ginger saw Japanese soldiers emerging from the jungle at the water’s edge.

  They did not move openly, but crouching low, advanced independently in short rushes.

  “They’re not concerned about us,” opined Ginger. “In fact they don’t even know we’re here. The Beaufighters are shooting them up, and they’re trying to get away. But if they come along here and spot us we shall be in a mess.”

  “We’d better start retiring into the forest,” declared Jackson.

  “Just a minute,” replied Ginger.

  He had noticed a curious thing. The leading Japanese soldier had stumbled, and then fallen flat on his face. He lay where he had fallen, his limbs twitching. Another did the same thing.

  “What the deuce is happening?” muttered Ginger.

  The remaining Japanese were backing away from the forest. Some of them began shooting into the trees. There was no answering fire, yet they continued to fall. There was something so uncanny about it that Ginger’s skin turned to goose-flesh.

  “I’ve got it!” cried Jackson. “Blowpipes! Your friends the Punans are in the jungle shooting poisoned darts into them. The Japs can’t even see them.”

  “How horrible,” returned Ginger—and he meant it. For the first time he realized the futility of trying to fight the jungle men who could deal death silently, unseen. For all their modern weapons the Japanese were powerless. The survivors fell into a panic.

  Some, flinging away their equipment, jumped into the river and tried to swim across.

  “Crocodile meat,” murmured Jackson. “These rivers are full of the brutes.”

  Ginger shuddered. He was glad he had not fallen into the river when he landed by parachute. He had forgotten that there were such things as crocodiles.

  While he was still staring at the unpleasant scene, Rex Larrymore came running out of the undergrowth. His clothes were torn, and he was mud up to the waist.

  “So there you are,” he observed cheerfully. “I had a bit of a job to find you.”

  “How did you know I was here?” asked Ginger.

  “Biggles dropped us a message and told us.”

  “I see.”

  “Suba and his lads are busy,” remarked Rex.

  “So I notice,” answered Ginger.

  “You’ve nothing more to worry about,” went on Rex. “As they say in official circles, our troops have the situation in hand.”

  As Ginger introduced Rex to his companions, the Beaufighters roared low overhead and disappeared in the direction of the base. Presently Suba appeared, followed by several of his warriors. They nearly all carried burdens that made Ginger back away in horror. They were Japanese heads.

  “Must they do that?” gasped Ginger, feeling sick.

  “Take no notic
e,” said Rex quietly. “Heads are merely souvenirs to them. Our chaps collect German helmets—there really isn’t very much difference. If you protest you may upset Suba.”

  Ginger gulped and said no more. Rex held a consultation with the chief, as a result of which two rough portable chairs were constructed for the transport of the injured Americans, who were in no condition to face the long march back to camp.

  Then began the return trip through the jungle. It was unmarked by incident, except that at every halt they made a smoke fire to show Biggles where they were, whereupon Beaufighters dropped parcels of food and cans of water.

  Two days later, weary and dirty, covered with the little white blisters raised by mosquitoes, the party arrived back at Lucky Strike camp, to find that all possible preparations for their comfort had been made. After they had bathed, and the Americans had had their backs properly dressed, the fugitives told their story with more detail.

  Of their own adventures they had little to say. They were too full of what was happening at Cotabato, on the island of Mindanao, where the white prisoners of several nationalities had been concentrated by the Japanese. There were two women among them. Conditions had been bad, but bearable, until there had arrived from Japan to take command a brutal commandant named Yashnowada. The Americans trembled with impotent fury when they spoke of him and his barbaric behaviour towards his helpless prisoners. It was this man who had caused them to be flogged. Several white soldiers—British, American and Dutch—had died under such flogging.

  “The shocking part of it was we could do nothing,” muttered Bill Gray, burying his face in his hands as though to shut out the memory of the horrors he had seen. “God help you if you ever fall into the hands of that yellow devil.”