by W E Johns
“Just who is this man?” asked Biggles in a hard voice.
“I don’t know much about him,” answered Pat Flannagan, who spoke with an Irish-American accent. “He seems to be the commandant of the occupied countries. Following the German method, his object appears to be to cow everybody, natives as well as whites, by sheer terrorism. Cotabato, where he has his headquarters, is a living hell. I nearly go mad when I think of white women in that place.”
Biggles’s face was pale. “Are there many troops at this place Cotabato?”
Jackson answered. “Not many. Yashnowada is more of a glorified policeman—on the lines of the German Gestapo. Most of the front-line troops have been shifted nearer to the fighting—Burma in the north, and the Australian islands in the south. No doubt the same sort of thing is going on in other places. It seems terrible that we can’t do anything about it. How do you come to be here, anyway?”
Biggles explained the purpose of his squadron, and how, with the help of Rex Larrymore, it had come to Borneo. “How many white prisoners do you reckon there are at Cotabato?” he inquired.
“There were between forty and fifty when we left. Some of them are civilians, mostly British, Australian and Dutch traders. The others are nearly all American airmen who have been shot down. Barton is there. There are also some British natives, Indians and so on.”
Biggles started. “Do you mean the American General Barton?”
“Yeah.”
“But I heard he had escaped.”
“He did, but the Japs ran him down on one of the smaller islands. That swine Yashnowada has beaten him up to try to make him say what he knows about military plans.”
There was a movement among the assembled officers but none of them spoke.
“This is all very disturbing,” said Biggles in a low voice. “I almost wish you fellows hadn’t told me about this. I shan’t sleep at night for thinking about it. I know what war is like against the Nazis, and I’ve had some experience of trouble with plain unvarnished savages from whom one doesn’t expect anything but murder; but these semi-civilized Japanese seem to be the worst of the lot. Well, Jackson, and you, Gray and Flannagan, I think you’d better get along to Australia. I’ll have you flown down right away. I have a machine waiting to go.”
“I don’t want to go to Australia,” growled Gray. Biggles looked surprised. “You don’t want to go?”
“No. I’ve only one idea now, and that’s to slaughter as many of these yellow devils as I can.”
“That’s all very well, but be practical. You can’t fight a war single-handed. Just what have you got in mind?” asked Biggles.
“You can leave me here.”
“Why? What can you do here?”
“Help you. To start with, I’m a pilot. I know these seas and the coasts as well as I know the palm of my hand. I was stationed at Manila for a long time, and I’ve served on an aircraft carrier cruising among the islands. Flannagan was my buddy all the time, so he knows about it as I do.”
“Sure! That’s right,” agreed Flannagan.
“I know my way about a bit, too,” put in Jackson. “I’ve served in the Diplomatic Service in the Dutch East Indies for ten years.”
“Then you probably know something about Mindanao?” said Biggles thoughtfully.
Jackson smiled. “I was British Agent in Cotabato for two seasons. I know every inch of it, and the country around.”
“Then you must know the people there?”
“All those worth knowing. You know how it is in these outposts. It’s eighteen months since I was there as a free man, but I don’t suppose it’s changed much, except, of course, that the whites have gone. Why do you ask? Thinking of making a trip there yourself?”
Biggles hesitated for a moment before answering. “I couldn’t do that with my present equipment.”
“There’s an aerodrome — or rather, a landing ground.”
“You’re not suggesting that I land an aircraft on it?”
“Well—no.”
“I’m afraid the aerodrome is no use to us. Unfortunately I haven’t any marine aircraft suitable for landing on the water near the coast. I wonder...”
Biggles walked to the door and gazed across the deserted aerodrome. For a minute or two he was silent; then he came back into the room.
“I’ll tell you what,” he decided. “Jackson, you go down to Darwin with Angus Mackail in the Liberator and report this business to the Air Officer Commanding. He, no doubt, will consult the American Commander-in-Chief. Apart from the horrible thought of leaving white prisoners in the hands of this devil Yashnowada, the Americans want General Barton back. He’s a valuable officer. Angus, you’ll see the A.O.C.. Tell him we’re willing to have a shot at getting these prisoners away, but we should need an amphibian aircraft, one that can land here in the first place, and later, on water. Obviously, we couldn’t transport between forty and fifty people in one go, even if we got hold of them, but if we could get them out of the camp it might be possible to bring them over in relays. If there was an important military objective at Cotabato that we could deal with at the same time, the Higher Command would be more likely to fall for the idea.”
“There is,” put in Jackson quickly. “Cotabato is one of the main ammunition and stores dumps for the proposed Japanese attack on Australia.”
“Why the dickens didn’t you say so before?” demanded Biggles.
“We were talking about the prisoners,” explained Jackson apologetically. “I wasn’t thinking so much about the dump as the people there. It’s the thought of the women that sends me crazy.”
“Who are they?”
“One is Mary Stockton. She’s the daughter of a member of the Consulate staff. Her father must be in a way about her—he was in London making a report to the Foreign Office when the crack-up occurred.” As he spoke Jackson blushed slightly, and Biggles understood more clearly why he was so upset.
“She’s a friend of yours?” he suggested.
“As a matter of fact she’s rather more than that,” admitted Jackson. “We had a private understanding about getting married.”
“Why didn’t you get her away when you escaped yourself?”
“That was the idea, but it didn’t work out that way. We were seen and chased before we could get to the women’s quarters. There seemed no point in just giving myself up, so I stayed with Gray and Flannagan.”
“I see. Who’s the other woman?”
“Doctor Harding. She’s American, a specialist on tropical diseases.”
“I take it you’d go back to Cotabato if you thought there was a chance of getting your girl away?”
“You bet your life I would,” answered Jackson warmly.
Biggles nodded. “I understand. But let us get this clear. Everyone will, I’m sure, realize that this is a subordinate command, and I can’t do just as I like. I mean, we’re an established unit, and I may be called upon to carry out some special job at any moment. It would be unfair to the people at home if when we were urgently wanted we were off on some jaunt of our own. In other words, I should have to get permission before I started an enterprise that was not of a strictly military nature. The only thing I can do is send the Liberator to Australia right away and see how the A.O.C. feels about it. Angus, you take it down. Jackson will go with you. Harcourt and Ferris will act as gunners. If the Higher Command views the proposition favourably, try to get hold of an amphibian.”
“Are you sure they have such a thing?” asked Angus.
“Yes, Australia has always been keen on amphibians. They have several types. I’ve got some despatches to go down, so the sooner you start the better. The rest of us will remain here and carry on as usual. That’s all.”
Angus nodded. “I’ll get off right away.”
“I’d better get ready,” put in Jackson.
“Get back as soon as you can,” requested Biggles; “to-morrow night if you can manage it.”
“ I’ll try,” promised Angus. “In s
till air at cruising speed the trip takes about seven hours.”
Twenty minutes later the Liberator roared into the air and headed into the south-eastern sky.
Biggles looked up from the folding table at which he had been making some notes.
“While we’re waiting for the Liberator to come back I think it would be a good thing if we got some photos of this place Cotabato. With photos in front of us, Gray and Flannagan can point out the main features so that we shall have an idea of the layout in case the Higher Command decides to take action. There’s no immediate hurry—tomorrow will do. I shall have to stay here in case Australia tries to get into touch with me, but the other two machines can go. Bertie, you take the camera. Algy will look after your tail while you’re concentrating on the photos.”
“Why not let me go with the camera kite?” suggested Bill Gray. “I know every inch of the ground and can point out the vital spots.”
“That’s an idea,” agreed Biggles. “But are you well enough?”
“Well enough to sit in a seat and talk—or, mebbe, handle the guns.”
“All right. That’s up to you. I’d be glad of your co-operation. Bertie, that means Bill will go with you instead of Tex.”
Algy spoke. “I’ll take Ginger with me, if you don’t mind, in the escort plane.”
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Why Ginger? What’s the matter with Tug, your regular gunner?”
“Better ask him yourself;” murmured Algy.
Biggles’s eyes came to rest on Tug. “What’s wrong?”
Tug, looking sheepish, held up a bandaged wrist. “I was having a round or two with Suba and we got into a clinch. He nearly broke my wrist.”
For a moment Biggles looked annoyed. “I’m the last man to object to officers taking recreation, but there’s no sense in putting yourself out of action. The enemy will do that soon enough, no doubt. I need every man I’ve got. If you must fool about, be more careful.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Tug obediently.
Biggles turned to Algy. “All right. Ginger goes with you in the back seat. If that’s settled I think it’s about all.”
CHAPTER VI
AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER
TWO hours before dawn the following day Bertie’s machine was in the air heading north-east, with Bill Gray in the gunner’s cockpit. Algy, with Ginger in the rear seat, followed, and took up position just above and behind him.
The atmosphere, although dark, was crystal clear, and Ginger surveyed it with the methodical thoroughness that is the result of long experience. The distance from Lucky Strike to Cotabato, he had ascertained from the map, was about seven hundred miles. By ordinary travel the trip would take many days, perhaps weeks. He expected that the Beaufighters, even at the steady cruising speed at which they were flying, would do it in rather less than three hours. They had judged their time in order to arrive as soon after dawn as the light would permit good photographs being taken.
After crossing the coast the sea provided Ginger with a fertile field for speculation. Whichever way he looked he could see islands, some large, some mere islets. There were literally hundreds of them, and he found himself wondering who, if anybody, lived on them, and what they did. When the war was over, he decided, a man might do worse than make a protracted cruise round these remote fragments of land to see who and what was on them.
The Beaufighters, having climbed to twenty thousand feet, levelled out and roared on through a lonely sky. They roared on for an hour, two hours, yet the only thing apart from water that could be seen were the islands that for ever floated up over the edge of the world, to pass below and disappear astern. The water was calm, unmarked by the wake of a single ship.
Thinking over this strange loneliness, Ginger thought that very few ships would be seen in normal times; what few there were that used these treacherous waters had either been sunk, or had fled to distant ports.
Dawn was breaking in an extravagant flood of pink and gold when Algy’s voice came over the telephone. “There’s a big slice of mud on the horizon. I think it must be Mindanao.”
“Yes, it ought to be the place we’re making for,” agreed Ginger, and set about his task of sky-watching with greater vigilance. He knew that Japanese aircraft might be encountered at any time, and he had no intention of being caught off his guard. While he did the watching, Bertie and Bill would be able to devote themselves entirely to their task of getting the photographs.
The two Beaufighters roared on towards the land that now entirely filled the horizon ahead. There was no longer any doubt about it being their objective. Details grew more distinct, and Bertie’s machine, guided, Ginger supposed, by Bill Gray, took up a course towards a town of some importance. This turned out to be Cotabato, the objective. In the clear morning light every feature stood out in a manner that promised excellent negatives.
Bertie proceeded with his task while Algy patrolled the sky. There was practically no opposition. It appeared to take the invaders some time to realize that a hostile aircraft was overhead, for it was several minutes before the high-angle guns came into action, and then the shooting was irregular and badly aimed. Towards the finish Ginger saw some machines leaving the ground, but they were too far below to represent a danger. Long before they could climb up to the British machines the Beaufighters would be on their way back. The job looked like being a mere routine one, and as such Ginger was glad when it was over.
Bertie spoke to Algy over the radio, and Algy passed the information on to Ginger.
“That’s all,” he said. “Bertie reckons he’s got some good stuff. We’ll get home.”
Wing to wing the Beaufighters proceeded on the return journey at what was, comparatively speaking, a leisurely pace. There was no need to work the engines hard when there was no immediate hurry. Ginger kept a wary eye on the hostile aircraft until they abandoned the futile chase and turned back towards their base, now a smudge on the horizon. Satisfied that all was well, he relaxed, and prepared to settle himself in his seat.
As he did so, a movement on the floor attracted his attention. For a moment he thought that a cable had come adrift. Then, to his unspeakable horror, he saw that the moving thing was not a cable, but a snake. It was not a very big snake. It was a slim little thing about two feet long. But this did not lull Ginger into a sense of false security. He knew what it was, for he had seen one before, in India. It was a krait, perhaps the deadliest reptile on earth. Its bite means death in a few minutes.
For a little while Ginger stared at the creature, saucer-eyed, while the colour drained out of his face. The knowledge that the reptile must have been in the cockpit with him for more than three hours gave him such a shock that he was hardly capable of thought.
Where the snake had come from he did not know—not that it mattered. The thing was there. Obviously, it had got into the aircraft while the machine was on the ground. Why it had not bitten him he could not imagine, unless it had been tucked away in some pocket and had been scared or paralyzed by the roar of the engines. One thing was certain: it was not paralyzed now. Nor was it passive. With its little tongue flickering, it reared up and gazed at Ginger with such malice in its eyes that his mouth went dry with fear.
What to do he did not know. His first instinct was to jump out of the machine regardless of what lay below. Then he saw the ocean underneath and thought better of it. Desperate thoughts flashed through his mind. It seemed fantastic that although he was armed with machine-guns capable of sinking a fair-sized ship, they were useless to him. He had no other weapon. He wondered vaguely what would happen if they were attacked by hostile planes, for now that the snake was on the move he would not dare to touch his guns. The Beaufighter rocked slightly. The snake hissed.
Ginger remembered the telephone. “Algy, for God’s sake fly straight,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Algy answered, unconcerned, “Why? Is something wrong?”
Ginger nearly choked. “There’s a snake in my cockpit.”
“Throw it out,” suggested Algy.
“Don’t be a fool,” grated Ginger. “It’s a krait.”
Algy’s voice took on a different tone as he evidently realized the peril. “Where is it?”
“On the floor—a couple of feet away from me. If you bank you’ll throw it on my feet.”
Algy was silent for a moment. “What shall I—”
Ginger was nearly in a panic. “I don’t know,” he confessed.
“ Haven’t you any suggestion to make?”
“None. I can’t think of anything—unless I bale out.”
“You can’t do that!”
“But I can’t hope to sit here for over two hours without being bitten.”
There was another interval after Ginger had stated this simple fact.
“How about pushing it through the escape hatch?” suggested Algy.
“What—with my hands?” sneered Ginger, still staring at the snake, which seemed to be working itself into a fury.
“There’s only one thing for it,” announced Algy crisply. “I’ll fly low over an island and you’ll have to bale out. We’ll try to pick you up later. It’s your only chance as far as I can see.”
“You realize that even if I go the snake will remain, and it may work its way along to the back of your cockpit?”
“Good lord!” gasped Algy. Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that.
“Are you going to stay in the machine?” asked Ginger.
“For two hours? With that thing creeping about? Not on your life,” declared Algy. “I’m going to land, even if it means a crack-up. If I can’t find a flat patch on the next island we’ll both go over together. Just a minute while I tell Bertie the position.”
“All right, but don’t be long about it.”
The roar of the engines faded to a purr as the Beaufighter went down in a shallow glide.
Ginger sat and stared at the snake as if it fascinated him. He knew they were losing height, but he dare not risk moving to see where they were. Presently Algy spoke again.
“I’ve told Bertie how we’re fixed. He says we can do nothing but jump out—if we can’t make a landing. He’s going to follow us down to see what happens.”
