by W E Johns
“Go ahead,” muttered Ginger, whose nerves were beginning to crack under the strain. “Will it be better for me to stick to the machine, or jump?”
“Hang on. I’ll let you know. Wait till I’ve had a look at the next island. There’s a biggish one just ahead of us. I think I can see beaches.”
To Ginger, before Algy spoke again, the next ten minutes seemed like eternity.
“There’s a pretty fair beach,” said Algy. “I’m going to try to land.”
“When the machine bumps the snake will strike.”
“All right. When you feel me flatten out you’ll know I’m practically on the carpet. Get the hatch open and get ready to jump for it. There’s nothing else you can do.”
The Beaufighter continued to descend. Ginger saw nothing but the snake, but he was conscious of Bertie’s machine close overhead. Once or twice its shadow fell on him.
Suddenly the snake seemed to see it, and its reaction was immediate. Ginger could only suppose that the krait took the plane to be a bird of prey; at any rate, it moved swiftly towards the tail of the aircraft where it could not be seen. The machine flattened out.
Algy shouted “Jump!”
But as the snake was no longer within striking distance, Ginger did not feel inclined to risk breaking his neck. Rigid, he sat where he was. He felt the wheels touch, and hoped that the tail-down position of the machine would cause the snake to slide farther away. What happened next he really did not know. The machine swerved suddenly. There was a tearing, rending crash as it collided violently with something.
Ginger had no recollection of getting out of the machine; but he must have done so because he found himself standing on a sandy beach, staring with utter dismay at the crumpled remains of the Beaufighter. Algy, wild-eyed, scrambled from the wreckage and staggered towards him.
“Did the snake bite you?” asked Ginger in all seriousness. He was still slightly bewildered by the calamity.
“I don’t know,” snarled Algy. “If it did I didn’t feel it. Look at the machine.”
“I’m looking at it,” answered Ginger calmly. At that moment he was conscious of only one sensation, and that was thankfulness that he had at least escaped from the snake. He was prepared to die in the war—but not from snakebite.
“We’re in a mess,” announced Algy.
“I’d already realized it,” returned Ginger, looking up at Bertie’s machine, now circling overhead in an almost vertical bank. Ginger waved. “Bertie will at least be able to tell Biggles what happened,” he observed.
With his hands in his pockets Algy stood and stared at the wreck. He still looked as if he couldn’t believe it. He was still staring when Bertie zoomed, and sped away in the direction of the base.
“Best thing he can do,” muttered Algy. “There was nothing he could do by remaining here.”
“Have you any idea of where we are?” asked Ginger.
“Not the remotest—beyond the fact that we’re on a line between Borneo and Mindanao,” returned Algy.
“The island may be marked on my map. It’s in the cockpit. I was in too much of a hurry to get out to bother about it. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind fetching it?”
“Suppose you go?” suggested Ginger.
“It isn’t much trouble, is it?”
“No—but the snake might be. As far as I know it’s still inside, and while it is I’m staying out. How did you come to crack up?”
“Take a look round and work it out for yourself,” muttered Algy. Shock, and the loss of his machine, seemed to have put him in a touchy mood.
Ginger accepted the advice. Looking about him he saw that they were on an island of considerable extent ; just how big he could not tell, for it was not possible to see the extremities. The wheel-tracks told the story of the crash. Algy had tried to get down on a narrow strip of beach that was really too small for such a purpose. He had made a stout effort, but one of his wheels had gone into a slight dip, with the result that the machine had been swung round. Its port wing had struck a tree, and the wing had been torn off.
The aircraft had then run on some rocks, and these had completed the ruin of what, a few minutes before, had been a sound, serviceable aeroplane.
“There goes the snake!” suddenly shouted Algy, and snatching up a piece of palm frond, dashed off in pursuit of the reptile, which, having emerged from the crash, was making all speed towards the fringe of a jungle-covered hill. It disappeared into a bush.
“And to think a little beast like that could cause a mess like this,” remarked Ginger disgustedly. “Not that I’ve anything to grumble about,” he added. “It isn’t everyone who can spend three hours in a cockpit with a krait and get away with it. I’m on the ground without having been bitten to death, and that’s a lot more than I could have hoped for twenty minutes ago. Well, where do we go from here?”
“We don’t go anywhere,” snapped Algy. “We stay here.”
“You’re not blaming me for this, I hope?” protested Ginger in a hurt voice.
“Why didn’t you examine your turret before you got into it?”
“Well, I like that,” declared Ginger warmly. “Anyone would think snakes were in the habit of roosting in aeroplanes. I once knew a fellow who found a mouse’s nest in his wing—”
“Don’t tell me,” pleaded Algy. “I suppose we ought to be thankful to be alive. It’s a pity about the machine, but as far as we’re concerned we ought to be all right. If Biggles gets that amphibian he’ll soon be here to pick us up.”
“And if he doesn’t get it?”
“In that case we look like playing Swiss Family Robinson for the duration. The emergency box will save us from immediate starvation.”
The box was fetched, and the castaways enjoyed a frugal meal. They examined the chart, but it did not tell them much because they had no means of knowing for certain which island they were on. All things taken into account, they were of the opinion that it was Talut Island, one of the Sulu group.
“Well, as the poor old Beau is a write-off we may as well burn it,” suggested Algy. “It will never fly again. We can’t do anything with it, and there’s no sense in leaving it here for the Japs to examine. They’d probably salve some of the parts. We’ll put a match to it, and then climb a hill to get a better idea of our bearings.”
Ginger agreed, and in a few minutes the funeral pyre of the unlucky Beaufighter was blazing furiously.
“Let’s go up the hill,” suggested Algy, and then stopped dead, staring at something beyond Ginger’s shoulder. Ginger, startled by his expression, swung round, and at the sight that met his eyes his stomach seemed to fall into his boots. Fifty yards away, towards them were running some twenty men. They were Japanese soldiers. An officer, seeing them turn, shouted something. What he said Ginger did not know. He never knew.
He didn’t care. He only knew that they had been captured, for escape was obviously impossible. Every Jap carried a rifle. Some were already taking aim.
Algy put up his hands. “It’s no use,” he told Ginger in a low voice. “They’ve got us cold.”
Ginger, too, raised his hands slowly into the air.
In a moment they were surrounded. The Japanese officer, a little man with a busy manner, searched them, presumably for weapons. From time to time he said something.
Not being able to speak Japanese, Algy and Ginger could only shrug their shoulders. The officer beckoned and set off along the beach. Surrounded by an ample guard the prisoners followed.
“Where did this lot come from?” muttered Ginger savagely.
“Don’t ask me,” returned Algy despondently.
“Didn’t you see them before you landed?”
“Do you think I should have been such a fool as to land if I had?” answered Algy sarcastically. “I didn’t see a soul. We deserve all we get for standing there as if the perishing island belonged to us.”
“It’s a bit late to start worrying about that,” observed Ginger philosophically.
A
short walk explained the mystery of the sudden appearance of the enemy troops. They came to a small, almost landlocked cove. In the cove was a submarine, refuelling from cans that were being brought down from a secret hiding-place among the rocks.
“So that’s it,” muttered Algy. “Evidently the fellows who caught us are a working party left in charge of the dump.”
“I’ve just had a horrible thought,” said Ginger in a strained voice.
“What’s the trouble now?”
“If Biggles lands here looking for us, as he probably will, he’ll be caught, too.”
Algy groaned.
His lamentations were cut short by the Japanese. There had been a quick consultation between the officer who had captured them and the two naval officers who stood by the submarine supervising the refuelling. They now came to the prisoners.
“I hope they’re not going to put us in that tin deathtrap,” muttered Ginger, aghast.
It was soon made clear that this was the intention. The pipes of the fuel pumps were drawn in as they were pushed into a small boat and transported to the underwater craft.
It was no use protesting. The smell of hot oil came up the conning-tower to meet Ginger as he descended, for the first time in his life, into a submarine. They were escorted to a metal bench and made to sit on it. A sentry, revolver in hand, stood guard. And there they sat, without speaking, for about an hour, under the curious eyes of the little yellow men who formed the crew. Then the engines were started. The submarine began to move.
Snatches of conversation reached the prisoners’ ears. Ginger caught one word that he understood. It was Cotabato.
“Looks as if we’re going to make the acquaintance of Jackson’s friend, Yashnowada,” he said.
Algy nodded moodily. “Looks as if we escaped from one snake only to be bitten by another. Of the two, the krait was probably the less poisonous.”
The submarine ploughed on through the lonely sea. The journey seemed interminable. It drove on all that day, all through the night and the following day. It submerged occasionally but for the most part it ran on the surface; even so, the prisoners saw nothing but their steel walls. It was, as near as they could judge, approaching midnight on the second night when activity and much ringing of bells indicated that they were nearing their destination.
“Well, I reckon we shall soon known the worst,” remarked Algy, as they were landed on a pier and, under an armed escort of four men, marched through the streets of a town to what had been, in peace-time, an hotel.
“I should say this is the headquarters of the congenial Yashnowada,” murmured Ginger.
It was soon revealed that he was right. A short march down a corridor on the ground floor and the escort halted before a door. A knock, and it was opened. The prisoners were pushed inside.
It was a large room, well lighted by electricity. A fan suspended from the ceiling turned slowly, keeping the oppressive air on the move. The chief piece of furniture was a heavily carved Chinese desk. The prisoners were halted in front of it. From behind it a man seated in a chair regarded them speculatively and with evident satisfaction.
He was short, inclined to stoutness, with a broad face in which the cheekbones were conspicuous. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles. A small black moustache drooped round the corners of a thin-lipped mouth. Pulling a writing pad towards him, he addressed the prisoners in English with a strong American accent.
“Your names?”
These were given, as international law demanded.
“Where have you come from?”
Algy answered: “We have nothing more to say.”
The Japanese dropped his voice to a purr: “Where have you come from?”
Neither Algy nor Ginger answered.
“So you will not speak, eh?”
“We have said all that we are bound to say. We have nothing to add,” replied Algy.
“You are members of the new secret squadron. Where is it?”
Algy did not answer.
“Unless you tell me where this squadron is based, who commands it, and its purpose, I promise that every member that falls into my hands shall take twenty-fours hours to die. Now will you speak?”
Algy and Ginger remained silent.
The Japanese spoke slowly: “I have been known to make the very dumb speak. You have until the morning to think it over. Take them away.”
Algy and Ginger were marched away.
CHAPTER VII
BIGGLES HEARS THE NEWS
MEANWHILE, Bertie, having watched Algy and Ginger crash without apparent injury, raced home to Lucky Strike and reported the misadventure to Biggles. Bill Gray confirmed what Bertie had to report.
Biggles’s first remark was, “It was my fault. I should have given orders for every machine to be thoroughly searched, always, before leaving the ground. I’m going to have a look at this island. Sorry, Bertie, but you’ll have to come with me to show me just where it is; otherwise I might waffle around for a week without finding the right island.”
“Absolutely, old boy, absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “The beastly sea is all cluttered up with islands—too many, I should say, yes, by jingo. That’s right, Bill, isn’t it?”
Bill Gray smiled. “You’ve said it, buddy.”
Biggles looked at Bill. “You’ve done enough flying for one day. Bertie and I will do this show.”
So Bertie went back, now travelling in the rear cockpit of Biggles’s machine. In just over an hour they were circling the spot where the crash had occurred. Biggles saw the burnt-out remains of the Beaufighter with surprise and alarm. He spoke tersely on the telephone.
“Bertie, I thought you said the machine got down all right and cracked up on the ground?”
“That’s right—absolutely. I saw it with my own eyes, as they say.”
“Well, what do you make of it now?”
“Burnt out, by Jove. It beats me, old soldier. There was no fire when tootled off.”
“I don’t see any sign of Algy or Ginger,” muttered Biggles.
“Neither do I. They jolly well ought to be here, all the same, that’s all I can say.”
“Well, they’re not,” returned Biggles. “If they were here they’d show up. They couldn’t help hearing us. I don’t like the look of this.”
Then Biggles saw something else. It was a long smear of oil on the placid surface of the ocean. It started at an almost landlocked lagoon and went on for as far as he could see.
Clearly such a trail could only be left by a mechanically-propelled vessel. With an uneasy suspicion forming in his mind, he followed the track for some distance. A speck on the ocean appeared far ahead, but even as he watched it it disappeared beneath the surface.
“So that’s it,” muttered Biggles. “A submarine.”
For a minute or two he circled the spot where the submarine had submerged, but there was nothing he could do. He realized that the watch must have heard him coming, possibly seen him. Obviously, the submarine would remain submerged. There was no point in staying, so he flew back over his course, still following the trail, which, of course, took him to the lagoon.
He arrived just in time to see a number of figures scurrying out of sight into the jungle which covered the island. He noticed that they wore clothes, which told him that they were not natives. Had there been only two he would still have hoped that it might be the castaways; but there were several. Apprehension became real alarm. He spoke again to Bertie.
“There are people on this island,” he said. “Who they are I don’t know, and we’re not likely to find out from the air; but since a submarine has been in the cove we may assume that these people here have some connection with it.” He swerved suddenly as a line of tracer bullets shot up from the jungle. It was a minute before he spoke again. “That tells us what we want to know. Natives don’t possess modern machine-guns. This must be a Japanese base. There’s nothing we can do about it now, so we may as well go home.” Biggles headed for Lucky Strike.
“You think the blighters have got Algy and Ginger?” asked Bertie.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. They wouldn’t suspect that the island was occupied. Neither should I, had I been in their position. Even if they had known I imagine they would have been caught just the same. I’m afraid it’s a bad show.”
Biggles didn’t speak again until they landed on the aerodrome. There were glum faces when he told the others what he had seen, and what he suspected.
“The question is, did the submarine leave the island before Algy crashed? If it did, then it’s a thousand to one that Algy and Ginger are still on the island, prisoners. If it left after their arrival, they may be on it.”
“What can we do?” asked Bertie, polishing his eyeglass furiously.
“It’ll need some thought before I can answer that question,” answered Biggles. “It would be a risky business to try to put a Beaufighter down on the island at the best of times. As it is, what could two people do against an unknown quantity of Japs that we know pretty well for certain are there? I saw five or six, which means that there are probably more. They’ve got at least one machine-gun.”
“A seaplane could land on the water,” suggested Rex.
“Unfortunately we haven’t got a seaplane,” returned Biggles. “We’ve asked for an amphibian. If we get one it will be a different matter. We might then, at some risk, effect a landing, and perhaps find out just what is happening. As it is, we shall have to cool our heels until the Liberator gets back, and that won’t be for some time.”
Lunch was taken in moody silence. Biggles went to his “office” with Bill to study the photographs Bertie had taken, and which had now been developed. There, presently, he was joined by Rex Larrymore.
“I hope you don’t mind me butting in,” said Rex, “but I’ve been thinking. Suppose you do get delivery of an amphibian, or a marine aircraft of some sort. What would you do?”
“Try to get on the island—naturally. I wouldn’t abandon any officer without making every possible attempt at rescue; but it happens that the two missing officers are my best friends, and that makes the thing, from my point of view, even more tragic. I’d take any risk to get them back.”
