Biggles In Borneo

by W E Johns

  The Liberator, supported by the two Beaufighters, had made the low bombing attack to destroy the dump and at the same time cause confusion, during which the prisoners were to be rescued. The whole operation had required careful timing, but it had worked out according to plan.

  “But that’s past and done with,” concluded Biggles. “What we have to do now is clean up and get back to normal as quickly as possible.”

  Actually, things turned out rather better than Biggles expected. The Cayman made another trip to the island without mishap and the Liberator left for Australia with its first load. It came back in company with two more Liberators, flown by members of the Royal Australian Air Force. All these machines were loaded to capacity with oil and petrol, which relieved Biggles’s anxiety to no small extent. By this time the remainder of the escaped prisoners had been fetched from the island by the Cayman, and the two extra Liberators were able to transport them to Australia. Jackson, Bill Gray and Flannagan remained at Lucky Strike, having expressed a wish to do so. Algy went to Australia as passenger in one of the Australian Liberators and brought back a Beaufighter to replace the one they had lost. Thus by the end of three days the unit had been restored to its original strength, and all that remained was for the overworked pilots to get some rest before resuming active duties. At least, such was Biggles’s intention.

  “Well, that’s all very satisfactory,” he told Algy. “When I submit my report on the operation, remind me to call attention to the outstanding work done by Suba. He ought to get a medal.”

  “He’d probably prefer a tin of sardines,” opined Rex dryly.

  “Then give him a couple of tins with the compliments of the British Government,” ordered Biggles, smiling. “I’m beginning to like Suba. In country like this he’s of more use than a squadron of tanks.”

  So things settled down, and Biggles was planning his next sortie when an unexpected diversion occurred. The Liberator had gone to Australia; the Cayman and the three Beaufighters were comfortably housed in their ferny bough shelters; the false dawn was glowing faintly in the east, and Lucky Strike lay silent under a waning moon, resting.

  Biggles awoke, and on the instant was wide awake, listening. Another moment and he was out of his hammock, pulling on high mosquito boots, and calling to Algy and Ginger who shared the next cabin.

  “We’ve got a visitor,” he announced, and sprinted for Flight Sergeant Smyth’s quarters. “Keep everyone under cover,” he ordered, and then ran on to Rex. “Rex, there’s an aircraft prowling about. Find Suba and tell him to keep his boys under the trees. One sign of movement might be enough to give us away.”

  “Can it be the Liberator come back?” asked Rex.

  “No,” declared Biggles emphatically, and went to the fringe of the palms.

  Looking up, he saw the aircraft at once. It was a flying-boat, cruising in wide circles at about ten thousand feet. As he watched, officers began to join him in various stages of dress—or, perhaps, undress.

  “What do you make of it?” asked Algy. “I suppose it’s a Jap?”

  “Looks to me like a Mitsubishi Navy H-96... reconnaissance bomber... three-engined job, carries a crew of six.”

  “What do you suppose he’s doing?”

  “He’s obviously looking for something, and as I can’t think of anything else he’d be looking for in this part of the island, I should say he’s looking for us. The rumour has gone round by now that we’re operating from central Borneo, and Yashnowada is probably using everything he’s got to locate us. Judging by that fellow’s turns he’s having a thundering good look at our landing-ground—no doubt because it’s the only open space for miles.”

  “Ah-ha,” murmured Algy as the drone of the flying-boat’s engines died away. “He’s coming down for a closer inspection.”

  “Keep under cover, everybody!” shouted Biggles.

  “I don’t think we’ve much to worry about,” remarked Ginger. “Don’t forget that from topsides this place looks like water—like a lake. Yashnowada must know that we are flying Beaus—the submarine commander would tell him that, as he saw one crash. Beaus don’t land on water, so why should that fellow upstairs think we’re here?”

  “He must know we’ve also got a marine aircraft,” muttered Biggles. “We couldn’t have landed at Cotabato any other way. Apart from that, he’s probably having a good look at everything and anything that will hold a plane of any sort.”

  The flying-boat came lower, an object of intense interest to the watchers on the ground, who could now see the Rising Sun insignia on the wings. Round and round it swung in wide circles until its purpose was no longer in doubt. The pilot and crew were studying the landing-ground.

  “How about going up and giving him a squirt?” suggested Ginger impatiently.

  “If I was sure we’d get him, I would,” agreed Biggles, “but I’m afraid he’d spot us the moment we tried to get a Beau out, and be away before we could get to him. We should look silly if he got home to tell the tale. Tempting though the target is, our best plan is to lie low.”

  At length the big machine turned away as if, its curiosity satisfied, it intended to depart.

  Biggles gave a sigh of relief, and was about to walk back to his quarters when the flying-boat turned again, and cutting its engines, came gliding back.

  For a moment Biggles stared in surprise. Then, as the truth struck him, he let out a startled cry.

  “Look out!” he shouted. “It’s going to land!”

  Ginger wondered why he had not thought of the possibility, for after all, the grey surface of the aerodrome did look like water, and that being the case, it was not outside the bounds of chance that the aircraft would land to make a thorough investigation of the supposed lake.

  Meanwhile, the flying-boat came gliding in on idling engines. No one spoke. Everyone stood tense, by no means sure of what would happen, for the spectacle of a big flying-boat landing on solid ground has rarely been presented.

  “Get ready to duck if it changes course, or tries to get off again,” snapped Biggles. “If that ten tons of metal hits the carpet there’s going to be a shower of nuts and bolts.”

  Actually, the crash did not occur as the spectators supposed it would. There was a rasping, shuddering crash as the keel tore a great scar in the moss-encrusted rock. The nose bounced up, automatically causing the tail unit to strike the ground with even greater violence. At this juncture the pilot must have realized his error, and decided to try to get off again, for the engines came to life with a roar. The three whirling airscrews succeeded in lifting the nose by sheer power, but—this could only be surmised—the damage done to the tail had either affected the controls or fractured the elevators. At any rate, for perhaps ten seconds the aircraft roared along like a mortally wounded bird, dragging its useless tail—a sight that brought a gasp of horror from the watching airmen, for it was obvious that no power on earth could save the machine from disaster. The pilot did the only thing left for him to do. He cut his engines. The effect was instantaneous.

  The flying-boat crashed back to earth, striking the ground a bare hundred yards from where the spellbound British airmen stood.

  Even before it struck Biggles was racing towards it, his first instinct as a pilot being to save the crew if possible. But there was no question of that. Simultaneously with the crash came a burst of flame, a flame that grew and spread and leapt with a roar like distant thunder. A mighty column of black smoke swirled high into the air.

  Biggles backed away, breaking into a run as small-arms ammunition began to explode, flinging bullets in all directions. There was nothing he could do. He knew beyond all doubt that the enemy airmen were past help. Pale, he returned to the others. A burning aircraft, even though it is an enemy machine, is not a pretty sight.

  But this, apparently, was not the view of the natives who, with barbaric yells of joy, now broke from cover and raced towards the wreck.

  Biggles stormed. “Rex, for heaven’s sake get those fools ba
ck under the trees!”

  Rex shrugged his shoulders. “When they’re in the state they’re in now they won’t take any notice of me.”

  “Then find Suba.”

  “He’s with them.”

  The crazy fool! Tell him there may be bombs on board. If they explode the whole tribe will be blasted to eternity.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Rex started running towards the wreck, which by this time was surrounded by a wide circle of howling natives. Biggles followed him.

  They had almost reached the machine when above the noise of the fire and the shouting came another. Looking in the direction of the sound, Biggles saw a machine diving towards the landing-ground. In a flash it had come and gone. Zooming high after its dive, it banked steeply and sped away towards the northeast.

  Biggles threw up his hands in impotent anger. “After all my trouble to keep this place secret!” he said bitterly.

  “Why, what was it?” asked Rex, with some concern.

  “A Nakajima fighter.”

  “The pilot must have seen the smoke.”

  “Of course he did,” snapped Biggles. “It was bad enough that he should see the crash, but what is worse, he must have seen us. Now he’s gone home like a bat out of Hades to spread the news. I’m not usually pessimistic, but I’m afraid we’re in for trouble. There’s nothing we can do about it now, so I’ll get all hands clearing up this mess.”

  CHAPTER X

  FEE WONG COMES BACK

  AN hour after the Nakajima had disappeared a third aircraft arrived over Lucky Strike. This time it was a British machine, an amphibian of the well-known Saro Cloud type.

  “For the love of Mike!” groaned Biggles. “This place was going to be a dead secret. Why, it’s getting more traffic than a perishing terminal airport. I feel like giving up.”

  With feet apart and arms folded across his chest, he watched the Cloud land and taxi to the occupied end of the runway. There emerged from it three men. The first was an officer of the Royal Air Force whose badges of rank proclaimed him to be a wing-commander. He was a stranger to Biggles. The second was a Chinese in a tattered blue robe and black skull cap. The third was a flight-lieutenant of the Royal Australian Air Force, evidently the pilot.

  “There was a time,” murmured Biggles sadly to Algy, “when you could make a guess as to who was going to step out of an aeroplane, but I’m dashed if you can any longer.”

  “What do these people want, I wonder?” said Algy curiously.

  “Don’t waste your time wondering—you’d never guess,” answered Biggles sarcastically.

  “Most Chinamen look alike to me,” he added, “but I’ve got an idea I’ve seen that chap in the blue nightshirt before. Surely he was one of the people we rescued from Cotabato?”

  The three visitors walked up to Biggles, the R.A.F. officer leading. He held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Bigglesworth,” he said. “I’m Crane—Liaison Intelligence in Australia.” He jerked his thumb towards the crash on which a number of airmen and natives were working. “I see you’ve had a crack-up?”

  “Not us, thank goodness,” replied Biggles. “A Jap decided to call, but as you see he tripped over the step. We shall soon be having some crashes, though, if this place is going to be turned into a public airport.”

  The wing-commander smiled sympathetically. “Sorry, but I had to see you.”

  “Come in and have a drink,” invited Biggles. “What’s the idea of bringing John Chinaman back here? I should have thought he’d seen enough of Borneo.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about,” returned the wing-commander.

  As they walked towards the “office” Biggles called Algy and introduced him. “He’s my second-in-command,” he explained. “He’d better hear what you have to say.”

  “Certainly. Well, I won’t keep you long,” promised the wing-commander. “Briefly, this is the story. When your parcel of prisoners arrived at Darwin, naturally we interrogated them all to extract any information they happened to possess. As a matter of detail we learned some interesting facts, but Fee Wong here had a particularly exciting item of news. He speaks English, by the way. Until we lost Malaya he was a big business man in Singapore. His line was timber—you know most of the teak comes from the upper end of the Malayan Peninsula? Fee Wong’s brother was in business with him—he looked after the timber concession and the saw-mills; Fee Wong ran the business end at Singapore. When the Japanese invaded, however, it happened that they were both at Telapur—that’s the name of the upriver station where the teak is cut. I’m sorry to burden you with these details, but you must get a grasp of them to understand what is to come.”

  “Go ahead,” said Biggles quietly.

  “As you probably know, the Japs seized an enormous quantity of rubber that had to be left behind when we retreated from Penang, on the western side of the Peninsula. We knew the Japs would get it, and we knew that they’d ship it to Japan, but we didn’t know how. Thanks to Fee Wong we do know now. Thousands of tons of rubber, and a considerable quantity of tin, has been loaded into rather more than a hundred barges ready to be shipped to Japan; but instead of bringing all this stuff by sea round the southern tip of the Peninsula, it is to be taken across to the eastern side. This saves a trip of several hundred miles and practically eliminates the chance of being bombed by us en route. The barges will use the River Limpur. As far as we know they are still moored on the western side, waiting for the rains which will make the river navigable for such craft.”

  “And you want them bombed?”

  “No. I’m afraid that wouldn’t dispose of them. You see, they are moored some distance apart under overhanging trees, which makes them hard to see from the air. A hundred bombers might, with luck, get perhaps a score of barges at the very outside, scattered as they are. That’s not good enough. The alternative is sabotage.”

  “The barges may already have left,” Biggles pointed out. “It must be some time since Fee Wong was there.”

  “He was there a month ago, but he is sure the barges will not have left—or if they have they cannot have gone far, because until the rains start—and they’re not due for another fortnight—the river is in many places too shallow to permit the passage of the boats. There are also rapids.”

  Biggles lit a cigarette. He had an idea of what was coming.

  “Fee Wong escaped from the Japs,” continued the wing-commander. “His brother could not travel with him because at the time he was down with fever. Fee Wong and two Malays got away in a prahu—that is a native canoe—hoping to travel from island to island until they could make contact with British forces. Crossing the Torres Sea they were recaptured by a Jap destroyer and taken to Cotabato, where the Malays got away into the jungle. Anyway, you rescued Fee Wong, and here he is. The idea of sabotage hadn’t occurred to him, but when we raised the subject he said it could be done easily. He knows every inch of the country. When the rains start the cables mooring the barges could be cut. They would then run amok and be smashed up in the rapids that occur along the river.”

  Biggles stared. “Are you suggesting that one man could cut the cables of a hundred barges?”

  “Not one man, perhaps, but a lot of men could. The chances are that Fee Wong’s brother, Ah Wong, is still at Telapur; but even if he isn’t, the native Malays and Chinese coolies will certainly be there, and Fee Wong knows every one of them. He says he has been a good master, and is prepared to wager on their loyalty, both to him and to the British. We visualize a picture of scores of coolies prowling about in the forest that bounds the river, doing all sorts of mischief to the Jap transports. All we have to do is get Fee Wong to the spot. That must be by air. There’s no other way.”

  “Where is this aircraft going to land?”

  “On the river—obviously. The forest stretches away unbroken on both sides. There isn’t even a field.”

  “But won’t the Japs see it land?”

  “They might, but Fee Wo
ng thinks it’s unlikely. They can’t patrol the whole length of the river. Anyhow, it’s a chance Fee Wong is prepared to take.”

  “What about the pilot who flies him?”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to take the same risk. I own freely that the whole thing is a gamble, but the reward for us, if successful, would be enormous. If we fail, we lose one aircraft; if we win, we might wipe out a whole Japanese convoy and all the rubber that they so badly need.”

  Biggles smiled grimly. “When you put it like that it all sounds nice and easy, but it isn’t going to be so funny for the chap who does this job. I take it you want me to send someone?”

  “That’s why I’ve come here. This is the most suitable base we have from which to undertake the operation.”

  “But just a minute,” put in Biggles. “I’m not so sure that this place is within range of my Cayman—the machine I should have to use.”

  “Yes, it is—just. We’ve been into that. Of course, there isn’t much margin, but it can just be done.”

  “I’ll check up on that,” declared Biggles. He looked at the Chinese, a grave, elderly man, whose face gave no indication of what he was thinking.

  “How do you feel about all this, Fee Wong?”

  “I think velly good,” answered the Chinese simply.

  The wing-commander looked at Biggles anxiously. “May I take it that you’ll accept the mission?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it,” returned Biggles. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m enthusiastic about it because I’m not. I should say that the chances are pretty small against the pilot getting back, even if he gets there; but as it’s obviously up to someone to go, I might as well.”