by W E Johns
“By thunder! You’re right,” answered Biggles. “The launch is trying to tow the aircraft to the bank. That chap in the bows is shouting orders to Algy. None of them have seen us yet. I think we’ll take a hand in this.”
The barge was now about two hundred yards from the launch, which was heading diagonally up-stream, apparently with the object of getting out of the main flow of the river. Behind it, yawing under the strain of the tow-rope, was the Cayman. The barge, many times larger than the launch, bore down on the scene as a heavy lorry on a road might approach a bicycle. Ginger, glancing at Biggles’s face, saw that he was smiling.
“Watch the splinters fly,” said Biggles, leaning on the tiller.
By this time it was clear that the crew of the launch had seen the barge. Several men were standing up, signalling frantically, presumably in the hope that the barge would alter its course. There was, as Biggles remarked calmly, no reason why they should suppose that the barge was manned by two members of the British Royal Air Force. With their uniforms and faces caked with mud, Biggles and Ginger might have belonged to any service in any army.
At the last moment, to obtain more speed, the man in the stern of the launch cast off the line that held the Cayman in tow; but by that time it was too late. The barge swept towards the vessel, a small river cruiser, with the relentless force of an avalanche crashing down on an Alpine hut. It struck the launch amidships. It checked for a moment in its mad career and then went on, leaving behind it some splinters of wood and one or two men struggling in the water. The launch, with one of its sides stove in, had sunk like a stone.
Biggles paid no further attention to it. He could not have stopped even had he wanted to, and he did not want to. He was afraid he might hit the Cayman. He did, in fact, pass close to it, and was able to shout to Algy, “Stand by! We’re coming back.”
Biggles was now only too anxious to check the speed of the barge in order to make contact with the aircraft, but there seemed to be no way of doing this, although the Cayman was, of course, still drifting down the river out of control.
“Hold tight!” shouted Biggles to Ginger. “I’m going to try to bring her round. If I can get her nose up-stream it may steady our pace.”
So saying, Biggles threw his whole weight on the tiller. The barge, which in spite of its engine was still in the grip of the current, began to swing round in a wide circle; but the river was not wide enough for such a manceuvre, and it was soon clear that the vessel would never complete the half-circle necessary to achieve his object. In fact, it did not get broadside to the stream, but rushed straight towards the river bank—or rather where, during the dry season, the bank would have been. The forest was now inundated, and the only difference between the flood beyond the bank and the river was that the river rushed on whereas the flooded forest was quiet. It might have been a lake.
“We can’t make it!” yelled Biggles, and dragged on the tiller to take up his original course. But the barge was too near the bank, and before it could get round into the main stream it had crashed into the trees.
Ginger dived into the cabin to prevent himself from being swept off by the overhanging branches. Biggles followed him. For a few seconds the barge crashed broadside-on through the trees, snapping them off like twigs. Then it came silently to rest, afloat in the jungle.
“That was very clever of me,” snarled Biggles, as he scrambled back to the deck. Ginger also emerged, and was just in time to see the Cayman go gliding past on the main stream.
Algy yelled something, but neither Biggles nor Ginger heard what he said.
Biggles wiped sweat and mud from his face. “I’m not used to handling barges,” he remarked disgustedly, and sat down. Another moment and he was on his feet again as an aero engine roared.
Ginger fairly danced with excitement. “ It’s Algy!” he shouted, somewhat vaguely. “He’s got his engines started. He’s coming back.”
This was true. The Cayman soon appeared, coming up-stream on a diagonal course towards the gap in the trees made by the barge.
“He’s only got to collide with a teak log coming down the river to wind up a really good day’s work,” remarked Biggles wearily.
But this did not happen. The Cayman roared into the gap. As soon as it was out of the grip of the current the engines stopped. The aircraft surged on to bump its nose gently against the side of the barge. Algy stood up. He was grinning.
“If the squadron could have seen you trying to do a vertical bank in that barge—”
“Oh, shut up,” growled Biggles. “Come aboard and let’s have some lunch. Have you still got your passengers?”
“Yes, they’re here,” answered Algy.
“Bring them along,” ordered Biggles. “The Chinese always did think we were a race of lunatics. After today’s exhibition the brothers Wong must be convinced of it.”
Fee Wong’s head appeared. He, too, was smiling. “ Velly good,” said he.
CHAPTER XIV
MORE SHOCKS
LATER in the day the weather improved considerably, although Ah Wong was insistent that the rain would soon start again. They had some food, a wash, and a rest, after which they all felt better, particularly as a closer examination of the barge’s petrol tank promised enough fuel to enable the Cayman to get to its base—always assuming that the engines would continue to work on ordinary commercial petrol instead of the aviation spirit to which they were accustomed.
As it happened they were never put to the test, for just as the work of transferring the fuel was to begin, the roar of a low-flying aircraft sent the airmen ducking for cover. A few seconds later a Japanese seaplane, which Biggles identified as a Kawinishi reconnaissance biplane, came tearing up the river at a height of not more than a hundred feet.
Ginger, peering up from the tarpaulin beneath which he had taken cover, could see the observer in the back seat quite clearly. He was looking over first one side and then the other.
“He’s looking for barges, I’ll warrant,” declared Biggles. “Keep out of sight.”
For a little while it looked as if the barge and its adjacent aircraft would escape observation, for they were off the main river and had some protection from the trees ; but when the seaplane zoomed, turned and came back on a course that would bring it immediately over the two craft, Biggles knew that they had been spotted.
“Don’t move, anyone,” he ordered tersely. “We still have a chance if they think we are just hulks. By the time they can send a launch to look us over we shall be on our way—I hope.”
On this occasion Biggles was at fault, as Algy was quick to point out. “Never mind about calling up a launch; the blighters are going to land and have a look at us,” he observed.
“Somehow I didn’t think they’d risk a landing if they were doing a general reconnaissance of the river,” returned Biggles.
“It would suit us fine if they would land,” put in Ginger quickly. “The petrol in their tank would be better for us than the low-octane stuff in the barge.”
“You’re right,” flashed Biggles. “I didn’t think of that. I’ve got such an infernal headache that I’m a bit slow off the mark.”
“I fancy I could bring them down,” suggested Ginger.
“How?”
“Shall I try it?”
“Go ahead—but don’t get us shot up.”
Ginger dived into the cabin. In a minute he was out again, wearing a Japanese tunic and cap selected from the garments that had been abandoned. He ran along the catwalk waving to the now circling aircraft. The machine banked steeply and then, after going down the river for a short distance, came back with its engine idling, obviously intending to land.
“Here they come,” said Biggles. “Let them come right in. Don’t move.”
The Kawinishi made a successful landing, and without stopping, taxied on into the creek made by the runaway barge. With its engine ticking over, it forged on slowly until one of its floats touched the barge. The lower wing projected well ove
r it.
The pilot pushed back his cockpit cover and sat up. The observer did more. He stood up and called something to Ginger—in his own language, of course. For obvious reasons Ginger did not answer. All he could think to do was make signs with his hands and point to the cabin, which he then entered, for he was afraid the Japanese might notice that his face was white. If the enemy airmen thought this strange behaviour they gave no sign of it. The observer climbed out on his wing, walked along it, and dropped lightly on the barge within two yards of where Biggles was crouching under the tarpaulin.
Biggles rose up and knocked him into the water—not a difficult matter since the Jap was unprepared for such a swift assault. “Take care of him!” shouted Biggles, and jumping on the plane, ran to the cockpit. The pilot was so taken aback that he scarcely moved. At the last moment he dropped in his seat and tried to close the cover. Biggles clapped a revolver to his head. The Jap stared at him, saucer-eyed; then he raised his hands. Algy was dragging the observer back on the barge. The whole thing was over in less than a minute.
Biggles made signs to the pilot to get on the barge. The man did not protest. No doubt he realized that with three white men and two Chinese to deal with, resistance was futile.
Biggles escorted them both to the cabin and closed the hatch on them. Ginger smiled.
The capture had been ridiculously easy, and more in the nature of comedy than tragedy.
“That’s fine,” declared Biggles. “Let’s fill up and get ready to go home.”
“You mean—right away?” queried Ginger.
Biggles thought for a moment, holding his head in his hands. Ginger noticed that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, but he said nothing.
“I don’t think we’d better risk flying out of Malaya in daylight,” decided Biggles. “There are bound to be enemy machines about, and it would be silly to risk bumping into them.It would be better to wait for dark, and aim to arrive at Lucky Strike about dawn.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“I’m not going to clutter the Cayman up with them, if that’s what you mean,” answered Biggles. “We’ll set fire to the barge because there’s still a lot of rubber in it. The prisoners can sit in the Kawinishi. No doubt a patrol boat will pick them up later on.”
The business of transferring the petrol from the Japanese aircraft to the Cayman was a long and tedious one. There was no pipe long enough to syphon the spirit from one tank to another, so it had to be carried in cans. As a result of this it was nearly dark by the time the task had been completed.
After that there was nothing to do but wait, although a watchful eye was kept on the sky for a recurrence of the rain. Should it show signs of starting, Biggles had decided to take off immediately, for to take off from the river in a monsoon downpour would be practically impossible.
The rain held off, and they finished their iron rations.
“It’s getting on for midnight,” said Biggles at last. “I think we’ll get along.” He had a few words with Fee Wong to confirm that the brothers wished to leave Malaya, for after what had happened they had already hinted at this. There was, they decided, no reason for staying.
With Ah Wong acting as interpreter, the two prisoners were made to get into their machine and paddle it some distance away. The barge was then fired. In some haste Biggles and the others boarded the Cayman; the engines were started, and in the lurid glare of the burning barge the aircraft tore down the stream in a wild take-off. Having the advantage of being lightly loaded, it soon left the water, but it narrowly missed the tree-tops as it zoomed in a manner not in the least like Biggles’s usual practice. Ginger, who was in the next seat, glanced at him, and saw at once that something was wrong. Biggles was sagging forward, as though he was falling asleep. Ginger grabbed him by the arm.
“ Hi! What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.
Biggles lolled back. “Can’t see,” he muttered in a weak voice.
Ginger grabbed the control column and yelled for Algy. Algy appeared.
“Biggles is ill. Get him into the cabin!” shouted Ginger in a panic, for in spite of his efforts to keep the machine on even keel, it was rocking dangerously.
Somehow Algy managed to get Biggles out of the pilot’s seat and Ginger slipped into his place. For a few minutes, while he was alone, he was content to keep the machine on its course. Then Algy came back.
“Looks to me as if he’s got a sharp attack of fever,” he announced. “I’ve seen it coming on for the past twenty-four hours.”
“I noticed it too,” answered Ginger.
“It may not last long, but he’s in no state to fly,” went on Algy. “We’ve made him as comfortable as possible on the floor. The sooner he’s on the ground between blankets the better.”
“You’d better take over.”
Algy took the control seat and Ginger sat beside him, although from time to time he went back into the cabin to see how Biggles was faring. He was conscious, but was obviously running a high temperature.
“Why didn’t you say you were sick?” accused Ginger. “You nearly crashed the lot of us.”
Biggles smiled weakly. “I didn’t realize how sick I was until we were in the air; then it came on sort of sudden.”
“Well, don’t worry. Everything’s all right. We’re all set for home and ought to be there about sun-up. Try to get some sleep.” With that Ginger went back to Algy.
“He isn’t too bad,” he said. “I think the bout will soon pass—you know how it is with malaria.”
“What I’m worried about is what we are going to do with him when we get to Lucky Strike,” muttered Algy. “He ought to go down to Australia for a course of treatment, but of course he won’t—at any rate, not until our work is finished.”
“Let’s get to Lucky Strike for a start,” suggested Ginger practically. “Where are we now?”
“We’ve just left the coast. If the weather keeps fair we shouldn’t have any trouble.”
Ginger looked at the sky, and was relieved to see that although it was partly covered, there were gaps through which the stars gleamed brightly. There was no sign of enemy aircraft and the Cayman roared on through the night. Sometimes he dozed, for he was desperately tired, and sometimes he took over from Algy to give him a chance to rest. In this way the hours passed, with the aircraft ploughing its invisible furrow across the tropic sky.
After a long silence Ginger spoke. “Six o’clock,” he observed. “It should start getting light any minute now. The old Cayman has hung together pretty well considering the rough handling she’s had.”
Algy nodded. “That’s Borneo ahead,” he remarked, and a few minutes later, as the first faint streaks of dawn stained the eastern horizon, the aircraft roared high over the rugged coast on the last lap of its journey. Slowly the world opened tired eyes for another day.
Ginger, half asleep, stared ahead at nothing in particular. He was looking forward to a long unbroken sleep. Suddenly he started, blinked, stared, closed his eyes and stared again.
“I say! What’s going on?” he cried.
Algy, who was flying mechanically, peered forward.
Ginger saw the smoke first. The high ground on which Lucky Strike was situated was smoking like a volcano in eruption. As a matter of detail, he had seen the smoke for some time, but in an abstract sort of way had taken it for cloud blowing up over the horizon.
There was no longer room for doubt. It was smoke.
“The forest is on fire,” he jerked out.
“Don’t you believe it,” returned Algy crisply. “The forest is soaking wet. I can’t imagine it burning.” Then he gasped. “Look up! It’s bombs.”
Lifting his eyes, Ginger saw for the first time a number of minute specks circling over the landing-ground. He counted twelve.
“What do you make of that lot?” asked Algy tersely.
“Don’t know—they’re too far off,” replied Ginger.
“They’re Japs, of course. They m
ust have found the aerodrome, and they’re plastering it.”
“Ah-huh. I suppose we can thank that fighter that came down to look at us, and then pushed off home.”
“Shall I tell Biggles ? “
“No,” decided Algy. “It’s no use worrying him. We shall have to work this out ourselves. One thing is certain. It’s no use trying to get in while the raid is on. Nor dare we risk being seen.”
Before he had finished speaking, Algy had turned the aircraft and was racing nose down for a bank of cloud that was rolling up from the south. Not until he had taken cover behind it did he speak again.
“Good thing we had a margin of petrol,” he said grimly.
“How much have you got left?”
“About half an hour. The Japs should have gone by then.”
“They seemed to be doing as they jolly well liked. Why weren’t the Beaus up after them, I wonder?”
Algy shrugged his shoulders. “We may find out presently. This looks to me like a pretty sticky mess.”
Biggles’s face appeared at the door of the bulkhead that divided the cockpit from the cabin. “What game do you two think you’re playing at?” he demanded. “I may be sick, but I’m not so ill that I can’t tell when a machine is off its course.”
“The Japs are bombing Lucky Strike,” answered Algy calmly. “I’m hanging about until they pack up.”
“How many machines could you see?”
“I counted a dozen.”
Biggles groaned. “Trust things to come unstuck the moment I turn my back.”
“You’d better go and lie down,” suggested Algy. “You can’t do anything.”
For twenty minutes by the watch Algy cruised up and down near the cloud, ready to bolt into it should hostile machines appear. Then he edged cautiously along the rim of the cloud towards the aerodrome. A quick reconnaissance of the sky revealed that the enemy aircraft had gone. As soon as he realized it, Algy put his nose down for the landing-ground, from which a sluggish column of smoke was still rising.
