No Rest For Biggles

by W E Johns

  “What do I tell Algy, old boy?”

  “Tell him to stand fast until we join you. It’s no use him coming here. There’s nowhere to land except on Christophe’s flat patch.”

  “Right you are.”

  “You keep an eye behind us, Ginger,” ordered Biggles as the march was resumed. “ Bertie, you watch the flanks. I’ll watch ahead. If we’re attacked we shall have to fight it out. I’m not standing still to be skewered like a chicken. In his present mood Christophe will be good enough for any devilment.”

  They went on for about a mile, seeing nothing of interest except vultures fighting over the remains of a kill, made presumably by lions. Biggles stopped. “We’ll wait here for a bit to see you on your way, Bertie, t hen we’ll go back,” he said. “Watch your step.”

  “Good enough. So long.” Bertie continued on his march north.

  “It looks as if we shall have to tighten our belts until Algy gets back,” remarked Biggles, as they waited. “I didn’t reckon on being out of touch for as long as this. However, something may turn up. Water may be a more pressing problem.”

  They gave Bertie a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time, after a thorough reconnaissance of the landscape, they started to retrace their steps, keeping going until a clump of tamarisk offered shade from the sun, which was now fierce. This was perhaps three hundred yards from the edge of the forest.

  “I’d have expected rather more activity than this,” observed Biggles, surveying the shimmering landscape. “It begins to look as if Christophe thinks we all went off in the Hastings. Von Stalhein, as I said before, would know better, but he may not have told Christophe. I wonder what he’s up to. He’s some scheme on. You never know what he’s going to pull out of the hat.”

  They sat down and finished the remains of the food in Ginger’s bag. There was very little. The day wore on. The sun toiled across the heavens. The air danced under its heat. Nothing happened. Ginger, who was getting really thirsty, voiced the opinion that they wouldn’t last the day without a drink.

  “If the worst comes to the worst we’ll make for that crocodile river I told you about,” said Biggles. “It runs round the back of the camp. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this. I expected von Stalhein back before this. It’d suit us if he didn’t get back today at all, because once it gets dark I shall try for a close look at the hangar. If we could destroy the weapon there’d be nothing to keep us here. We could pull out and join Bertie.”

  The day wore on wearily to its close. The heat was intense. The flies, of one sort or another, were merciless. Ginger suffered from thirst; and so, no doubt, did Biggles, although he didn’t mention it. Occasional parties of hunting natives revealed the danger of looking for water. One party passed close. The only animals seen were some zebra, in the distance, galloping as if they had been disturbed.

  “I hope I haven’t got this all wrong,” muttered Biggles, about sundown. “Von Stalhein should have been back before this—if he’s coming back. He got here quickly enough when Christophe told him I was here.”

  “He’ll come back all right,” declared Ginger confidently. “He’s not likely to abandon the secret weapon. My guess is, it’s taking him a little time to get organized for a showdown with Christophe.”

  “Could be,” agreed Biggles. “We’ll move as soon as it gets properly dark. First we’ll make for the stream and try to get a drink. Then we’ll tackle the hangar—probably set fire to it. That shouldn’t be difficult, with everything bone dry. If we can manage that we’ll follow Bertie and wait for Algy. We haven’t much longer to wait. Queer how the time hangs when you’re doing nothing. This—just a minute! What’s this coming?”

  A murmur of voices, speaking loudly and sometimes raised as if in triumph, came drifting through the stagnant air. Nothing could be seen as yet, however, for -the sound, still some way off, came from beyond the thickest part of the tamarisks, which obstructed their view. This difficulty was easily overcome. They pushed their way through them, and the source of the noise was instantly revealed. At a distance of rather more than a hundred yards, striding through the gathering gloom, was a group of perhaps a dozen blacks, waving their spears. Sometimes one would break into a dance.

  The reason for this jubilation was evident. In the middle of the group walked a man who seemed to be on the point of exhaustion. He was a white man, and it needed no second look to identify him. It was Bertie. Even as they watched a native prodded him in the back with his spear.

  For a moment Ginger was speechless, shocked with consternation, for it seemed futile to tackle such a mob even though the blacks were armed only with spears. “How on earth—” he began.

  Biggles cut him short. “Never mind wondering. They’ve got him. We’ve got to get him, or with Christophe in his present mood he’ll kill him, if nothing worse.”

  “They’re taking him to the camp?”

  “Of course.”

  “We couldn’t get near them without them seeing us coming.”

  “We can’t tackle them here, that’s obvious. Wait till they’re behind that next patch of scrub. Then we’ll make a bolt for the forest and take them on from cover. Our only chance is to scatter them in a panic at the first jump. If it means fighting it out, that’s how it will have to be. Don’t forget those devils killed Vic Roberts and young Laxton. We can’t leave Bertie in their hands. There they go. This is it. Come on.”

  So saying Biggles broke cover and sprinted for the forest, Ginger at his heels.

  Three hundred yards can be a long way. In the present circumstances it seemed to Ginger more like a mile. Often he stumbled on the rough ground. Once he fell, knocking most of the breath out of his body, for the sun-baked earth was like iron. Once he nearly tripped over a small animal that rushed across his path. The trouble was, in running it was necessary to keep one eye on the scrub behind which the natives had disappeared from sight, in order to mark their reappearance. When that happened they both went flat until more bushes intervened. However, gasping for breath and half blinded with perspiration they reached the forest, without—judging from the unbroken voices of the blacks—being discovered.

  Biggles didn’t stop, but tore on, dodging obstacles and ducking under branches. Beneath the trees it was nearly dark, which didn’t make progress any easier. Blundering over fallen debris and struck in the face by twigs, to Ginger the thing began to take on some form of madness. He thought his heart would burst, but the plight of Bertie kept him going. That and the fact that Biggles seemed indefatigable. In an emergency he always did. His endurance, when circumstances demanded it, was still to Ginger a thing to wonder at. From his physical appearance one would not have suspected it. It could only be, thought Ginger vaguely, a matter of brain over brawn.

  Reaching the edge of the airstrip Biggles stopped to listen. In a moment he was on again, guided by the noise the victorious blacks were making. Again he stopped, head up, listening, mud to the waist, face grimy, chin unshaven. He went on a little way to where a barely perceptible path ran out of the forest. “This is the way they’re coming,” he said tersely. “You stay there. I’ll go the other side. When I shout, fire two shots over their. heads. I’ll do the same. If they bolt, okay. If not, shoot to kill, and shoot fast, covering Bertie. It’ll be them or us for it. They won’t hesitate to kill us if they can. Got any spare cartridges?”

  “Three clips.”

  “Give me one.”

  Ginger passed a clip.

  “Thanks. Here they come.”

  For three or four minutes they waited, the noise drawing nearer, Ginger fighting for breath, wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. Then, out of the forest came the blacks, still laughing, one still prodding Bertie, who was swaying on his feet, with the blunt end of his spear.

  “Now ! “ shouted Biggles, and his gun streamed flame.

  Three more shots followed like a volley.

  Most of the blacks broke at once, either running back down the track or diving into the fore
st; but some, perhaps too startled to move, stood their ground, eyes showing the whites in their astonishment.

  Curiously, Bertie was the first to move. He spun round, grasped the spear of the man who had been tormenting him, tore it from his hands and flung it at him, crying: “Now hold that, you blighter.”

  Biggles dropped a native who looked like showing fight and Ginger shot another who was in the act of throwing a spear at him. The two survivors fled.

  “Hold ‘em off, Ginger.” rapped out Biggles. “Come on, Bertie.”

  Ginger emptied his gun at random into the trees and slipped in a fresh clip of ammunition. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Bertie was in a pretty bad way. His face was chalk white. There were ugly stains on his jacket.

  Biggles got an arm round him. “Cover the rear, Ginger,” he said crisply, and after going a few yards turned into the forest. This was necessary, for through the gloom, from the far side of the landing ground, figures were running towards the spot, as was only to be expected, for the onset had taken place in view of the hangar entrance although a good way from it.

  In the forest Bertie shook himself free. “I’m all right, old boy,” he protested. “Absolutely top-hole. You press on. I’ll follow on.”

  “Follow nothing,” muttered Biggles, linking an arm through Bertie’s. “Lean on me. This is going to be a hot spot in a minute so we’ll weave a bit farther if you can manage it.”

  And so they went on, slowly, Ginger bringing up the rear, gun half raised ready for a snap shot should they be molested.

  What with the slow progress, the darkness—for it was now pitch black under the trees—and the heat, the next half-hour was a nightmare. Bertie managed to keep on his feet. He said not a word. Ginger knew Biggles must be making for the stream. How he kept his direction he couldn’t imagine. After a time, as night closed in, they moved out into the open, and progress was easier. The jeep had appeared at the far end of the landing ground. Ginger could see the headlamps, which told them, roughly, the position of the compound, towards the rear of which they were heading.

  By the time they reached the stream Ginger himself was about all in.

  “Here we are,” said Biggles softly.

  Bertie, who had been stumbling more and more often, sank down.

  “Where are you hurt?” asked Biggles.

  “A stinker jabbed me in the back with his beastly skewer—nothing serious—but I’ve lost a spot of the old red juice, I’m afraid. Bit groggy at the knees, that’s all. Shall be all right when I’ve had a breather.”

  “Stand fast,” said Biggles, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Presently Ginger could hear splashings, as though he was throwing things into the water. Biggles came back with his shirt in his hand, dripping. Having no vessel for carrying water he had soaked it. He made Bertie lie back, and after wringing some water into Bertie’s mouth, mopped his face. He then made Bertie lie on his face while he removed his shirt, and in the light of a shielded match, examined his back.

  “Not too bad,” he reported, putting the wet shirt on the wound. “You stay like that for a bit till the bleeding stops. We’re staying here. It’s as good as anywhere.”

  “I’m as good as new after that drink,” declared Bertie. “By jingo, I was dry.”

  “I’m a bit raspy in the mouth myself,” admitted Biggles. “Come on, Ginger, let’s go and get a drink. Shan’t be a minute, Bertie.”

  Biggles and Ginger went to the stream, where each took turn throwing pieces of dead wood into the water while the other drank. No crocodiles were seen but no chances were taken. Biggles said he thought the brutes probably congregated behind the soldiers’ huts for the garbage that was thrown in. Much refreshed, although the water was warm and brackish, they returned to Bertie, and sat down beside him.

  “What happened?” asked Biggles.

  Bertie smiled weakly. “You never saw anything so daft in your life,” he murmured. “I got to the bally landing ground, and was making for the bushes, when round the corner came a rhino—probably the one you had a poop at, Ginger, to get him to move on. He must live there. We met sort of face to face. The blighter didn’t like me—no, by Jove. He squealed like a stuck porker and came for me flat out in a cloud of dust and small pebbles. I ran like a lamplighter into the bushes and stuff me with a suet pudding if I didn’t barge right into the middle of the Kentucky Minstrels having a picnic. Couldn’t do a thing about it. We had a lovely scrum for half a minute, and then, there I was, up the creek without a paddle, with the stinkers sitting on me. And by Jove! did they stink. I thinks to meself, Bertie, me lad, this is where you’re the board in a dart game; instead of which the silly asses decided to take me home to show the kids what they’d caught. That’s all, old boy. I’m dashed sorry to give you so much trouble.”

  “The only trouble is, there will be nobody on the spot to meet Algy when he rolls up. He’ll get in a flap, and as like as not come looking for us.”

  “He’ll wait a bit before he does anything drastic,” asserted Ginger confidently. “He said he would.”

  “I hope he does,” said Biggles earnestly. “If he comes here with the place all steamed up, he’s likely to bump into trouble in a big way.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t think we need be in a hurry to move from here. It’s as good as anywhere. Later on, after the moon’s up and we can see what we’re doing, we might move a bit nearer to the hangar. At least, I assume they have some sort of shelter for the machine. I can’t understand why von Stalhein hasn’t come back. What’s he up to all this time. Even if he didn’t intend to come back right away one wouldh ave thought that the pilot, Dessalines, or whatever his name is, would have come home to roost. No matter. We shall know all about it tomorrow, or I’m no good at guessing. How are you feeling, Bertie?”

  “Fine.”

  “Able to move a bit, presently?”

  “I wouldn’t guarantee to beat Bannister over a mile but I’ll be able to hobble along when you say the word.”

  “Good enough.”

  Silence fell. Far away a lion roared. In the forest drums muttered sullenly. Ginger rested his chin in his hands and dozed fitfully.

  BAD LUCK

  BIGGLES WAITED until the moon was riding high and then moved the party nearer to the hangar, keeping just inside the forest. It was painfully slow work, but it would have been dangerous to expose themselves in the open. The reason for the move was, he explained, he wanted to reconnoitre the hangar, but was anxious not to be too far away from them should a sudden emergency arise.

  If he could get close enough to the secret machine, or the hangar that housed it, he said, he would set fire to it. He felt sure that the hangar, if in fact one existed at all, would be of a flimsy nature, of wooden construction, with a thatched roof which should be dry enough to burn readily. If he could do that the show would be over as far as they were concerned. All that would remain would be for them to get home as best they could. Which really meant getting to the rendezvous with Algy who would pick them up.

  That, Biggles was aware, although he did not say so, was likely to be more difficult than appeared on the face of it; for Bertie, he suspected, was feeling worse than he pretended. He had no serious wound, but he had several cuts in the back as a result of being prodded along by the natives with the points of their spears. He had lost a certain amount of blood and was near to exhaustion, if not collapse. He was in urgent need of medical attention but at the moment they were powerless to do anything about it. They hadn’t any first aid kit, or even a bandage. The medicine chest was in the aircraft. It would have been an awkward thing to carry about with them.

  In his heart Biggles doubted if Bertie would be able to walk to the rendezvous, and he and Ginger, alone, would certainly not be able to carry him. It would take them all their time to get there unencumbered. The alternative was to bring the machine to Christophe’s airfield, a project, as things were, too desperate for serious consideration.

  Wherefore Big
gles was worried. But not for a moment did he lose sight of his purpose, which was to prevent von Stalhein, or those for whom he worked, getting possession of America’s latest secret weapon. At any cost that had to be prevented, and the only way, now, of preventing it, was to destroy it; and the best way of destroying it would be by a fire of such heat that the smaller component parts, at least, and certainly the electrical installation, would be either melted or charred beyond recognition.

  “Listen, chaps,” he said. “I’m going to have a look round. You’re as safe here as anywhere within a mile of the compound so sit tight. I shall get back as soon as I can. If I’m not back by daylight you can reckon you’re on your own, in which case you’ll have to act as you think best. Should that happen I suggest that you, Ginger, leave Bertie here while you go to meet Algy and put the position to him. He can then either fly to Accra for help, or, with you, try to pick Bertie up. That’ll be up to him. Don’t forget that in all probability von Stalhein will be back here by then. I think that’s about all, unless you have anything to say.”

  “No, I’ve nothing to say,” replied Ginger.

  “Don’t worry about me, old boy,” said Bertie, weakly. “I’m all right. Sorry to be such a beastly nuisance, and all that.”

  “You couldn’t be a nuisance if you tried, you big stiff,” Biggles told him. He threw a meaning glance at Ginger and walked away.

  He began a long, slow, cautious approach to the objective. It was some time before the sound of voices, and lights moving about amongst the trees, told him that he was getting near. From the general buzz of activity it was evident that he had no hope of finding the hangar deserted, or guarded by only one or two sentries. Not that he had entertained such a hope, for after all that had happened it was only to be expected that Christophe would take every possible precaution to see that he did not lose the one thing on which his ambitions depended—the secret weapon. And, Biggles suspected, he trusted von Stalhein no more than he trusted anyone else, for he represented the people whom he had cheated in the first place to get possession of the prototype aircraft with the new device. That he may have felt justified in cheating, knowing that he himself would be cheated in due course, made no difference.