Biggles in the Orient

by W E Johns

  ‘That certainly is odd,’ murmured Biggles. ‘What is the position on the route now?’

  ‘Between ourselves, we are temporarily suspending operations. We must. The surviving pilots are getting the jitters, and the commanding officer is jibbing at sending men to almost certain death. In the last few days a number of pilots have volunteered to rush through with some badly needed medical stores. None of them arrived. We can’t go on like that.’

  ‘But surely,’ interposed Biggles, ‘surely with radio a pilot could report the menace the moment it appeared? Whatever the trouble was, he would have warning of it, if only for a few seconds—time enough to flash a signal.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I was waiting for you to say that. You’ve put a finger on the most inexplicable part of the whole business. No such message has ever been received. In every case the radio has gone dead on us. We once sent a machine out with instructions to report to base every five minutes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The signals came through like clockwork for an hour. Then they just faded out.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Biggles looked amazed. ‘No wonder your pilots are getting jumpy. Tell me this. Does the interference apply to both ends of the route?’

  ‘That’s another astonishing thing. It doesn’t. No machine has ever had the slightest difficulty in getting through from China to India. It’s the India-China service that has been cracked up.’

  ‘That certainly is a poser,’ muttered Biggles, slowly. ‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. Have you tried operating at night?’

  ‘We have,’ asserted the Air Commodore. ‘That was the first counter-measure we tried. It made no difference. Machines disappeared just as regularly as by day.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I don’t wonder you’re in a flap.’

  ‘But just a minute,’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘There is worse to come. The same rot has now set in elsewhere, in the regular service squadrons. At the moment four stations are reporting abnormally high casualties without being able to offer the slightest explanation. In each case the casualty is a complete disappearance. The second place to suffer was right here, at Dum Dum. The third was Trichinoply, Madras, halfway down the coast, and the fourth, Ceylon, at the tip of the peninsula.’

  ‘From which we may suppose that the Japs, perceiving that they are on a winner, are developing the thing, whatever it is,’ put in Biggles grimly.

  ‘Precisely,’ interposed the Air Marshal dryly. ‘I need hardly point out that if it goes on we soon shan’t have any Air Force left in this part of the world. We’re relying on you to get to the bottom of it.’

  Biggles looked startled. ‘But if your technical experts have failed, sir, what do you think I can do about it?’

  The Air Marshal shrugged. ‘I haven’t the remotest idea. We’re floored, stumped. Do what you can.’

  ‘But that’s all very well, sir,’ protested Biggles. ‘As far as I can see, to send my pilots out looking for nobody-knows-what, would merely be to send them for a Burton*1 to no useful purpose.’

  ‘You’re our last hope, Bigglesworth,’ said the Air Commodore, with something like despair in his voice. ‘We can’t just suspend air operations—we might as well pack up altogether as do that.’

  ‘If you go on losing pilots and machines at the rate you are evidently losing them it will come to the same thing in the end.’

  The Air Marshal stepped in again. ‘See what you can do, Bigglesworth. You can have carte blanche, a freelance commission, have what equipment you like, do what you like, go where you like –but this thing has got to be stopped.’

  Biggles tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand. ‘Very well, sir. I don’t mind going out myself, but it isn’t going to be very nice to have to ask my boys to virtually commit suicide. They’ll go if I tell them to go, but I’d like you to know how I feel about it. This business of watching one’s officers go one by one –’

  ‘That’s just how four other station commanders are feeling at this very moment, Bigglesworth,’ broke in the Air Commodore wearily.

  Biggles pulled forward a scribbling-pad and picked up a pencil. For a little while he made meaningless marks. Then he asked: ‘What about altitude? Does that make any difference?’

  ‘None,’ answered the Air Commodore. ‘In desperation we tried sending machines to their ceiling before leaving the airfield. They disappeared just the same.’

  ‘I see. What is the longest period you have maintained radio contact with an aircraft that subsequently disappeared?’

  ‘Four hours. That was on the Chungking run. It’s a thousand miles.’

  ‘No intermediate landing-ground?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And what is the shortest period before you lost touch with a machine?’

  ‘An hour.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘The thing becomes uncanny. The time interval between one and four hours, translated to distance, is six or seven hundred miles. How can one even start looking for a thing that can strike over such an enormous area? You say that all the machines which disappeared, vanished into the blue. Am I to understand that not one of these crashes has ever been found?’

  ‘That, unfortunately, is so,’ answered the Air Commodore. ‘You’ve flown over the Himalayas, and the Burmese jungle, so you know what it’s like. It would be easier to find a pin in a cornfield.’

  ‘These crashes, then, always occur over enemy-occupied country?’

  ‘Either that or over the sea. From here we operate over Burma. From Madras and Ceylon most of the flying is done over the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘There has never been an unexplainable crash in India itself?’

  ‘There have been one or two crashes—not more than one would expect in the ordinary course of flying routine. These crashes were, of course, examined—but you know what such a crash looks like?’

  ‘No unusual features emerged at the courts of inquiry?’

  ‘None. In each case the pilot was killed, so he couldn’t tell us anything, even if there was something to tell. There was a crash on this aerodrome two days ago. The pilot tried hard to say something before he died—but there, that could happen anyway.’

  ‘Had he been over enemy territory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the machine?’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with it, as far as could be ascertained.’

  ‘How long had this pilot been in the air?’

  ‘About twenty minutes. He left a formation and turned back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We don’t know. There was nothing very remarkable about that. Machines occasionally turn back for one reason or another.’

  ‘What I’m trying to get at is this,’ explained Biggles. ‘Has there ever been an instance of an aircraft, or a pilot, affected by the new weapon, crashing on our side of the lines?’

  ‘Not as far as we know—unless the pilot I just mentioned was a case. That seems most unlikely though, as he was one of a formation of ten. Had he been attacked, surely the others would have been attacked, too.’

  ‘Tell me about this particular show,’ invited Biggles.

  ‘It was the last big raid we attempted from this airfield,’ replied the Air Commodore. ‘The rot had already set in, you understand, so the pilots and air crews taking part were keyed up for trouble. Actually, there are four squadrons here, not counting yours; two bomber squadrons and two fighter. Incidentally, you have been posted here as a communication squadron. Two days ago, one of the bomber squadrons took off soon after dawn with every machine it could raise—ten Blenheims—for a raid on the enemy-occupied airfield at Akyab. The distance to the objective, by the direct route across the Bay of Bengal, is about four hundred miles. Actually, the raid was timed for dawn, but there was still some mist about so the take off was postponed till it cleared.’

  ‘And you say the pilots were aware of the mysterious weapon?’

  ‘Yes. All personnel were very much on the alert.’
>
  ‘Go on, sir.’

  ‘About twenty minutes after the take-off one of the Blenheims was seen coming back. It was fairly low, gliding, in a manner which might be described as unsteady.’

  ‘Which implies that the pilot was having trouble?’

  ‘Yes—but then, had he not been in trouble he would not have left the formation.’

  ‘Did he speak over the radio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you have no idea what the trouble was?’

  ‘Not the remotest. Shortly after passing over the boundary of the airfield the aircraft stalled, and crashed, with what result I have already told you. At the Court of Inquiry, which went into the evidence very carefully, it was decided that such an accident could occur quite apart from any secret weapon. In fact, it was that sort of accident that could occur, and does occur, regularly.’

  ‘What was the name of this pilot?’

  ‘Cratton.’

  Biggles made a note. ‘What happened to the rest of the formation?’

  ‘The flight ended in disaster,’ said the Air Commodore heavily. ‘An hour after taking off, one of the nine remaining machines, before enemy opposition was encountered, without warning went into a spin and fell into the sea. Just before reaching the objective, in precisely the same conditions, another machine went down. One was shot down in combat over the target area. The six survivors dropped their bombs and turned for home. On the return journey four more went down at irregular intervals. Only two got back safely, both perfectly all right beyond being shaken by the tragedy of their comrades, and the strain of flying with the same fate impending.’

  ‘There was absolutely nothing wrong with them physically?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And what about the machines?’

  ‘They were all right, too.’

  ‘And the surviving pilots could offer no explanation as to why the others went down?’

  ‘None. The story was the same in every case. The stricken machine flew badly for a moment or two and then appeared to fall out of control. Sometimes the engines were cut, sometimes, the machines hit the water with the motors running.’

  Biggles lit a fresh cigarette. ‘I understand what you mean about pilots becoming unnerved. Anyone would freeze to the stick with that sort of thing going on round him. As far as a solution to the mystery is concerned, inevitably one thinks of death rays, so called, which I believe have often been used in fiction, but never in fact. Scientists say that such a ray is not possible—but then, scientists are not always right.’

  ‘You think there may be something in the death ray idea, then?’ suggested the Air Marshal. ‘We’ve considered it, of course.’

  ‘Frankly, no,’ replied Biggles. ‘And I’ll tell you why. If such a device was being used one would suppose that once they were within the sphere of influence all machines would be affected. In a daylight raid most aircraft keep a tight formation. I mean, if the thing could strike down one machine surely it would be able to strike down the others? We can hardly suppose that some machines are vulnerable while others are not. How was it that two came back? They were in all respects identical with those that fell. Then again, why the interval of time between the falling out of the last machines?’

  The Air Marshal spoke. ‘Our experts assert positively that the death ray is not yet a practical proposition, but there may be a beam device which could affect the electrical installation of an aero engine. For want of any other explanation we are inclined to accept that view.’

  ‘I’m not,’ returned Biggles bluntly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘In the first place, because the failure of its power unit doesn’t necessarily cause an aircraft to go down out of control. The pilot would automatically put the machine into a glide, and while the machine was gliding he would have ample time to send out a signal. Then again, air crews wear parachutes. If the aircraft was vitally affected the men in it would bale out. To me it looks more as if machines are being sabotaged on the ground.’

  ‘You can rule out sabotage,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘Those Blenheims were inspected and tested down to the last detail before they left the ground. With all this going on you can be quite sure that close watch is kept on equipment.’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘The one incontestable fact is that something is going wrong. If the trouble isn’t caused in the air, then it must start on the ground. Against trouble in the air is the absence of anything like structural failure, which would certainly be spotted by the other machines in the formation. I still think it is extraordinary that none of these crews baled out, or tried to bale out.’

  ‘It isn’t always easy to abandon an aircraft that is falling out of control,’ remarked the Air Commodore.

  ‘And in the case of Blenheims the Bay of Bengal was underneath, don’t forget,’ put in the Air Marshal. ‘The bay is infested with sharks.’

  ‘That may have been the reason,’ agreed Biggles. ‘For all we know, the crews of some of the machines that were lost on the China route may have baled out. Even if they got down alive, I imagine they’d find it impossible to get back on foot.’

  There was another short silence. All eyes were on Biggles’ face as he pondered the problem.

  ‘Tell me,’ he went on presently, ‘was there any rule about the number of pilots in these lost machines? I mean, has disaster ever overtaken a machine with two pilots in the cabin?’

  The Air Commodore answered. ‘I’m not quite sure about that. Out here we have to be economical with pilots, so in most cases—it was on the China run– when two pilots were lost together.’

  Again silence fell. Biggles chewed a matchstalk reflectively. Outside, the brief tropic twilight was passing, but the sultry heat persisted. The Air Commodore switched on a light. A large white moth flew in through the open window and fluttered round the globe with a faint rustling sound as its wings beat with futile effort against the glass.

  ‘Any more questions, Bigglesworth?’ asked the Air Marshal anxiously.

  Biggles looked up. ‘No, sir.’ He smiled wanly. ‘You’ve given me plenty to think about. I’d like to sleep on it.’

  ‘Then you’ll—er—take the matter in hand?’

  ‘I’ll do my best with it, sir.’

  ‘It’s urgent—desperately urgent.’

  ‘That’s about the only aspect of this affair that’s really obvious, sir,’ answered Biggles. He got up. ‘I’ll go now and have a word with my officers. Between us we may get on the scent of the thing. If we do I’ll report to the Air Commodore. I take it that no one on the station will be told the real reason why we have come here?’

  ‘I’ll see to that,’ promised the Air Commodore. ‘Even the station commander, Group Captain Boyle, supposes you to be an ordinary communication squadron, sent out here for special duty.’

  ‘He’s not likely to interfere with us?’

  ‘No. I’ve told him that you will come directly under the Higher Command for orders. The presence here of the A.O.C. will confirm that.’

  ‘Very good, sir. By the way, are you staying on here?’

  ‘For the time being, at any rate,’ answered Air Commodore Raymond. ‘You can regard me as a sort of liaison officer between you and the Air Officer Commanding. Call on me for anything you need.’

  Biggles saluted and withdrew. Deep in thought, and not a little worried, he made his way along the silent tarmac to the quarters that had been allocated to the squadron.

  Chapter 3

  Biggles Briefs Himself

  The buzz of conversation died abruptly as Biggles walked into the ante-room and closed the door behind him. Only the radio went on, unheeded, relaying swing music from London. A short, stoutish, olive-skinned, middle-aged man, dressed in white duck trousers and mess-jacket, wearing a beaming smile, was standing by a low table on which rested a brass tray bearing a coffee-pot and cups.

  Biggles called to him. ‘Hi!, you; that’ll do,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Plenty coffe
e, sahib. You like some, mebbe?’ answered the steward.

  ‘When I want anything I’ll let you know,’ returned Biggles. ‘Pack up now.’

  ‘Velly good, sahib.’ Still beaming, the steward picked up his tray and departed.

  Biggles looked at Algy. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Lal Din.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘One of the waiters from the canteen. He’s all right.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Biggles. ‘But it’s better not to talk in front of staff. They gossip.’ He indicated the radio with a thumb. ‘Turn that thing off, somebody.’

  Angus complied.

  ‘What’s cooking, chief?’ asked Tex eagerly.

  ‘A dish with a nasty smell and a worse flavour,’ replied Biggles quietly. ‘Gather round, everybody, and I’ll tell you about it. By the way, has anybody been out on the station?’

  Several voices answered. ‘I had a look round to see what machines we had on charge,’ said Algy. ‘Some of the others took a stroll to get their bearings.’

  ‘In that case you may have heard something?’ suggested Biggles.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, but there’s a sort of grey atmosphere in the central mess,’ put in Ginger. ‘There were only a few chaps there, but they looked at me as if I were something blown in off a dunghill.’

  ‘I ran into Johnny Crisp on the perim*1,’ said Algy. ‘You remember him—he picked up two bars to his D.F.C. in Wilks’ squadron? He’s a flight-loot*2 in 818 Squadron now. He told me a little. Ginger is right about the atmosphere. It’s sort of—brittle, as if everyone was waiting for an unexploded bomb to go off. Johnny has aged ten years since I last saw him, a few months ago.’