What Schaffer actually did was to walk a short distance away taking the other officers with him. These he engaged in earnest conversation, and from covert glances thrown in his direction Biggles knew that he was the object of the discussion. It was quite apparent that even if nothing worse happened, from that moment he was a marked man, and the first false move he made would be quite enough to fan smouldering suspicion into the flame of direct action. He glanced at the machine riding on the water, and then at Algy, wondering if he ought to risk all on a sudden dash for liberty. It was one of those difficult decisions upon which so much might depend. At the finish he decided against the plan, chiefly because there were so many Germans about that to hope for success was to hope for something in the nature of a miracle.
He made a swift survey of the weaknesses in his position, for they were plain enough to see. When Schaffer compared notes with the others—and that was undoubtedly what he was doing at that moment—they would perceive that there was something very odd in the manner in which he had appeared, from nowhere, so to speak. And the same with Algy. Up to now it had been assumed automatically that he was one of the British raiding party, and had been shot down. But what had happened to his machine? No one had seen it fall. There was no crash to mark the spot. Biggles felt that once the Germans started thinking on these lines, and they could hardly fail to do so, his freedom would not last long.
He was not told what the result of the conference was. He was able to form an idea of it, however, when, a few minutes later, he noticed that two of the airmen, armed with rifles, were never far away from him. And when a little while later Schaffer came over and told him, with a nonchalance that was obviously affected, that he was flying to Oslo, and invited him to go with him, Biggles understood the general scheme. Schaffer was not prepared to run the risk of arresting one who might in fact turn out to be a member of the dreaded Gestapo; instead, he would get him to Oslo and put the onus of responsibility for this on someone else.
Biggles answered at once that he would be glad to go. He could not very well do otherwise. Nor dared he hesitate, knowing how thin was the hair on which his freedom depended.
Ìn that case we'll take off right away,' said Schaffer.
As these words were spoken Biggles saw Algy being taken along the beach towards the supply-ship, which, for want of something better adapted to the purpose, was evidently to be his temporary prison. It was not a very desirable one, for from remarks let drop by the airmen Biggles knew that it was loaded with petrol and ammunition. Indeed, he could see some of the oil drums which had been put ashore to lighten the ship, evidently in the hope that it would float off the rock on which it was aground at the next high tide.
Biggles told Schaffer that he had no kit to collect, so he was ready to move off. He still had a card up his sleeve, and it was this. Schaffer did not know that he was a pilot. The fact that he wore a pilot's uniform meant nothing—at least, as far as the German was concerned, for he knew that it was his own. Biggles hoped, therefore that he would be able to overpower Schaffer in the air and seize the machine. His chief fear was that other officers might be in it—more than he could deal with.
Great was his relief when, a minute or two later, Schaffer beckoned to him and led the way towards the aircraft, for it was clear that the others were remaining in the fiord.
`Where would you like to sit?' inquired Schaffer.
Not for a moment did Biggles abandon his original pose of quiet assurance. 'Well, I'm a bit nervous of these things, you know,' he said, simulating slight embarrassment. 'If it's all the same to you I'd like to sit beside you.' He had noted that there was side-byside seating in the Dornier, but only one set of controls.
Schaffer agreed so readily that Biggles became more and more convinced that the last thing the German expected was that he might be attacked in the air. Indeed, if, as he supposed, Biggles was a mere landlubber, then he had nothing to fear on that score, for no one but a lunatic—or, of course, another pilot-would interfere with a man at the controls of an aircraft.
They took their places. The machine was cast off, and Schaffer taxied out to the middle of the fiord to take off.
`There's a chance that we may run into hostile aircraft,' he announced. 'If we do just sit tight and leave things to me.'
`You bet I will,' promised Biggles. 'I'm afraid I shouldn't be much use.'
Schaffer opened the throttle. The flying-boat sped across the water and rose like a bird into the air. For a little while the pilot held the machine straight, climbing steeply for altitude, and then banked round in the direction of his destination.
Biggles knew that it was not much more than half an hour's flight, so he had no time to lose. No sooner were they out of sight of the fiord than he opened the proceedings by very gently taking Schaffer's revolver from its holster. He had a pistol of his own in his pocket, but he felt that if he disarmed the German as a first precaution it would make his task easier.
He was in the act of putting the revolver into his own pocket when Schaffer happened to glance round. He saw at once what was happening. Fear and anger leapt into his eyes.
`What are you -' he began, but Biggles cut him short.
Ì'm sorry, Schaffer,' he said curtly. 'I must ask you to let me have this machine. I should be sorry to have to hurt you, so I hope you'll be reasonable about it.'
Schaffer had turned as white as a sheet. His eyes blazed.
`Then I was right,' he hissed. 'You are a spy.'
Ìt would be futile to deny it,' admitted Biggles, 'but if I am it is by force of circumstances and not as a result of any desire on my part. Actually, like you, I am a pilot. I was caught in Oslo when the war started and I've been trying to get home ever since. I am now going. Please vacate your seat.'
Ì will not,' snarled Schaffer, and abandoning the controls, he flung himself at Biggles in such a fury that Biggles was taken by surprise. Before he could prevent it Schaffer's left hand had caught him by the throat, forcing him back into his seat.
Biggles deliberately kicked the joystick, and then, hooking his leg round it, dragged it back. The machine plunged, and then reared up like a frightened horse. Instinctively the German spun round to right the aircraft, which was in danger of falling into a spin, but Biggles now caught him by the arms, and thrusting his knee in the small of his back, flung him back into the cabin. He then made a dive for the controls to prevent the machine from stalling.
Schaffer went at him again. He appeared to have gone mad.
`Look out, you fool!' yelled Biggles. 'You'll kill us both.'
Schaffer's only reply was to hook an arm round his neck.
Now if there is one thing a man cannot do it is fly an aeroplane and fight at the same time. The controls of a modern high-performance aircraft are extremely sensitive, and a movement of an inch of the joystick or rudder is sufficient to throw a machine out of level
flight. To any violent movement of the controls an aircraft responds instantly.
In his efforts to free himself Biggles was compelled to release the controls, with the result that the machine was left to its own devices. His aim now was to break clear from the clinch in which Schaffer held him in order to get his hand into his pocket for his pistol. Schaffer knew this, and hung on like grim death. Locked in fierce embrace, they surged up and down the cabin. Still locked, they fell, and rolled towards the tail. Their weight caused the nose to rise, with the result that the machine stalled, and then plunged earthward like a stone. Torn apart by the rush through space, both antagonists were flung against the instrument board. Through the windscreen Biggles saw the rock-bound coast leaping towards them, and realized that if something were not done instantly to check the fall, they were both doomed.
`Wait!' he yelled, and gabbing the joystick, eased the machine out to level flight. It finished only a few hundred feet above the cliffs.
Schaffer, panting with rage and exertion, fingers hooked ready to resume the struggle, waited.
But Biggle
s had had enough of this sort of fighting. One more bout like the last, now that they had no height to spare, would be the end. Satisfied that the machine was trimmed to fly straight, he whipped out the revolver—which Schaffer appeared to have forgotten—
and covered the German.
'One move and I shall have to shoot,' he threatened. `Believe me, I don't want to have to do that, Schaffer, but if it is to be one or the other of us, it isn't going to be me.'
Schaffer made no answer, so Biggles, still watching him, got more securely into the pilot'
s seat. He flew with one hand on the control column. The other held the revolver.
Ì'm going to land.' he said, snatching a glance at the sea, which looked calm enough for that operation. `We'll finish the argument in more stable conditions.'
He cut the throttle and began gliding towards the water. After the roar of the engine the silence was uncanny. A more fantastic tableau it would be hard to imagine, and Schaffer evidently realized it, for a peculiar smile crept over his face.
`You English bring your nerve with you,' he conceded.
`No use leaving it at home,' returned Biggles lightly. Another silence fell, broken only by the whine of wind over the wings.
The flying-boat was still a hundred feet above the water when into the silence burst the vicious clatter of machine-guns. A stream of bullets struck the hull. Glass flew from the instrument board, and splinters of three-ply from the fuselage.
Biggles steepened his dive. It was all he could do, for to examine the sky to locate the attacker would be to invite fresh trouble from Schaffer.
The German, however, was not prepared to submit so tamely. With a mutter of fury he flung open a small chest, of the purpose of which Biggles had been unaware, and dragged out a machine-gun.
Biggles acted with the speed of light. He jerked the throttle open and flung the machine into a vertical bank. Schaffer went over backwards, the gun crashing out of his hands.
Biggles left the controls, snatched it
up, and then jumped back into his seat. He was only just in time, for the machine, now within fifty feet of the water, was wobbling on the verge of another stall.
Schaffer, who seemed to be slightly dazed by his fall, staggered to his feet as the keel kissed the water. It was a bad landing, not surprising in the circumstances, but Biggles didn't mind. He was only concerned with getting the machine down. The flying-boat surged on to a standstill, while from outside came the roar of an aero-engine.
Looking through a side window, Biggles saw that he had come to rest within fifty yards of the shore, which at that point took the form of a cliff, fringed at the foot by a strip of sand. Opening the throttle a little, he urged the machine nearer to it.
`Can you swim?' he asked Schaffer grimly.
Nes.'
`Then get going-it isn't far.'
Schaffer hesitated, but another burst of fire, which struck the machine aft, seemed to decide him.
Ì shall be interested to watch the outcome of the argument between you and your countryman,' he said bitingly. 'We shall meet again.'
`Perhaps,' smiled Biggles. 'If we do I hope it will be after the war. Look me up at the Aero Club, and I'll stand you a dinner in return for the use of your uniform.'
Schaffer nodded curtly and jumped into the water.
Seeing that it only came up to his armpits, Biggles flicked the throttle open and taxied away towards more open water. From time to time above the roar of his engine he could still hear the harsh tattoo of machine-guns. He was soon in a position to take off, but before
doing so he looked out to ascertain the nature of the machine that was attacking him. He knew, of course, that it must be a British machine, and assumed that it was either a patrolling formation of the Fleet Air Arm, or a lone scout. Curiously enough, the truth never occurred to him.
He gasped when he saw the machine overhead, for he recognized it at once. It was Ginger's sea-plane.
Chapter 13
Fresh Plans
To say that Biggles was shaken would be to put it mildly, yet on second thoughts he perceived that the fact that Ginger was in the other machine made little or no difference to the situation. He could not hope to be recognized at the distance which separated the aircraft even if he showed himself, and Ginger would naturally take him for an enemy.
His problem was how to get away, for he could not engage in a fight with a British plane.
With his heart in his mouth, he proceeded to take off, for while he was doing so he was at a big disadvantage. However, as soon as he was off the water he held the machine down and looked back to see what Ginger was doing. He was not surprised to see him swooping down on his tail. And that was not all Biggles saw. High up behind Ginger's machine was a line of black specks, specks that grew larger even as he watched them.
There was no need to look twice to see what was happening; it was all too plain. Ginger, intent only on his quarry, had allowed himself to be surprised by a German patrol, and it was obvious from the way he was flying that he was still blissfully unaware of it.
Biggles groaned. He felt that the situation was beyond him. It had been bad enough before the other machines appeared, but now it was so complicated that he almost abandoned hope of finding a solution. It
came to this. By some means or other he had to prevent himself from being shot down by Ginger; at the same time he had to warn Ginger of what was happening behind his tail.
To achieve this difficult object the only thing he could do, he decided, was to place himself between the seaplane and the German formation; then in looking at him Ginger would—or should—see his danger. After that he would have to rely on his own resources.
Things did not pan out as he had planned, however. He could see that he would fail, even before the worst happened, for by the time he had zoomed high preparatory to getting behind the seaplane, the German machines had closed in and had launched their attack.
Ginger at once half rolled, a manoeuvre which told Biggles that he had perceived his danger. The rest was more or less a foregone conclusion, for the newcomers were Messerschmitt 110's, and there were eight of them. Ginger, abandoning the Dornier, now did his utmost to get away, but the seaplane was outclassed, as well as outnumbered.
Sick at heart, Biggles landed to watch the end of the affair, for there was nothing he could do. White-faced, he threw open the cockpit cover and stared up at the circling machines. It could hardly be called a combat. Time and time again the Messerschmitts darted in at their prey, their guns spurting flame, and the great wonder to Biggles was that Ginger could hang on for so long. But the end came at last. A Messerschmitt came down on the tail of the luckless seaplane. Ginger swung round and pulled up his nose to meet it, but the next instant black smoke was pouring from his engine.
The seaplane at once went into a steep side-slip towards the sea, but while it was still two thousand feet above it flames licked out through the smoke. Ginger appeared. For a moment he stood poised on the fuselage. Then he jumped clear.
For a thousand feet he dropped like a stone, slowly turning over and over as he fell. Then a white ribbon flashed above him. It grew longer, and then his fall was checked as the parachute blossomed out.
A great gasp of relief burst from Biggles' lips as he dropped back into his seat. He pushed the throttle open, and in a moment was taxi-ing at dangerous speed towards the area where he judged Ginger would fall. There was a splash of foam as Ginger struck the sea.
Biggles reached the spot within a minute, but all he could see was the parachute fabric spreading out like an enormous jellyfish on the surface of the water. It was the work of a moment to cut the throttle, reach over the side and seize the shrouds. He seemed to be hauling for an eternity before Ginger appeared, puffing and blowing like a grampus.
Biggles never forgot the expression on Ginger's face as he dragged him into the machine and relieved him of the parachute, allowing it to fall back into the sea. Ginger collapsed in a heap on the fl
oor of the cockpit. He was too far gone to speak. He could only gasp and get rid of vast quantities of sea water.
For the moment Biggles let him lie there. He wanted to get rid of the Messerschmitts, which were still circling round like a pack of hungry wolves. It was not a difficult matter.
He merely climbed up on his centre-section and waved his arms, a signal which he hoped would be construed by the Germans as thanks for
saving him, and at the same time convey to them that their assistance was no longer needed. Apparently the Messerschmitt pilots read the signal that way, for they at once reformed in formation and sped away to the south. Happening to glance towards the shore, a bare half mile away, Biggles saw a solitary figure standing on the edge of the cliff that frowned down on the strip of beach. He knew it could only be Schaffer, who must have chosen this grand-stand to watch the end of the affair.
Biggles waved a friendly greeting.
Schaffer waved back, and disappeared over the brow of a hill.
`Who the deuce are you waving to—Algy?' panted Ginger, dragging himself into a sitting position and wringing the water out of his hair.
`No—a friend of mine,' replied Biggles. 'A German named Schaffer. Not a bad chap when you get to know him. This is his uniform I'm wearing; and, incidentally. this is his machine. He'll have a tale to tell when he gets home.'
22 Biggles Defies The Swastika Page 12
