Biggles - Air Commodore

by W E Johns

  ‘But Bigglesworth! They wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘Wouldn’t they! It is my experience that people or nations will dare anything if enough is at stake. You should know that. In the old days we had plenty of examples of it.’

  The colonel suddenly snatched up his hat. ‘I must get round to the Admiralty,’ he declared. ‘They must know about this.’

  ‘What do you think they’ll do?’

  ‘Do! They’ll send a flotilla of destroyers, of course, and—’

  ‘Tell the enemy—whoever it is—that their scheme is discovered,’ smiled Biggles, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Which should give them plenty of time to remove themselves from the scene, or look innocent when the white ensign heaves up over the horizon. Why not write to them and have done with it? You might just as well: the result would be the same; all you’ll meet will be suave faces and pained protests.’

  Colonel Raymond bit his lip. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said shortly. ‘That’s for the Admiralty to decide. You stay where you are; you’ll hear from me again presently.’

  ‘What do you mean, stay where I am?’

  ‘What I say. Don’t go away. Don’t go out.’

  ‘But I’m not in the army now. I’m a citizen and a free man,’ protested Biggles indignantly.

  ‘So you may be, but you’ll jolly well do what you’re told, the same as you used to,’ growled the Colonel with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I shall rely on you.’

  Before Biggles could reply he had gone out and slammed the door.

  ‘You see what comes of nosey-parkering in matters that don’t concern you,’ Biggles told Ginger sadly. ‘Let it be a lesson to you —ah, there you are, Mrs. Symes,’ he continued, as the housekeeper came into the room with the tea-tray. ‘Sorry, but we shan’t have a guest after all. He was in too big a hurry to stay. Never mind, no doubt Ginger will be able to manage his share.’

  ‘There now,’ was Mrs. Symes’s only comment as she went out again.

  ‘Exactly,’ murmured Biggles softly. ‘“There now.” We shall be saying the same thing presently, or I’m a Dutchman.’

  ‘You think we’ve stepped into the soup?’ suggested Algy.

  ‘More than that. Before many hours have passed we shall find ourselves up to the neck in the custard, or I’m making a big mistake,’ declared Biggles.

  * * *

  1 1914-1918. An Army Corps responsible for military flying, renamed the Royal Air Force (RAF) when amalgamated with the Royal Naval Air Service 1st April 1918.

  2 Greetings.

  3 RAF slang for air mechanic.

  4 Naval slang: radio communications.

  Chapter 2

  An Important Conference

  ‘If any one asked for my opinion as to the location of the enemy base—assuming, of course, that there is one—I should say that if you took this as a centre, and combed the area within a radius of a hundred miles, you’d find it.’

  As he spoke, Biggles carefully stuck a pin into the big atlas that lay open on the table, and then glanced in turn at the others who were seated on either side of him.

  The tea things had been pushed on one side to make room for the book which, lying open at a double page entitled ‘The Indian Ocean and the Dutch East Indies’, for more than an hour had absorbed their interest. Four red ink spots marked the last known positions of the ill-fated vessels, and from these lead-pencil lines radiated out to the nearest points of land, each line being accompanied by the distance in miles written in Biggles’s small, neat handwriting.

  ‘Mergui Archipelago,’ read Ginger aloud, craning his neck to see the words that appeared on the map at the point which Biggles had indicated with the pin. ‘What makes you think it is there?’ he asked.

  ‘Simply because it seems to me to be the most natural place,’ replied Biggles without hesitation. ‘It’s the place I should choose were I asked to establish such a base for such a purpose. Look at the whole of this particular section of the globe, the Bay of Bengal, in or near which these ships went down. On the west it is bounded by India. That can be ruled out, I think. What hiding-places does it offer to a craft engaged in a murky business of this sort? Very few, if any. Not only that, but India is a thickly populated country with excellent communications; a strange craft would certainly be noticed and rumour of its presence reach the ears of those whose job it is to watch such things. Admittedly, there are the Andaman and Nicobar Islands out in the middle of the sea. The base may be there, but somehow I can’t think it is. If I remember rightly, the Andamans are used as a penal settlement for Indian political prisoners, and there are too many planters in the Nicobars to make it healthy for foreigners whose comings and goings would be bound to attract attention. Now let us go across to the other side of the bay. Here we have a very different proposition. Down the western seaboard of the Malay Peninsula there are a thousand places—creeks and estuaries—where a craft could lie concealed for months. The locals, such as they are, are very unsophisticated. Not only that, but the location is conveniently situated for the interception of ships bound for the Far East. They all call at Singapore, which is at the southern end of the Peninsula.’

  ‘But what made you choose the Mergui Archipelago?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Well, just look at it and consider the possibilities,’ replied Biggles. ‘Hundreds of islands— thousands if you count islets—lying at a nice convenient distance from the mainland— thirty or forty miles on an average—and spread along the coast for a distance of nearly three hundred miles. The islands are rocky, well wooded, with magnificent natural harbours. What more could a mystery ship ask for?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the place before,’ confessed Ginger.

  ‘Very few people have. I doubt if Algy and I would have heard of it but for the fact that we once flew over it for nearly its entire length, on the way home from New Guinea.’

  ‘Are the islands inhabited?’

  ‘Generally speaking, no, although I believe there is a strange race of Malay Dyaks, called Salones, who wander about from island to island in glorified canoes which they make their homes. Quite a bit of pearl fishing is done in the vicinity, chiefly by Chinese and Japanese junks during the north-east monsoon when the weather is fine and the sea calm. For the rest of the year, between June and October, when the southwest monsoon is blowing, it can be the very dickens, as a good many Australia-bound fliers know to their cost. We saw two or three junks when we flew over. Queer spot. Sort of place where anything could happen. Do you remember Gilson, Algy, that Political Officer who came to see us at Rangoon after the Li Chi affair?1 I have a vague recollection of his telling me that the islands are infested with crocodiles and all sorts of wild beasts that swim over from the mainland of Burma and Siam. The thing stuck in my mind because he told me that he once saw a tiger swimming across, which struck me as most extraordinary, because the picture of any sort of cat swimming in water seems wrong somehow. But there, what does it matter? We aren’t likely to go there.’ Biggles closed the atlas with a bang and rose to his feet.

  ‘Pity,’ murmured Ginger sadly.

  ‘Pity, eh? My goodness! You’re a nice one to talk. What about that African show, when we were looking for young Harry Marton?2 You jumped every time you heard a lion roar. Africa is civilized compared with this place. I—hello, who the dickens is this, I wonder?’ Biggles broke off and reached for the instrument as the telephone repeated its shrill summons.

  ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Oh, hello, sir... It’s Raymond,’ he whispered in a swift aside, with his hand over the mouthpiece... ‘Yes, sir? What’s that? Dine with you? Delighted, of course. You want me to dress?3 What on earth for?... Where? Oh dear! that isn’t in my line... Right you are, sir, I’ll be ready. Good-bye.’ He hung up the receiver and turned to where the others were watching him expectantly. ‘He’s picking me up in his car in half an hour,’ he said. ‘Ever heard of a place called Lottison House?’

  ‘Heard of it!’ cried Algy. ‘Great Scott! You’re no
t dining there, are you?’

  ‘So he says.’

  ‘But Lord Lottison is one of the head lads at the Foreign Office.’

  Biggles started. ‘Jumping mackerel!’ he breathed. ‘Of course he is. I thought the name seemed familiar. It begins to look as if my confounded curiosity has got me into a nice mess. Well, I shall have to go and get ready.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything about bringing us?’ inquired Ginger, frowning.

  ‘No, not a word,’ grinned Biggles.

  ‘Then I call it a dirty trick.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll bring you a lump of jelly home in my pocket,’ promised Biggles. ‘I shall have to hurry. I’ve only half an hour to dress, and it usually takes me twenty minutes to get my studs into that boiled horror misnamed a shirt.’

  Nevertheless he was ready and waiting when the impatient shriek of a hooter in the street below warned him that Colonel Raymond had arrived, so with a brisk ‘See you later’ to the others, he ran down the stairs and took his place in the limousine that had drawn up outside the door.

  ‘You haven’t wasted any time,’ he told the Colonel, who, in evening dress, was leaning back smoking a cigarette. ‘I wish you’d left me out of it. I’m not used to dining with peers of the realm, so I hope you won’t accuse me of letting you down if I gurgle over my soup.’

  ‘You’ll find Lottison is a very decent fellow,’ the Colonel told him seriously. ‘This dinner was his suggestion, not mine. He’s a busy man, and couldn’t manage any other time.’

  There was one other guest, and Biggles realized the gravity of the situation when he was introduced to Admiral Sir Edmund Hardy, head of the Admiralty Intelligence Department. Little was said during the meal, but as soon as it was over Lord Lottison led the way into his library, and without any preamble embarked on the problem that had brought them together.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began in a clear, precise voice, ‘I don’t think there is any need for me to repeat what we all know now, although only suspected until Major Bigglesworth brought the matter of the misspelt SOS message to our notice. That gives us a clue, as it were—something concrete on which to work. Our munition ships bound for the East are not foundering by accident. If proof of that were needed I have it here in the form of a cable which I have just received from Australia in answer to one I sent when this wireless incident was first mentioned to me late this afternoon. The Master of the Tasman, the ship which picked up the SOS sent out by the Colonia, the fourth vessel to be sunk, reports that the word weather was spelt w-h-e-th-e-r. That, I think, settles any possibility of coincidence. What is happening on the high seas, and how it comes about that an unknown operator has access to British ships, we do not know. The question is, what are we going to do about it? It cannot be allowed to continue, but I need hardly say that any steps we take must be made with extreme delicacy. At all costs we must avoid a situation that might end in war, particularly if—as it seems—the enemy has already established a means of severing our Far Eastern communications. Now, Hardy, what do you suggest?’

  The admiral studied the ash on his cigar thoughtfully. ‘Well, I —er— that is—I’m prepared to do anything you like—on your instructions. I can’t act on my own account, as you know perfectly well. If you’re prepared to back me up and shoulder responsibility for anything that might happen, I’m prepared to go ahead and comb every sea-mile between Calcutta and Singapore.’

  A worried frown creased Lord Lottison’s forehead. ‘I’m not anxious to take the risk of precipitating the country into a first-class row any more than you are,’ he said frankly. ‘If things go wrong, the government will be thrown out on its ear, and I shall be the scapegoat.’

  Biggles fidgeted impatiently. ‘May I be allowed to make a suggestion, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I should welcome one.’

  ‘Very well, then, let us get right down to brass tacks,’ proposed Biggles bluntly. ‘Our ships are being sunk. Someone is sinking them, cleverly, secretly. Clearly, we’ve got to hoist the enemy with his own petard and dispose of him in just the same way—cleverly, secretly. Do you agree to that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good! Now this private war is being carried on either by a surface vessel or an underwater craft. Whichever it is, it must be operating from a base which is being fed with supplies from the country that owns it. As I see it, we can do one of two things. Either we can sink the ship that is doing the dirty work, or we can wipe out the base. But if we merely sink the ship the people at the base, although they may be upset, may put it down to an accident and simply get another ship and go on with the job. So it is better to smash up the base than sink the ship. But when the base is smashed up it’s got to be done properly. If it can be done in such a way that no one is allowed to go home to tell the tale, so much the better. That’s the game they themselves are playing. Not that that is vitally important, because the country concerned can hardly ask us for an explanation without explaining what it was doing with an unauthorized base, anyway. Still, it’s better to avoid complications if it can be arranged.’ Biggles paused.

  ‘Go on,’ said Lord Lottison, looking at him oddly.

  ‘If you are going to be content with sinking the ship, or submarine, as I suspect it to be,’ continued Biggles, ‘surely nothing could suit your purpose better than one of the “Q” boats4, such as were used during the war. All you have to do is send a ship out to Singapore, and let it be known that she is carrying munitions. Man the ship with naval ratings and line her sides with concealed guns so that the raider can be given its quietus5 as soon as it shows up.’

  ‘Yes, that could be done,’ declared the admiral, almost eagerly.

  ‘The only drawback to the scheme is that it might only half answer the question,’ observed Biggles. ‘It isn’t much use killing a wasp and leaving the nest. And, with all due respect to you, sir —’ Biggles glanced at the admiral—’the finding of that nest might be a job beyond your power, because it is pretty certain that the enemy will know what you’re after as soon as your ships start nosing about in unusual places. In short, it’s a job for aircraft.’

  ‘Then we shall have to call the Air Force in,’ declared Lord Lottison.

  ‘They’d do the job all right,’ admitted Biggles, ‘but they’d be up against the same difficulty as the Navy. The enemy would know what was afoot. Moreover, you would have to take a lot of people into your confidence. You can’t send out several aeroplanes to look for something without telling the crews what to look for. And if you tell the crews, every one on the station will soon know, and it will only be a question of time before rumours reach the ears of the people we are up against.’

  ‘Then what the devil are we to do?’ burst out Lord Lottison irritably.

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you asking me that as a serious question, sir?’ he inquired.

  ‘You’re an airman—something more than an airman, judging by what Raymond here tells me—so any suggestion you make will receive our earnest consideration. That, frankly, is why you’re here.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I was half prepared for this, so I’ve given the matter some thought, and this is my idea. It is a case where co-operation is necessary, but the cooperation has got to be worked in such a way that the fewest possible people know what is actually in the wind. The chief properties required would be an ordinary merchant ship, a destroyer, and an aircraft. The purpose of the ship would be to act as a bait, a decoy. No one on board except the captain and the wireless operator need know that. The wireless operator would have to know because it would be necessary for him to keep in touch with the destroyer and the aircraft, in code, on a special wave-length. The enemy also has wireless, remember. Our decoy ship would, to all intents and purposes, be engaged on an ordinary job of work. The destroyer would primarily be nothing more than a supply ship for the aeroplane, although naturally it might be called in to do any other job that became necessary. Have I made myself clear so far?’

  ‘Quite. Go o
n.’

  ‘The destroyer, one of an old type for preference, to lessen the chances of its attracting attention, will keep close enough to the decoy ship to be effective in emergency, yet far enough away not to be associated with it. The aeroplane will operate between the two.’

  ‘But surely the aircraft would be heard by the enemy?’ put in the admiral quickly.

  ‘I hadn’t overlooked that possibility,’ replied Biggles. ‘The aircraft will be fitted with-one of the new silencers now under experiment at Farnborough.’

  ‘How the dickens did you learn of that?’ cried Lord Lottison aghast.

  ‘I know a lot of things I’m not supposed to,’ answered Biggles imperturbably. ‘As a matter of detail, the inventor sought my opinion on a technical question long before the device was submitted to the Air Ministry. But allow me to finish. Having equipped ourselves in the manner I have outlined, this is the order of progress. The decoy ship, its warlike cargo having been remarked in the press, will put to sea, followed shortly afterwards by the destroyer. Coincidental with their approach to the Indian Ocean, a long-distance flight will be commenced by a civil pilot. It is extremely unlikely that any one, even the most astute enemy agents, will connect the three events. That the pilot will encounter unexpected difficulties between DumDum Aerodrome, Calcutta, and Batavia, is fairly certain, for it is all in accordance with the best traditions of long-distance flights. It is also extremely likely that he will be blown off his course by contrary winds, and possibly lose his way. Thus, no great surprise would be felt if he were seen anywhere in the region of the Bay of Bengal. Naturally, what we hope will happen is that the raider will attack the decoy ship, whereupon the wireless operator will report what is going on to the aircraft, or the destroyer, or both, who will head in that direction.’