by W E Johns
‘And sink the raider,’ concluded the admiral enthusiastically.
Biggles looked pained. ‘Oh dear, no,’ he exclaimed. ‘The skipper of the decoy, being prepared for trouble, should be able to avoid it. Having enticed the raider out of its lair, he will have to escape as quickly as possible. The aircraft will pick up the raider and note the direction it takes with a view to ascertaining the approximate position of its base. It is pretty certain to head for home after its attack has failed. And here let me remind you that if it is a submarine, submergence will not conceal it from the aircraft, for the pilot will be able to see it as clearly under water as if it were afloat. If the skipper of the attacked ship can give the pilot the direction taken by the raider, all well and good; if he can’t—well, no matter, he will have to pick it up as best he can. From twenty thousand feet a pilot can see over an immense area, you know.’
‘And if everything works out according to plan, and the pilot discovers the enemy base, what then?’ inquired Lord Lottison curiously.
A peculiar smile flitted across Biggle’s face. ‘Well, the base will have to be obliterated—blotted out; otherwise there is no point in finding it, is there?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ was the thoughtful answer. ‘How do you suppose the pilot will be able to effect the blotting-out process?’ asked the admiral.
‘He’ll have to use his own initiative,’ declared Biggles. ‘He might be able to do it by borrowing a torpedo or a load of bombs from the destroyer. It all depends upon circumstances, but if he is a resolute fellow he’ll find a way of doing it somehow. Naturally, he wouldn’t appeal to you, or Lord Lottison, for assistance, because neither of you would dare to give an order involving the complete destruction of the property of a foreign power. He would have to act as an individual.’
‘It sounds a very hazardous business to me,’ murmured the admiral doubtfully.
‘I don’t think anyone has suggested that it isn’t, sir,’ answered Biggles a trifle harshly. ‘It’s a matter of desperate cases needing desperate remedies, if ever there was one. Either we are going to wipe out this base when we find it, or we might as well stay at home. To be on the safe side—’
Biggles hesitated.
‘Go on,’ prompted Lord Lottison.
‘Well, I was thinking, sir,’ continued Biggles slowly. ‘Supposing that when the pilot finds the base, for some reason or other he finds the job of destroying the whole works rather beyond him, he ought to be able to call for assistance.’
‘How?’
‘By asking an R.A.F. unit to come and do it. If they made a clean job there would be little risk of detection.’
‘I don’t quite follow that.’
‘Well, put it this way. The thing might be made to look like an accident. After all, military aircraft carry out bombing practice regularly, and pilots are not to know that a secret submarine base had been established at the very spot selected for the bombing. What could the enemy do even if he was sure that his base had been deliberately bombed, anyway? You would simply look round, registering innocence, and say, “My dear sirs, we are very sorry, but how on earth were we to know that you’d got a lot of naval and military stores tucked away at so-and-so? What were they doing there?” What answer could they make? None, that I can see, without admitting their guilt. No, sir. If such a situation came about I fancy the enemy would have to take his medicine in silence.’
‘By heaven, I believe you’re right,’ cried Lord Lottison. ‘But tell me, who is to fly this aircraft you’ve talked so much about? Who could be entrusted with such a job?’
‘Don’t ask me, sir; I don’t know,’ returned Biggles promptly.
‘There’s only one man for the job,’ put in Colonel Raymond quietly, speaking for the first time.
‘And who’s that?’ asked Lord Lottison sharply.
‘Bigglesworth.’
A smile spread slowly over the face of the Foreign Office diplomat, and he looked at Biggles good-humouredly. ‘Why pretend, Bigglesworth?’ he said softly. ‘We all knew this from the beginning. The only question that remains is, will you undertake it?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Biggles without hesitation. ‘If you can’t find a better man, I can’t very well refuse, even if I wanted to, the affair being a matter of national importance. But in order that there is no misunderstanding, I might as well say right away that I should demand certain— er —facilities.’
‘Demand?’
‘That’s the only word I can use, since I would not undertake the job unless they were agreed to.’
‘Well, let us hear them.’
‘In the first place, I should stipulate that you gave me complete control of the whole expedition. It would be no earthly use my giving orders if they weren’t obeyed.’
‘Do you mean that you expect to be put in command of a destroyer?’ asked the admiral incredulously.
‘No; but the captain would have to act on my instructions.’
‘But you can’t expect a naval officer to take orders from a civilian.’
‘It isn’t a matter of what I expect, sir; it’s a matter of what I should have to have. If the decoy ship, the destroyer, and myself, are going to act independently, we might as well wash out the whole project; you’ve only to look at your history book to see what has happened to expeditions when two or three people shared command.’
‘But it’s unheard of—a civilian in command of a naval unit,’ protested the admiral.
‘You can easily get over that,’ smiled Biggles.
‘How?’
‘By giving me a commission in the Royal Navy, with rank superior to that of the skipper of the destroyer.’
The admiral stared. ‘You’re asking me to take a nice risk, aren’t you?’ he observed coldly.
‘I suppose I am,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But what are you risking? Your appointment, that’s all. I’m going to risk my life, if I know anything about it, and from my point of view that’s a lot more important than your commission.’
The admiral glared, but Lord Lottison saved what threatened to become an embarrassing situation by laughing aloud. Whereupon they all laughed.
‘I haven’t finished yet, sir,’ went on Biggles, looking at Lord Lottison dubiously.
‘What else do you want besides a commission in the Navy?’
‘A temporary commission in the Royal Air Force, with the rank of Air Commodore. You’d have to fix that up with the Air Council.’
It was the admiral’s turn to laugh at the expression on Lord Lottison’s face.
‘It isn’t a matter of personal vanity, sir,’ went on Biggles crisply. ‘I’m only thinking of the success of the show. I may need the Royal Air Force assistance, and what sort of reception do you suppose I should get if I, as a civilian, gate-crashed into the Royal Air Force headquarters at Singapore and demanded a machine, or even petrol or stores? I should be thrown out on my elbow; yet upon my request might hang the success or failure of the expedition. I’ve got to be able to get what I want without cables flying to and fro between the Air Ministry and Singapore. Let’s be quite frank, sir. You wouldn’t consider for an instant sending me on this job if there was any other way, or if you dared send a regular officer. But you daren’t. You know you daren’t, and I know you daren’t; in case of failure or in the event of publicity—but I don’t think we need go into that. I’m a civilian, and even if I had temporary rank it wouldn’t matter what the dickens happened to me if things went wrong. You could have me hanged as a scapegoat if you felt like it, and I should have no redress. It might never be necessary for me to use my rank, but if I had it, instead of the delay which might prove fatal to the show, I should be able to walk into an R.A.F. depot, produce my authority, and demand what I required. Naturally, I should be fully alive to my responsibilities, and take care not to play the fool, or outrage the dignity of R.A.F. officers with whom I came in contact. It might be a good plan to warn the officer in charge of the Singapore station that I am about and that I
might call upon him to undertake some unusual bombing operations.’
‘Very well, if you think it is necessary I’ll see what can be done; but by heaven, if you let me down—’
‘Don’t you think you’d better get somebody else to do the job, sir?’ suggested Biggles coldly.
‘No, no! No, no!’ replied Lord Lottison quickly. ‘You must see my difficulties, though.’
‘I do, sir. I also endeavour to foresee my own,’ answered Biggles quietly.
‘All right. Then let us call it settled,’ agreed Lord Lottison, glancing at the clock. ‘By jingo, I shall be late; I’ve got to attend a Cabinet meeting at half-past ten. Draw up a plan of campaign as quickly as you can, Bigglesworth, setting down everything you require, and I will see to it that things are put in hand immediately. Will you do that?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Good! We must break off the conference now. Don’t forget to let me have that list.’
‘You shall have it within twenty-four hours, sir,’ Biggles promised as they all walked towards the door.
* * *
1 See Biggles Flies Again, and Biggles Delivers the Goods.
2 See Biggles in Africa.
3 i.e. wear formal evening dress.
4 An armed ship, with guns hidden or camouflaged, designed to open fire suddenly on an enemy vessel without warning.
5 Latin: its death blow.
Chapter 3
In the Nick of Time
Biggles sat on a water-worn breakwater on the outskirts of the primitive harbour at Tavoy, in Lower Burma, and gazed pensively through the masts of several Chinese sampans, a junk or two, and other odd native craft towards the Bay of Bengal. It was a beautiful morning, with the morning star still hanging low in the sky, and that first false dawn, which is only seen in the tropics, bathing everything in a weird, unnatural light.
‘You know, Algy,’ he said moodily, ‘the anxiety of this job is getting me down. I don’t think I quite realized until we got here just what we have taken on. The world seems such a whacking great place, and — well, dash it, one feels that it’s futile to try and control anything. And this job is so indefinite, not in the least like the others we’ve undertaken.’
Three weeks had passed since the momentous decision in Lottison House, and each day had been one of intense activity as plans for the expedition had been pushed forward. Unexpected difficulties had been encountered and overcome, but the unnecessary delays—at least, they seemed unnecessary to Biggles—inevitable when dealing with government departments, had made him tear his hair and threaten to throw up the project. However, in the end the preparations were concluded, and a general meeting of those chiefly concerned was held in an inner sanctum of the Foreign Office where, for the first time, those not acquainted with the real purpose of the campaign were informed and instructed in their particular duties.
Algy and Ginger attended in a secondary capacity in order that they might hear the plan unfolded in its entirety. The others present, beside those who had taken part in the preliminary debate in Lottison House, were: Air Marshal Sir Dugan Wales, Liaison Officer with the Air Ministry; Commander Michael Sullivan, R.N., Captain of H.M.S. Seafret, the destroyer detailed to act as a floating supply ship; Lieutenant Rupert Lovell, his Navigating Officer; Captain Angus McFarlane, of the Bengal Star, an old tramp steamer which had been selected as the decoy ship; and Chief Petty Officer Turrell, R.N., who was to act as the wireless operator on it.
Two speeches had been made, the first by Lord Lottison, who outlined the general plan in front of a huge wall map, and concluded by introducing Air Commodore Bigglesworth, the officer in supreme command of the operations. Biggles had, in fact, received a temporary commission with that rank from the Air Ministry, and notification of it had appeared in the Gazette1 under the broad heading of ‘Special Duty’; naturally, the commission was to be relinquished at the end of the affair. He had abandoned his request for naval rank on the assurance of Admiral Hardy that Commander Sullivan would accept orders from him in his capacity of an Air Officer, the matter being made easier by the Admiralty ‘loaning’ the Seafret to the Air Ministry.
Biggles made the second speech. It was brief and to the point, and in effect merely a request for the loyalty and unswerving obedience to orders by which only could success be assured.
On the following day the Bengal Star put to sea, bound for Singapore via Calcutta. On mature consideration it had been decided that she should not carry munitions. Although a notice issued to the press stated that she was loaded with crated aeroplanes, actually there was nothing more romantic than good Welsh coal below her decks when she set sail. The Seafret, being faster, had given her two days’ start, and another week had elapsed before the airmen set off after them with a prearranged rendezvous at Calcutta, from which point onwards the menace they were seeking might be expected to show up at any time.
The aeroplane they had chosen was a ‘Storm’ amphibian, aptly named Nemesis, fitted with two Rolls-Royce ‘Kestrel’ engines, and special tanks giving an endurance range of nearly three thousand miles. Personal luggage had been reduced to bare necessities in order that extra weight, in the form of a highly efficient wireless equipment and a powerful service camera, might not interfere with altitude performance. Altitude, Biggles claimed, was of paramount importance, for not only did it increase their range of vision, but it reduced their chances of being heard by the enemy; for although the special silencers had been fitted to the engines, there was no means of silencing the ‘whip’ of the propeller, or the vibrant hum of wires—both largely responsible for the noise made by aircraft in flight. A machine-gun of mobile type and automatic pistols completed their outfit, for with the Seafret in attendance anything else they required could always be obtained at short notice.
So far everything had gone in accordance with the scheme. The Bengal Star had proceeded on her way south-east from Calcutta, with the Seafret, in constant radio communication, following the coast but taking care to keep within reach should her presence be demanded. The Nemesis, in touch with both, officially on a long-distance flight to Australia, had followed in her own way, watching the Bengal Star from afar by day and lying at any convenient harbour during the night, refuelling when necessary from the Seafret. On two occasions, when the water had been dead calm, the airmen had spent the night on the open sea quite close to the decoy ship.
Biggles glanced at his watch. ‘Well, come on,’ he said. ‘It’s light enough to get away. Let’s have another look at that chart, Ginger, before we go.’
He took the folded map which Ginger passed to him and opened it out flat on the breakwater. ‘Now then, here we are,’ he said, laying his forefinger on Tavoy. ‘According to dead reckoning, the Star should be about here, and the Seafret here.’ He pointed first to a spot about a hundred miles due north of the Andaman Islands, and then to a place much nearer the mainland, about fifty miles due west of the decoy ship’s position. ‘We mustn’t let the Star get too far away from us,’ he concluded as he folded up the map, ‘although this cruising about all day and half the night gets pretty monotonous. I hate letting her out of my sight.’
‘Turrell will always warn us the moment he sees anything suspicious, so I don’t think there is any cause for anxiety,’ murmured Algy as he moved towards the cockpit.
‘That’s true. In fact, that’s my only comfort,’ admitted Biggles, as he followed. ‘It’s the nights that give me the willies. We can’t fly all day and all night, although we’ve jolly well nearly done that, but I’m always scared that something will happen when it’s too dark for us to see what’s going on. Start her up, Ginger, and then get to the keyboard and tune in.’
Five minutes later the Nemesis was in the air, with Biggles at the controls, heading south-west across the track of the decoy ship.
‘What the dickens is Ginger doing?’ asked Biggles presently, with a glance at Algy who was sitting beside him. ‘He’s a long time picking up the Star. You’d better go and see.’
Algy left his seat and went aft into the cabin. He was back in a moment, though, nudging Biggles impatiently. ‘You’d better go and speak to him yourself,’ he said in a normal voice, for owing to the silencers on the engines conversation could be conducted without shouting. ‘He seems to be a bit worried about something.’
A frown of anxiety flashed across Biggles’s face. ‘Take over,’ he said shortly and, leaving the joystick to Algy, ducked through the low doorway that gave access to the cabin.
Ginger was sitting at the radio, in the use of which he had had a concentrated course of instruction before leaving England, fingers slowly turning the tuning-in keys, but he desisted when he saw Biggles and slipped off his headphones. ‘There’s something wrong somewhere,’ he said quickly. ‘I can’t get a sound of any sort out of the Bengal Star.’
‘Have you spoken to the Seafret?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They can’t make contact, either.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite. Lea, the operator on the Seafret, says he last spoke to the Star at five-thirty and got her position. Everything was all right then, and he arranged to speak to Turrell again at six o’clock if nothing happened in the meantime. Lea remained on duty, and five minutes to six, just as he was thinking of speaking again, he got the call-sign from the Star. It was repeated twice and came over very quickly as if it was something urgent. He picked up his pencil to take the message, but it never came.
Instead, there was an uproar of atmospherics, or buzzing, that nearly blew his eardrums out. It went on for more than a minute and then cut out dead. After that there was silence, and he hasn’t been able to get a sound since. He thinks something must have gone wrong with the Star’s equipment.’
