Biggles - Air Commodore

by W E Johns

  All this flashed through Biggle’s head a good deal faster than it takes to read, and as he turned the plan over quickly in his mind he knew that he was going to put it into action.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ whispered Ginger, who was watching him closely.

  ‘I’m going to lay one of these mines in the tunnel,’ declared Biggles, in the incisive tones he always used when he was keyed up for action.

  ‘A sort of miniature Zeebrugge2, eh?’ grinned Ginger.

  ‘Exactly. Hang on while I see if these pills are fastened together. Don’t run the boat against one of those spikes or we shall take a flight through space that will make Clem Sohn’s show look like a half-fledged sparrow doing its first solo.’

  The ‘spikes’ to which Biggles referred were, of course, the ‘horns’ of the mines, which, in effect, act like triggers, in that anything coming into contact with them depresses a firing-pin into a detonator, which explodes the bursting charge.

  The mines were, Biggles quickly ascertained with satisfaction, merely roped together at equal intervals to prevent them from bumping against each other; and with far less trouble than he expected he untied one, and then ordered Ginger to ‘hang on to it’ while he picked up the oars.

  Ginger obeyed promptly but without enthusiasm, for like most people who are unaccustomed to handling high explosive, he regarded any instrument containing it with deep suspicion and mistrust. However, leaning over the stern, he got his hand through the iron ring attached for that purpose, and in this position was rowed by Biggles back into the tunnel.

  ‘Be careful you don’t barge into the wall,’ warned Ginger nervously. ‘For the love of mike use your torch.’

  ‘It’s all right, you can let it go now,’ replied Biggles. ‘Don’t worry; I hate the sight of these things as much as you do. Two minutes and we shall be out.’

  Ginger released his dangerous charge with a deep sigh of relief, and could have shouted with joy when, a moment later, with Biggles bending to the oars, the entrance to the tunnel came into view. He was watching the pale grey opening become lighter as they drew nearer to it when, to his surprise, it was suddenly blotted out. At the same moment a deep, vibrant roar filled the tunnel, and he knew what it was.

  ‘It’s the submarine!’ he cried in a strangled, high-pitched voice. ‘She’s coming in!’

  * * *

  1 Artillery projectile, in this case for naval guns.

  2 British naval raid, April 1918, to block the two outlets of this German-occupied seaport and destroy installations.

  Chapter 16

  In the Lion’s Den

  That was, without doubt, one of the most desperate moments of their many desperate adventures. Biggles gasped out something—what it was Ginger did not hear—and whirling the dinghy round in its own length, set off back down the tunnel with all the power of his arms. A light flashed from the bows of the submarine and illuminated the cave as brightly as broad daylight. Then a shout rang out.

  Biggles did not stop. Strangely enough, in his frantic haste to race the submarine he forgot all about the mine, and Ginger let out a shrill cry of horror as they missed it by a foot, their wake setting it bobbing and rolling in the middle of the fairway.

  ‘Keep your head,’ snarled Biggles angrily. ‘I’m going to make for the quay—it’s our only chance. Try and keep together... we’ve got to get up that path... use your gun if any one tries to stop you.’

  They shot through the end of the tunnel into the moonlit crater, Biggles grunting as he threw his weight on the oars, knowing that life or death was going to be a matter of a split second. In his heart was a wild hope that they might reach the quay before the mine exploded, but it was not to be. He had just ascertained from Ginger that no lights were showing in the buildings when, with a roar like the end of the world, from the mouth of the tunnel belched a sheet of flame that shot half-way across the crater.

  Biggles continued rowing without a pause, but there was only time for two more strokes. Then something seemed to come up under the boat and carry it forward with the speed of a racing motor-launch. The oars went by the board as he clutched at the sides to prevent himself from going overboard; and before anything could be done to prevent it, the dinghy had crashed into the under-carriage of the seaplane with such force that the top was ripped clean off one of the floats and a hole torn in the dinghy’s side. It began to sink at once. Ginger grabbed at the undamaged float and managed to drag himself across it. Biggles was not so lucky. He fell into the water, but managed to seize the end of the damaged float, to which he hung, trying to make out what was happening ashore. ‘Hang on,’ he choked. ‘Don’t show more of yourself than you can help.’

  At the moment Ginger was far too concerned with keeping his place on his refuge to pay much attention to anything else, for around them the water boiled and heaved and foamed as, flung into a maelstrom by the explosion, it dashed itself against the cliff, only to be hurled back in a smother of spray to meet a wave receding from the opposite wall.

  The effect of this on the heavy submarine was bad enough, for it rocked like a cork, rolling its metal plates against the quay with an appalling grinding noise; but the antics of the lightly floating seaplane were terrifying in their complete abandon. It reared and bucked and threw itself about like a newly roped wild horse, sometimes thrusting its propeller deep into the waves, and at others standing on its tail with half of its floats out of the water. Fortunately, this state of affairs did not last long, and once the first shock had passed the miniature tornado began quickly to subside.

  But on the shore—if shore it could be called— things were happening. From each of the three lower buildings men began to run down towards the quay, some shouting orders as they ran. Lights appeared everywhere.

  ‘Looks like the evacuation of Sodom and Gomorrah,’ grinned Biggles, his curious sense of humour overcoming all other emotions even at this critical juncture. ‘I wonder what they think they’re going to do.’

  This was apparently something that the men themselves did not know, for they merely crowded on the end of the quay nearest to the cave, talking and gesticulating as they tried to ascertain the cause of the explosion.

  Presently, when they had all collected there, Biggles realized that no better opportunity of escape would ever be likely to present itself. The tunnel had, he felt sure, caved in, or had so far become choked with debris as to be impassable. In any case they had no boat, so their only avenue of escape lay in the cliff path down which the men had come. It was, he knew, a forlorn hope at the best, but there was no other way, and their chances would certainly not be improved by the broad light of day which could not now be long in coming.

  ‘Ginger,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ answered Ginger, with the calm that comes of knowing that things are so bad that they can hardly be worse.

  ‘I’m going to make a dash for the top of the hill while these stiffs are all down on the quay,’ Biggles told him. ‘It’s our only chance. If we can make the top we might, by taking to the jungle, get back to Algy. Are you ready?’

  ‘OK, Chief.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  They released their hold on the seaplane and swam the few yards to the nearest point where they could effect a landing. Unfortunately, it meant going nearer to the men clustered on the quay, but there was no other landing-place, for in the opposite direction the cliff fell sheer into the water.

  At first their luck held. They dragged themselves ashore dripping like water-spaniels, and had actually succeeded in getting above the quay before one of the men, for no reason at all, apparently, happened to look round. Ginger, who had kept one eye on the crowd, saw him peer forward, evidently seeing or sensing something unusual in their appearance; he saw him call the attention of the next man, who turned sharply and looked at them. He in turn called out something which made several of the others look; then, with one accord, they started up the path. At first they only walked, but as Biggles and Ginger qu
ickened their pace they broke into a trot. Biggles started to run, and that was the signal for the chase to begin in earnest. Above, the sky was already grey, flushed with the pink rays of dawn.

  The climb would have been a stiff one at the best of times, being sharply sloping rock for the most part, with hand-hewn steps occurring in the worst places; to take it at a run called for considerable endurance, and before they had gone far both Biggles and Ginger were breathing heavily.

  Biggles was thankful for one thing. It seemed that the entire population of the enemy camp had, as was not unnatural, rushed down to the quay to see what had caused the explosion, so there was no one to bar their path. Had there been, then their case would have been hopeless from the start.

  Rounding a shoulder of rock in which a flight of steps had been cut, he saw something that brought an ejaculation of satisfaction to his lips. Beside the path, where the workmen had piled it rather than carry it away, was a stack of detritus, pieces of rock of all shapes and sizes, just as it had been cut out in the construction of the steps.

  He was on it in a flash, kicking and pushing with hands and feet. Ginger joined him, and a minor avalanche of rocks and dust went bouncing and sliding down the path.

  There was a yell from below as their pursuers saw what was happening and dashed for such meagre cover as the causeway offered. Which was precisely what Biggles had hoped to achieve, for it gave them a fresh start of which they were not long taking advantage.

  ‘We’ve done it!’ he gasped, as they burst round the last bend and saw that they were not more than twenty yards from the top, with the enemy a good forty or fifty yards behind.

  But he spoke too soon, although it was not to be expected that he could foresee what was to happen next.

  Over the brow of the cliff; beyond which they could just see the thatched, conical roofs of huts, poured a stream of Dyaks armed with their weapon, the kris, which, in the hands of an expert, can take a man’s head from his shoulders as cleanly as a guillotine. Their appearance confirmed what Biggles had suspected the previous day, that the enemy had locals in their employment, brought possibly from their own islands in the China Sea.

  There seemed to be only one hope left, and Biggles, without pausing in his stride, swerved towards it—the wireless building, a rock-built structure with a heavy door made of rough-hewn planks of island timber. Would the door open? If it was locked—

  With Ginger facing the mob, gun in hand, he tried the door. It opened easily, and they both burst inside. Two men, oriental in appearance, in gold-braided blue uniforms, who had been sitting at the desk in front of a magnificent modern wireless equipment, sprang to their feet with startled eyes as the two airmen burst in. For an instant they stared, their dark eyes flashing from one to the other of the intruders; then the elder, his face with its high cheek-bones clouding with suspicion, pulled open a drawer and whipped out a revolver.

  Biggles’s pistol spoke first, and the man crumpled up like an empty sack.

  The other darted round the desk with the obvious intention of getting to the door. Ginger barred his path, but at Biggles’s quickly snapped, ‘All right, let him go’, he stood aside and the man disappeared.

  Biggles slammed the door behind him, locked it, and slipped the bolt with which it was fitted. Then, with his back to it, his eyes swept the room. It was typical of him that the major issue still weighed more with him than personal considerations, as his next words showed, for he did not waste time discussing ways and means of escape from the trap in which they found themselves.

  ‘Can you handle that set?’ he rapped out.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ answered Ginger, reaching the apparatus in three quick strides.

  ‘Then try and get Singapore—usual wavelength,’ Biggles told him tersely. ‘As soon as you get ‘em let me know. If the Seafret interferes tell the operator to listen but not jam the air.’ As he finished speaking Biggles threw up his automatic and blazed at a face that appeared at the only window the cabin possessed, a small square of light near the door.

  One of the panes flew to fragments and the face disappeared.

  Ginger did not even look up; with the earphones clipped on his head, he was already revolving the black vulcanite controls.

  Biggles took up his position close to him, facing the window, pistol ready for snap-shooting.

  There was a short silence; then something crashed against the door. Occasionally a dark figure flashed past the window, but Biggles held his fire. Time was the one factor that mattered now. If he could hold the place until he had got a message through to Singapore he didn’t care much what happened after that. He saw that it was now broad daylight, and he was wondering what Algy would be thinking, when there came a crash on the door that made the whole building shake. But it held. For how long it would stand up to such treatment he did not know, but obviously it could not last many minutes. Then, with a crackle as of wood being broken up with incredible speed, a stream of machine-gun bullets poured through it, sending a cloud of splinters flying across the room; but they were well out of the line of fire, and the shots spattered harmlessly against the opposite wall.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked Ginger, quietly.

  ‘I’ve got Seafret —strongly, too—but I haven’t been able to hook up with Singapore yet.’

  ‘Never mind Singapore then; give this message to Sullivan and ask him to transmit it as quickly as possible,’ said Biggles quickly, taking a map from his pocket and opening it on the desk. For a second or two he studied it closely; then, picking up the pencil that had been dropped by the operator, he wrote swiftly on a message block, disregarding the attack on the door which was now being prosecuted with increasing vigour. When he had finished he pushed the slip over to Ginger, picked up his pistol again, and resumed guard over the window.

  It was as well that he did so, for at that moment an arm, holding a revolver, appeared through the broken glass, and a bullet ploughed a long strip of leather from the top of the desk. Biggles leapt aside just in time, and before the man could fire again he had taken two swift paces forward and blazed at the arm from pointblank range. There was a yell outside; the revolver fell inside the room, and the arm was withdrawn.

  ‘O.K.,’ called Ginger. ‘Sullivan’s got the story. Have you anything else to say to him?’

  ‘Tell him we’re in a jam—’

  ‘I’ve told him where we are.’

  ‘That’s fine. Tell him not to worry about us but get through to Singapore as quickly as he can.’

  Ginger returned to his task, but a moment later looked at Biggles with puzzled eyes. ‘That’s funny,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I was speaking to Seafret when the operator cut in and said, “Hang on! Stand by for —” And that’s as far as he got when the instrument went stone dead. I can’t get a kick of any sort out of it.’

  ‘I should say they’ve cut the lead-in wire outside,’ answered Biggles, without taking his eyes from the window. ‘They’d be pretty certain to do that as soon as they realized that we might start broadcasting for help. I wonder what Seafret meant by telling us to stand by. What for? But there, it’s no use guessing. I should like to know what’s going on outside; they seem to have stopped banging on the door.’

  ‘I suppose we can’t hold out until the R.A.F. machines arrive?’

  Biggles shook his head definitely. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s out of the question. They’ll be hours. In any case, the last place we want to be when they start doing their stuff is here; believe me, life won’t be worth living.’ As he finished speaking, actuated by a sudden impulse, he snatched a quick glance through the window. It was only a momentary glimpse, but it revealed a lot. ‘My goodness!’ he gasped.

  Standing in the middle of the path, not ten yards from the door and pointing towards it, was a machine-gun on a tripod, a metal belt of ammunition hanging out of it like a long flat centipede. There was nothing surprising about that; on the contrary, it was just what he e
xpected to see; but he certainly did not expect it to be deserted. A little farther down the path a large party of men, some in uniform, and others, the Dyaks, bare-skinned, were dragging a much heavier gun into position. Scattered about the rocks in various positions watching the proceedings were others, mostly officers, judging by their uniforms.

  Biggles made up his mind with the speed and precision that comes from long experience in the air. ‘I’m going to make a bolt for it,’ he snapped. ‘Keep me covered as far as you can.’ With that he unfastened the door, flung it wide open, and raced to the machine-gun.

  It is probable that this was the very last thing the people outside expected. One does not look to a rabbit to leave its burrow voluntarily when a pack of terriers is waiting outside. Certain it is that not one commander in a hundred would have anticipated such a move, or made allowance for it. On the face of it, it was sheer suicide, but as so often happens in the case of unorthodox tactics, it was in this very factor that its highest recommendation lay. Biggles knew that, as well as he knew that indecision and procrastination could have but one ending, and upon his judgement in this respect he was prepared to risk all.

  It was not remarkable that all eyes were on the heavy gun, and the ill-assorted team working on it, when he made his dash. What was inside the wireless hut may have offered food for speculation, but the exterior presented no attraction, so of the two subjects the gun offered most entertainment. Which again was all to Biggles’s advantage, and he actually reached the machine-gun before he was seen. In the twinkling of an eye he had swung the ribbed water-jacket surrounding the muzzle in the opposite direction and squatted down behind it, thumbs on the double-thumbpiece. There was no need to take aim. The target was large and the range point-blank. Jabbing yellow flames leapt from the muzzle, and before the stream of lead the crowd disappeared like a waft of smoke in a high wind. Those who had been hit lay where they had fallen; the others raced for cover.