by W E Johns
Another hour passed. The sun climbed into its throne; the machine rocked sickeningly in the tortured air, and still the desert rolled away on all sides, to eternity, it seemed. The Spur was like a fly hanging over the centre of an enormous bowl, a bowl of gleaming sand. The heat was terrific, and as so often happens in such conditions, a haze, a deceptive invisible haze, began to form. The hard line of the horizon became a distorted blur, and at the risk of being seen Bertie had to close up with his quarry to avoid losing them. If either of the enemy crews saw him they gave no sign of it.
The Spur’s petrol was now so low that it was with heartfelt relief that Bertie observed a ragged fringe of palms across his bows. As he drew nearer, a broad river, which he knew could only be the Nile, came into view. He had only a very vague idea of what part of the river it was, but that, for the moment, did not matter. It was pleasant to see again something green. Now, surely, the Renkells would go down.
The Renkells went on. Bertie glared; he muttered; but it made no difference. To give up the pursuit, after such an extended chase, would be maddening, but prudence counselled a halt while there was still a little petrol in the Spur’s tank. He wavered, and while he did so his problem was answered for him. The Renkells, still on their original course, disappeared into the haze. Bertie made a half-hearted attempt to find them, but he soon gave it up. Just what lay ahead he did not know—except, as far as he could see, the desert. Clearly, it would be suicidal to go on.
The Spur had been handicapped in the matter of range by starting from the coast with a tank that was not full. Then there had been the flight to Zufra, which had lowered the gauge still more. The Renkells had obviously started from the oasis with full tanks, which suggested that petrol, probably in a concealed dump, was available at Zufra. Bertie made a mental note of it, and turned back to the river, over which he had passed.
Hot, tired, and, disgruntled, he followed its course northward, and was pleasantly surprised when, after a further twenty minutes in the air, he saw a town of flat roofs that he recognised as Khartoum, with its aerodrome and big R.A.F. depot. Down to the last pint of petrol, he landed, and reported to the Duty Officer, a youthful pilot officer who, judging from his manner, regarded him with not unpardonable suspicion.
“What cheer,” he greeted.
“What cheer yourself,” returned Bertie.
The lad looked at the Spur. “That isn’t the sort of machine I’d expect a civilian to be flying,” he observed shrewdly.
Bertie considered him through his monocle with sympathetic toleration. “In this world, a lot of things will happen that you don’t expect, young feller-me-lad,” he responded. “I’d like some petrol—and all that sort of thing.”
“Is that so?” inquired the duty officer, sarcasm creeping into his voice. “What do you think this is—a public garage?”
“I,” said Bertie deliberately, “am a policeman.”
The pilot looked incredulous. “Are you kidding?”
Bertie frowned. “Don’t I look like one?”
The lad looked Bertie up and down. “No. In fact, I can’t recall ever seeing anything less like one,” he remarked, with the ingenuous frankness of youth. “Got any papers on you?”
With mild consternation Bertie realised that he had not—or none that would help him. Biggles carried the official documents. He made this confession.
“You’re coming with me to see the C.O.,” decided the duty officer, with some asperity.
“All right—all right—there’s nothing to get excited about,” returned Bertie. “Who’s in command here?”
“Group Captain Wilkinson.”
“Not the chap they call Wilks?”
“That’s him.”
“That’s marvellous—absolutely marvellous,” murmured Bertie. “Astonishing luck, and all that. My troubles are over.”
“Is he a pal of yours?” inquired the pilot.
“No—but he’s a pal of a pal of mine—if you see what I mean?” declared Bertie.
“I don’t, but never mind. You can tell your hard luck story to him,” consented the pilot. “But I warn you,” he added, “he takes a poor view of aviators who waffle about the Sahara with dry tanks. Come on.”
In a few minutes, having introduced himself, Bertie was telling his story—or as much of it as was appropriate —to the Group Captain, whom he had never met, but whom he knew had for years been a close friend of Biggles, who always referred to him as Wilks.
“Well, well. So Biggles is an airborne cop?” murmured Wilks when Bertie had finished. “He’s tried most things, but this is something new. And you say you don’t know where he is?”
“If he wasn’t in one of those two Nazi kites, then he’s still at Zufra—alive or dead,” answered Bertie.
“It would surprise me very much if he were dead,” returned Wilks, with a faint smile. “By rights he should have been killed years ago, but he seems to be one of those chaps who have the knack of slipping through the clammy clutches of Old Man Death every time. But what’s your idea now—I mean, what do you propose doing?”
“There’s only one thing I can do,” decided Bertie. “If you’ll fill me up with juice I’ll claw my way back to Zufra and have a dekko round the jolly old date palms.”
Wilks looked serious. “You can have the petrol, of course, but it seems to me that there are several snags in that arrangement. First of all, it’s bad country, and there’s a deuce of a lot of it between here and Zufra.”
“I noticed it,” murmured Bertie.
“Down here we don’t like machines flying alone too far afield,” went on Wilks. “We prefer to fly in pairs, at least, the idea being that if one has trouble, and has to go down, the other can pick him up, or pin-point the spot so that we know just where he is. Another snag; you say Algy Lacey and young Ginger Hebblethwaite are at Zufra. If Biggles is there, there will be four of you. You couldn’t all pile into the Spur. You would have to make at least two journeys to get them out. I can’t see any necessity for that. Why not take a big machine, or better still, have one of my Lankies1 go along with you. You could then evacuate the whole party at one go.”
“That’s a stupendous idea—absolutely terrific,” declared Bertie. “Jolly sporting of you, and all that.”
“I’m a bit worried about these mines,” went on Wilks. “We can’t leave the infernal things lying about for the Arabs to trip over. They’ll have to be cleared up.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “But not by me. No bally fear. I’m frightened to death of the beastly things.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you,” replied Wilks. “I’ll have a word with the political officer about it. It’s really his pigeon. We’ve got some Askaris2 here—the Fourth Pioneer Corps. They are trained in mine detecting—had plenty of practice chasing Rommel in the Western Desert during the war. They could go out in the Lanky when you go.”
“Absolutely. By Jove! Yes,” said Bertie, warmly. “Then, if the crooks were still in occupation at Zufra we could mop the whole place up—what!”
“I’ll suggest it to headquarters at Cairo,” promised Wilks. “We should have to get their okay. I’ll tell you what. Leave this to me. You trot along to the mess and tear open a tin of bully. By the time you get back I shall have got a decision on the matter. If it’s okay to proceed I’ll organise the sortie.”
“That’s the tops, sir, absolutely tophole,” declared Bertie. “Biggles always said you were the king-pin. Thanks, and all that.” Feeling better, Bertie went off to the mess.
When he returned, an hour later, he found that the station commander had wasted no time in keeping his promise. With him was a flying-officer, and a spick and span, dark-skinned, Askari sergeant.
Wilks introduced the R.A.F. officer. “This is Collingwood,” he said. “Colly, for short. He’ll fly the Lanky. Unfortunately, Jones of the Askaris is down with fever, so I got in touch with Cairo myself. They say the mines must be cleared immediately, and the Fourth Pioneers are to do the
job. They’ll take mine-detecting gear with them, and stay at Zufra till the work’s finished. It’ll probably take two or three days. I’ve told Collingwood that there’s no need for him to stay there; Sergeant Mahmud is quite capable of taking charge. Colly will go back in a day or two to bring the working party home. If you can show Sergeant Mahmud roughly where the mines are, he’ll do the rest.”
“I’m not sure about the position of the mines myself, but Ginger knows all about them,” remarked Bertie.
“In that case you’d better land both the Spur and the Lanky well clear of the oasis, and march in,” suggested Wilks.
“Absolutely,” agreed Bertie, emphatically.
“If you do happen to meet any opposition at Zufra the Askaris will handle it—not that I think that’s likely, since the Renkells have fled elsewhere.”
Bertie concurred.
“If Biggles is at Zufra with the others you could all come back here together,” went on Wilks. “As the crooks have gone somewhere south-east of here I imagine that this place would suit you as well as anywhere for a temporary base.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” rejoined Bertie. “The final decision about that, though, will rest with Biggles, if he is still at Zufra.”
Wilks nodded. “Good enough. Your machine has been refuelled, so you may as well get off right away. That should get you to Zufra before sundown. You could either come straight back here or wait till morning. There’s a moon, so if you take my tip you’ll make a night flight—it’s a lot more comfortable than flying across that devil’s cauldron in the sun.”
“I’ll remember it, and thanks again for your cooperation. It makes it all easy.” Bertie turned to Colly. “I’m ready to push off, if you are.”
They went out to the aerodrome, where Bertie watched a dozen efficient-looking Askaris, under Sergeant Mahmud, in full desert equipment, file into a Lancaster that stood waiting. Colly climbed into his cockpit. As the motors growled Bertie walked over to the Spur.
In a few minutes both machines were off the ground, thrusting north-west through the sun-drenched air above the scintillating sea of sand.
* * *
1 R.A.F. slang for the Lancaster Bomber.
2 The Pioneer Corps is probably the most polyglot corps in the world. Commanded by white officers, the rank and file are nearly all African natives—Libyan Arabs, Nubians, Sudanese, and a host of other nationalities. These men are commonly called Askaris (from Arabic-French askar, meaning an army). They love the drill and ceremony of soldiering, and it is not an uncommon sight to see one, in his spare time, drilling himself, shouting his own commands.
CHAPTER XIII
EVENTS AT EL ZUFRA
IT did not take those left at the oasis long to force the door of the hut and help themselves to the ample supply of tinned food and mineral waters which they found there. Their immediate requirements satisfied, they selected a shady position under the palms, one that commanded a view of the desert to the north, and sat down to wait for what might befall. There was nothing else they could do.
Naturally, their conversation was practically confined to one subject—the mystery of Bertie’s disappearance. Algy stated positively that the Spur had not been attacked on the ground, or there would have been evidence of it, such as bullet-marks in the sand, which he could not have overlooked. After debating the subject from all angles they were unanimous in the opinion that the most obvious solution was probably the correct one—that Bertie had seen or heard the Renkells take off, and had followed them. Biggles asserted that he could think of no other reason why Bertie should leave the ground.
As the day wore on, what did puzzle him was why the Spur should remain away for so long. It gave rise to a fear—although he did not mention this—that Bertie had attacked the Renkells, found trouble, and was down somewhere in the desert. When four hours had elapsed, and still the Spur did not show up, he inclined more and more to this view.
Knowing the endurance of the aircraft, he remarked that wherever the machine might be, it was no longer in the air, for the simple reason that it’s petrol must be exhausted.
“One thing is quite certain,” he averred. “We can’t get back on our feet. Four hundred miles would be a tidy jaunt on a macadam road with a tavern at every corner. Across that”—he nodded towards the glowing sand— “it couldn’t be done. Gontermann was right about that. The only thing we can do is wait. If the Spur doesn’t come back, then we’ll stay here and fight it out with the crooks when they return, as they are almost sure to, sooner or later. If the Spur does come we can’t all get into it. I’ll fly up to Egypt with Bertie and try to get another Mosquito to replace the one we’ve lost. Which reminds me: if Bertie comes back he won’t dare to land near the oasis for fear of putting his wheels on a mine. The chances are that he’ll land at the place from which he took off. He knows that’s safe, and that’s where we shall look for him. But we can’t sit out there all day in the sun. One of us will have to go out and leave a note to let him know that we’re waiting here, at the oasis. If we fix it on a piece of stick he can hardly miss seeing it. We’ll tell him to taxi towards the wadi, when one of us will go out to show him the way in.”
“He knows there’s a safe runway along the wadi, because I told him so,” put in Ginger.
“Never mind. We’ll go out to meet him. This is no time to take chances,” asserted Biggles.
“What beats me is, why the Renkells left here, and where they could have gone,” muttered Algy.
“They probably left here because it’s no sort of a place for an extended stay,” answered Biggles. “They only use the oasis as an advanced landing-ground; they told me so; which means that their permanent hide-out is tucked away still farther in the back of beyond.”
“When they talked about leaving in the morning, they didn’t drop any sort of hint as to where they might be going?” queried Ginger.
“Come to think of it, they did—or rather Grindler did,” murmured Biggles thoughtfully. “I can’t remember his exact words, but he said something about going back to that goldarned Sanseviera—or some such word. It sounds like the name of a place. I’ve never heard of it, but if it is, we ought to be able to find it. Now I think we ought to see about fixing that note in case Bertie comes back.”
“I’ll take it,” offered Ginger. “This sitting here doing nothing gives me the willies.”
“Be careful not to lose your way—it’s pretty hot out on the sand,” warned Biggles.
“Don’t you worry about that,” returned Ginger grimly. “I shall follow our tracks out and back. You write the note.”
Biggles wrote the message on a leaf of his note-book, and selecting a dead palm frond, stripped it until only the spine remained. In the end of this he made a slit to hold the paper, and passed it to Ginger, who took it, and with his tattered jacket on his head departed on his errand.
Biggles and Algy sat in the shade where they could watch him, still talking over the strange turn of events, grim evidence of which lay before them in the shape of two dead Arabs, the remains of two camels, and the blackened area that marked the burnt-out Mosquito. None of these could be approached, of course, on account of the mines.
Time passed, probably the best part of two hours. They saw Ginger coming back, a microscopic figure in the vastness, making for the entrance to the wadi which, as far as they knew, provided the only safe path through the mine-field. They watched him without any particular interest; and perhaps because their eyes were on him they failed for some time to see another movement away to the west. In fact, their attention was only called to it by the behaviour of Ginger, who suddenly stopped, staring across the sand, shielding his eyes with his hands. At that time he was about four hundred yards away.
“What’s he staring at?” muttered Algy, with quickening interest.
Biggles uttered an ejaculation and sprang to his feet. He did not speak. There was no need. Also advancing towards the oasis, on a line that would intercept Ginger before he r
eached it, from a fold in the ground had appeared a group of camels, mostly with riders, a dozen all told, with long rifles slung across their shoulders.
“Arabs,” said Algy.
“Touregs,’ said Biggles, noting the blue veils that covered the faces of the riders. There was a suspicion of uneasiness in his voice, for he knew that while the nomad Touregs seldom interfered with white travellers, they resented their intrusion, and on that account were not entirely to be trusted. Still, he did not think they were in real danger. Neither, evidently, did Ginger, for after a good look at the newcomers he walked on towards the oasis.
Biggles’s only real fear at this stage of the proceedings was that the Touregs might inadvertently attempt to cross the mine-field; not for a moment did it occur to him that they might know about the mines; and it was with the object of preventing an accident that he started forward. At the same time the riders whipped their camels into a run, directly towards Ginger who, seeing that he was their objective, stopped to wait for them.
In any case he could not hope to outrun the camels to the oasis. Wild yells from the Touregs now made it plain that their intentions were not friendly.
“You stay here, Algy,” snapped Biggles, and began running along the wadi towards the group out in the desert.
By the time he had reached it Ginger had been surrounded, and was now being driven in a hostile manner towards the oasis.
The party halted and silence fell as Biggles ran up, hands raised, to show that he was unarmed. Dark, sullen, inscrutable eyes, looked down on him. He spoke first in English, but receiving no answer, tried French. Upon this, at a word of command, one of the camels “couched,” and its rider, a leader by his bearing, dismounted. He was tall, bearded, lean, with fierce eyes, a true son of the desert and a magnificent specimen of manhood. He answered Biggles, in guttural French, with a question.
