Biggles In The Baltic

by W E Johns

  ‘Well, I must say the Navy have made a thorough job of it,’ observed Biggles with satisfaction, as the party concluded its tour of inspection. ‘Let’s go and have a look at the machines. Colonel Raymond told me that they were specially designed for the job. He could only let us have four—one each and one in reserve. Normally they will be used as single seaters, but there is a spare seat for a passenger, or gunner, with a gun mounting, under the fabric just aft of the pilot’s seat. The spare seat can be made available by merely pulling a zip fastener. They’re amphibians, of course; goodness knows where we shall have to land and take off before the job is finished. The outstanding feature, I understand, is a wide range of speed; what with flaps and slots we ought to be able to land on a sixpence. There are eight machine-guns, operated by a single button on the joystick. Incidentally, you’ll notice that they are fitted for torpedo work, as well as with bomb-racks.’

  ‘Well, it’s a nice clean-looking kite, anyway,’ remarked Algy as they stood on the ledge looking at the aircraft. ‘By the way, what do they call them ?’

  ‘As far as I know they haven’t been named,’ returned Biggles. ‘The official designation is S.I. Mark I. A.—the S standing for secret.’

  ‘That’s too much of a mouthful; we shall have to think of something shorter,’ declared Ginger.

  ‘Can you suggest anything?’ inquired Biggles.

  Ginger thought for a moment. ‘What’s something that sits in a hole and darts out at its prey?’ he asked pensively.

  ‘A rabbit,’ suggested Algy.

  Ginger snorted. ‘I said darts out at its prey. Have you ever seen a rabbit dart at a dandelion?’

  ‘What’s something that whirls out, strikes, and then whirls back home again?’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘Boomerang,’ answered Ginger promptly.

  ‘Good,’ cried Biggles. ‘That sounds more like it. We’re the Boomerang Squadron. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we gave each machine a name of its own, too, for identification purposes,’ he added.

  ‘In that case mine’s Dingo,’ announced Ginger. ‘If we’re the Boomerangs we ought to stick to Australian names.’

  ‘An Aussie once told me that the dingo is a nasty, dirty, stinking little beast,’ said Biggles, with a sidelong glance at Algy.

  ‘He may be, but he’s thundering hard to catch,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’m sticking to Dingo.’

  ‘Then mine’s going to be the Didgeree-du,’ announced Algy.

  ‘What!’ cried Ginger incredulously. ‘There ain’t no such animal.’

  ‘A fat lot you know about it,’ grunted Algy. ‘The didgeree-du is a bird.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, the didgeree-du happens to be a native Australian musical instrument,’ put in Biggles. ‘It makes a lot of noise about nothing.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’m sticking to it,’ insisted Algy doggedly. ‘I like the sound of it.’

  ‘Then I’ll call mine the Willie-Willie,’ decided Biggles.

  Ginger stared. ‘You’re not serious? What on earth is a willie-willie?’

  ‘You’ll know if you ever run into one,’ replied Biggles grimly. ‘I flew into one once, some years ago.’

  ‘Flew into one? What are you talking about?’

  ‘A willie-willie, my lad, is a cyclone, typhoon, and hurricane rolled into one. It lurks round the north Australian coast and descends out of the blue in search of its prey, which it smashes, mangles, and finally blows to pieces. That’s what I hope to do to the enemy.’

  ‘Then Willie-Willie is a good name,’ admitted Ginger. ‘What about the spare machine? The duck-billed platypus is the only other Australian animal I know.’

  ‘That’s good enough,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But this won’t do. We must get on. I’m expecting a signal through at any moment.’

  They spent the next hour examining the machines, which, if appearance counted for anything, were capable of all that was claimed of them.

  ‘What was that signal you were expecting?’ inquired Ginger as they climbed out of the Dingo on to the catwalk and made their way towards the depot.

  ‘That’s something I can’t tell you, the reason being that we’re still under sealed orders. Admittedly they are in my pocket, but I can’t open them until I get instructions.’

  ‘I suppose the signal will come through in code?’

  ‘Of course; all messages are in code in war-time,’ answered Biggles. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do except wait, so we may as well go along and see what Briny has produced for lunch.’

  ‘What about trying out one of the machines?’ suggested Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘No, for two reasons,’ he decided. ‘In the first place, it would be folly to show ourselves except when we are compelled to, and secondly, our petrol supply is not unlimited. As far as showing ourselves is concerned, I have an idea that most of our orders will be for night work, so we had better have a good look at the map.’

  ‘It’s going to be tricky work finding this lump of rock on a dark night, particularly if, as I presume, we shan’t dare to show a light,’ murmured Algy.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Biggles, ‘but we shall have to do the best we can. It certainly wouldn’t do to show lights except in dire emergency, because enemy ships might be close in to us without our knowing it, since in war-time ships don’t carry lights, either.’

  As they entered the mess Roy ran up with a slip of paper in his hand. ‘Signal, sir,’ he said, saluting briskly.

  Biggles took the slip, glanced at it, and taking several envelopes from his pocket, selected one and ripped open the flap. For a minute or two he read in silence. Then, ‘Listen to this,’ he said. ‘It concerns everyone. I’ll read it aloud.’

  ‘“To Officer Commanding Z Squadron. Standing routine orders.

  ‘“1. These orders must be committed to memory by every officer in your command.

  ‘“2. This document must on no account be taken into the air. It must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy. In case of doubt it should be destroyed.

  ‘“3. As they are at present planned, the duties of Z Squadron will be confined to night operations, details of which will be issued.

  ‘“4. Every precaution will be taken to prevent the enemy from becoming aware of the existence of the squadron, or its base. If an aircraft of the squadron is pursued by hostile aircraft the pilot concerned will not on any account return to his base, but will destroy his aircraft on the open sea.

  ‘“5. Should the base be located by the enemy it must not be allowed to fall into his hands. All war material must be destroyed, no matter what sacrifice is involved.

  ‘“6. Signals. Only in a case of utmost importance should radio equipment be used for transmitting signals. Personal danger does not constitute a sufficient reason to transmit. If information of sufficient importance to warrant transmission is obtained, code will invariably be used.

  ‘“7. Further supplies of food, fuel, and war material will be dispatched as the exigences of the service permit, but it must be assumed that no such stores will be sent.

  ‘“8. The greatest possible care will be taken not to violate the neutrality of non-belligerent countries.”’

  Biggles laid the paper on the table. ‘That’s all,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Quite enough to be going on with, too,’ murmured Algy.

  Briny appeared in the doorway. ‘Lunch is ready, gen’l’men,’ he said.

  CHAPTER III

  FIRST ORDERS

  BY the following morning all the members of ‘Z’ Squadron were fairly settled in their new home and were becoming accustomed to the persistent lapping of the sea against the walls of the cave—a mournful, depressing sound that had disturbed Ginger’s sleep. However, breakfast of ham and eggs, served by the ever cheerful Briny, soon dispelled the gloomy atmosphere.

  ‘Have you got things sorted out in your department?’ Biggles asked him.

  ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ answered Briny. ‘This is a picnic to some of the
places I’ve served. Why, I remember once in the Red Sea, chasing Arab dhows we was— let’s see, it ‘ud be about—’

  ‘All right, never mind about that now,’ interrupted Biggles.

  ‘Ay, ay, sir!’ Briny saluted and departed.

  The airmen first went to the signals room, where they found Roy busy fixing up an alarum device that would rouse him should a signal come through while he was sleeping. Leaving him at his task, they made their way to the machines, on which the Flight-Sergeant was already working. Continuing along the catwalk, they reached the mouth of the cave and stood blinking in the daylight, notwithstanding that the sky was overcast.

  Ginger climbed on a rock and surveyed his immediate surroundings. It was not a view calculated to induce high spirits. Under leaden clouds, a dark, choppy sea was beating sullenly at the foot of the cliffs, throwing showers of spray over the natural breakwater and sucking hungrily at festoons of black, slimy seaweed that lined the high-water mark. Above him, sea-birds of many sorts gathered on the numerous ledges or soared in the grey atmosphere like scraps of wind-blown paper. A movement a little farther along caught his eye, and he saw a seal drop into the water.

  ‘Strictly speaking, we ought to mount a guard here,’ opined Biggles. ‘But if we did none of us would do any work or get any sleep.’

  ‘I should go of my rocker, anyway, if I had to stand here and stare at this all day,’ muttered Algy.

  Biggles considered the heaving water speculatively. ‘I should say that a vessel coming from that direction at night’—he pointed to the northeast— ‘would see the reflection of our lights. I think it would be a good idea if we got some tarpaulins fixed up over the entrance to the cave.’ He glanced up at the sheer face of the cliff. ‘I don’t think there’s any question of exploring the island,’ he continued. ‘From what I can see of it, only an expert mountain goat could get to the top—not that I imagine there is anything there worth going up for. Well, there seems to be nothing more to see, so we may as well get back.’

  On the way he gave the Flight-Sergeant orders about covering the entrance with tarpaulins.

  Returning to the depot, they were in time to see Briny walking towards the galley with three fair-sized fish strung on a line.

  ‘Where did you get those ?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Out of the ditch, sir,’ was the brisk answer. ‘I thought that as ‘ow we were living with the fishes, as you might say, sir, they ought to do their bit, so last night I dropped in a line or two to try me luck.’

  ‘Smart work,’ complimented Biggles.

  ‘Why, for luv a duck, sir, that’s nothing,’ declared Briny; ‘I’ve kept the whole ship’s company going on fish before to-day.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Biggles incredulously.

  Briny looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Of course, they didn’t get much each,’ he admitted. ‘But talking of fishin’, I remember once, off Cape Horn, we got in amongst so many fish that they lifted the ship clean out of the water. I sez to Charlie, a shipmate o’ mine, “Charlie,” I sez—’

  ‘Yes, all right Briny. Keep the story for a dull evening,’ interrupted Biggles.

  ‘Ay, ay, sir.’ Briny touched the peak of his weather-soiled cap and went on towards the galley.

  ‘I fancy he must sleep in that cap,’ murmured Algy; ‘I’ve never seen him without it.’

  Further conversation on the subject was prevented by the arrival of Roy with a signal.

  Biggles took the slip of paper. ‘This, I fancy, is where we start the ball rolling,’ he said, leading the way to the record office, where he unlocked a small safe and took out a red book carrying on the front, in large letters, the word SECRET. He sat down at the table to decode the message, and for several minutes was busy with pencil and paper.

  ‘We do our first show to-night,’ he said at last, looking up at the others. ‘Zero hour is ten o’clock, weather permitting. Our objective is an ammunition dump on the south side of the Kiel canal, about three miles from the town. The dump can be identified by four long sheds standing close together, end on. The moon rises early, so we ought to have no difficulty in finding them.’ Biggles filed the message and put the file in the safe.

  ‘It sounds easy,’ ventured Ginger.

  ‘It may sound easy, but we may find it otherwise,’ replied Biggles. ‘In all Germany the worst hotbed of archie is at Kiel. Raymond warned me of that. After all, the Kiel Canal is probably the most important artery the Boche possess, so they’ve guarded it with their best anti-aircraft equipment. I think this is where we have to play the old soldier on them; if they hear us coming they’ll knock us to pieces before we get anywhere near the dump.’

  ‘And what is the “old soldier” in this case?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘We’ll climb to twenty thousand, cut our engines fifteen miles away and glide over. With luck they may not spot us until the first bomb bursts. Then the fireworks will start and things will probably get pretty warm. Ginger, you’ll be new to this sort of thing, so I’ll give you a tip. If you can’t get high, keep low—the lower the better as long as you don’t barge into anything. The lower you are the more difficult target you make for the gunners, since they can’t swing their guns about like rifles.’

  ‘Then we aren’t all going over together?’ put in Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. We should probably collide in the dark. I think the best plan is to go over at intervals of ten minutes. I’ll go first. As soon as I’ve unloaded my eggs the guns and searchlights will be after me; in the din they won’t hear you coming, so you may get a chance to have an unmolested crack at the target. Algy, you’ll follow me. Ginger, you’ll be last, and if things pan out as I imagine you ought to get a clear shot. Take one bomb—a two-thirty pounder. If you lay it near the dump it ought to shake things up a bit. The instant you unload, shove your joy-stick forward and zigzag for the open sea. Then come straight home. To prevent us landing on top of each other in the dark I’ll get Smyth to signal three flashes with a green light as an all-clear signal. He can stand by with the motor-boat in case any of us makes a dud landing. That’s all. We’d better get ready. Let’s get the target marked on the map for a start.’

  The rest of the day passed quickly, with all available hands preparing the machines for their perilous mission. They floated in line, in order of take-off, Biggles’s machine leading, with two 112-pound high explosive bombs under the wings, and a nest of small incendiary bombs between the large twin floats. Algy’s machine carried a similar load; Ginger’s, the single 230-pounder, as Biggles had ordered.

  As twilight fell the machines were towed nearer to the tarpaulins which the Flight-Sergeant and Briny had erected in accordance with Biggles’s instructions. Biggles pulled one aside, and stepping into the open, surveyed the deserted sea reflectively ; the sun, a ball of glowing crimson, was just sinking into the misty horizon. The wind had dropped and the sea was going down, as it so often does towards evening. He glanced at his watch. The time was eight-thirty. ‘Everything seems to be all clear,’ he remarked. ‘Let’s go and have a bite of food. By the time we’ve finished we shall be all set to give the gentle Hun a taste of his own medicine. I hope he likes it.’

  CHAPTER IV

  THE RAID

  AT precisely ten o’clock, after a careful survey of the sea for ships, Biggles taxied out into the little cove under a moon that cut a swathe of silver light across the gently stirring ocean. The stars twinkled clear and bright in the autumn sky, into which the black silhouette of the rocky islet reared up like a mighty colossus. Without a glance behind him, he steered the Willie-Willie—its name now painted on the nose—into position for a clear run towards the open sea. The engine bellowed suddenly, and the machine surged forward, slashing a line of foam across the face of the water. The line ended abruptly as the aircraft soared like a gull into the air.

  Holding the stick back with his knees, for the night air was as placid as a bowl of milk, he took a piece of chewing-gum from a
pocket under the instrument-board and chewed it reflectively as he scanned the ever-widening horizon for lights; but neither gleam nor flash broke the sombre pall that war had laid over land and sea. Even the beacons of lighthouses and lightships had been ex-tinguished. Only a weird blue glow illuminated the flickering instruments on the dashboard.

  As the needle of the altimeter crept round the dial to the 10,000 mark Biggles turned the nose of his machine due south; still he climbed, but more slowly now as the air became more rarefied. Up and up—12,000-14,000-16,000-18,000—into a lonely indigo world; and still the machine bored upward. The blue light gleamed coldly on his face as he peered forward through the windscreen, looking for the land which he knew lay ahead. That Kiel would be ‘blacked-out’ after sunset was only to be expected, yet he thought there was a chance that the lights of moving traffic might reveal a road. But not a spark broke the stygian darkness.

  At last the altimeter registered 20,000 feet, and the nose of the machine sank a little until it was on even keel; then, as the muffled roar of the engine died abruptly, the nose sank still lower and the Willie-Willie began to glide. The only sound was the soft hum of air passing over the surface of the machine.

  Peering forwards and downwards, Biggles soon made out a vague mass which he knew was land, a vast black shadow that spread away until it was lost in the distance. Not a light showed anywhere. Turning to the right, he followed the coast-line for a while, and then, after a glance at his compass and the moon, he headed straight towards it, losing height all the time, probing the darkness with his eyes, seeking the unmistakable landmark which he knew was there—the famous canal which connects the Baltic with the North Sea. At last he found it. The enemy might curtain their windows, but they could not curtain the moon, which, climbing higher, reflected itself on the water so that the canal lay like a silver ribbon across the sable land.