by W E Johns
‘That’s the third one of those things we’ve passed,’ said Ginger in a puzzled voice.
‘What do you mean—we’ve passed?’ asked Biggles sharply.
‘What I say.’
‘But the thing, whatever it is, must drift at the same rate as ourselves, so how could we pass it? It must be the same one—’
He broke off, and groping under his leather flying coat, took a box of matches from his jacket pocket. A match flared up, casting a small circle of yellow, misty light. ‘Good heavens!’ he cried aghast as he peered forward at the object. ‘It’s a mine. We’ve either come down in a minefield or we’ve drifted into one.’
The mystery was now explained. They were drifting, but the mines were stationary because they were anchored.
Ginger dropped on his knees and fended the mine away from the float, actually holding it by one of the horns, contact with which might have caused it to explode. ‘For the love of Mike let’s get clear of the infernal thing,’ he muttered desperately.
Biggles said nothing, but he knelt beside Ginger on the float and helped him to push the machine clear.
‘What can we do about it?’ questioned Ginger.
‘Nothing. This knocks any idea of taxi-ing on the head. We’ve only got to bump into one of these things—once. We can’t move till daylight, that’s certain.’ Biggles lit a cigarette and smoked it reflectively.
The night wore on. Several times they saw mines and frequently had to fend the machine clear ; but at last came a long interval when they saw none, and Biggles expressed a hope that they were clear of the minefield.
‘What’s the time?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles climbed to the cockpit and looked at the watch on the instrument board. ‘Three o’clock.’
‘And it won’t start to get light until half-past six.’
‘About that,’ agreed Biggles.
‘How far do you reckon we’re away from the base?’ was Ginger’s next question.
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Biggles. ‘We’ve no indication of how fast we’re drifting. I think we must be some way away from the island though, because of these mines. I can’t think of any reason why there should be a minefield near the islet. That doesn’t mean that the Boche hasn’t got a reason, though.’
After that they fell silent again. What seemed to be an eternity of time passed; they could do nothing but sit still and watch for mines, although as a considerable period had passed since they had seen one, it looked as if Biggles’s surmise that they were clear was correct.
It was, Ginger judged, about six o’clock when he heard a faint sound in the distance. He noticed that Biggles had evidently heard it too, for he stood up, listening, staring in the direction from which it had come. ‘What did that sound like to you?’ he asked.
‘It sounded like a whistle,’ answered Ginger. ‘I suppose it isn’t possible that we’ve drifted near the island, and that’s—’
‘No. Smyth wouldn’t whistle if he was looking for us. He’d hail. Hark!’
‘I can hear an engine,’ asserted Ginger.
‘So can I. It’s coming towards us, too.’
‘Is it the motor-boat?’
‘No—the beat is too heavy. Great heavens! Look out, it’s nearly on us.’
It seemed as if at that moment the fog lifted slightly, for suddenly the muffled beat of powerful engines became clear and strong. Biggles flung himself into the cockpit, and then hesitated. He knew that if they remained where they were they were likely to be run down; on the other hand, if he started the engine the noise would drown all other sounds, and they were likely to collide with the very thing they sought to avoid. A swift glance over his shoulder showed him that Ginger was in his seat. Simultaneously the deep-throated boom of a ship’s siren shattered the silence.
Biggles waited for no more. He started the engine, and began taxi-ing away from the point from which the sound had seemed to come. Hardly had the aircraft got under way when a towering black shape loomed over it. Biggles jerked the throttle wide open and the machine plunged forward. Even so, he thought it was too late, for they were right under the bows of the vessel. He flinched as it bore down on them, and the next instant what appeared to be a monster as large as a cathedral was gliding past them, leaving the plane careering wildly on the displaced water. Above the noise of his engine Biggles heard a bell clanging, and a hail, but he did not stop, for he knew that any ship in those waters was almost certain to be an enemy. A searchlight blazed suddenly, a spectral beam through which the fog swirled like smoke.
By this time the Willie-Willie was tearing over the water as fast as Biggles dare take it, for the wake of the huge vessel, which he realized from the searchlight must be a warship, was catching them broadside on, threatening to capsize the comparatively frail aircraft. He could see nothing; even the ship had once more been swallowed up by the fog, and the searchlight with it. For perhaps five minutes he went on; then, satisfied that they were clear, he throttled back, leaving the propeller ticking over. Slowly the machine came to rest and he stood up in his seat. ‘Jumping halibut,’ he muttered irritably, ‘this is getting a bit too much of a good thing.’
‘What was it, anyway?’ asked Ginger in a strained voice.
‘A Boche cruiser I think,’ replied Biggles. ‘It was going dead slow on account of the fog, or it would have cut us in halves. The look-out saw us, too, but I doubt if they could make out our identification marks, so they would naturally assume that we were one of their own machines, forced down by the fog.’
‘In that case they’ll probably stop and look for us.’
‘They may stop, but I don’t think they’ll do much looking in this murk. They’re more likely to try to give us their position, supposing that we are only too anxious to be picked up. There they go,’ he added, as the bellow of a siren boomed across the water.
For half an hour the cruiser remained in the vicinity, sending out frequent blasts; but at the end of that time the eerie sound grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether—much to Biggles’s relief, for the fog was beginning to turn grey with the coming of daylight.
Nevertheless, some time was yet to pass before visibility began to improve. Not for nearly an hour did the luminous white disk of the sun appear, low down on the eastern horizon, to prove that the fog was lifting. Slowly the area of dark-green water round the Willie-Willie widened, until it was possible to see a mile in every direction. Knowing that it was now only a matter of minutes before the mist would disperse altogether, Biggles took off and began climbing for height. As he expected, it was possible to see through the fast-thinning vapour, and presently he made out the black mass of Bergen Ait, far to the north-west. He headed towards it and glided down in the cove just as Algy was preparing to take off in search of them.
‘I thought you were goners,’ he said.
‘You’d have thought so if you’d been with us, and that’s a fact,’ returned Biggles, who was staring at the water in the cove, where a number of sea-birds were flapping, as if they found it difficult to get off. Streaks of bright colour showed everywhere. ‘Where did all this oil come from?’ he asked.
‘From the submarine, I imagine,’ answered Algy. ‘There’s oil all over the place.’
‘Ah—of course; I forgot.’
‘It wasn’t only oil that drifted here from the submarine,’ went on Algy. ‘One of our bombs must have fairly split it in halves, and I fancy the skipper must have been in the act of sending a signal—at least, a whole lot of papers have drifted here. Take a look at this.’ He pointed to a book bound in blue oilskin that lay on a rock, with stones between the pages so that the air could dry them.
Biggles took one look at it. ‘Sweet spirit of Icarus!’ he gasped, slowly turning the pages. ‘It’s the German secret code. We shall have to let the Admiralty know about this. What a stroke of luck. Hark!’
For a few seconds they all stood motionless in a listening attitude. Then Biggles took a pace forward, staring u
p at the sky, now a pale egg-shell blue. One tiny black speck broke its pristine surface, a speck that grew rapidly in size. Nobody spoke, for they all recognized it. It was a German Domier flying-boat.
‘Get under cover everybody,’ ordered Biggles.
He turned and darted along the catwalk towards the signals room, but in a few minutes he was back at the mouth of the cave where the others were still watching the movements of the enemy aircraft through a hole in the tarpaulin. ‘It’s looking for the submarine we sank yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘It has sent out several signals; Roy picked them up and I’ve just decoded them. Incidentally, you were right about the sub.; it was signalling when our bombs hit it.’
‘The Dornier’s coming this way,’ observed Algy from the tarpaulin.
Biggles joined him. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘He’s coming lower, too. I’m afraid he’s spotted the oil—yes, by gosh, he has. He’s coming right down to have a closer look at it. If he follows it to this rock we’re sunk.’ He stepped back as the Dornier suddenly dived towards the cove. The roar of its engines vibrated through the cave.
‘He’s going to circle the island,’ declared Ginger, with alarm in his voice.
‘If the wireless operator starts tapping out a message about the oil there’ll be a destroyer here in a brace of shakes,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Even if he doesn’t signal he’s bound to report it when he gets back, which will mean the same thing. They are bound to send some sort of boat out to see where the oil is coming from. I’m afraid we’ve got to stop this chap getting back.’ He turned and ran along the catwalk to where the Willie-Willie was moored. ‘Briny, get that tarpaulin down!’ he yelled as he cast off.
The others had followed him along the catwalk. ‘I’m coming!’ shouted Algy, jumping into his machine.
‘Please yourself; the more there are of us the better chance we shall have of getting him. Once we show ourselves we’ve got to get him.’
Biggles’s final words were drowned in the roar of his engine, and the Willie-Willie surged towards the entrance. To Briny, who was dragging back the tarpaulin, he shouted, ‘Where is he?’
‘Round the other side of the rock, sir,’ bawled Briny.
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Round to the left.’
Biggles waited for no more; he shoved the throttle open and the Willie-Willie tore across the cove in a cloud of spray. Another moment and it was off the water, banking steeply to the left.
Biggles’s object was, of course, to come up behind the German ‘plane, which he assumed—from the information Briny had given him—was still circling the island in a left-hand direction. He was, therefore, unprepared for what happened next. Actually, Briny’s information had been correct, but what he could not be expected to know was that the Dornier had turned about on the far side of the island and was now coming back towards him. The result was that Biggles, rounding the towering black shoulder of the central mass, nearly collided with him. Both pilots saw each other at the same moment; both banked vertically, and in a split second had raced past each other in opposite directions, before there was even time to think of shooting.
With a grunt of annoyance Biggles dragged the Willie-Willie round in its own length, and tore along after the Dornier, just in time to see Algy’s machine whirl into sight, and nearly meet the Dornier head on, as he had done.
The enemy pilot—wisely, perhaps, seeing that he was outnumbered—put his nose down for speed and streaked away to the south with the two British machines in hot pursuit.
As he roared low over the cove Biggles glanced down, and seeing no sign of Ginger’s machine, wondered where it was. An instant later he knew, for it suddenly flashed into sight across the Dornier’s bows. There was a streak of tracer bullets, and then the Dornier went on, apparently unaffected.
What had happened was this. In his desperate haste to get off Ginger had not thought of asking Briny which way the Boche had gone, so instead of turning to the left like the others, he had turned to the right, and in so doing had actually done what the others had intended doing. He had found himself behind the Dornier—in fact, behind all three machines; but as they had dived he found himself above them, and was thus able to use his superior height to gain speed and intercept the machine with the black crosses on its wings. He had managed to get in a short burst of fire at it, but his shooting had been hurried, and it was with chagrin that he saw the Dornier proceed on its way, apparently untouched by his bullets. All he could do was join in the pursuit with the others.
Biggles had no doubts about overhauling the Dornier, for their machines were built for speed whereas the flying-boat was designed primarily for coastal reconnaissance. And since it was soon apparent that they were, in fact, catching it, he had little doubt as to the ultimate result. What upset him was the thought that at that very moment the German wireless operator might be tapping out, as fast as he could, the circumstances of the combat—with, of course, the position of the secret base.
The German pilot did all that he could do against three opponents, as did his gunner, who, facing the pursuers, made things very uncomfortable for them. But he could not shoot in three directions at once, for Biggles and Algy were old hands at the game. At a signal from Biggles they separated to press their attack from different directions. Algy, coming within range, opened fire, drawing the gunner’s fire upon himself and so giving Biggles a clear field.
The end came suddenly. Biggles swooped like a hawk and poured in a long decisive burst. He held his fire until collision seemed inevitable and then zoomed high, turning on the top of the zoom to see the result of his attack. Not that he had much doubt as to what it would be. With eight guns pouring out bullets at a rate of a thousand rounds a minute, the Boche must have been riddled.
His supposition was correct. The Dornier was roaring straight up like a rocketing pheasant ; for perhaps two seconds it hung on the top of its stall, its airscrews whirling; then its nose whipped down in a spin from which it never recovered. Biggles watched it dispassionately, for he had seen the end of too many combats to be disturbed in his mind; and he was too wise to take his eyes off his victim in case the spin was a ruse to deceive him. That the Dornier was not shamming, however, was confirmed when, with its engine still racing, it plunged nose first into the sea. It disappeared from sight instantly and did not reappear; only an ever widening circle of oil marked the spot where it had ended its fatal dive.
Cutting his engine, Biggles glided down, and circled for some minutes in case there should be a survivor, but it was soon clear that the crew had perished in the machine, so he turned towards the island, anxious to find out from Roy if the radio operator in the Dornier had succeeded in getting out a message.
A glance over his shoulder revealed the others taking up formation behind him, so he went on towards the base, now about six miles distant.
Before he was half-way there Algy had rushed up beside him, beckoning furiously and jabbing downwards with his gloved hand.
Looking down, Biggles saw the reason. Ginger was no longer in the formation; he was gliding down towards the sea, which could only mean one thing—that he was having trouble with his engine.
They could not leave him, so Biggles throttled back and began circling down, at the same time throwing a worried glance at the sky, the colour of which promised a change in the weather. He watched Ginger put his machine down on the water, and from its jerky movements saw what he already suspected—that the sea was getting rough. However, he landed within hail of the Dingo. ‘What’s wrong?’ he called.
Ginger stood up in his cockpit, holding the edge to steady himself, for the machine was rocking dangerously. ‘My engine has cut out,’ he shouted. ‘It began to splutter after they shot at me.’
Biggles taxied closer, while Algy continued to circle low overhead.
‘What shall I do?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles thought swiftly. To make repairs on the water was obviously out of the question.
Had th
e sea been calm he would have dashed back to the base and sent the motor-boat out to tow the Dingo in, but low, ominous clouds were scudding across the sky and the sea was rising quickly. In the circumstances he decided to attempt to tow the Dingo in himself. ‘Catch this line and make it fast!’ he yelled, and swung his mooring-rope across the nose of the Dingo.
Ginger caught the line and made it fast to his axle strut, and scrambled back into his seat as Biggles started taxi-ing towards the base.
Before they had gone a quarter of a mile, however, Biggles knew that they would never reach it, for the sea, now capped with vicious-looking white crests, was throwing both machines about in a manner that was definitely dangerous. A nasty cross-wind was dragging at the Dingo, and more than once brought it up short with a jerk on the tow-line that threatened to tear both machines to pieces.
He eased the throttle back, for the question of saving the Dingo had become of secondary importance ; it was now a matter of saving their lives, for he was by no means sure that he would be able to get the Willie-Willie off the water. ‘Cut the tow-line!’ he yelled. `Get ready to jump. I’m coming round to pick you up.’
Ginger obeyed the orders unquestioningly, although he realized that they implied the loss of his machine. Climbing out of his seat, he clung to a float, waiting for Biggles to bring the Willie-Willie alongside.
It was no easy matter, for both machines were now tossing wildly, and should they be thrown together it would mean the end of them. Blipping his engine, Biggles brought the Willie-Willie nearer.
‘Jump for it as I go past,’ he shouted.
Ginger, balanced on the float, jumped for his life. But his weight, as he jumped, was sufficient to cause the Dingo to yaw violently, and instead of landing on Biggles’s float, as he hoped, he landed short and disappeared under the water. His head broke the surface almost at once, and he clutched at the float. He managed to grasp it, and endeavoured to drag himself on it, but the weight of his thick, water-soaked clothing held him back.
