Biggles Delivers The Goods

by W E Johns

  “And you have decided on your answer when we are challenged?”

  “I shall say that we are having engine trouble and that I wish to come on board to speak to the chief engineer. There should be no difficulty about that. Boats have been passing between the shore and the ship so I feel sure the landing ladder will be down.”

  “Then we needn’t waste any more time,” said Biggles. “Let’s get off.” He turned towards the Lotus, now stripped of its covering of branches.

  There was a general move in the same direction. As soon as the officers were on board the native troops swarmed over the rail with an agility that was obviously the result of long practice.

  “Beats me how the blighters don’t cut themselves with their bally side-arms,” murmured Bertie, looking rather ridiculous with his monocle in his eye the better to watch the proceedings.

  “Don’t forget to keep an ear open for Algy,” was Biggles’ last injunction to those ashore.

  Ayert started the engine. The screw churned the water and the Lotus chugged busily towards open water. The canopy of forest trees fell away. Stars appeared. The moon had not yet risen. The bows of the little vessel swung round and she stood out to sea. But not for long; for as soon as she was clear Ayert took up a course parallel with the coast, it being necessary to round the island in order to reach the strait. Li Chi spoke to the storming party who at once fell silent, disposing themselves, sitting or lying, close under the rail, where they would not be seen by those on board the Sumatran as they approached the taller vessel.

  The distance to the freighter as a bird would fly was roughly nine miles, but taking into account the preliminary rounding of the island the distance was nearer twelve. Of these the first ten were covered in less than an hour, for the sea was flat calm and Ayert gave the engine all it would take; but he now slowed to half-speed, and after a while, by manoeuvring the throttle caused the engine to run irregularly, to create an impression of trouble. His good eye probed the darkness ahead. Presently he grunted and altered course a trifle. Looking in the new direction Ginger could just make out the bulk of the ship, about half a mile distant. Its outline hardened as they drew nearer. Noises came out of the night. An engine-room bell rang musically; a chain rattled.

  “Is that ship moving?” Biggles asked Li Chi anxiously.

  “No, but she’s getting ready to go,” was the answer. “They’re weighing anchor, no doubt to move in close to Victoria Point. We cut it fine, but we’re in time.”

  Possibly because of the activity on the Sumatran, resulting in careless watch-keeping, it was some time before the Lotus was seen. She was within a cable’s length before she was hailed.

  Ayert held on his course, and there was a brief delay before another hail came through the night air. This time it was a definite challenge, or at any rate, a warning, for the Lotus was now so close that water dripping from the Sumatran’s anchor could be plainly heard. Li Chi answered and a conversation ensued between him and someone on the deck of the Sumatran—probably the officer of the watch. What the actual words were that passed Ginger never knew, but the general trend was fairly clear. Li Chi was explaining the arrival of the Lotus which, with its engine cut, still had enough way on it to reach the boarding gangway.

  The moment the two vessels touched, Ayert let go the wheel, and with a bound made fast. He finished this with a sort of hiss, and this was the signal for a spectacle that left Ginger slightly breathless. He expected that they, the leaders of the expedition, would be first up the steps; and Biggles had in fact announced this to be his intention; but in the rush that now occurred they were nearly knocked down. There was no stopping it. Biggles dare not appeal to Li Chi for fear of being heard by those on the Sumatran.

  Ayert went up the side of the ship like a cat going up a garden fence. Li Chi was close behind him. There was a shout, cut short; then a murmur of confusion rising to a considerable noise before starting to recede. Behind Li Chi poured the pirates. They flung themselves over the rail. Naturally, Biggles, Ginger and Bertie followed as quickly as they could—Biggles muttering his displeasure at the turn things had taken, the result, he asserted with asperity, of employing an undisciplined mob. By the time they reached the deck there was little to be seen. Three Japanese sailors lay prone. Sounds alone gave an indication of what was happening, and there were not so many of these as might have been expected. Most of them came from below—shouts, cries, snarls and an occasional thud. It struck Ginger that most of the crew must have been below, or had fled down the companion-way when the pirates swarmed aboard, either to escape or to fetch weapons which in the ordinary way would not be carried. Anyhow, the pirates, who seemed to know how to find their way about a ship, had gone down to rout them out.

  Pistol in hand, Biggles ran towards the superstructure in which the bridge was situated. The others, having nothing better to do, followed him. Having reached the bridge there was still nothing for them to do. Ayert and Li Chi were there. Ayert was calmly wiping his parang on his sarong. Two Japs, an officer and a rating, lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Ginger shuddered.

  “Foolishly they aimed their pistols at us,” murmured Li Chi as if this was all the explanation needed.

  “Hit ‘em. Like Clark Gable, tuans,” said Ayert, grinning, showing his yellow teeth.

  “I will go to see what happens below decks,” decided Li Chi.

  Biggles nodded. “From what I could hear your fellows won’t need any help from us. I think we’ll stay here. I have a feeling that things will be a bit messy downstairs.”

  “War is always a messy business, my friend, no matter where it is; and the parang is no more barbarous than the bomb, the tank or the flame thrower, such as the civilised peoples of Europe use,” said Li Chi stiffly, with emphasis on the word civilised. He went off while Biggles, Bertie and Ginger returned to the deck. Presently the pirates came drifting back in ones and twos, laughing. Li Chi returned to report that the ship was theirs. Steam had already been raised to take the ship to the port of embarkation. The engine-room crew were standing by—the pirate crew—waiting for the order to start.

  Biggles turned his eyes to the shore in a penetrating stare. “I wonder if they heard anything there,” he conjectured. “I don’t think there’s any point in waiting to find out. Ginger, it would be a good idea if you went below and took over the radio. If you pick up any signals let me know, and I’ll ask Li Chi to come down and translate.”

  Ginger had no difficulty in finding the radio room. A telegraph was buzzing so he hurried back to the deck, with the result that Li Chi was soon at the instrument. For a little while he listened, face expressionless, making notes in Chinese characters on the scribbling-pad.

  Ginger smiled as he looked at the strange writing. “What’s all that about?” he inquired. “Anything that concerns us?”

  “It will concern you very much,” answered Li Chi quietly. “The signal is from the leader of a Japanese destroyer flotilla. The commander reports that he found a British aircraft of the Gosling type adrift on the water at a point about three hundred miles east of Mergui. There was one pilot in the aircraft. He was picked up and taken prisoner. The aircraft was sunk by gunfire.”

  Ginger felt the blood drain from his face. The muscles seemed to go stiff. For a few seconds he could not speak. “Was the name of the prisoner given?” he blurted.

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” muttered Ginger. “There could be only one Gosling in that area. They’ve got Algy. Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” returned Li Chi imperturbably. “The ship asked for instructions about the disposal of the prisoner. The answer came from Singapore. The ship was ordered to take the prisoner to the nearest base for questioning. The flotilla is therefore proceeding to Victoria Point where it expects to arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks,” said Ginger in a dull voice. He tore back to Biggles. “The Japs have got Algy,” he reported. “A destroyer picked him up out of the drink a
nd is taking him to Victoria Point.” He gave the details.

  Biggles tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand and then threw it into the sea. He did not speak.

  “What are we going to do about it?” asked Ginger desperately.

  “I don’t quite know—yet,” replied Biggles. “Obviously, we can’t take on a flotilla of destroyers in this tub. The first thing is to get her away with the rubber. When we’ve done that we’ll see what can be done. You say the flotilla will arrive tomorrow afternoon?”

  “So Li Chi said.”

  “Nothing much can happen to Algy between now and then. We’ll get back to the island,” decided Biggles.

  Li Chi appeared.

  “Anything else?” asked Biggles.

  “ Tamashoa has made a signal to the flotilla leader asking that great care be taken of the prisoner as he wishes to question him personally.”

  “I see,” murmured Biggles. “All right. Take the ship across to the island. Quite apart from Algy these destroyers are a new menace. Good thing we learned about them or the Sumatran might have sailed slap into them on her way to India. As it is, Tamashoa may send them in pursuit of the Sumatran as soon as he tumbles to what has happened.” He stared again towards the shore, a dark indistinct mass running down the eastern side of the strait. A signal lamp was winking. “That must be somebody talking to us,” he observed. “What’s he saying?”

  “I was reading it,” returned Li Chi. “Someone is asking why the ship does not come in.”

  “Can we be seen from the shore do you think?”

  “I doubt it, at this distance.”

  “We shall have to answer the signal or they may get suspicious,” resolved Biggles. “I noticed a lamp on the bridge. Send a message to say that we are watching a suspicious craft to the north-west. It looks like a British submarine. If we start our engines it might hear us. That will account for the delay and give us plenty of time to slip away.”

  Li Chi went to the bridge and made the signal. Biggles went with him.

  “Now advise Tamashoa to warn all ships in the vicinity to be on the look-out for a British submarine,” he requested as an afterthought.

  “With what object?” queried Li Chi, a suspicion of surprise creeping into his voice.

  “That should set the destroyers on a new course, out of our way,” explained Biggles. “Besides, I’ve got the glimmering of an idea.”

  “Always you have an idea,” murmured Li Chi.

  “Ideas sometimes win battles—when they come off,” returned Biggles, smiling faintly.

  Li Chi sent the signal, which was acknowledged.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” said Biggles, and returned to the deck. Li Chi remained on the bridge. A bell tinkled somewhere below. The Sumatran’s deck vibrated slightly as the engines were started. Water boiled astern as the ship’s bows swung round towards Elephant Island. The Lotus followed.

  CHAPTER XII

  HOW ALGY DITCHED THE GOSLING

  APART from the gruelling monotony of the passage Algy’s flight to India was uneventful. Putting down his wheels he landed at the service aerodrome at Madras, where he was quickly surrounded by members of the squadron who demanded in no uncertain terms to be told how much longer they were to be kept waiting. They were browned off in every sense of the word, asserted Angus Mackail, who was flying again, although he still showed signs of wear and tear, the result—as he put it—of his “crumper” in Burma some months ago.1

  Over a quick lunch Algy passed on Biggles’ orders, then went to station headquarters to carry out the other duties assigned to him. These occupied him for some time. He saw the two Lightnings take off and head eastward but nearly two hours elapsed before he was able to follow.

  “We shall expect you sometime tomorrow morning,” he told those who were to fly the transport Liberators. “Don’t forget to bring some juice—we shall need it.”

  For the first five hours his return trip was as devoid of incident as the outward journey. He flew through a world of sea and sky—and nothing else. From his altitude of five thousand feet the Indian Ocean lay as flat as a tropic sea can be in its most placid mood. Always lonely, on the course he took to pass between the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, war appeared to have swept the sea clean. The sky was a mighty dome of blue, steely-ultramarine overhead, fading to pale azure at the horizon which, seeming to rise to his own level, created an impression that he was flying from rim to rim across a colossal basin.

  Not for five hours did any mark, large or small, break the pristine purity of the azure world through which he flew; then his ever-questing eyes came to rest on a smudge of smoke on the northern horizon, so faint that had there been anything else to arrest the eye it might have passed unnoticed. The smoke could mean the presence of only one thing—a ship. It might be a friend or it might be a foe. He was taking no chances, so he turned slightly to the south to keep well clear. Automatically he scanned the sky ahead of him along his new course, and again, almost at once, his eyes came to rest, this time on two tiny specks, no larger than midges, that moved at about his own height in a northerly direction across the vault of implacable blue. Obviously, they were aircraft, and although they were still too far off for identification he knew it was unlikely that they would be British. All he could do was turn away in the hope, a remote hope, that he would not be seen. There was no question of taking cover, for in all the vast expanse of sea and sky that surrounded him there was nothing that could have hidden a fly. He felt—and, indeed, he was—as conspicuous as a bumble-bee in a whitewashed cell.

  His hopes of escaping observation did not last long. He knew, from the way the two machines turned sharply, the moment the pilots saw him. And there was still nothing he could do. He had not enough petrol to take him back to India even if he had so wished. If he turned he would soon be overtaken, as he swiftly perceived, for his companions in space were now close enough for recognition. He made them out to be a pair of Mitsubishi ship fighters. And he was not equipped for fighting. The situation was all fairly clear. The smudge on the northern horizon, he reasoned, was a Japanese aircraft carrier. The two Mitsubishis had been out on reconnaissance and were returning to their parent ship. He had cut across their course at an unfortunate moment. It was bad luck, but that risk was always present. He was well aware of it. Biggles had known it when he had made his arrangements, but as he had said at the time, they could not carry fighting equipment if they were to load enough petrol for a trans-ocean flight.

  Algy knew, as they say in India, that his time had come.

  He took the only course open to him. Flying now on full throttle he dived steeply, back on his original course for Elephant Island, still nearly four hundred miles away. He reckoned he had one chance. If the Mitsubishis had made a long reconnaissance they might be short of petrol; they might have left themselves only enough to return to the ship with a slight margin. If that was so they would not be able to follow him far, if by taking evading action he could avoid their early attacks.

  The Mitsubishis quickly overtook him, as he knew they would. By the time they were within range he was down to fifty feet, racing just above the surface of the placid sea. This low altitude would to some extent worry the fighters in that they would not be able to press their attack too close for fear of overshooting their mark and colliding with the water. Algy flew with his eyes on the reflector, watching the two Mitsubishis, which had remained together and were coming down behind him—the orthodox tactics for such an attack. He knew just when they would fire, and was ready. He slammed the control column over and skidded out of the line of bullets. This happened three times, and he did not suppose that he would be allowed to get away with such a simple manceuvre a fourth time. He was right. The two fighters parted company and attacked together from either side. Several bullets struck the Gosling but without in any way affecting its performance.

  Nevertheless, Algy was far from happy. Apart from the petrol in his tanks he was carrying fifteen four-gallon cans. He was, in fa
ct, a flying petrol tank. And the Japs were using tracer. One bullet in the right place would be enough to cause the Gosling to explode like a bomb.

  His hopes flared up when one of the fighters now turned away and headed north. That could only mean that it was short of fuel. But his hopes were dashed when the remaining fighter, in what seemed to be a final effort—and the attack was pressed closely on that account—came right in. Algy did everything he knew, but it seemed that the Gosling’s controls had been hit, for the machine responded sluggishly to his frantic efforts with control column and rudder bar. The port engine coughed. The needle of the revolution indicator swung back. Grey petrol vapour swirled aft. With a swift flick of his hand Algy switched off. The Gosling, loaded to capacity, sank bodily. Algy tried to hold the machine off, but the controls were sticky and it only half responded. Two seconds later the aircraft struck the water with a mighty splash, bounced, splashed again, and then came to rest, rocking.

  Algy threw a swift glance over his shoulder, saw the Mitsubishi coming at him in a businesslike way, so he went overboard, taking such cover as the airframe could provide.

  He heard, rather than saw, the result of the enemy machine’s final burst. There was a noise such as a tree makes in falling. It lasted less than three seconds. Then the sound ended abruptly. The drone of the engine began to recede.

  Climbing up out of the water Algy saw the fighter turning towards the north at the top of its zoom. For a minute he watched it, prepared for it to come back; but when it held on after its companion he made a quick inspection of the aircraft, which apart from a considerable number of holes appeared to have suffered no serious damage. The great thing was—and in this respect he realised he had been lucky—the machine had not taken fire. Dripping water he climbed on the centre-section and sat down to consider his position; and it did not take him long to conclude that it was not very bright. He was more than three hundred miles from the nearest land—the Mergui Archipelago. The chances of getting the machine airworthy were too small to be considered seriously.