by W E Johns
Having nothing more to do he climbed to the ridge above him, no great distance, from where he would be able to watch the western sky for the aircraft that should arrive some time during the afternoon.
He was relieved to see that the landscape was deserted, so there did not appear to be any immediate peril, for now that he again had the papers on his person he was filled with doubts and anxiety. Everywhere the snow was melting and water was gushing down to the lake; it was an ironical thought that, although the thaw was directly responsible for his present plight, had it not occurred he might never have found the papers. That, he ruminated, was always the way of things — the good luck balancing the bad.
Slowly the day wore on, and he looked forward to the time when he could discharge his obligation to whoever was on his way to the lake, so that he could start making his way home, for inactivity at any time is trying, but with wet feet it becomes irritating.
Then, suddenly, from a distance a sound reached his ears that brought him round with a start of alarm. It sounded like a shout or a laugh. At first he could see nobody; then, surprisingly, dangerously close, he saw a column of men marching over the brow of a hill that had previously hidden them from view. They were Russian soldiers, and they were making straight towards the lake.
CHAPTER X
Awkward Predicaments
Biggles sank down so that he could not be seen and stared at the Russians in something like dismay, for their presence put an entirely new complexion on the whole situation. It was obvious that they were making for the lake, and a number of sledges suggested that they were likely to stay for some time. He suspected — correctly, as it presently transpired — that it was a salvage party coming to collect the contents of the Blenheim, or such component parts as were worth saving.
Biggles tried to sort out the hundred and one thoughts that rushed into his mind, and the first was, what was he himself going to do? The Russians were unaware of his presence; there was no reason for them even to suspect that he might be there; and in the ordinary way he would have had no difficulty in keeping them in ignorance. But what about Algy, or whoever came to the lake? If he were not warned it was almost certain that he would try to land, in which case he would be drowned. Yet if he, Biggles, tried to warn him, he would instantly betray himself to the Russians. It was a difficult problem. Really, it came to this: by leaving Algy or Ginger to his fate, he could probably save the papers; conversely, he could save Algy and probably lose the papers. If only he could th ink of some way of getting the papers into the machine without the machine landing, that would get over the difficulty, but it was not easy to see how this was to be achieved.
There appeared to be only one possible way, and not a very hopeful way at that; still, there was no alternative, so he decided to try it. Success would largely depend on the initiative of the pilot. If he perceived what was required of him, then the matter presented no great difficulty — but would he?
Biggles’s plan was the employment of the device long used in the Royal Air Force by army cooperation machines for picking up messages from the ground, a system that for years was demonstrated to the public at the R.A.F. display at Hendon. It is comparatively simple. Two thin poles are fixed upright in the ground some twenty feet apart in the manner of goal-posts. Between them a cord is stretched, and to the cord is attached the message. The message in this case would, of course, be the papers. The machine swoops, picks up the line and the message, with a hook which it lowers for the purpose. Here, however, the machine would not be fitted with such a hook, but a clever pilot should have no difficulty in picking up a taut line on his undercarriage wheels. Biggles had no cord, but here again the difficulty was not insuperable. Under his sweater he had a shirt which, torn into strips and joined together, would serve the same purpose, and might even be better than a line since it would be easier to see.
Having reached his decision, Biggles went to work swiftly. First, he found two branches which, stripped of their twigs, would form the posts. There was some difficulty in fixing them in the ground, but he got over this by piling pieces of rock round them. He then took off his shirt and tore it into strips. It was still a bit short, so he made it up to the required length with the lining of his jacket. Having fastened the packet of papers to the centre, he stretched the line across the posts, not tying the ends, but holding them in place with light pieces of wood. Had he fixed the ends, the poles would, of course, be dragged up with the line, and perhaps damage the machine.
All this took some time, and he had barely finished when he heard the machine coming; and presently he made it out, a grey speck in the west, which quickly resolved itself into another Gladiator. The Russians were marching along the far side of the lake and had nearly reached the point nearest to the Blenheim; they had quickened their pace, having realized, apparently that owing to the water their task was going to be harder than they supposed.
With his signalling pistol in his hand, Biggles dashed down the hill to the bonfire, not caring much now whether the Russians saw him or not, for in any case they would see him when he fired the red light. Strangely enough, they were so intent on their task that they did not once glance in his direction, but went on with what they were doing. Two men, carrying a rope, waded out to the Blenheim, while the rest lined the other end of the rope as if with the intention of dragging the fuselage bodily to the shore. There were cries of alarm, however, when the Gladiator, carrying Finnish markings, suddenly swooped low over the trees and raced across the black water.
Biggles had already lighted his fire, and as there was no wind a column of smoke rose like a pillar into the air, making a signal so conspicuous that the pilot could hardly miss it. He now ran to the edge of the water, clear of the trees, and sent the blazing red flare across the nose of the Gladiator, which swerved to avoid it, and then turned sharply so that the pilot could see whence it came.
Biggles saw Ginger’s face staring down at him; he just had time to heave a rock into the water and beckon frantically before the machine was compelled to zoom in order to avoid the trees.
Biggles knew that the warning signal had been seen, so he tore back up the hill. He fully expected that he would be shot at, but either the Russians were slow to comprehend what was happening or were too surprised to do anything, and he reached the trees without a shot being fired. When he broke clear of them again on the ridge the Gladiator was circling as if looking for him, and he knew that there was no longer any risk of the machine trying to land. Quite apart from his own signal, the Russians who had waded out to the wreck were now splashing back, and they, too, would have been seen.
From the ridge Biggles first looked down to see what the Russians were doing; as he expected, they were running along the bank in order to reach his side of the lake.
Overhead the Gladiator was in a tight turn, whirling round and round, with Ginger staring down from a height of about a hundred feet.
Biggles jabbed his hand frantically at the goal-post arrangement, but Ginger continued to circle, clearly at a loss to know what to do — which in the circumstances was hardly to be wondered at. Biggles groaned as the machine turned away and tore up and down, apparently looking for some place to land — which again was natural enough. Presently it returned, with Ginger waving his arm in a manner that said clearly, ‘can’t do anything.’
Biggles snatched up the jacket and waved it. He then ran to the line that supported the papers and shook it; the shirt being pale blue, he thought it ought to show up fairly well.
Conversation was, of course, impossible, so the antics, which to a spectator would have appeared ludicrous, continued. In sheer desperation Biggles spread the jacket wide open on the ground, pointed to it, and then, running to the line, made ‘zooming’ motions with his hands.
At last Ginger understood. He turned away, banked steeply, and then, cutting his engine, glided at little more than stalling speed towards the line. He missed it, but as he had come to within a few feet of the ground he saw clearly w
hat was required of him and climbed up for another attempt.
Pale with anxiety, Biggles looked at the Russians and saw that they had reached the scene of the avalanche, up which they were scrambling. In ten minutes they would reach him. Shots began to smack against the rocks.
The Gladiator was now coming down again, gliding straight along the ridge, its wings wobbling slightly as they encountered the air currents so near the ground. Again Ginger missed. Worse, one of his wheels struck a post and knocked it over. Biggles, forcing himself to keep calm, put it up again, by which time the Gladiator had circled and was in position for the third attempt. Biggles saw that it must be the last, for the nearest Russians were not more than two hundred yards away. If Ginger failed this time, then he determined to grab the papers, dash down the hill, and throw them on the fire which was still burning. At all events this would prevent them from falling into the hands of the enemy.
This time Ginger did not miss. His wheels went under the line fairly in the middle, and as he zoomed up the line went with him, the ends flapping behind the axle.
Biggles gasped his relief, and then fell into a fever as Ginger began to turn, either to make sure that he had picked up the line or to see what Biggles was doing. Biggles pointed to the west in a peremptory gesture. Ginger waved to show that he understood, and turning again, disappeared over the trees.
Now Biggles had no intention of being taken prisoner if he could avoid it; he took one look at the Russians, now within shouting distance, snatched up his jacket and fled. Yells rose into the air, but he did not stop, nor did he look back. A few shots whistled past him, and then he was under cover of the far side of the ridge, going down it like a mountain goat. He knew that in speed alone lay his only chance of getting away, and he thought he had a fair chance, for he was only lightly clad whereas his pursuers were encumbered with full marching kit — greatcoats, haversacks, rifles, bayonets, and bandoliers.
Instinctively he headed for the west, keeping to the trees that hid him from those behind. It was not easy going, for the ground was rough, scored deeply in places by storm water; there were also fallen trees and outcrops of rock to cope with. Sparing no effort, he raced on, deriving some comfort from the fact that the shouting was growing fainter, from which he judged that he was increasing his lead; but after a while, as his endurance began to give out, he steadied his pace to a jog-trot, and finally to a fast walk. Once he stopped for a moment to listen, but he could hear nothing.
He now began to give some thought to his position. He was a good thirty miles inside the Russian frontier, travelling over much the same route as the unfortunate professor had taken on his dying effort to get the papers to a safe place. Beyond the frontier the country was still wild, so he reckoned that he had not less than fifty miles to go before he could hope to find succour. The only food he had was two biscuits; whether these would be sufficient to keep him going he did not know; he thought they would, for he was in an optimistic mood following the relief of getting rid of the papers. ‘It all depends on the weather,’ he mused. ‘If it holds fine it won’t get dark enough to hinder me, so I ought to be able to cover twenty miles before daylight.’
Glancing up at the darkening sky, he saw that it was clear of cloud; in fact, if anything, it was a little too clear, for the evening star was gleaming brightly, in a manner that hinted at a return of frosty conditions. There was already a nip in the air. However, he was warm enough while he kept going, and he had no intention of stopping while he was able to go on.
Another comforting thought was this. Assuming that Ginger would get back safely to Oskar, he would lose no time in telling the others what had happened, in which case they might do something about it, although what they would do was not easy to predict, for the ground was much too broken to permit the safe landing of an aircraft. Still, it was reassuring to know that they were aware of his plight. From a high escarpment which he was compelled to climb since it lay across his route, he looked back, but he could see nothing of the Russians, so he strode on, happy in the thought that every minute was taking him nearer home.
An hour passed, and another, but still he kept going, although by now he was beginning to feel the strain. His limbs ached, as did his wounded head, which, in the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten. His rests became more frequent, and he knew that he would soon have to find a haven where he could enjoy a really sustained halt; otherwise he would certainly exhaust himself.
He was now walking through a forest that covered the slope of a fairly steep range of hills. For the most part the soft carpet of pine needles made walking easy, but occasionally a great outcrop of rock would retard his progress, for there was not much light under the trees and he was compelled to pick his way carefully, knowing that a fall must have serious consequences. The country through which he was passing was as savage as the wildest part of Canada, and as uninhabited, and should he break a limb lie would certainly die of starvation. He decided that he would explore the next rocks he came to for a cave, or some form of shelter, when he would make a bed of pine needles and have a good rest. There was something disconcerting about the idea of just lying down in the open.
He was not long coming to another mass of rock, and forthwith started to explore the base of it. A dark fissure invited, and he took a pace towards it, only to recoil hurriedly when he was greeted by a low growl. It gave him a nasty turn, for the very last thing in his mind was any thought of wild animals. He had even forgotten that they still existed in Russia.
He was reminded in no uncertain manner. Following the growl, a black mass slowly detached itself from the shadow of the rock and advanced menacingly towards him. It was a bear. It was a large bear, too, and in the dim light it looked even larger than it really was. All the same, it was a formidable beast, and Biggles backed hurriedly. The bear followed. Biggles went faster, whereupon the animal rose on its hind legs and, uttering the most ferocious growls, began to amble after him at a shuffling run.
Biggles bolted. True, he had a pistol in his pocket, but apart from a disinclination to fire a shot which in the still air would be heard for a great distance, and might betray his whereabouts to the Russians, he had more sense than to take on a beast notorious for its vitality with such a weapon at such close range. Finding his way barred by a wall of rock, he went up it with an alacrity that surprised him, to find that the top was more or less level. He looked down. The bear, still growling, made a half-hearted attempt to follow, and then squatted on its haunches, gazing up at him, its forepaws together in an attitude of supplication. Presently it was joined by another, with two cubs. They all sat down, growling softly in their throats, blinking up at the intruder.
‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed the family,’ muttered Biggles in a voice heavy with chagrin, for he was angry at being thus held up. He guessed that the thaw had awakened the bears from their winter sleep.
He was answered by more growls.
Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘What does one do in a case like this?’ he mused. He appeared to be in no immediate danger, but it was obvious that any attempt to leave his perch would be resented by the party underneath; and quite apart from other considerations, the futility of trying to kill outright two full-grown bears with a pistol was only too obvious. He lit a cigarette to think the matter over, hoping that the bears would return to their den and leave him free to go his own way. But evidently the creatures did not like the idea of a stranger being so near their home, for they made no move to depart. The cubs eyed him with frank curiosity, the older ones with hostility.
Biggles considered them moodily. ‘Oh, go home,’ he told them impatiently.
The bears growled.
Biggles puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully, wondering what madness had induced him to undertake such a crazy quest, a quest that now promised to go on for the duration of the war. A little breeze got up and stirred the pines to uneasy movement. From one of them something that had evidently been lodged on top drifted sluggishly to the ground. It was a
strip of pale blue material, frayed at the ends.
Biggles stared at it wide-eyed with consternation. There was no mistaking it. It was a piece of his shirt. Clearly it had broken off his improvised line, but on consideration he felt that this did not necessarily imply that the whole line had come adrift from Ginger’s machine. It was quite possible that the end of it had been torn off by the slipstream. After all, he reasoned, Ginger would have flown due west. He himself had run in the same direction, so if a piece of the shirt had come adrift — as it obviously had — it was not remarkable that he should find it. Still, it was an uncomfortable thought that the papers might be lying somewhere in the forest. There was nothing he could do about the piece of material, for the bears prevented him from fetching it — not that he was particularly anxious to have it, for there was nothing more it could tell him even if he held it in his hands. So he stayed where he was, stayed while the night wore on interminably to dawn, grey and depressing. The cubs, their interest in the stranger beginning to wane, grew restless, and presently their mother led them off to their lair.
The male parent seemed unable to make up his mind whether to go or to stay. Once or twice he shuffled towards the den, and then, as if loath to lose sight of the intruder, came back, rubbing his paws, and from time to time muttering threats deep in his throat.
Finally, however, he made off, and sat just inside the entrance to the cave; Biggles could just see him sitting there, his little piggy eyes sparkling suspiciously. The cave was about forty yards from the rock on which Biggles was perched, and he felt that, provided he did not go near the den, he ought to be able to creep away without upsetting the Bruin family. In any case he would have to try, he decided, otherwise he might sit on the rock indefinitely, which he could not afford to do. So, moving very gently, he slithered to the rear of the rock and dropped quietly to the ground. For a minute he listened, but as he could hear nothing he began to move away. But, quiet as he had been, the bear had heard him, for happening to glance behind, he saw the animal pursuing him at a rolling gait that covered the ground at a surprising speed.