by W E Johns
Biggles took to his heels and ran for his life, looking about desperately for a refuge.
Trees there were in plenty, but knowing that any tree he could climb the bear would also be able to climb, he left them alone and sped on. For a hundred yards the chase continued, and then ended abruptly. Biggles’s foot caught in one of the many roots that projected through the mat of fir needles. He made a desperate effort to save himself, but he was travelling too fast. He stumbled and fell headlong. Even as he fell he whipped the pistol out of his pocket, but in a flash the bear was on him, and with one sweep of a hairy paw knocked the weapon flying. He felt the animal’s hot breath beat on his face.
Helpless in its ferocious grip, he gave himself up for lost.
CHAPTER XI
Ginger Loses His Temper
Had Biggles, when he had sat upon the rock outside the bear’s den, known what had happened to Ginger he would have been more upset than he was. He supposed him to be safe back home, and not for a moment did any other thought occur to him. This was far from the truth.
As a matter of detail, when he arrived over the lake Ginger saw the Russians before he saw Biggles’s smoke-signal, for his eyes had gone instinctively to that part of the lake where the wrecked Blenheim lay, and this unexpected factor alone would have prevented him from landing even if it had been possible — unless, of course, he had seen Biggles waiting to be picked up. But this, as we know, was not the case. He saw Biggles’s rock splash in the water, and this gave him a pretty shrewd idea of what had happened.
With the events of the next few minutes we are already acquainted, and it may be said that Ginger’s relief when he saw the shirt-line on his undercarriage was no less than Biggles’s. But his anxiety for Biggles was painful He felt that he ought to do something, but what could he do? To land was manifestly impossible. It occurred to him to shoot up the Russians with his guns — not that this was likely to help Biggles very much; anyway, Biggles’s peremptory signal to him to return home put all other schemes out of his head, and he set about complying with the order. At the back of his mind there was a wild idea of getting a Blenheim and bringing the others over to drop by parachute to Biggles’s assistance.
By leaning out of his cockpit he could just see the end strip of shirt; it was flapping wildly in the violent slipstream, and it did not look very safe, for which reason he kept a watchful eye on it as he climbed for height. He had, of course, no means of getting the packet of papers into the cockpit.
He had covered about ten miles of his return journey, and was cruising along at six thousand feet, when to his horror he saw that the end of the line was now so far extended that it reached halfway along the fuselage, trailing back from his right-hand wheel — still far out of reach. This could only mean that the ‘drag’ on that side of the line was greater than on the other side, in which case it was only a question of time before the whole thing blew off altogether. Here again there was absolutely nothing he could do about it except fly on and hope for the best — that by some miracle the line and its precious burden would hang on at least until he was well inside Finland. But this was not to be. He was actually watching the length of shirt fluttering in the tearing wind when the whole line slipped off and went whirling away behind him.
Immediately a sort of madness came upon him. He felt that the papers were bewitched, possessed of some fantastic influence which made their recovery impossible. He began to hate the sight of them. He had already turned, and staring ahead, he saw the length of rag, sagging under the weight in the middle, sinking slowly earthward. Thrusting the joystick forward savagely, he went at it like a bull at a gate, knowing that he would have no difficulty in overtaking it before it reached the ground; but just what was going to happen when he did reach it he could not think. He had never attempted anything of the sort before; not in his wildest imaginings had he visualized a chase so utterly ridiculous.
The frayed strip of rag seemed to float towards him. At first he aimed his nose straight towards the middle of it, but then, terrified lest the flashing airscrew should hit the papers and cut them to shreds, he gave the joystick an extra push, and at the same time thrust an arm into the air, hoping the strip would catch on it; but this was expecting too much. He ducked instinctively as the crazy line, strung out across the sky, flashed over his head. It missed his hand by about a foot. Looking back to see what had happened to it, to his unspeakable joy he saw that it had caught across the fin, and was now streaming back on either side of his tail. Gulping with emotion, he steadied his pace and began to climb steadily back to his original altitude, all the time watching the streamer. He felt that the whole thing was becoming preposterous — ludicrous. ‘I’m going crazy,’ he told himself.
Indeed, the recovery of the elusive papers had assumed a similarity to one of those frightful nightmares when one goes on and on trying to do something, but all the time getting farther and farther away from success. It is hardly a matter for wonder that he began to ask himself if the absurd situation was really taking place or whether he was dreaming. If, at this juncture, he had encountered an enemy fighter, things would certainly have gone badly with him, for he did not even glance at the sky. Every nerve, every fibre of his body was concentrated on the papers.
He covered about five miles and then, for no apparent reason, the rags slipped off again, and went spinning away to the rear. He nearly screamed with rage, and as he tore after them he grated his teeth with fury. Never had he hated anything so wholeheartedly as he hated those papers, for which reason his antics, to a watcher, must have raised serious doubts as to his sanity.
In his first charge Ginger missed the papers altogether. In the second he caught the line with a wing-tip, causing the other end to whip round so that the packet actually hit him on the head before bouncing clear again into space. A sound that was something between a groan and a howl of mortification broke from his lips. ‘I’m balmy!’ he told himself pathetically. ‘Balmy! The thing’s got me down.’
His final effort was the most hair-raising, for by this time he was perilously near the ground and it was now or never; furthermore, his nose was tilted down at an alarming angle. The rag caught on one of the blades of his propeller, spun round for a moment like a crazy windmill, and then flew to pieces. The packet, detached, described a graceful arc, and then, bursting like a star-shell, shed the papers over the landscape; they floated slowly earthwards, like seagulls landing on smooth water.
Ginger dragged the joystick back just in time. His wheels brushed the tree-tops as he levelled out and then shot upward in a terrified zoom. Perspiration broke out on his forehead, and his expression was that of a man whom — as the Romans used to say — the gods had deprived of his wits. At that moment his rage was such that had he had the papers in his hand he would have torn them to shreds with his teeth. He loathed them and everything to do with them.
Swallowing hard, he cut his engine and began to glide back towards the place where the papers had fallen, forcing himself to some semblance of normality. He knew that somehow he had got to recover the documents — but how? He could see them clearly, little white spots on the ground near a group of pines that stood alone at the end of a valley.
He began to fly round looking for a place to land. Actually, there was nowhere where a pilot in his right mind would have attempted to land, but in his present mood Ginger was not particular. Desperate, he was ready to take almost any chance — which, in fact, is what he did. Farther down the valley there was a brook. Beside it a strip of comparatively level ground offered possibilities. It was so narrow that a landing could be attempted in only one direction, but as there was no wind this really did not matter. He doubted if the strip were long enough for him to get down and run to a stand-still without colliding with something, for there were more trees at the far end; but he could at any rate try. Cutting his engine again, he began to go down, side-slipping first one way and then the other in order to lose height without an excess of forward speed.
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��If I get down without busting something I shall be the world’s greatest pilot,’ he told himself grimly.
Judging by results he was not the world’s greatest pilot, although his effort was a creditable one. The wheels touched, and the winter-browned grass, which turned out to be longer than he had thought, at once began to pull him up. For a moment a genuine hope surged through him that he had achieved the apparently impossible; but alas for his hopes! Hidden in the sere, tussocky grass were small outcrops of rock, and he saw them too late. He missed several by inches, and again he hoped that luck might favour him and all would be well. Slower and slower ran the Gladiator; and then, just at the last moment, his wheel struck a rock. There was a terrific bang as the tyre burst; the machine swerved wildly and then stopped.
With the slow deliberation of a martyr going to execution, Ginger got down, walked round the wing and looked at the wheel. The tyre had been torn clean off and the rim was buckled. That was the only damage the machine had suffered, but it was enough. He might as well have smashed the whole machine to pieces for all the chance he had of getting it off the ground again
‘Well, that’s that,’ he told himself in a curiously calm voice, for now that the worst had happened there was no need to worry about it.
In a mechanical sort of way he collected a rifle from the bottom of his cockpit, a weapon which he had brought against emergency; then, leaving the machine where it stood, he walked up the valley to recover the papers. He had no difficulty in finding them, for they lay close together, so he collected all he could see and folded them in a bundle, which he wrapped in the original piece of canvas. He was putting it in his pocket when a horrid thought struck him — the same thought that had occurred to Biggles the previous day.
Up to this moment he had assumed that all he had to do now was walk home, but he realized suddenly that this would take some time; in the meanwhile, when he did not return, Algy would take off and fly to the lake, in which case, if he did not drown himself trying to land on the water, he would probably fall into the hands of the Russians.
Ginger sat down abruptly, sick with apprehension. He had not forgotten Biggles, but he could not see how he could help him, although if (as he hoped) he had escaped from the Russians, he should now be on his way home; indeed, he might be only a few miles away.
This put an entirely new idea into Ginger’s head. If, in fact, Biggles was travelling westward, and he, Ginger, set off eastward, or even waited where he was, they ought soon to make contact, when they could go home together. Then yet another thought occurred to him. Somewhere near the lake must be Biggles’s Gladiator. Assuming that it was intact, it ought to be possible to get one of the wheels and put it on his own machine, which would then be in a condition to fly home.
With all these conjectures racing through his mind, he found it hard to make a decision.
The point he had to decide was this: should he push on alone and try to reach Finland, or would it be wiser to walk back over his track in the hope of meeting Biggles? In the end he decided on a compromise. He would walk back a few miles, find a high spot that commanded a view of the country, and there wait for Biggles. If when morning came Biggles was not in sight, he would make for the frontier. He did not overlook the possibility of colliding with a party of Russians, which made him disinclined to keep the papers on his person, so his first action was to find a hiding-place for them. If he failed to locate Biggles he would pick them up again on his way back. The group of trees at the end of the valley offered possibilities, and after hunting round for a little while he found a hole under the root of one of the trees; in it he placed the packet, and sealed the mouth of the hole with a large stone. This done, he set off towards the east, making his way up the side of a hill, from the top of which he hoped to get a good view of the country beyond.
Darkness, or comparative darkness, fell before he reached the top, so that he found his view somewhat restricted, but as far as he could make out he was surrounded by rugged, untamed country. A feeling of loneliness assailed him; it was, moreover, cold on the desolate hill-top; so, still heading eastward, he made his way thoughtfully down to the forest that clothed its flank. It was warmer under the trees, but darker, dark enough to make travel both tedious and dangerous, so he found a fairly snug corner under an overhanging rock and settled down to pass the night as well as he could.
For a long time he lay awake, not trying to sleep, but after a while nature triumphed and he passed from restless dozing to real sleep. And during his sleep he had an extraordinary dream — extraordinary both on account of its nature and vividness. He dreamed that Biggles called to him from some way off, telling him to go home. He remembered the words distinctly, for so real, so ringing had been the voice that it was hard to believe that it had occurred only in a dream. Biggles had cried out, ‘Oh, go home.’
Not a little disturbed by this strange, not to say startling, occurrence, Ginger sat up and saw that the grey light of dawn was penetrating the tree-tops, flooding the forest with a wan, weird light. He felt refreshed after his rest and better able to tackle the situation, so he picked up the rifle and was about to move off when he heard a sound he little expected to hear in such a lonely place. It sounded like a man running — not only running, but running for his life. The swift patter of feet flying over the fir needles came swiftly towards him, and he crouched back against the rock trusting that he would not be seen, holding the rifle at the ready should it be required.
Suddenly the runner burst into sight round a buttress of rock, so close that he could have touched him. It was Biggles. Looking neither to left nor right, he tore on.
Ginger was so astounded, so shaken, that he could only stare, his jaw sagging foolishly.
He barely had time to wonder what Biggles was running away from when it appeared — a fur-clad fury in the form of a bear.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, he raced after the brute, hesitating to shout in case he called the bear’s attention to himself. And so for a moment or two the curious procession tore on through the trees, the bear chasing Biggles and Ginger chasing the bear, with perhaps a score of paces between them. Then, to Ginger’s horror, Biggles stumbled and sprawled headlong. In a flash the bear was on him.
It is doubtful if Ginger could have stopped even had he wanted to. The impetus of his spurt carried him right up to the animal. Without hesitation he clapped the muzzle of the rifle to its ear and pulled the trigger. The report shattered the silence. The bear, with a grunt, collapsed, and then, toppling over sideways, went rolling down the hill, down and down, until it was finally brought to a stop by the trunk of a tree.
Ginger never forgot the expression on Biggles’s face as he sat up. He was as white as a sheet. Utter incredulity struggled with profound relief
‘What in the name of all that’s crazy are you doing here?’ he gasped.
CHAPTER XII
Another Blow
Before Ginger could reply there came growls, fast approaching, from the direction of the rocks.
‘Here, come on, let’s get out of this,’ muttered Biggles, and dashed off through the trees followed by Ginger.
Not until they had put some distance between them and the bear-infested rocks did Biggles pull up. He found a log and sat on it. His first question, asked in ones of biting sarcasm, was, ‘Where are those thrice bedevilled papers?’
‘They fell off I tried to land to pick them up, and bust a wheel,’ answered Ginger mournfully.
Biggles buried his face in his hands and groaned.
Ginger described in detail what had happened while Biggles listened in mute resignation.
‘You know, kid,’ murmured Biggles in a strained voice when Ginger had finished, ‘this business is getting me dizzy. It’s uncanny; it’s crazy; it’s one of those stories that goes on and on always coming back to the same place. Writers have made a big song about Jason and the Golden Fleece. Pah! Jason did nothing. He ought to have had a crack at this job. I don’t often give way to despair, but
by the anti-clockwise propeller of my sainted aunt, I’m getting to the state when I could throw myself down and burst into tears — like a little girl who’s lost her bag of sweets. Well, I suppose it’s no use sitting here. Let’s go and look for the papers — we shall probably find they’ve been eaten by a rabbit.’
‘What do we do in that case — catch the rabbit?’ grinned Ginger.
‘Let’s wait till we get there, then I’ll tell you. Only one thing I ask you if you have any respect for my sanity. Don’t, when we get there, tell me that you’ve forgotten which tree they’re under. It only needs one more little thing to give me shrieking hysterics.’
‘Oh, I reckon I can find the place all right,’ returned Ginger moodily.
‘By the way, why were you coming this way?’ asked Biggles. ‘Why didn’t you make for home?’
‘I aimed to find your Gladiator, get a wheel off it, put it on my own kite and fly back.’
Biggles started. ‘Say, that’s an idea! We might do that. In fact, I think we shall have to go to the lake anyway, because Algy will be over this afternoon, and we ought to let him know that we’re all right.’
‘The Russians may still be there.’
‘We shall have to risk that. You know Algy; if we’re not there to send him home he’s likely to go on to Moscow. Well, we’d better make a start. I reckon it’s a good twelve miles to the lake. If we keep going we ought to get there before Algy; then all we have to do is take a wheel off the Gladiator, come back and pick up the papers, put the wheel on your machine, and fly home — I hope.’