by W E Johns
Olsen shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know?’
Biggles showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. ‘There’s a good reason why you should know, and you know that, so we needn’t discuss it. It happens that your conversation last night was overheard. I’ve no time to waste talking. What’s the password? Say you don’t know again and I shall no longer have any reason for keeping you alive, so make up your mind.’
The spy looked at the three faces that confronted him. They were grim and hostile. There was no mercy in the accusing eyes. Nobody knew better than he the extent of his guilt, and he knew what he would have done had the position been reversed. Possibly it was this knowledge that made him weaken.
‘Okay,’ he said slowly, ‘I guess you’ve got the works on me. If I tell you, will you let me go?’
‘No, by thunder, I won’t,’ flashed back Biggles harshly. ‘You’re coming with us. If we run into any Russians, and you make one false move, I shall fire the first shot, and it will be at you. So make up your mind to it, Olsen; whatever happens you’re not going to get away to go on with this dirty work. You can tell us the password and come with us, or keep your mouth shut and take what’s coming to you.’ Biggles raised his pistol.
Olsen shrank back. ‘No — don’t do that,’ he faltered, white-lipped. ‘The password’s “Petrovith”.’
‘For your own sake I hope you’re not lying,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘All right — let’s go.’
He inspected the track in the direction of the house, and then pointed down it towards the frontier with his pistol.
The party moved off, Olsen walking in front with Biggles’s pistol pointing at his back, and in this manner they proceeded for some distance. Then, without warning, a shout rang through the air.
Biggles sprang round. The others did the same It was now light enough for them to see for some distance, light enough to reveal a startling picture. Just emerging out of the thin veil of mist that clung to the top of the hill on which the house was situated was a party of Russian soldiers. That they had seen the fugitives was at once obvious from their attitudes.
Of the four who stood on the track Olsen was the first to move, and he moved like lightning. He gave Biggles a violent shove, and then, ducking low, and twisting as he ran, he dashed towards the Russians.
Biggles steadied himself. War was war, and he had no intention of allowing the spy to escape; he owed it to the Finns whom Olsen had betrayed, quite apart from the man’s promise to von Stalhein that he would bring him their heads. He shouted to Olsen to stop, or he would shoot. Olsen’s answer was to whip out a small automatic from under his arm and let drive. Biggles jumped aside the instant he saw the weapon and the bullet whistled past his head. He threw up his own weapon, took deliberate aim and fired. Olsen staggered; his knees crumpled under him and he sprawled face downwards across the track.
By this time the Russians were within two hundred yards and running towards the spot.
Biggles thrust the weapon in his pocket, and shouting ‘This way!’ dashed off through the trees. The others followed.
Now although the Russians were so close, the comrades had this advantage: once within the trees they could not be seen, so it would not be known what direction they had taken.
At first Biggles chose the easiest way, for his paramount thought was to put as much ground as possible between him and the Russians, for he realized that, now it was known definitely that they were still inside the frontier, it would only be a question of time before all the troops in the vicinity would join in the hunt, and by that time the password would be useless. After his first spurt, therefore, he turned in a westerly direction, hoping to reach the frontier before the news of their escape was known; if they could do that there was still a chance that they could bluff their way through on the strength of the password. So, still heading west, he pressed on at top speed until the edge of the wood revealed itself ahead. The trees did not end abruptly, but first began to stand farther apart; they then straggled out over country more in the nature of open heath; between the trees lay dense growths of bracken, gorse, and heather, brown from the winter frosts.
Reaching this open country, Biggles pulled up for a moment and made a swift reconnaissance, which he was well able to do by virtue of the fact that the ground fell away in a slope, sometimes gentle and sometimes steep, for a considerable distance. Here and there grey rocks, rising to some height, broke through the undergrowth, and towards the nearest of these Biggles made his way.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ he told the others, and then scrambled up the rock. For a few moments he lay flat, his eyes exploring the scene ahead; then he slid back to the ground.
‘There are troops all over the place,’ he said quietly. ‘We must be very close to the frontier even if we’re not already on it, although I can’t see any sign of the actual boundary. All we can do is to go on; we’ll avoid the troops if we can, but if we’re accosted we’ll give the password and hope for the best. I can see the track Olsen was following — at least, I can see a track, and it’s hardly likely that there are two. It disappears into a forest about a mile ahead. We’ll make for the forest and march parallel with the track in the hope of finding Olsen’s machine — he would be bound to land as near the track as possible.’
‘Lead on,’ said Algy briefly.
Progress was now slower, for while crossing the open country it was necessary to scout every inch of the way. Several times they passed close to small detachments of Russian soldiers, and once they had to lie flat while a patrol went past within fifty yards of them.
However, they moved steadily nearer to their objective, and they had in fact almost reached it when suddenly and unexpectedly they came upon two soldiers sitting smoking near an outcrop of rock. The Russians saw them at once and jumped to their feet.
Biggles, looking as unconcerned as possible, went straight to them and announced the password. He was anxious to avoid hostilities if it were possible. It was a nasty moment, for up to that time they had no means of knowing if Olsen had told the truth; but it was soon obvious that the password was the correct one. Nevertheless, the Russians seemed somewhat mystified and held a low conversation, whereupon Biggles took the letters from his pocket — the letters which he had taken from Olsen — and after pointing to the addresses, he nodded towards the west in the hope that the two simple fellows would grasp what he was trying to convey — that the letters had to be delivered. This seemed to satisfy the Russians, who made a joke of the travellers’ unkempt appearance, apparently under the impression that this was a disguise, and indicated that they might proceed.
They needed no second invitation.
Their relief at this simple evasion was short-lived, however, for they had not gone very far when Biggles, happening to look behind, saw the same two Russians coming after them at a run; following them were several more.
Biggles instantly grasped what had happened. The newcomers had brought news of their escape, with a result that the complacent soldiers were now hastening to rectify their mistake. The position was desperate, but Biggles did not lose his head; he maintained the same pace and the same unconcerned attitude until he reached the trees, knowing that if he started to run the Russians would shoot. As he went on he told the others what had happened. But as soon as they were under cover inside the trees he broke into a sprint, striking diagonally through the forest in order to reach the track, the position of which he still carried in his mind.
‘Are we over the frontier yet?’ panted Algy, as they dashed between the sombre pines.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Biggles. ‘It’s hard to say. Not that the actual frontier counts for much now there’s a war on. The only real advantage of being in Finland is that we might strike a patrol of Finnish troops.’
As Biggles anticipated, they soon reached the track, but he was not so foolish as to expose himself on it; instead he sped on keeping parallel with it, and just within sight of it. There was little undergrowth beneath the tr
ees, so they were able to travel as fast as if they were actually on the track.
By this time the hue and cry could be heard. Shouts came from several points; whistles blew and shots were fired, although what the Russians were shooting at Biggles could not imagine, for he was positive that they could not be seen. He could only conclude that the troops were firing blindly into the trees in the hope that a lucky shot would halt them.
It was Ginger who spotted the aircraft — a Gladiator carrying Finnish markings. The trees ended abruptly and gave way to a flat, low-lying valley large enough to enable a machine to land. The Gladiator stood close in under the trees, presumably so that it could not be seen from above, and might easily have been passed unnoticed had not they known definitely that an aircraft was in the vicinity.
Now the Gladiator is a single-seater, so it was at once obvious that it offered escape for one only. It did not take Biggles long to decide who it should be.
‘You’ll fly it, Ginger,’ he said as they raced towards it. ‘Take the papers and the letters straight to Colonel Raymond at Oskar and tell him what has happened. If he can send help, well and good; otherwise we shall have to go on trying to get home on foot.’
Ginger knew Biggles too well to attempt to argue with him at a time like this. ‘Right!’ he said, taking the elusive papers, and the letters, and thrusting them into his pocket. He swung up into the cockpit. ‘Good luck,’ he cried in a strangled voice. The engine started at the second attempt; the propeller flashed, a whirling arc of light; then the Gladiator surged forward and, after bumping once or twice on the uneven ground, roared into the sky.
A babble of voices and the crashing of bushes told Biggles and Algy that their pursuers were closing in on them, so they wasted no time watching the machine. Some distance to the right was one of the many lakes with which the country abounded, and towards this Biggles now led the way. Why he chose the lake he really did not know, unless it was because he felt that the steep, reed-lined banks offered more promise of a hiding-place than the open country. In any case it would have been fatal to attempt to cross the open ground in front of the Russian rifles. He ran straight into the rushes until he was ankle-deep in water, and then started to follow the bank, still heading in a westerly direction.
Algy kept close behind him And they were only just in time taking cover, for hardly had they entered the reeds than a number of Russians appeared on the edge of the forest a hundred yards or so away, where they halted, apparently uncertain which way to take.
Curiously enough, the very number of them made matters easier for the airmen, for the Russians had evidently outstripped their officers, and as no one seemed able to keep order, they argued among themselves, each man advocating the direction that made most appeal to him. In this way Biggles and Algy got a fair start, and for a little while it looked as if they might actually get clear away.
But then a new factor appeared on the scene, one that made a lot of difference; it was von Stalhein with two Russian officers, all on horseback, and the German lost no time in organizing the pursuit on efficient lines. The troops were formed into detachments, and these were set into motion to sweep the landscape so that no part of it remained unsearched.
It was the bomber that finally located them. Where it suddenly appeared from neither Biggles nor Algy knew, but there was a roar overhead, and then the machine, flying low, swept into sight, quartering the ground like a well-trained hound. It was obvious that in some way von Stalhein had managed to get into touch with the pilot, who had brought his machine to the spot.
Biggles and Algy were now compelled to adopt a slower method of procedure. When the aircraft approached near to them they lay still in the reeds, and only when it was some distance away did they dare to continue their flight.
‘We shall have to go faster than this; we’ve wasted too much time lying still,’ said Biggles after a quick reconnaissance through the reeds in the direction of the Russian troops, who he saw were drawing perilously near them. Some were actually beginning to search among the reeds at the point where they had entered them.
Algy glanced up at the bomber; it seemed to be a safe distance away. ‘Then let’s make a dash for it and try to reach those trees at the far end of the lake,’ he suggested.
They were now within sight of the far end of the lake, which was not much more than a quarter of a mile away, and there the ground rose steeply to form one of the many rocky ridges that divided several lakes. Trees clothed the flanks of the ridge, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that if they could reach them the task of their pursuers, including the pilot of the aircraft, would be made much more difficult. Biggles saw the wisdom of Algy’s advice, and ducking low, he at once broke into a run. Unfortunately they soon came to a place where for some reason the reeds were very short, too short to afford any real cover. However, they made a dash for it, but hardly were they in the open when the aircraft turned. From the manner in which it suddenly came towards them Biggles knew that the pilot, or a member of the crew, had seen them. Straight over them the bomber roared; a small object detached itself from the bottom of the fuselage; it dropped like a stone and burst with a muffled roar about fifty yards away. A mighty cloud of smoke rose high into the air.
‘Smoke-bomb,’ snapped Biggles. ‘That’s to tell the crowd where we are. I only hope that von Stalhein is the first to show up — I’ve got a little present for him.’ Biggles took out his pistol. He still continued to run, but it was now obvious from the clamour that the smoke-bomb had done its work.
‘It looks as if this is where we fight it out,’ observed Algy calmly, clicking a bullet into the breech of the rifle he still carried. He glanced up, wondering why the bomber had not returned to circle over them, and what he saw brought a wild yell to his lips. ‘Look!’ he shouted.
The bomber was still there, but it was no longer alone in the air. Dropping on it like a torpedo was a Gladiator, and that was not all. Some distance behind the single-seater, looking strangely out of place, and diving as steeply as it dared, was a flying-boat.
‘Ginger must be flying that Gladiator — it couldn’t be anyone else,’ gasped Biggles. ‘He must have spotted the flying-boat and brought it here.’
‘We must let them know where we are!’ cried Algy in a voice which excitement pitched in a treble key.
‘Get up on the bank and try to hold off the Russians with the rifle,’ ordered Biggles crisply. ‘Concentrate on the horsemen first — they’re the biggest danger.’
Algy scrambled up the bank, and throwing himself flat, opened fire. There was no further point in trying to hide.
Biggles tore up a quantity of reeds which, like most of the vegetation, were brown and dry from the recent killing frosts, and throwing them into a pile, put a match to them. A thin column of smoke at once rose into the air. Working with frantic speed, he tore up more and more reeds and flung them on the blaze, torn between attending to his task and watching what was happening in the air, for that something lively was happening was certain. Machine-guns chattered shrilly; bullets punctured the placid surface of the lake, and some even plopped into the mud unpleasantly close to where he stood.
Thrilled, as every airman must be when he watches a combat, ho looked up at the machines overhead and took in the situation at a glance. The Gladiator was on the bomber’s tail now, its guns stuttering in short, vicious bursts. The bomber was diving steeply, banking first one way and then the other in a desperate but futile effort to escape its more agile adversary. Straight on past the bomber the Gladiator roared, and then after a sharp turn swept up underneath it. Biggles could see the tracer bullets like little white sparks of light raking the bottom of the big black fuselage. A feather of smoke, growing swiftly in size, spurted from the bomber’s side, and trailed away behind to mark its erratic course. By this time it was obvious that the pilot of the big machine was concerned only with reaching the ground, and he did in fact succeed in doing so. There was a rush of flame and a splintering crash as the wheels touche
d the rough turf, and Biggles smiled sympathetically as the pilot and crew jumped out and flung themselves clear. The Gladiator turned away at once, but instead of climbing to a safe height, it began sweeping low over the ground with its guns still going.
‘What does the young fool think he’s doing?’ yelled Biggles.
Algy, from the top of the bank, replied, ‘He’s driving back the mob on the ground.’
Biggles, running up to the ridge, saw that this was true. He had his pistol ready, but a glance told him that it would not be needed — not yet, at any rate — for those men who were not lying flat on the ground to escape the leaden hail were racing for the cover of the trees. Some distance away a horseman was trying to steady a badly frightened horse.
‘That’s von Stalhein,’ muttered Biggles. ‘He must be fairly swallowing his tonsils with rage.’ Without waiting for Algy to give his opinion, he ran back to the edge of the water and stood clear in the open, waving his arms to attract the attention of the flying-boat pilot. But a moment later he saw that this was unnecessary, for the aircraft was coming in to land on a course that should end near to where he stood. Its keel cut a line of creamy foam on the smooth water; its engines roared with short, spasmodic bursts of sound.
Over it now circled the Gladiator. The flying-boat, no longer airborne, surged on towards the place where Biggles stood, reducing its speed as it neared the land.
‘Come on! Let’s go out to him!’ Biggles flung the words over his shoulder to Algy.
Abandoning their position, they splashed out into the icy water and waded knee-deep towards the aircraft. A side window of the cockpit opened, and Smyth’s face appeared. ‘Come on, sir!’ he shouted.
‘Good old Smyth; trust him to be in at the death,’ declared Algy. ‘That man’s a treasure. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s on the spot when he’s wanted.’