Biggles - the Boy

by W E Johns

  James tried to stop the blood with his handkerchief but couldn’t make much of a job of it. What with the boy kicking and blood and water all over the place he couldn’t really see what he was doing. Shouting to the uninjured boys to hold their friend he took off the pith helmet he was wearing and ripping off the puggaree used that for a bandage, twisting the ends into a tourniquet with his cane, which, curiously enough, he still held. This done he hesitated, uncertain of what to do next. After all he himself was agitated by what had happened, and the speed of it. His first-aid was only a temporary measure, and certainly anything but professional; but then, he was wet, his patient was wet, and the mixture of water and blood made things difficult.

  With an effort he got control of himself and did some quick thinking. In the state the injured boy was in there could be no question of him walking home, presumably to the village. Nor could he, even with the help of his two companions, carry him. He could see only one thing for it. In any case there was no resident doctor in the village. He realized the boy’s wounds needed drastic treatment if they were not to turn septic. He had been told more than once that people who had been mauled by tooth or claw died more often from the wounds turning septic than from the wounds themselves.

  Automatically he took command. First the injured boy was moved to a safe place well clear of the river. Then, telling the others to stay with him, and not allow him to move, he set off for home at a run. He ran all the way. Arriving, without stopping for explanations, he dashed to the medicine chest, took lint, a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic liquid kept for emergencies. With these in his hand he ran back to the river to find four women, with bundles of clothes for washing, now on the scene. He warned them of the danger in the river and then set to work on the injured boy, now only half conscious from delayed shock.

  He screamed with pain as James poured antiseptic into the tooth holes and lacerations. James knew the stuff would sting, but he ordered the women to hold the boy still and went on with his life-saving operation. By the time he had finished two men, who had heard the screaming and had come to see what it was about, were there.

  “Does anyone know where this boy lives?” asked James, standing up.

  The women said they knew, whereupon James ordered them to act as guides while the two men carried the boy home. “Tell his mother to put him to bed and keep him there,” he said. “He should be all right now.”

  The entire party of natives, men, women and boys, moved off. James watched them go, and then sat down for a minute or two to recover from his exertions. He himself was feeling the strain of the last hectic half hour. Having rested he too set off for home, wet, dishevelled and smeared with bloodstains. He would have changed his clothes before seeing his father, but he found his father waiting, rumours having already reached him.

  His father did not waste time scolding. He looked hard at James, and seeing the state he was in simply said “Well?”—a question that called for an explanation.

  “I’m all right, sir,” said James.

  “What happened?”

  James explained, briefly.

  When he had finished his father was staring incredulously. “Are you saying you jumped on the head of the crocodile?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must have been raving mad.”

  “I think I must have been,” admitted James. “But something had to be done. What else could I do?”

  “Yes, I can see it was difficult,” conceded his father. “But you’d better go and get changed. Then I’ll see you in my study.”

  “Yes, sir.” James went off.

  Twenty minutes later the conversation was resumed in the study. Lalu Din, one of the office staff, was there.

  “Where did this happen?” James was asked.

  “At the Black Rock pool.”

  “I’ve never heard of a dangerous crocodile there.”

  “Well, I can assure you there’s one there now.”

  Lalu Din spoke. “It must have come up the river from Baradad, sahib. I heard there was one there. He has taken several women, so they say.”

  “See that all the women in the village are warned not to go near the Black Rock.”

  “I fancy the word will have gone round already,” James said. “This is going to make things difficult for them. It is the only place where there is easy access to the water.”

  “Well, I don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “Surely there’s one thing we could do, sir.”

  “Indeed? What’s that?”

  “Make life too uncomfortable for the crocodile to stay in the pool.”

  “How would you propose to do that?”

  “By sitting on the bank and shooting at him every time he shows himself.”

  “And who’s going to sit all day on the bank, watching?”

  “I could do that.”

  “You!”

  Lalu Din smiled at this.

  “Why not? It needn’t interfere with my lessons. I could take one of my books with me,” James said.

  It should be explained that at this time James was studying at home, no day school being available and his indifferent health making boarding-school impracticable.

  His father considered the proposal dubiously.

  “I couldn’t take any harm,” urged James. “Obviously I wouldn’t be such a fool as to go in the water. Something will have to be done. Whatever you say the women will still go to the Black Rock, as they always have. You know that. Sooner or later one will be taken.”

  This was an argument his father could not dispute, as James well knew.

  “Very well,” was the decision. “I’ll allow you to take your rifle to the pool if you’ll give me your word that under no conditions will you set foot in the water.”

  “You have my most solemn word for that, sir,” declared James. And he meant it.

  That ended the conversation.

  The following morning saw James early at the pool. He found the place deserted. There was not a soul there. Obviously word of the accident had gone round. James approached quietly and cautiously. He found a seat on the bank, where he had sat the previous day, and surveyed the dark water. There was not a sign of the crocodile. In fact there was not a sign of any living creature. But he did not allow himself to be deceived. He knew the crocodile would be there, somewhere. Where he may have made a mistake was to suppose that the crocodile would be unable to leave its lair, probably under the far bank where the water ran deep, without him seeing it. Again, he knew the crocodile to be a beast of low intelligence, but he had yet to learn that such creatures are usually compensated by being endowed with an acute form of cunning. If that were not so they would not be able to live.

  Time went on. James had brought a book but he did not read. He was too engrossed in what he was doing. His rifle, loaded, lay across his knees, the safety catch off. All he wanted was a glimpse of the crocodile so that he could use it. In his dealings with nature he tried to be fair, but for a man-killing crocodile he felt nothing but loathing and hatred.

  Patiently he waited for an opportunity to express how he felt.

  This was to come sooner than he expected, but certainly not in the manner he had confidently anticipated. Naturally, he supposed that if the beast showed itself it would be in the river. But in the event things did not work out like that. The mounting heat of the sun tended to make him drowsy, but he remained on the alert determined not to miss a chance. It was as well that he did.

  A slight sound behind him, like the soft crushing of twigs, made him turn his head to ascertain the cause. Instead of seeing one of the village women as he expected he found himself staring into the face of the crocodile from a distance of two or three yards. Standing erect on its legs, with its back arched it looked like a prehistoric monster. Its jaws were agape, revealing rows of filthy teeth. Seeing that it had been observed—and all wild animals seem to have this faculty—it rushed at him.

  James had no time to move, to get u
p. All he could do, still in the sitting position, was swing his rifle round, and without bringing it to his shoulder, with the muzzle practically in the beast’s open mouth, pull the trigger. Almost simultaneously he scrambled to his feet, only to have his legs swept from under him by the creature’s heavy tail, which flashed round in the manner these reptiles commonly employ to knock a victim, man or beast, into the water. James was knocked clean into the river. Even while falling the thought in his mind was, “I mustn’t drop the rifle.”

  He held on to it. Fortunately the water was shallow, so he was on his feet in an instant, splashing his way to the stones of the beach. He did not stop to look round to see what the crocodile was doing. Not until he was on dry land did he do that, jerking a fresh cartridge into the breech of his rifle at the same time.

  The crocodile, coughing blood, had not moved. Its eyes glared. But it was far from dead. It rose up and made another rush. James dashed up the beach to get well away from the water. The crocodile did not follow him but stumbled on to the edge of the river where it lay, still coughing horribly, half in and half out of the water.

  Breathless from shock and excitement James steadied himself. Then he took careful aim at the beast’s head and fired. At the impact of the bullet the crocodile went flat on its stomach and tried to drag itself into the water. Now, feeling secure, James advanced a few paces and put another bullet behind the shoulder; and he continued to pump bullets into the creature while there was a cartridge left in the magazine. By the time he had finished the great lizard was no longer moving. Blood from its mouth was staining the water crimson. James reloaded and stood ready to shoot again should it show signs of life. A minute passed. It did not move.

  Voices on the bank above caused him to snatch a glance and he saw he had an audience. Two women had arrived with their bundles of washing. They called something to him, but he was too taken up with watching the crocodile to catch what they said. Only when he was satisfied that it was really dead did he wring the water from his hair and look for his helmet, which had fallen off. He saw it floating down the river. He did not trouble to go after it. In fact, he couldn’t, for now that the peril had passed reaction set in and his legs felt so weak that he had to sit down. He was trembling from shock.

  The women, talking excitedly, came forward to look at the crocodile and heap praises on him, calling him “heaven-sent”, and similar compliments. Presently Lalu Din ran up, saying that the shooting had been heard in the village and he had been sent to find out what had happened.

  James simply pointed at the crocodile.

  When Lalu Din saw it he threw up his hands and turned his eyes to heaven. “But you are wet, sahib. You have been in the river,” he accused. “You promised...”

  “I didn’t go in,” broke in James. “I was knocked in. It came at me from behind.”

  “Ah! The devil was in him.”

  “Well, now he’s got some bullets in him as well. If anyone wants a crocodile he can have this one. I’m going home.”

  On his way James realized how narrow had been his escape. He had assumed the crocodile would be in the river. He now perceived that while he had been stalking it, it had been stalking him. There was an obvious lesson in that. Never to take anything for granted.

  Some days later, when he had related the incident to his shikari friend, Captain Lovell, another lesson was pointed out to him. With a hand on his shoulder the Skipper said gravely: “Always remember, James, when you are hunting dangerous game, to look behind you. Never forget that. Look behind.”

  This was a lesson which may have been of service to James when, not many years later, he was hunting enemy aircraft in the war-stricken sky of France. The picture of those terrible jaws open to seize him was too vivid ever to be forgotten.

  All his father said about the affair was: “Don’t let this go to your head, my boy. You still have a lot to learn before you can call yourself a shikari.”

  In conclusion it should be said that the boy who had been bitten not only recovered but became something of an embarrassment to James, following him about whenever he saw him, smiling and making signs that he was a sort of god. Perhaps it was understandable.

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  THE BIG BAD BEAR

  SHOULD the bear be included in the list of dangerous wild animals? This has long been a subject for discussion between big game hunters. There are arguments for and against. Opinion appears to depend on the experience of each individual. Some, who have never had any trouble with a bear, assert the beast is harmless if left alone. Others, who may have been victims of an unprovoked attack, will not accept this.

  The truth may be that it all depends on the particular bear. Generally speaking the bear is an inoffensive family man; but, like many wild animals, when he grows old he is forced to lead a solitary life, and in these conditions he tends to become bad-tempered, morose, ready to go for anyone or anything that disturbs him. There is reason to think he may even go looking for trouble. He will rush out of a thicket and claw a passing native for no apparent reason. Of course, for all we know there may be a reason for this display of foul temper. He may have been stung by a bee; or trodden on a thorn; or may have a belly-ache from eating underripe fruit. Whatever the reason, it happens, and an angry bear is not the cuddly creature we see at a zoo.

  If Bruin himself is hurt he is liable to set up a howling and bleating that would be comical were it not pathetic.

  There are of course many different kinds of bears in various parts of the world, but with a few exceptions their habits, how they live and what they eat, are much the same. Their usual diet consists of roots, fruits, nuts and delicacies when they can be found, such as wild honey. Some will eat fish, or small animals and reptiles. Most of them can climb trees.

  Exceptions are the grizzly bear of North America. He will cat carrion. He has been known to charge on sight; hence his ugly reputation. The polar bear is also a flesh eater, but as where he lives there is nothing else he can be forgiven. Both these bears are hard to kill. There are still bears in the forests of Eastern Europe, where, dangerous or not, they are treated with respect.

  But here we are only concerned with the two species that occur in India, or to be more specific, in the Himalayas, for it was in an encounter with one of these that young James Bigglesworth came near to losing his life. These two species are known as the “red” and the “black”. The red is less dangerous than the black. Both can be carnivorous, sometimes killing sheep or goats, for which reason they are feared and hated by the hill people, some of whom can show terrible scars. Men have been scalped, or had half their face torn off, by one swipe of those terrible claws.

  The black bear can easily be recognized by having a broad white arrow on his chest. His eyesight is not very good, but he has an acute sense of smell, and hearing. His habit is to lie up by day in a thicket or clump of scrub where he would be difficult to see until he rises up and rushes out, either from rage or panic. In a charge he can move at great speed. His usual attack is on all fours, sometimes rising on his hind legs for a better view, finally standing erect to strike blows with his claws rather than use his teeth. One swipe, a sort of vicious hook, can cause a frightful wound. If he can get his “arms” round his adversary he will hug him to death.

  He is a big beast, his thick, shaggy coat making him look larger than he is; for which reason he is easy to miss with a rifle shot, the bullet passing through the hair without touching the animal inside it.

  Living where he did Biggles heard many stories and rumours about any unusual behaviour of wild animals, this, naturally, always being the topic for gossip; but he thought little about bears, never having encountered one. That he did so eventually came about like this.

  He was sitting in the garden, reading, when in walked Captain Lovell, a celebrated big game hunter, whom he now knew well enough to call “Skipper”. Wearing a well-worn hunting outfit he was accompanied by an Indian orderly, a gun bearer, carrying his rifle.

  Ja
mes sprang up waving a greeting. “Hello, Skipper, what fair wind brings you here?”

  “As I was passing this way I thought I’d better make a courtesy call on your father,” was the answer. “Is he at home?”

  “Yes. He’s in the office. I’ll take you through.” James led the way to the room where his father was busy on official papers.

  “I shan’t keep you,” the Skipper said. “I’m on my way to Charipur. Thought I’d just look in to pass the time of day.”

  “Charipur! That’s in the hills. It’s a fair step.”

  “There’s a rest-house half-way. I shall spend a night there.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Nothing serious. I had word from Saunders of the Forestry Service that a bear was making a nuisance of itself and he’d be obliged if I could find time to put an end to it.”

  “A lot of fuss about nothing, probably.”

  “Maybe. But apparently this old devil has taken to knocking off sheep, and several people who have tried to stop him have been hurt. The headman had a go, but all he did was wound the beast, since when the footpath between Charipur and Namsala, where the bear hangs out, has been closed. The kids of Charipur have to use the path to get to school. Or they did. Now they can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Captain Lovell shrugged a shoulder. “There’s only one thing to do with a bear that develops nasty habits and that’s kill it. There shouldn’t be any difficulty about that, but I’d rather someone else did the job, I don’t care much for bear shooting. It’s too easy. It may be fun for young officers just out from Home, anxious to get a trophy of some sort to prove they’re up to standard, but I’ve long passed that stage.”