by W E Johns
‘Very good, sir; I’ll get off right away.’ Biggles did not so much as glance at von Stalhein as he saluted, turned on his heel and departed to his room.
When he reached it he slumped down wearily on his bed and gave expression to his disappointment and mortification, for his feelings at that moment were not unlike those of a very tired man who, in the act of sitting down, realizes that some one has pulled the chair away from under him. After a period of deadly risk and anxiety he thought he had the situation well summed up, and all he needed to do to win was to play his trump cards carefully. The knowledge that his cards were useless was a disappointment not easily overcome, and it was followed by an almost overwhelming sense of depression, for if what the Count had told him was true, he had been running on a false scent all along. The only redeeming thing about the new development was that, if the British had really caught El Shereef, then this work was finished, and there was no longer any reason why he should stay at Zabala. Officially, his retirement from the scene would now be permissible, even though he had failed, but he knew he could not conscientiously do so while in his heart he was still certain that von Stalhein was engaged in some sinister scheme about which the British authorities knew nothing. Suppose the story were not true? Suppose the whole thing was pure fabrication, a story invented by the Count and von Stalhein to draw a red herring across the trail of British agents whom they suspected–or knew—to be engaged in counter-espionage behind their lines. Conversely, might it not be a gigantic piece of bluff devised by the British Intelligence Staff to mislead the Germans, or cause them to make a move which might betray the very man whom they claimed to have caught? Both theories were possible.
Thinking the new situation over, Biggles felt like a man who, faced with the task of unravelling a tangled ball of string, sees a dozen ends sticking out, but does not know which is the right one. ‘I’ve had a few bone-shakers since I started this job, but this one certainly is a bazouka,’ he mused. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better do something about it, and the best thing I can do is to push off through the atmosphere to Kantara to find out how much truth there is in it.’
He changed into his R.F.C. uniform, pulled his overalls on over it, went down to the tarmac, ordered out the Bristol Fighter, and landed at Kantara exactly thirty-five minutes later. He taxied up to the hangars, and telling the duty N.C.O. to leave his machine where it was in case he needed it urgently, went straight to Major Raymond’s tent.
He found the Major working at his desk.
‘Good morning, Bigglesworth –’
But Biggles was too impatient to indulge in conventional greetings. ‘Is this tale true about your catching El Shereef, sir,’ he asked abruptly.
‘Quite true.’
Biggles stared. ‘Well, I’ll be shot for the son of a gun,’ he muttered. ‘You’re quite sure—I mean, you’re not just spinning a yarn?’
‘Good gracious, no. But how did you know about it?’
‘Von Faubourg told me this morning.’
‘He wasn’t long getting the news then.’
‘So it seems. How did you work it?’
‘Sterne did it. He’s been on the trail for some time, working in his own way. He managed to pick up a clue and laid a pretty trap, and El Shereef, cunning as he is, walked straight into it.’
‘That’s what the Huns told me,’ nodded Biggles. ‘It begins to look as if it’s true.’
‘Of course it’s true—we’ve got him here.’
‘What! at Kantara?’
‘Well, at Jebel Zaloud, the village just behind. General Headquarters are there. They’ve had EI Shereef there trying to get some information out of him, but it’s no use. He won’t speak. He won’t do anything else if it comes to that—won’t eat or drink. He’s an Arab, you know.’
‘Arab? You mean he’s disguised as an Arab?’
‘If it’s a disguise, then it’s a thundering good one.’
‘It would be. He’s lived amongst the Arabs half his life, until he is one, or as near as makes no difference. The Count told me so himself.’
‘I don’t know about that, but it’s no wonder things went wrong over here. He is—or rather, was—one of our most trusted Sheikhs. He’s a fellow with a big following, too.’
‘How do you know it’s El Shereef?’
‘Sterne was sure of it before he collared him. When we took him he was wearing one of those same rings that you’ve got—the German Secret Service ring. I’ve got it here: here it is. He had also got some very interesting documents on him—plans of British positions, and so on.’
Biggles picked up the ring that the Major had tossed on to the table and looked at it with interest. ‘I should like to see this cove,’ he said quietly.
‘I think it could be arranged, although I can’t see much point in it. You’ll have to make haste, though.’
‘Why?’
‘He was tried by a specially convened Field General Court Martial this morning and sentenced to death.’
‘Good God! When is sentence to be carried out?’
‘To-day, some time. He’s too tricky a customer to keep hanging about. He’ll certainly be shot before sundown.’
Biggles jaw set grimly. ‘That’s awkward,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been sent over here to rescue him.’
It was the Major’s turn to look startled. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Too true I am.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing—now. I’m through. If you’ve got the fellow, then that’s the end of the story as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That’s what I thought; in fact, that’s why I sent Lacey over to let you know.’
‘You did what?’
‘Sent Lacey over. I couldn’t do less. There was no point in your going on risking your neck at Zabala.’
‘Where’s Algy now?’
‘He’s gone. He took off just before you landed. He’s going to do the message-dropping stunt in the olive grove. It’s a pity he went, but naturally I didn’t expect the Huns would tell you about our catching El Shereef.’
Biggles nodded sagely. ‘Which, to my mind, is a perfectly good reason why you might have guessed they’d do it,’ he declared. ‘In my experience, it’s the very last thing that you’d expect that always happens at this game. My word! dog-fighting*2 is child’s play to it.’
‘Well, what are you going to do? I’m busy over this affair, as you may imagine.’
‘Just as a matter of curiosity I’d like to have a dekko at this nimble chap who is called El Shereef.’
‘Very well; after what you’ve done we can hardly refuse such, a natural request. I’ll see if it can be arranged.’ The Major reached for his telephone.
Chapter 17
Hare and Hounds
Two hours later Biggles again sat in Major Raymond’s tent with his face buried in his hands; the Major was busy writing on a pad. ‘How’s this?’ he said, passing two sheets of paper. ‘The first is an official notification of the execution that will appear in to-night’s confidential orders; the other is the notice that will be issued to the press. Naturally, we make as much of a thing like this as we can; it’s good propaganda, and it bucks up the public at home to know that we are as quick-witted as the Huns.’
Biggles read the notices. ‘They seem to be O.K., sir,’ he said, passing them back. ‘I’ll be going now,’ he added, rising and picking up his cap.
‘You still insist in going back to Zabala?’
‘I don’t want to go, sir, don’t think that, but I think it’s up to me to try to get the truth about von Stalhein’s game while I can come and go. I know I said I wouldn’t go back, but I’ve been thinking it over. I shan’t be long, anyway. If I find things are getting too hot I’ll pack up and report here.’
‘As you wish,’ agreed the Major.
Biggles walked towards the door. ‘Cheerio for the present, then, sir,’ he sa
id. ‘You might remember me to Algy when he comes back.’
‘He’s probably back by now; can’t you stay and have a word with him?’
‘No, I haven’t time now; besides, I’ve nothing particular to talk about,’ decided Biggles. Lost in thought, he walked slowly back to where he had left his Bristol, climbed into the cockpit, and took off. Still in a brown study, he hardly bothered to watch the sky, for while he was over the British side of the lines he had nothing to fear, and over the German side the white bar on his wings made him safe from attack from German aeroplanes.
Once he caught sight of a large formation of Pfalz Scouts, but he paid no attention to them; he did not even watch them but continued on a straight course for Zabala, still turning over in his mind the knotty problems that beset him.
It was, therefore, with a start of surprise and annoyance that he was aroused from his reverie by the distant clatter of a machine-gun, and while he was in the act of looking back for the source of the noise he was galvanized into activity by a staccato burst which he knew from experience was well inside effective range. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he half-rolled desperately, but not before he had felt the vicious thud of bullets ripping through his machine. ‘What the dickens do the fools think they’re playing at?’ he snarled, as he levelled out and saw that he was in the middle of a swarm of Pfalz. ‘They must be blind,’ he went on furiously, as he threw the Bristol into a steep bank in order to display the white bar on his top plane. But either the Germans did not see it or they deliberately ignored it, for two or three of them darted in, guns going, obviously with the intention of shooting him down.
Biggles knew that something had gone wrong, but the present was no time to wonder what it was. He must act quickly if he was to escape the fate that he had often meted out to others, but he was at once faced with a difficult problem. At the back of his mind still lingered the conviction that the Pfalz pilots had forgotten all about his distinguishing mark, and would presently see and remember it, but whether that was so or not, the only thing that really counted at the moment was that they were doing their best to kill him. And by reason of their numbers they were likely to succeed. In the ordinary way, had he been flying a real British machine, the matter would not have worried him unduly; he would simply have fought the best fight he could as long as his machine held together and remained in the air. He had, in fact, fought against even greater odds and escaped, but then he had been able to give as good as he got. ‘If I shoot any of these fellows down it puts the tin hat on my ever going back to Zabala, even if I do get away with it,’ he thought desperately, as he turned round and round, kicking on right and left rudder alternately to avoid the streams of lead that were being poured at him from all directions.
He knew that the only thing he could do was to attempt to escape, either by trying to get back to the British lines, or by making a dash for Zabala, which was nearer. He would have spun down and landed had it been possible to land, but it was not, for the country below was a vast tract of broken rock and camel-thorn bushes. Nevertheless, he threw the Bristol into a spin with the object of getting as near to the ground as possible, and ‘hedge-hopping’—or rather, rock-hopping—home. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the Pfalz spinning down behind him. He pulled out at a hundred feet above the ground, but still eased the stick forward until his wheels were literally skimming the rocks; and swerving from side to side to throw the gunners off their mark, raced for Zabala. Behind him screamed the Pfalz, like a pack of hounds after the hare.
Occasionally the sound of guns reached his ears, and once in a while a bullet bit into the machine, but the chance of being hit by a stray shot was the risk he had to take. By flying low he had made shooting difficult for the Boche pilots, who dare not dive as steeply as they would have liked to have done, and could have done higher up. Their difficulty was that of a diver who knows that the water into which he is about to plunge is shallow; to dive deep would mean hitting the bottom. In the case of the Pfalz, they dare not risk over shooting*1 their target for fear of crashing into the ground. So, uncable to dive, they could only hang behind and take long shots. Their task was not made any easier by the fact that the Bristol did not fly on the same course for more than two or three seconds at a time; it turned and twisted from side to side like a snipe when it hears the sportsmen’s guns.
This sort of flying needs a cool head and steady nerves, and Biggles possessed both; his many battles in France had given him those desirable qualities. He had to have eyes in the back of his head, as the saying goes, for it was necessary to keep a sharp look-out in front for possible obstacles, and at the same time keep watch behind for the more daring pilots who sometimes took a chance and came in close, whereupon he would turn at right angles and dash off on a new course, thereby upsetting their aim.
In spite of his precarious position, he smiled as the chase roared over the heads of a squadron of cavalry, sending the horses stampeding in all directions. On another occasion a German Staff car that was racing along the road down which he was then roaring in the opposite direction, pulled up so quickly that he was given the never-to-be-forgotten spectacle of a German general in full uniform, with his head through the windscreen.
As he approached Zabala the German scouts doubled their efforts to stop him, evidently under the impression that the British two-seater intended to bomb their aerodrome, and the consequence was that Biggles, who by this time was not in the least particular as to how or where he got down, made a landing that was as spectacular as it was unusual. He throttled back, side-slipped off his last few feet of height, flattened out and hurtled down-wind across the sun-baked sandy aerodrome. His wheels touched, but he did not stop. The hangars seemed to rush towards him, and he braced himself for the collision that seemed inevitable.
Leaning over the side of his cockpit to get a clear view round his windscreen, he saw German mechanics hauling a Halberstadt out of his path with frantic haste; others were unashamedly sprinting for cover. But the machine was beginning to lose speed, and fifty yards from the tarmac Biggles risked applying a little rudder and aileron, although he clenched his teeth as he did so, fully expecting to hear the undercarriage collapse under the strain. A grinding jar proclaimed the Bristol’s protest, but the wheels stood up to the terrific strain, and slowly the machine swung round until it was tearing straight along the tarmac in a cloud of dust.
The Count himself, and von Stalhein, who had heard the shouting and had dashed out to see what was happening, just had time to throw themselves aside as the Bristol ran to a standstill in front of the fort, leaving a line of staring mechanics and swirling sand to mark it tempestuous course.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ roared the Count, white with anger.
Biggles climbed out and pushed up his goggles before he replied. ‘With all respect to you, sir,’ he said bitterly, ‘I think that is a question that might well be put to the pilots of the Pfalz Staffel.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Count, glancing up at the scouts, some of which were already landing, while others circled round awaiting their turn.
Biggles glared at von Stalhein as a new suspicion flashed into his mind. ‘They’ve done their best to shoot me down, sir,’ he told the Count. ‘Look at my machine,’ he added, nearly choking with rage as he thought he saw the solution of the whole thing. Von Stalhein still mistrusted him, and had deliberately set the Pfalz on to him as the easiest way to removing him without awkward questions or the formality of a court martial.
The Count looked in surprise at the bullet holes in the wings and tail of the Bristol. ‘I don’t understand this,’ he said with a puzzled expression. ‘Do you, Erich?’ He turned to von Stalhein, who shook his head.
‘I suppose there must be an explanation,’ he said calmly. ‘Here come the Pfalz pilots: perhaps they can tell us what it is.’
The scout pilots who now arrived on the scene pulled up short when they saw the pilot of the Bristol Fighter; they seeme
d to have difficulty in finding words. For a few moments nobody spoke. The Count looked from one to the other. Von Stalhein waited, with a faint inscrutable smile on his face. Biggles glared at all of them in turn. ‘Well, he said at last, ‘what about it?’
One of the German pilots said something quickly and half apologetically to the Count; Biggles caught the words, ‘mark and wings’.
Von Faubourg started and turned to Biggles. ‘He says you’ve no markings on your wings,’ he cried.
‘No markings,’ exclaimed Biggles incredulously. ‘Impossible!’ He swung up and stood on the side of the fuselage from where he could see the whole of the top plane. From end to end it was painted the standard dull biscuit colour; there was not a speck of white on it anywhere. He stared as if it were some strange new creature that he had never seen before, while his brain struggled to absorb this miracle, for it seemed no less. He jumped down, eyes seeking the maker’s number on the tail; and then he understood. It was not the number of his original machine. For some reason as incomprehensible as it was unbelievable, the machine he had flown over to Kantara that morning had been removed while it was standing on the tarmac, and another substituted in its place. It must have been done during the three hours he was with Major Raymond or away from the aerodrome.
He pulled himself together with an effort and turned to the Count. ‘He’s quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘there is no white mark. But do not ask me to explain it, because I cannot. The only suggestion that I can offer is that a change of machines took place while I was at Kantara.’