by W E Johns
He started off back towards his room, but before he reached it he saw von Stalhein hurrying along the tarmac to intercept him. ‘Now what the dickens does he want, I wonder?’ he muttered savagely, as the German hailed him.
‘Ah, there you are,’ cried von Stalhein as he came up. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I came up to your room, but you seemed to be–well, I thought it best not to disturb you,’ he smiled.
Biggles nodded. ‘I had a drink or two and I must have dropped off to sleep,’ he admitted.
‘That’s all right, but I’ve got a little job I want you to do for me if you will.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Biggles, outwardly calm but inwardly raging. ‘What is it?’
‘We’ve just had a prisoner brought in and he’s as close as an oyster,’ answered von Stalhein. ‘He won’t say a word–just sulks. We want to try the old trick on him to see if he knows anything worth knowing. Will you slip on your British uniform and we’ll march you in as if you were another prisoner–you know the idea? He’ll probably unloosen a bit if you start talking to him.’
‘All right,’ agreed Biggles, wishing that the unfortunate prisoner had chosen some other time to fall into the hands of the enemy. The trick referred to by von Stalhein was common enough. When a prisoner refused to speak, as duty demanded, and his captors thought he might be in possession of information of importance, it was customary to turn another so-called prisoner in with him, dressed in the same uniform, in the hope that confidences would be exchanged.
To Biggles this interruption of his plans at such a crucial moment was unnerving, but he could not demur, so he went to his room, and after ascertaining that Brunow was still in the position in which he had left him, he changed quickly and went along to the fort, where he found von Stalhein waiting for him with an escort of two soldiers armed with rifles and fixed bayonets.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
‘In the pen,’ replied von Stalhein, nodding to the barbed-wire cage beside the fort in which a number of wooden huts had been erected to provide sleeping quarters.
Biggles took his place between the escort, who marched him ceremoniously to the gate of the detention camp, where another sentry was on duty. At a word of command the gate was thrown open and Biggles was marched inside. He was escorted to a room in which a light was burning. The door was unlocked; he was pushed roughly inside and the door closed behind him. But he remained standing staring unbelievably at a British officer who sat dejectedly on a wooden stool near the far side of the room. It was Algy.
Chapter 19
Biggles Gets Busy
I
It would be hard to say who of the two was more shaken, Biggles or Algy. For a good ten seconds they simply stared at each other in utter amazement, and then they both moved together. Algy sprang up and opened his mouth to speak, but Biggles laid a warning finger on his lips, at the same time shaking his head violently. He covered the intervening distance in a stride. ‘Be careful—there may be dictaphones*1,’ he hissed. Then aloud he exclaimed in a normal voice for the benefit of possible listeners. ‘Hello, it looks as if we were both in the same boat. How long have you been here?’
‘They got me this afternoon,’ said Algy aloud in a disgruntled voice, but he nodded to indicate that he grasped the reason of Biggles’ warning.
‘Well, it looks as if the war’s over as far as we’re concerned,’ continued Biggles.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Algy.
Then began an amazing double-sided conversation, one carried on in a natural way, and consisting of such condolences and explanations as one would expect between two British officers who found they were brothers in misfortune. The other consisted of a whispered dialogue of why’s and wherefore’s, in which Biggles learnt that Algy’s engine had failed and let him down in enemy country while he was flying over to Zabala with the message about the capture of El Shereef.
This went on for about half an hour, during which time Biggles racked his brains for a means of overcoming the difficulties and dangers that seemed to be closing in on him. All his original plans went by the board in the face of this new complication; first and foremost now was the pressing obsession that whatever else he did, or did not do, he must free Algy from the ghastly ordeal of spending the rest of the war in a German prison camp. What with Algy being a prisoner, Brunow tied up in his room, and von Stalhein already suspicious and waiting to spring, it can hardly be wondered at that he was appalled by the immediate prospect. One thing was certain; he must make the most of his time with Algy if ways and means of escape were to be discussed.
‘I can’t tell you all about it now,’ he breathed, ‘but things are fairly buzzing here. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’m going to try to get you out before I do anything else; I can’t tell you how exactly because I don’t know myself, but I shall think of something presently. When the time comes you’ll have to take your cue from me and do what you think is the right thing. For heaven’s sake don’t make a slip and say anything—or do anything—that will lead them to think that we know each other. I expect they’ll come back in a minute to fetch me in order that I can make my report on what you’ve been saying, unless, of course, they’ve got the conversation taken down in shorthand from a dictaphone. After I’ve gone, stand by for anything. You come first now; I’ve got to get you away, and I can’t worry any more about von Stalhein and his rotten schemes until that’s done. In fact, this looks to me like the end of the whole business, and believe me, I shan’t burst into tears if it is. I’ve had about enough of it. Be careful, here they come,’ he went on quickly as heavy footsteps and a word of command were heard outside. ‘Don’t worry; I shan’t be far away.’
Taking up the role he was playing, he looked over his shoulder as the door opened and the escort entered.
‘Come—you,’ said the N.C.O. in the harsh German military manner. He beckoned to Biggles.
Biggles rose obediently. ‘Cheerio, old fellow, I may see you later perhaps,’ he said casually to Algy as he left the room.
As soon as he was outside all pretence was abandoned, as of course the guards knew him, and knew quite well what was going on. The N.C.O. saluted, as did the sentry on gate duty as he left the gefangenenlager*2 and walked briskly towards the fort, thinking with the speed and clarity that is so often the result of continual flying.
Just before he reached the porch he heard an aeroengine start up and a machine begin to taxi from the Halberstadt sheds towards the far side of the aerodrome. He had a nasty moment, for at first he thought that it might be some one moving the Bristol, but he breathed again as he recognized the unmistakable purr of a Mercedes engine. He paused in his stride and a queer look came into his eyes as he peered through the darkness in the direction of the sound. ‘That’s the same Halberstadt going out to wait on the far side of the aerodrome, which means that friend Erich is going off on one of his jaunts,’ he thought swiftly. For another moment or two he lingered, still thinking hard, and then he turned and walked boldly through the main porch of the fort. A light showed under the Count’s door, and another under von Stalhein’s, but he passed them both and went on to the far end of the corridor to what had originally been the back door of the building. He tried it and found that it was unlocked, so he went through and closed the door quietly behind him. For a moment he stood listening, and then made his way swiftly to his room where, after satisfying himself that Brunow was still unconscious, he changed into his German uniform and then hurried back to the fort. He went in by the way he had come out and emerged again through the front porch for the benefit of the sentry on duty. He did not stop but went on straight to the prison camp. ‘Well, it’s neck or nothing now,’ he mused as he beckoned to the N.C.O. in charge of the guard. ‘Bring the officer-prisoner,’ he said curtly; ‘Hauptmann von Stalhein wishes to speak with him.’
The N.C.O. obeyed with the blind obedience of the German soldier; he called the escort, to attention, marched them to Algy’s door and cal
led him out. Biggles did not so much as glance at him as he walked back towards the main entrance of the fort with the prisoner and his escort following.
‘Wait,’ he told the guards shortly, and signalling to Algy to follow, he led the way into the corridor. But he did not stop at von Stalhein’s door, nor at the Count’s, but went straight on to the back of the building. Little beads of perspiration were on his forehead as he opened the door and they both went outside, for he knew that if either the Count or von Stalhein had come out during the few moments they were walking through the corridor all would have been lost.
As they stepped quietly outside he looked swiftly to left and right, but no one was in sight as far as he could see, which was not very far for the moon had not yet risen. ‘Come on,’ he said tersely, and set off at a quick trot towards his room with Algy following close behind.
Their footfalls made no sound on the soft sand as they sprinted along the back of the hangars to the side of the building in which Biggles’ room was situated. ‘I daren’t risk taking you in through the door in case we meet some one coming out,’ he said softly, leading the way to the window. ‘I had to take you through the fort to get rid of the guards,’ he explained, ‘but if either von Stalhein or the Count go out and see them standing there they may smell a rat, so we’ve no time to lose. Here we are; give me a leg up.’ A jump and a heave and he was on the window-sill, reaching down for Algy, and a second later they were both standing inside the room breathing heavily from their exertion.
‘Now listen,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘I’ve got a Bristol standing on the tarmac. You’re going to fly it back; but you’ve got to take a passenger.’
‘You mean–you?’
‘No.’
‘Who?’
‘Brunow, the real Brunow. He turned up to-day.’
Algy’s eyes opened wide. ‘My gosh!’ he breathed, ‘where is he now?’
‘Here.’ Biggles stooped down and dragged the still unconscious man from under the bed. ‘I’m afraid I socked him on the head rather hard,’ he observed, ‘but he asked for it. Get him to the M.O. *3 as soon as you can when you get back; don’t for goodness’ sake let him escape. Now do exactly what I tell you to,’ he went on as he ripped off his German tunic. ‘Slip this on—make haste, never mind your own tunic. If we meet any one look as much like a Hun as you can. Don’t speak. I’m going to put on my overalls, but I shall be recognized so it doesn’t matter much about me. Got that clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Come on then, bear a hand; we’ve got to get Brunow down to the Bristol. If we are spotted I’ll try to bluff that there has been an accident, but if there is an alarm follow me. I shall leave Brunow and make a dash for the machine. I’ll take the pilot’s seat; you get to the prop and swing it. When she starts get in as fast as you can; it would be our only chance. Are you ready?’
‘Quite.’
‘Then off we go. Steady—don’t drop the blighter through the window, we don’t want to break his neck.’ Biggles looked outside, but all was silent, so between them they got the limp figure to the ground and set off at a clumsy trot towards the hangar where the British machines were housed. They reached it without seeing a soul, and to Biggles’ infinite relief he saw that the Bristol was still standing as he had left it. ‘We’re going to have a job to get him into the cockpit,’ he muttered. ‘Just a minute–let me get up first.’ He climbed up into the back seat, and reaching down, took Brunow by the shoulders. ‘It’s a good thing you got shot down to-day after all,’ he panted. ‘I should never have managed this job alone. He’s heavier than I thought—go on—push.
Between them they got the unconscious man into the back seat and fastened the safety-belt tightly round him. ‘That’s fine,’ muttered Biggles with satisfaction. ‘If he happens to come round while you’re in the air, he’ll think he’s dead and on the way to the place where he ought to be,’ he grinned. ‘Go on—in you get.’
Algy climbed into the pilot’s seat while Biggles ran round to the propeller.
‘Hold hard, what are you going to do?’ cried Algy in sudden alarm.
‘That’s all right, off you go.’
‘And leave you here? Not on your life.’
‘Don’t sit there arguing, you fool; some one will come along presently. Do as you’re told.’
‘Not me—not until you tell me how you’re going to get back.’
‘I shall probably follow you in the Pup.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the hangar.’
‘Can you start it alone?’
‘Yes, I shall probably take straight off out of the hangar.’
‘Why not get it started while I’m here?’
‘I’ll give you a thick ear if you don’t push off,’ snarled Biggles. ‘I shall be all right, I tell you.’
Algy looked doubtful. ‘I don’t like leaving you; why not dump Brunow and let’s fly back together?’ he suggested.
‘Because when I start on a job I like to finish it,’ snapped Biggles.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Von Stalhein—now will you go?’
‘But why—?’
‘I’ll shoot you if you don’t start that blooming engine,’ grated Biggles.
Algy saw that Biggles was in no mood to be trifled with. ‘All right,’ he said shortly. ‘Switches off!’
‘Switch off!’
‘Suck in!’
‘Suck in.’
Biggles pulled the big propeller round several times and then balanced it on contact. ‘Contact!’ he called.
‘Contact!’ Biggles balanced himself on the ball of his right foot and swung the blade of the propeller down. With a roar that sounded like the end of the world, the Rolls Royce engine came to life and shattered the silence with its powerful bellow.
For a minute or two Algy sat waiting for it to warm up and then looked round to wave good-bye; but Biggles had disappeared. Slowly he pushed the throttle open and the Bristol began to move over the darkened aerodrome, slowly at first but with ever increasing speed. Its tail lifted and it roared upwards into the night sky.
II
Biggles watched the Bristol take off from the inside of the hangar into which he had run for cover when the engine started. He knew that by allowing Algy to take the Bristol he had burnt his boats behind him as far as staying at Zabala was concerned, for when the prisoner was missed, and the N.C.O. in charge of the guard explained—as he was bound to—how the Engländer had been taken by Leutnant ‘Brunow’ to Hauptmann von Stalhein for interview, the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance. No, Zabala was finished for ever, and he knew it; all that remained for him to do was to follow the Bristol as quickly as possible into the security of the British lines.
Two methods of achieving this presented themselves, and the first was—or appeared to be—comparatively simple. It was merely to pull out the Pup, now standing in the hangar, start it up, and take off. The other made a far greater appeal to him, but it was audacious in its conception and would require nerve to bring off. Curiously enough, it was while he was still weighing up the pros and cons that his mind was made up for him in no uncertain manner. It began when he walked to the back of the hangar and struck a match to see if the Pup was still in its usual position. It was, but he was staggered to see that its engine had been taken out, presumably for overhaul, and while he had not made up his mind to use the machine except in case of emergency, it gave him a shock to discover that his only safe method of escape from Zabala was effectually barred. He could have kicked himself for not finding it out earlier, for he might have based his plans on the understanding that the Pup would be airworthy. ‘My word! I should have been in a bonny mess if I’d wanted it in a hurry,’ he thought, and then dodged behind the wide canvas door-flap as he heard soft footsteps on the sand near at hand.
Peeping out, he saw the station Vize-feldwebel*4, who acted in the capacity of Adjutant*5, standing on the tarmac looking about with a puzzled air. From his m
anner it was clear that he had heard the British machine take off and had hurried down to see what was going on, and Biggles blamed himself for leaving things so late, for the arrival of the Feldwebel was something that he had not bargained for; and he had still greater cause to regret the delay when a minute or two later the Adjutant was joined by von Stalhein. He was in a state of undress with a dressing-gown thrown over his shoulders; he, too, had evidently heard the Bristol take off and had hurried along to ascertain the cause. He said something that Biggles did not catch to the Feldwebel, who went off at the double and presently returned with the Sergeant of the Flight responsible for the upkeep of the British machines—the same man to whom Biggles had given instructions regarding the preparation of the Bristol. A crisp conversation ensued, but it was carried on too quickly for Biggles to follow it, although by the mention of his name more than once, and the sergeant’s actions, he guessed that the N.C.O. was explaining the reason why Leutnant Brunow was flying.
To Biggles’ horror they all came into the hangar. The light was switched on, but they did not stay very long, for after von Stalhein had satisfied himself that the Bristol had actually gone, he went off and the others followed soon afterwards.
Biggles lingered no longer; the discovery of the dismantled Pup left him no choice of action, and he knew that he was faced with one of the most desperate adventures of his career, one that would either see him successful in his quest, or—but he preferred not to think of the alternative.
He was curiously calm as he stepped out of his hiding-place and set off in long swinging strides towards the far side of the aerodrome. As he walked he hummed the tune Deutschland Uber Alles which he had often heard sung in the Mess, for the desert was forbidding in its deathly silence, and the very atmosphere seemed to be peopled by the spirits of a long-forgotten past. ‘Gosh! This place gives me the creeps,’ he muttered once as he stopped to get his bearings from the distant lights of Zabala, to make sure he was keeping in the right direction. ‘Give me France every time.’ He was far too much of a realist to be impressed by the historical I associations of the ground over which he walked, land which had once been trodden by Xenophon, at the head of his gallant ten thousand, Alexander the Great, Roman generals, and Crusaders at the head of their armed hosts, but he was conscious of the vague depression that is so often the result of contact with remote antiquity. ‘I don’t wonder that people who get lost in the desert go dotty,’ he said quietly to himself, as he quickened his pace.