Biggles Cuts It Fine

by W E Johns

  “Aren’t you going to wait for the others?” asked Bertie.

  “No.”

  Bertie looked shocked. “But we can’t leave them, old boy.”

  “We shall have to. It’s their only hope as well as ours. If this submarine is what we may suppose it to be, it would be suicide to stay here. If we lose the plane we’ve lost everything. Our best chance is to get clear.” Algy had not had time to consider the situation. He was acting purely on intuition; but even had more time been available he would no doubt have taken what seemed to be the only sane course.

  How far he was right was soon to be demonstrated. Leaving Algy to close the door, he dashed through to the control room, and with his eyes on the approaching craft, started up. The engines had not had time to get cold, so in a matter of seconds the Sunderland, swiftly gathering speed, was skimming across the grey water.

  The acceleration of its departure may have taken the submarine commander by surprise. He must have been as astonished to see the aircraft there as those in the aircraft were to see the submarine. At all events, the Sunderland was clear of the water by the time the submarine registered disapproval of its presence. A machine gun chattered. Some bullets struck the aircraft. Wincing, Algy took evasive action. He held his breath when a small calibre automatic cannon opened up. The shells were of the tracer kind. None hit the machine, but some came close. Still taking evasive action, as far as this was possible with such a big machine, Algy dived for speed and then swung up in a climbing turn towards the open sea.

  At this juncture Bertie burst in on him, white with anger. “Those infernal pirates have hit us,” he announced.

  “I know.”

  “We’re losing juice. I thought I’d better let you know.”

  “Okay. Find the damage and tell me the worst.” Algy turned back towards the main group of islands.

  Just what he was going to do he did not know. All he knew was he daren’t take the risk of trying to make the sixteen hundred mile passage back to Cape Town if he was losing fuel.

  He would do better to keep within range of something more solid than water—at any rate until the extent of the damage was ascertained. For that information he would have to await a report from Bertie, who, he did not doubt, was doing everything possible.

  The machine was now out of danger from the submarine’s guns so he decided to cruise around until the vital news was forthcoming. Outwardly he was calm. Inwardly he was seething with rage at the unprovoked attack, and mortification at having been caught napping. He was also sick with anxiety on account of Ginger and Marcel. What they would say of him for abandoning them was something too painful to think about, but he was still sure that what he had done was the only thing to do.

  The other islands were now in view. The nearest was Penguin, the island on which, he recalled, no one had yet managed to set foot on account of its precipitous shores. He headed towards the forbidding mass of rock that rose for a thousand feet sheer, like a monstrous medieval castle, from the water that foamed around its foundations. He had no ambition to be the first man to stand in any particular place, certainly not this hideous mountain top, for that, according to official hand-books, was what it was. He was not contemplating landing on it. Not for a moment did it occur to him that it might be possible for any type of aircraft to land on it without reducing itself to matchwood, for as far as he could judge, as he approached from a height rather less than that of the mountain itself, it consisted of rock and nothing else. At one place, from a point near the top, a cascade of water, looking like a great white ostrich feather, dropped straight into the sea.

  He paid no particular attention to it at first, but as he took a little more altitude in order to see over the summit he looked at it again, for here before him was something on which he had not reckoned, something which, he realised, no other man on earth had seen, or apparently suspected. For the top of the island was not rock, as he had naturally supposed, but water; a broad black lake of it.

  Algy stared at this phenomenon with astonished eyes, and as he did so it dawned on him that the island was not a solid mountain, as had always been supposed, but the hollow cone of an extinct volcano, in the manner of some of the smaller islands they had visited, such as Saint Paul. The only difference was, here the volcano had, when in eruption, blown out its core, leaving the shell empty. In the case of the others, the walls had been broken down nearly to sea level, either by the fury of the fires within, or the action of the water outside. In short, the mountain was a fraud. It was a colossal basin. And it was not an empty one. It was filled to the brim with water, rain water no doubt, which through the centuries had run down the inside of the rocks. So full was it that it was overflowing at the lowest point of the outer shell, forming the waterfall that he had noted.

  The walls that hemmed in the water were not by any means level. The rim was broken and ragged, so that in time of heavy rain there would be several waterfalls where the overflow spilled out. Nowhere, therefore, was the water level higher than the lowest point of the encircling wall.

  In most places it was from fifty to a hundred feet below this outer rim.

  But even so, this meant that the main bulk of water was hundreds of feet above the level of the surrounding sea, and Algy found himself considering with awe what a fearful spectacle would be provided should the wall suddenly collapse under the enormous pressure from within.

  It was a sobering thought. No ship within many miles would have a hope of surviving such a colossal deluge. Perhaps this was how some tidal waves were started, he pondered.

  As he flew straight on over this remarkable formation, his soliloquy was interrupted by the arrival of Bertie, who, not in the least concerned with what lay below, brought the unwelcome news that the main emergency tank had been holed. He had made a temporary repair. The cabin still reeked of petrol, but any loose spirit had run out through the holes in the floor.

  “Holes in the floor!” echoed Algy, not understanding immediately. “What holes?”

  “Sorry, old boy. I thought you must have heard those shots giving the keel a crack.”

  “I heard them strike but didn’t know where. How many holes are there?”

  “I’ve found five so far, three below the water-line. Actually I don’t think there are any more.”

  “Can you fix them?”

  “I can plug them, enough to keep the water out, if you’ll stay up topsides. If you put her down she’ll start to leak and the water will get in the way.”

  “All right. In that case I’ll stay where I am,” declared Algy, seeing no alternative. “I’ll cruise around while you make a temporary job. Let me know when you’ve finished; and then we’ll go down and do the thing properly.”

  “It’ll take some time to do that, old boy. I mean to say, if we have to float around all night, in the drink without an anchor, and a sea gets up, thing’s won’t look too good—if you get my meaning.”

  Algy did get his meaning, without difficulty. Thinking swiftly, he saw, too, that if the submarine suspected they were down, and following them up caught them on the water, they would be finished. He looked at the lake. It appeared to provide the solution. There they would be safe from submarines and storm—always provided that he could get down on it safely.

  But if anything went wrong, causing him to make a mess of it, that would certainly be the end. They would not be able to get down those awful cliffs to sea level and no one would be able to get up to them. Biggles would come, searching, but it was hardly likely that he would look there for them. Aware that the longer he contemplated the project the worse it would appear, he made up his mind. “I’ll put her down there,” he said, pointing.

  Bertie stared. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the lake until then. “I say, old boy, that is something. Fancy all that beastly water stuck right up there. What you might call a proper basinful, eh.”

  “I imagine it’s the crater of an old volcano.”

  “As long as it is an old one, laddie,” said
Bertie dubiously. “Be no joke, though, if she started to boil up while we were sitting on her. We should be properly in the soup—if you see what I mean. In fact, we should jolly soon be soup.”

  “If she blows up we shan’t know anything about it,” retorted Algy. “Get cracking on those holes. I’m burning precious petrol.”

  Bertie disappeared aft.

  For the best part of half an hour Algy cruised round the island, studying the lake from all angles. It was roughly circular in shape with a diameter of nearly a mile, which would have been more than ample for a landing had it not been for the surrounding walls. These walls, or cliffs, which were as sheer inside as outside, were his real worry. He would have to go in at a height sufficient to clear them, which meant that even if he cut it fine he would arrive over the water at about a hundred feet. By the time he had slipped off this height he would be half-way across, with the opposite cliffs closer than was pleasant.

  However, he did not doubt his ability to get down. It was the look of the thing, and the knowledge of what failure would mean, that knitted his forehead with anxiety. He consoled himself with the thought that the actual risk was no greater than the hazards they would have to face on the open sea.

  Bertie appeared. “All right, old boy,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve done as much as I can. Let’s go down.”

  Algy brought the big machine round, and turning into the wind began his approach. The engines died. The serrated rim of the crater, looking unpleasantly like a great row of teeth waiting to close on them, floated nearer. At close quarters they looked even more frightening than they had from a distance. He gave them as wide a margin as he dared, and once over them, sideslipped off the altitude he no longer needed, first left and then right, before straightening the machine for the touch down. The opposite cliffs were now rushing towards him. But the keel slashed the inky water with plenty of room to spare, sending the usual waves racing across the glassy surface. The flying boat surged on a little way, quickly losing speed, and presently came to rest, rocking gently, with a good hundred yards in hand.

  Algy mopped imaginary perspiration from his forehead. “Well, we’re in, anyway,” he observed. “Let’s hope we get out as easily. Now let’s have a look at the damage.”

  “That’s me,” agreed Bertie. “The sooner the better. If the bottom fell out of this beastly pudding basin while we—”

  “Oh shut up!” cut in Algy irritably. “We’ve enough on our minds without imagining such horrors. I’m worried sick about Ginger and Marcel. They’re in a worse spot than we are. They’ve nothing to eat. How we’re going to do it, I don’t know, but we’ve got to get them and lose no time about it.”

  It did not take them long to ascertain the full extent of the damage done by the submarine’s bullets. It was not very serious; a punctured tank and some holes in the hull; but it was obviously going to take a fair while, certainly the rest of the day, to effect such repairs as would be necessary for their peace of mind during the business of picking up the others and making the long flight home afterwards.

  They had a quick lunch of jammy biscuits and then set to work, concentrating on the task, talking of nothing else, and only then when it was necessary. They had, as they knew, lost a little petrol, but not enough to worry them unduly. Bertie had of course plugged the leaks.

  Long before they had finished, the sun, never high in such a latitude, had dropped behind the cliffs, resulting in an early twilight, and an eerie one. If the crater had looked sinister in the full light of day, in the gloaming it looked positively menacing. The knowledge too, that they were perched high in the air, induced an uncomfortable feeling of insecurity, although there was no practical reason for this. As Algy remarked, the lake might have been there for thousands of years, and might be there for thousands more. They were better off where they were than exposed to the caprice of the open sea.

  “It’s no use thinking of doing any thing about Ginger and Marcel tonight,” asserted Algy. “It seems pretty awful, leaving them where they are, but there’s nothing we can do and they must realise it. We shall have to try something tomorrow morning, though.”

  “And what will you do then?” inquired Bertie doubtfully.

  Algy ducked the question. “That will need thinking about. If that infernal submarine is still in the bay, obviously we can’t land there. Already they’ve shown us how they feel about visitors.”

  “Too true, laddie,” murmured Bertie. “How about waffling back to Cape Town when it gets light, borrowing a cookie or two from the Air Force, and bouncing them on their beastly iron deck?”

  “I don’t think we’ve quite arrived at that stage yet,” dissented Algy.

  “Besides, for all we know, Ginger and Marcel might have been captured and taken aboard.”

  “If they have we can say good-bye to them,” returned Bertie, deadly serious for once. “If those people are cads enough to maroon a member of their own crew, think of how they’d be likely to treat an enemy.”

  “It’s better not to think about that,” answered Algy. “Anyway, I wouldn’t care to start throwing bombs about without Biggles knowing.”

  “He won’t be here yet, although no doubt he’ll come out hot foot when he gets back to Cape Town and finds us missing.”

  Algy looked up. “Missing? I hope we shall be there by the time he gets back. I wasn’t contemplating hanging round here for days.”

  “We can’t go until we pick up Ginger and Marcel,” declared Bertie. “No jolly fear. I’m not pushing off leaving them stuck on any beastly island. We couldn’t do anything if we went to Cape Town, if it comes to that.”

  “True enough,” agreed Algy, gazing at the darkening scene outside the windows, where the cliffs, looming high against the sky, created a disconcerting impression that they were at the bottom of a well.

  For a little while they continued to discuss the problems facing them, but without reaching any definite conclusions or making any particular plans for the morrow.

  Nothing could in fact be done, insisted Algy, until they had located the submarine, or at any rate ascertained that it was no longer in Deliverance Bay. If it had gone there would be nothing to worry about. They would simply have to land, pick up the others and return to Cape Town.

  They had, of course, no reason to suppose that there was anyone on Hog Island apart from the submarine crew.

  “Meanwhile, we’re all right where we are,” concluded Algy, trying to strike an optimistic note. “The only thing is, it seems to be getting pretty chilly.” He went nearer to the window, and staring out, discovered that he could no longer see the cliffs. He passed a hand over the perspex, which in some curious way appeared to have become suddenly opaque. Then the truth hit him. Turning, he met Bertie’s eyes. “There was one weather condition we forgot when we parked ourselves here,” he said slowly. “And it happens to be the only one that could keep us grounded.”

  Bertie stared back. “What’s that?”

  “Fog,” answered Algy. “It’s like pea-soup outside.”

  VIII

  BROWNED OFF

  ON Hog Island, Ginger and Marcel kept watch until total darkness put an end to a miserable task and a miserable day.

  Conditions were not much better in the dugout, into which they retired, still not knowing how many men were on the island or where they were located. Ginger thought anyone on the island would be at Deliverance Bay, with the submarine, but he had to agree with Marcel that the submarine might have gone away submerged, in which case they would not see it go; and whether it had gone or not, the man they had seen might have returned to his dwelling, wherever and whatever that might be. It was all very unsatisfactory, and Ginger, listening to the eternal lapping of the waves far below them, found himself wondering how Robinson had endured months of this sort of thing, in solitude, without doing away with himself or going mad. He had matches in his pocket, and he would have risked a fire had there been anything to burn. The darkness seemed to make the cold more intense. He br
oke off a piece of wood from the roof, but it was rotten and sodden, and as fuel quite useless. He saw that he might as well try to light a wet clod.

  For what seemed an eternity they huddled against each other, hands in their pockets, in the greatest possible discomfort, seldom speaking. Ginger, of course, wondered where Algy was and what he was doing; but not all the wondering in the world would answer the question. It was still only Thursday, he recalled, and should Algy not come, it was no use looking for Biggles until Sunday. It seemed unbelievable that what had promised to be a simple reconnaissance could have so quickly come to a disastrous ending.

  After a while he said: “I can’t stand any more of this. I’m going to see if the submarine is still there. If it is, it’ll be on the surface and there should be lights showing.”

  “Are you an imbecile?” came back Marcel’s voice from the darkness. “If you do not walk into the sea you will fall on the rocks and break your bones.”

  “Anything is better than sitting here and doing nothing,” declared Ginger desperately. “You wait here. If you hear me whistle, answer, because it will mean that I’ve lost my way. If you hear me screaming, come fast with your pistol, because not expecting anything like this, I didn’t bring mine, and it may mean that someone is cutting my throat.”

  “The trouble with you Englishmen is, you cannot sit still,” stated Marcel. “ If things are bad, you are happy, because then you have something to make you rush about. If things are good, you must still make a reason to rush about. So always you are getting cracking as you say. Go and crack. All you will crack tonight is your skull, my friend.”

  “I’m not likely to do any rushing, believe you me,” asserted Ginger. “I shan’t be long.”

  In spite of Marcel’s protests, and the fact that he knew he was doing a foolish thing, he left the dugout and stood for a moment or two staring into the surrounding gloom. Actually, it was not quite as black as he expected. Along the southern horizon there flickered an eerie blue light, which he took to be the Aurora Australis, the Antarctic equivalent of the Northern Lights. The reflection on the sky enabled him at least to see the silhouette of any rising ground. He had to memorise the outlines in his immediate vicinity so that he would know the positions of the dugout when he returned. Satisfied that he had done this, he began to move forward, very cautiously, feeling his way a step at a time. He could not recall seeing any particularly dangerous obstacle. Confidence grew as he advanced without encountering any serious difficulty, and stopping sometimes to look back for landmarks to guide him on his return, he pressed on.