by W E Johns
“Wireless?”
“You’d expect him to have wireless, wouldn’t you? If ever a place needed a set, it’s here.”
“Yes, but not to listen to Housewives’ Choice,” declared Algy grimly.
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll be in touch with that submarine by radio, that’s what I mean. I’ll bet he’s calling it at this very minute to tell the commander that we’re here.”
Ginger looked alarmed. “I never thought of that.”
“Did he know you were here before this?” asked Algy.
“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I imagine he heard the explosion and came along to see what had happened.”
“Listen, everybody!” ordered Algy sharply. “I take a dim view of this. That submarine can’t be far away. If this chap on the island sends out an SOS it’s likely to turn back.”
“And if it does, what can we do about it?” inquired Ginger helplessly.
“I’ve no idea,” admitted Algy.
“Even if we got the machine afloat, we can’t take off over a minefield.”
“We certainly can’t do anything while it’s high and dry.”
“It’s no use waiting for Biggles,” interposed Bertie. “Today is only Friday and he couldn’t get here before Sunday.”
“I wasn’t thinking of anything beyond stopping this bloke talking to the submarine. Is he alone here?”
“As far as we know,” answered Ginger.
“Then as there are four of us, there shouldn’t be any difficulty in silencing his radio,” stated Algy purposefully. “We’ve guns in the locker. Get them out somebody and we’ll attend to this right away.”
Ginger hastened aboard the stranded aircraft, and returning, handed everyone an automatic with spare clips of bullets.
“I take it you know the way to this place?” Algy asked Ginger.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get weaving. Lead the way.”
“If he becomes haughty, I will arrest him,” said Marcel severely. “He lives here without permission. He cannot do that.”
“He seems to be doing it, anyway,” murmured Ginger.
Marcel frowned his disapproval of this levity.
“Which reminds me,” went on Ginger, “his wireless aerial is mounted on a couple of poles. Those poles would come in handy to help move the machine. By the way, what happened to you?” he asked Algy as they strode along.
“You’d never guess. We were hit by gunfire and came down on a lake on Penguin Island. I’ll tell you about it later. There’s no time now.”
They continued to move forward together making no attempt to keep out of sight, Algy observing that it seemed unlikely that the man, seeing the odds against him, would put up any active resistance. But in this he was mistaken, for no sooner had they appeared on the edge of the hollow than a shot and the whistle of a bullet sent them diving for cover.
“He must have been watching, guessing we’d follow him,” said Ginger.
“It’d serve him right if we turned his tin roof into a colander,” muttered Algy angrily. “A man who would shoot like that before we’d even said a word of complaint must be the lowest kind of thug.”
“Maybe that’s why he got the job, old boy,” murmured Bertie.
“You’re probably right at that,” returned Algy. “Let’s winkle the rascal out of it.”
“It isn’t worth the risk of somebody getting shot,” demurred Algy. “All that matters is to put that radio out of action.”
“I’ll soon do that,” volunteered Ginger. “You watch the doors, and if he starts cutting up rough let him see that other people can sling lead about.”
So saying he followed the edge of the hollow, keeping out of sight until he was level with the nearest pole. No windows overlooked that end of the hut, so feeling safe he scrambled down. At first he tried to cut the insulated connecting wire where it entered the hut, but finding he couldn’t reach it, he turned his attention to the pole, which he realised must have been imported, with the rest of the outfit, specially for the purpose. Putting his shoulder against it and using his weight he found that he could move it. This did not surprise him, for he did not think the base could be set very deep owing to the nature of the ground—a belief that was supported by a number of pieces of rock that had been stacked round it. He continued to work on it and soon had it swaying. A final effort brought the whole thing crashing down, breaking the wires it carried as it fell. Dragging the pole behind him, he climbed out of the hollow and returned to where the others were waiting and watching. “That should spoil his reception for a bit,” he remarked, with the satisfaction of a job well done. “What’s the next move?”
“I’d like to speak to this man, but if he’s a Russian, and speaks no language other than his own, it would be a waste of time to try,” said Algy. “At least I’ll give him a chance. Watch the windows for any funny stuff.” Moving a little nearer he let out a hail.
There was no answer.
He called again, speaking, of course, in English. “Hi! You, down there! What’s the idea of shooting at us?”
No reply.
“Either he doesn’t understand, or wants us to think he doesn’t, which comes to the same thing,” said Algy. “Well, he’s had his chance. It’s seldom any use trying to make contact with these Iron Curtain merchants. Let him stew in his own juice if that’s how he wants it. I’m not pining for his company. We’ll deal with him later. Let’s get back to the bay. We’ve plenty to do there. Bring that pole along some of you. It may come in handy.”
Ginger and Marcel picked the thing up between them and they started on the return journey.
The first thing they noticed when they came within sight of the aircraft was that the in-coming tide had risen to a point at which it was just lapping the keel.
“Another foot or two might just do the trick,” said Algy, in a tone of fresh optimism. “Even if the water doesn’t come far enough up to move her, it might just lift her enough for us to slip a roller under the rear step. That would be a start. The trouble is, with no high water mark we shan’t know when the tide’s at full flood. No matter. Perhaps we shall be able to judge when it begins to turn. In the meantime, we’d better see what the rock has done to her.” He smiled. “If she has got a hole in her, we may have to borrow that bloke’s tin roof to patch it. It might keep the water out long enough for us to get off. This poor old kite is certainly going through the mill and no mistake.”
“What’s the good of getting her off the water if there are more mines there?” Ginger wanted to know. “Would you risk taking her off?”
“One thing at a time,” requested Algy, dodging the question. “There might have been only one mine.”
“You’d be daft to reckon on that.”
“What about poor old Biggles, anyhow?” put in Bertie. “If he comes, and there is another mine, he may cop it properly—if you get my meaning.”
“Plenty of time for that,” returned Algy. “Will somebody please keep watch in case that gent in the blue sweater comes sneaking around for another pot shot.”
“If he comes, I will make the pot shotting,” promised Marcel, with great earnestness.
The flying-boat was examined inside and out, and all were relieved, and somewhat surprised, to find that the damage was negligible. There were two obvious reasons for this. The collapsing wave that had carried the machine ashore had not dropped her with any degree of violence, but had merely allowed her to settle down; and the soft, friable quality of the lava that formed the inner boundary of the bay—and, indeed, the bay itself. Here, as Algy remarked, they had been lucky. Had the rock been granite, basalt, or similar hard rock, it would have been a different matter. As it was, the hull had no more injury than a few dents. One side of the second ‘step’ had been crushed and in one place the metal skin had been torn a little as the aircraft was dragged by the backwash of the waves. None of these superficial marks was likely to affect the ma
chine’s performance on the water or in the air—if she could be put back on the water. This problem, Algy repeated, was enough to go on with. The question of the mines could wait until this had been done.
The aircraft was, of course, much too heavy for them to move even with their combined efforts, but the tide was still flowing, and great hopes were held that the rise in water level would be maintained. The wireless pole was hacked into three lengths, and with some difficulty one of the pieces was pushed under the after part of the hull as it responded slightly to the movement of the water.
Then, to the dismay of everyone, the tide began to ebb. It was particularly disappointing because, as Algy contended, at that height of water one good wave would be enough to do all that was necessary.
“Look, chaps, it’s no use sitting here doing nothing,” continued Algy, as they stood watching the water falling back. “There’s no future in that. Biggles will arrive in due course, and he’ll take us off; but we must save the machine if we can. It cost a lot of money, and we’re likely to take a rap if it becomes a write-off. I believe we could chip a lot of this rock away. It’s pretty flimsy stuff. If we could knock some of it away from the rear step, for instance, it would give her a sharper tilt towards the water. Then, with a couple of rollers under her, and maybe the other used as a lever, we might be able to move her. It’s only a matter of inches. The next tide might do the rest.”
“What beats me is why the submarine laid the mines in the first place,” muttered Ginger. “I mean, how is she going to get back in the bay herself, should she want to?”
“Obviously, she doesn’t want to, laddie,” said Bertie. “I’d say she’s finished her job here.”
“As I said before, she knows where the mines are,” put in Algy. “No doubt she left herself a comfortable channel between them—and only she knows where that is, too.”
“I’d be sorry to wager on that,” averred Bertie, with unusual emphasis. “I’ve done a fair bit of yachting and I know a rip tide when I see one. Look at that scour round the rocks now the tide’s running out. She’s going like a mill-race. There’s no soft bottom here, remember. If there are mines out there, you can take it from me that they’re not going to stay in the same place.” Having delivered his verdict, Bertie replaced the monocle which he had been polishing and looked round for other opinions.
None was forthcoming.
“Let’s talk about mines when the time comes to deal with them,” said Algy practically. “The thing is to get the ship on the water.” He looked around. “I believe this confounded fog is coming down. No matter; that needn’t interfere with us yet. Come on! Let’s get out any tools likely to be useful and we’ll see about knocking off some of this rock.”
They were soon at work, and in actual practice found the lava much easier to deal with than they expected. Often it would come away in large lumps. Frequent air holes in the stuff facilitated the use of even blunt tools, which could be used as levers to prize pieces away from the keel. It was hardest on the surface where it had been exposed to the air. The deeper they went the softer it became. The effect of this was a general feeling of optimism that encouraged effort.
Algy had been right about the fog. As the day closed in it became worse, until by the time they had to knock off, being unable any longer to see what they were doing, visibility was down nearly to zero. However, a lot of work had been done, so everyone was cheerful about the prospect. Not only had the aircraft taken on a more pronounced tilt but a channel had been cut up which, it was hoped, the water would run to facilitate the task of moving the machine. The aircraft was, of course, facing the wrong way, so the engines could not be made to serve any useful purpose.
“Okay chaps, that’s enough for tonight,” said Algy, brushing crumbs of pumice stone from his hands. “Let’s have a bite to eat. I’m afraid we shall have to mount a guard in case our unfriendly neighbour comes snooping round.”
XI
SATURDAY MORNING
GINGER’S first thought when he awoke the following morning was, it’s Saturday. Biggles may come tomorrow. Thank goodness.
How Biggles would handle the situation he couldn’t imagine, but they would at least have a means of getting away should it become vitally necessary. The big snag of Biggles’ arrival was the certainty of him landing in the bay and possibly setting off another mine before he could be warned of the danger. How could he be warned in time? There seemed to be no answer to that question.
Going outside—for they had of course been sleeping in the cabin—to relieve Bertie, who was on guard, he found the fog as thick as ever, cold and almost choking in its clammy density. Bertie said that it was impossible to see anything at all. He had merely sat and listened for sounds that might indicate the approach of the man in the blue jersey, whose visit, should he make one, would not be inspired by good intentions. The only sound he had heard was the barking of seals.
Actually, as Ginger took up his period of guard duty he thought it extremely unlikely that the man would come, for not even he, no matter how well he knew the island, would find it easy to move about in such conditions.
After breakfast, when all hands turned out to resume work on the slipway, Algy said he shared this view. There was, he thought, nothing to fear from the man while such hopeless conditions persisted. What was more to the point, he went on, it would be interesting to see what effect their efforts would have at next high water, due about noon.
But before long it became evident that other factors were likely to take a hand. A change in the weather became perceptible. It started with a breeze that seemed inclined to freshen, and as it came from the south the biting coldness of it brought tears to their eyes. The sea was not long responding, and very soon breakers could be heard crashing on the outer exposed rocks with a good deal of noise. This must have broken their force, but even so, the effect of the swell was felt in the bay, into which waves began to roll in steady procession and sweep up the shelving ledges of rock in a smother of foam. This hindered the work, for in such perishing conditions no one wanted to get wet. All they could do was go hard at it between the waves. On the other hand, as Algy pointed out, the changed conditions might do them a good turn, in that the sea might bring more water into the bay. They were ready with the improvised rollers made from the wireless pole should the waves reach the aircraft.
The strange thing was, as someone presently remarked, the wind seemed to be having little effect on the fog, except that whereas before it had been static, it was now being blown about in clouds of varying density. It seemed reasonable to suppose that the wind would shift the fog entirely. All that happened was, there were brief intervals when visibility extended far enough for them to see the tumbling white waters outside the bay.
Algy remarked on this phenomenon. “Where’s all this muck coming from?” he muttered irritably. “There must be miles of it. This wind should have cleared it by now.”
“By the feel of it, laddie, it’s coming from the bally Pole,” answered Bertie—nearer to the truth than he may have supposed.
“I’ll tell you this,” put in Ginger. “If this sea stays up, Biggles won’t be able to land anywhere except in the bay.”
“If this confounded murk doesn’t shift, he won’t be able to land anywhere,” rejoined Algy grimly.
In the intervals when the in-coming water made work a wet business they stood watching the wind-torn streaks of white vapour drifting past. The waves were rolling in farther and farther up the slope as the tide neared full flood, and hopes ran high that success would reward their efforts. Presently, when a wave larger than the rest reached the hull and lifted it a little, Algy cried: “I believe we’re going to do it!”
“We shall need more than one anchor to hold her if we do get her on the water,” stated Bertie. “ If she doesn’t hold she’s liable to be thrown back, or banged ashore somewhere else.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Algy. “We’ve plenty of time. Make a couple of anchors with the bi
ggest rocks you can find. Use heavy stuff. This light pumice is no good. I want everybody to stand by to slip the rollers under her, and shove if she gets a lift. The thing is not to let her bump.”
Half an hour later the waves were swirling right up the slipway, which became a scene of feverish activity. The big flying-boat was now being lifted by the water, but, as may readily be imagined, the difficulty was to prevent her from being carried farther ashore by the inwash. This could not be entirely prevented. The best they could do was hold on like grim death as the water poured in and then push like mad to take full advantage of the receding flood. This resulted in a certain amount of bumping as the aircraft surged to and fro on the rollers, which, as Algy remarked, was a lot better than direct contact with the rock. Excitement ran high when it was seen that by these efforts they could make more ground than they lost. Apart from what they themselves were doing, there were two factors in their favour. The first was the natural slope of the slipway in the right direction, which gave them gravity as an ally; the second was the channel they had hacked out of the rock down which the spent waves poured with great speed. They continued to gain ground. Everyone got wet about the legs, but this could no longer be avoided. In the frantic exertions of the moment no one appeared to notice it.
The end came suddenly and nearly caught them unprepared. In fact, they nearly lost the aircraft. An extra large wave broke under the tail unit, and in the resulting flood lifted the machine clean off the rollers.
Everyone hung on. Then, as the water spent its force and started to surge back it took the aircraft with it. Algy, seeing what was going to happen, raced down the hull and took a flying leap into the cabin, the door of which had fortunately been left open. This time the machine did not stop, and, as it happened, there was a distinct lag before the next wave, a very small one, appeared. By that time the machine was afloat, rocking helplessly on the turbulent water and swinging about as it was carried farther by a slant of wind.