by W E Johns
Ginger returned to the cabin, emptied the dead man’s pockets and took the contents to the cockpit, where he went through them.
“Well?” asked Biggles.
“Nothing. He knew where he was going so he had no need to put it in writing.”
“That settles any argument about trying to get to the place; and since we have to go down it might as well be as soon as we can find a flat patch.”
“Well buck up about it,” pleaded Ginger. “If these petrol fumes reach one of the exhausts—”
“All right—all right,” rapped out Biggles. “I know. Don’t make a song about it.”
“Look at the searchlights,” muttered Ginger. “We don’t need two guesses at what they’re looking for. After what has happened every police and military station in North Africa must be on the watch for us. If radar picks us up—”
He crouched as the staccato chatter of multiple machine-guns came over the drone of the motors. Several bullets hit the machine. “That’s a fighter—” He got no farther, for the machine went into an almost vertical sideslip, pressing him into his seat. Whether it was intentional or not he did not know, but he thought it was the end.
The machine came out of the slip, turned twice in a vertical bank and returned to even keel. “Try to pick out a spot that will give us a chance to get on the carpet,” said Biggles calmly. “We can’t shoot back.”
Ginger stared down. The first thing he saw was a fighter flashing through a searchlight beam. Below, the ground was a vague shadow, half hidden under what he took to be heat haze. Farther away, to the south, he could see moonlight glistening on what looked like sand; but whether it was level or broken by dunes it was impossible to tell.
“Swing to the right and go a bit lower,” he said hoarsely, for his throat was dry with strain.
Biggles obliged. The engines died. Losing height, the aircraft droned on through the moonlit night under a sky ablaze with stars.
After that Biggles took matters into his own hands. He didn’t speak, so Ginger was unaware that he intended to try a landing until he saw palm fronds almost brushing the fuselage. Then came a violent jar as the wheels touched. The machine bounced high. The engine did not open up again, so Ginger, knowing what was coming, put his hands over his head and lifted his knees to his chin in the hope of saving them from being broken.
He had not long to wait. The machine sank like a wounded bird. There was a crash like the end of the world. Sand flew in all directions. Then, suddenly, silence, an unreal hush broken by the drip of petrol spilling from fractured leads.
Ginger needed no invitation to get out, for no man moves faster than a pilot removing himself from a petrol-soaked aircraft knowing that one spark from a dying magneto1 is all that is necessary to explode the airframe as if it were a bomb. The fact that Biggles had switched off, as he knew he would have done, did not entirely ensure safety.
Ginger fought his way out of the mess like a madman. He took one swift look to make sure Biggles was following, then he ran—or rather, stumbled, for his feet sank into soft, yielding sand. Not until he had put thirty yards between him and the wreck did he stop, and then he sank to the ground, breathless and weak from shock.
Biggles joined him. “We’re well out of that,” he observed without emotion.
“That’s—what comes—of associating—with a crook like Voss,” contended Ginger cuttingly.
“At least we haven’t come out of it as badly as he has,” Biggles pointed out. “The gang has lost a good pilot.”
“I felt in my bones all along that he wasn’t going to get away with another machine as easily as that. The French aren’t fools. We should have warned him—”
“Just a minute,” interposed Biggles. “Suppose we forget the past and deal with the present? That should keep us occupied for some time.”
“Okay. What are you going to do next?” Feeling somewhat recovered Ginger got up.
“I’m going to try to get back to camp. There’s nothing else we can do.”
“About how far are we away?”
“Fifteen to twenty miles as near as I can guess. As you may have noticed, we didn’t exactly fly a straight course.”
“I noticed it all right,” murmured Ginger. “Do you happen to know where we are?”
“I’ve no idea beyond a general impression that we’re somewhere south-west of the camp. I hadn’t much time for looking at the ground but it looked like a sparsely-populated district, fringing desert country. What I took to be a flat stretch of sand had some sand dunes running across it.”
“I noticed that, too,” murmured Ginger. “Or at any rate, the one we hit.” He gazed towards the four points of the compass in turn. To the south, east and west, the terrain appeared to be much the same—typical rough, undulating ground, mostly sand, broken by occasional stands of date palms and flourishing growths of prickly pear. Only to the north, as was to be expected, did the country show signs of human occupation. But the moon was now low over the horizon, and in its deceptive light it was hard to see anything distinctly. Only the wrecked aircraft stood out hard and sharp against the sky. “What are you going to do about Voss?” he asked.
“Leave him where he is. That suits our book—not that there’s anything else we can do. When it gets light, and people start moving about, someone will spot the crash. As Voss is known to the authorities it will be assumed that he took the machine. The bullet holes will speak for themselves. It will also be assumed, I hope, that Voss was alone. If the corporal was killed he won’t be able to talk. Voss can’t talk either. The only other man in the know is Raban, and he’s not likely to talk. Our plan, obviously, is to get back to camp as quickly as we can—or at all events, remove ourselves as far as possible from the machine so that we shan’t be associated with it. If you’ve got your breath back let’s start walking.”
“What’s Voudron going to say when he sees us?”
“I don’t care what he says. We’ll tell him the truth about what happened at the airfield.”
“If we could find a telephone, or somehow get in touch with Raban, he’d send his car for us, and perhaps hide us until he can make other arrangements for us. Otherwise, for being absent without leave, even if we’re not charged with attempted desertion, we look like spending the next few weeks in cells.”
“You seem to have overlooked one good reason why we can’t contact Raban,” Biggles pointed out. “We’re not supposed to know where he lives. He took precautions to prevent us from knowing that. To ring him up, or to turn up at the villa, would create a situation I prefer not to face. We’ll let him get in touch with us, as he will, no doubt, if we can get back to camp. The difficulty will be to do that without being seen. These uniforms are conspicuous. Everyone knows them. Just a minute while I put Voss’s things back in his pockets.”
A few minutes later, turning their faces to the north, they started walking.
To Ginger, this was a weary business. All they saw for the first hour was an Arab encampment, one of those of a semi-permanent character. Making a detour round it they came upon a second-class road. This they followed for another hour without seeing anyone though they were now in more cultivated country, the crops being mostly the lupins used for fodder. Then a vineyard, and some fields of the scented geranium grown for the perfume trade, warned them that they were now in the region of white colonists. By this time the eastern sky was aglow with the dawn of another day.
Then, suddenly, they came upon a house. Set in trees, they did not see it until they were level with the front entrance. There a man was loading a decrepit camionette2 with vegetables for market. He saw them before they could take steps to prevent it. Ginger, who was deadly tired, didn’t care particularly.
The cultivator greeted them in French with the cheerful verbosity of his kind. Of course, he wanted to know what they were doing there, and where they were going. Biggles told him they were on their way back to camp at Zebrit after a wild night at the end of which they had lost their way—
all of which was perfectly true.
“You must have drunk a lot of wine,” declared the farmer, laughing. “You’re fifteen miles from home.”
Biggles did not deny the implied charge of being drunk. “Where are we now?” he asked.
“You’re five miles from Chella. That’s the nearest village.”
Ginger’s heart went into his boots.
“Is there a telephone there?” asked Biggles.
The farmer said there was. There was also a light railway. He was going there presently, to put his produce on the line for Oran. Would they like a lift?
Biggles said they would, very much. He explained that they were anxious to get back to camp before the police started looking for two deserters. This was so feasible that the man accepted the explanation without question.
So, presently, to Ginger’s great relief, they were on their way, bumping and rattling over the rough road. He didn’t mind how bumpy the road was. Anything was better than trudging through the heat of the day. A half-ripe pomegranate, plucked from an overhanging tree, gave him some refreshment, and he looked at the landscape with less critical eyes. Things might have been worse, he soliloquized. Much worse.
The trouble occurred in Chella. Biggles would have preferred to dismount outside the village and approach in a manner less conspicuous; but he couldn’t very well say that to the good-natured driver who, after pointing out the road to Zebrit, put them down outside the little post-office. Biggles did actually intend to ring up the camp to explain their absence, for there was no longer any hope of getting back unobserved. In any case they would have been missed at roll-call.
This plan was frustrated by the arrival on the scene of the local gendarme. He came strolling round the corner; but when he saw the legionnaires he moved with alacrity. This attracted the attention of the passers-by and in a moment the place was buzzing with excitement.
The policeman, who had obviously been informed that two legionnaires were missing, wanted to arrest them. The farmer told him not to be a fool. The men were already on their way back to camp. They had told him so. Hadn’t he given them a lift? The policeman objected. The spectators, as so often happens in France, took the side of the victims of the law. The babble rose to such a pitch that Ginger gave up trying to follow the argument. He sat on the running-board. It broke under his weight and he fell in the dust. This was the sort of humour the people understood and they roared with laughter. A man produced a bottle of wine; another a packet of cigarettes. Ginger, who wasn’t in the mood to be funny, grinned sheepishly. Even the gendarme smiled. Seeing that he was in the minority he took a less officious view. He agreed with the cultivator (who seemed to have a fixed idea that the two soldiers had been drunk overnight) that he himself had, on occasion, taken more wine than was good for him.
Biggles then put in a word. “Monsieur,” said he, addressing the gendarme, “I will do whatever you say. I admit that last night my comrade and myself were slightly fou3. But what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” shouted the crowd.
“After all, where would you sell your wine if nobody drank it?”
“Quite right,” chanted the crowd. “Bravo for the good soldiers.”
“Now, monsieur, we are in your hands,” went on Biggles, still speaking to the gendarme. “We shall not attempt to run away. It was my intention, as our friend here will confirm, to ring up the camp. That is why he brought us here. Now we will do it, or you may do it, as you wish.”
“I will do it.”
“Bon. We will wait.”
The gendarme went into the post-office, from which he emerged presently to say that an escort was on the way to take them back to camp. Meantime, while they were waiting, would they care for a cup of coffee and a croissant?
Biggles accepted the invitation, so chairs were put on the pavement outside the café and very soon they were all friends together. Satisfied, for this was the way such affairs should end, the crowd began to disperse. It suited Ginger, too.
When, half an hour later, a service truck pulled up, who was in charge of the escort but Voudron. In his official capacity he was able to take the prisoners a little to one side. “What happened?” he asked anxiously.
“Guards were on watch,” answered Biggles. “They opened fire on us. We got the machine but they shot us down.”
“What about the corporal?”
“He was shot—killed I think.”
“And Voss?”
“Dead.”
“Where’s the body?”
“We left it in the machine—ten or twelve miles from here. What else could we do?”
“Nothing. Did anyone see you near the crash?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. Come on.” Voudron strode to the truck, followed by his willing prisoners.
* * *
1 A generator using permanent magnets to produce an electric current, in this case for the ignition of the petrol mixture in the engine.
2 French: van.
3 French: tipsy.
CHAPTER VIII
A RING TELLS A TALE
ON arrival at the barracks Biggles and Ginger were put on a charge, as they knew they would be, for not being in their quarters at ‘lights out.’ This was not a serious offence, for it was a common occurrence, so the officer before whom they were taken was their own company commander, Marcel. This, as Ginger looked at it, had its humorous aspect. But there was nothing comical about the proceedings.
Marcel had, of course, done the regular two years compulsory military service, and knew the rules. With a face as grave as a judge he listened to their explanation of how they had lost their way (knowing perfectly well that it was complete fabrication) and then gave them a dressing down in the sternest army tradition. He concluded by sentencing them both to ten days’ Confined to Barracks. This was the usual punishment for such a breach of discipline, and they realized that however reluctant he may have been to do this, knowing how it would hamper their movements, with Voudron present he could not do otherwise. The sergeant was not a fool, and anything that looked like leniency might have given him food for thought. They were at least free within the precincts of the camp, so it might have been worse.
Nothing was said in the orderly-room about the affair at the aerodrome, but, as they presently discovered, the camp was buzzing with the news, which was now public property. There was no reason whatsoever why they should be associated with it. Voudron knew the truth, of course. Marcel might guess it, and be anxious to question them; but here again their respective ranks made this impossible until a method of communication could be devised. However, later in the day Marcel managed to pass near them on the square. Without checking his stride he said as they saluted: “Were you in that plane?” Biggles answered “Yes.” There was no time for more, but it was enough to let them know that Marcel had summed up the situation correctly.
Voudron was soon after them for further particulars. Biggles told him the truth. There was no need to prevaricate. As he said at the finish, there was nothing they could do about it, and they were lucky to be alive. Had he, Biggles, been in the pilot’s seat, he could have “had it” instead of Voss, whose misfortune it was to be on the side nearest the gunners.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“You’ll get your orders in due course, no doubt,” Voudron told him.
“Does your friend want his money back?”
“Certainly not. Once you’re on his pay-roll you stay on it—until....”
“Until what?”
“Until you’ve no further use for money,” answered Voudron with an unpleasant grin, and strode away.
In view of their confinement to barracks Biggles did not expect any developments until the period of punishment expired. They themselves were helpless, but Marcel, they thought, might find a way to speak to them; but far from this happening they did not even see him. This surprised them, and as the days passed they discussed the mystery more
often. Ginger was confident that Marcel, knowing that his usefulness at the camp had ended as a result of his conversation with Joudrier, had taken Biggles’s advice and gone back to Paris. They might expect a letter any post. But Biggles could not believe that he had departed without a word, and was worried. Still, there was nothing they could do. They were in no position to ask questions.
They did not think Raban would be able to move, either, a belief supported by the way Voudron kept clear of them. But Biggles saw another reason for this. The rumour about the draft going to Labougant had fizzled out, and Voudron might have found it difficult to explain his lies. However, on the fifth day of their confinement, in the middle of all this conjecture. Voudron indicated by an inclination of his head that he wanted to speak to them, so they followed him to the place where they had conspired on the previous occasion.
He came straight to the point. “Do you know the way out of camp over the wall behind the kitchens? There are two loose bricks.”
“Of course,” answered Biggles. Everyone knew this exit, which was supposed to be a secret. It had been used for so long, according to report, that Biggles was sure the officers knew about it, but turned a blind eye.
“Good,” said Voudron. “Go over the wall tonight at twelve midnight exactly.”
Biggles’s eyebrows went up. “You mean—break camp?”
“Certainly. Somebody wants to see you. A car will be there to pick you up. There’s no risk. You won’t be away long.”
“Will you be there?”
“No. That’s all. Those were my instructions.”
“We’ll be there,” promised Biggles.
Voudron went off.
“Here we go again,” murmured Ginger, as they strolled back to their quarters. “Are you going on with it?”