by W E Johns
The blue-nosed Messerschmitt was still circling, losing height, but he took little notice of it. He bore the pilot no particular malice. What he had done was no more than Biggles would have done had the position been reversed. Professionally, the shooting down of the Spitfire had been a brilliant piece of work, precisely timed and perfectly executed. Biggles sat still, trying to think. Nothing now could restore the Spitfire pilot to life, but he found it impossible not to wonder what had brought it there.
Bertie interrupted his melancholy reverie. ‘That fellow’s going to land,’ he said.
Looking up, Biggles saw that it was true. The Messerschmitt pilot had cut his engine, lowered his wheels, and was sideslipping into the gully in which the Whitley had come down, with the obvious intention of landing.
Biggles smiled wanly at the others. ‘This is what I’d hope he’d do,’ he murmured. ‘Unfortunately, he did a few other things first. Stay where you are, all of you.’
The Messerschmitt pilot landed near the burning Spitfire. He jumped down, and after a casual glance at it walked on towards the spot where Biggles still sat on his rock, smoking a cigarette. As he drew near Biggles made him out to be a man of about twenty-five, tall, agile, and virile, but with that hardness of expression common to the fanatical Nazi. With a revolver consciously displayed in his hand he walked straight up to Biggles, who did not move.
‘You are my prisoner,’ he announced, with the usual Nazi arrogance that never failed to fill Biggles with wonder. He spoke in English, with a strong accent.
Biggles was in no mood to argue. ‘Put that gun away, shut up and sit down,’ he said coldly. ‘This time you’ve captured more than you bargained for.’ He turned to the others. ‘All right, you chaps, you can come out now,’ he said wearily.
Had the circumstances been different he might have smiled at the expression on the Nazi’s face when five R.A.F. officers stood up and came from the rocks behind which they had lain concealed.
‘What—what is this—a trick?’ rasped the Nazi furiously.
‘Just a reception committee,’ answered Biggles. ‘My name, by the way, is Bigglesworth. What’s yours?’
The other clicked his heels. ‘Hauptmann Rudolf von Zoyton.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I won’t say I’m glad to meet you,’ he said evenly. ‘You people are beginning to get my goat. It wouldn’t take much to make me angry, so you’d better keep your mouth shut.’ Turning to Tex, he added, ‘Take his gun and keep an eye on him. If he tries any rough stuff you have my permission to punch him on the nose.’ Then, to Bertie, ‘Come over here, I want to speak to you.’
Taking Bertie out of earshot of the German he went on, ‘I’m afraid this is a bad show. We’re in a jam. Without the Whitley we’ve no transport back to the oasis, unless the Germans send their car out to us. If they do we shall have to grab it. It’s our only chance of getting away. We can last the night without water, and possible until noon to-morrow, but no longer. Fortunately, we have one way of getting into touch with Algy— the Messerschmitt. I’m going to fly it home and fetch a few cans of water, but before doing that, as we are so close, I’m going to have a dekko at the Nazi aerodrome. You can take care of things here until I get back. See you later.’ Biggles strode away towards the blue-nosed enemy aircraft.
* * *
1 Commanding Officer.
2 A sub-machine gun, the original designed by Thompson.
Chapter 7
Events at the Oasis
When Biggles had left the oasis in the Whitley, Algy, Ginger and Henry Harcourt had watched the machine out of sight before returning to the shade of the palms. There was only one duty to be done, and that was, as Biggles had ordered, to notify Angus, at Karga, that his absent officers were all right and would be returning shortly. That meant, of course, that someone would have to fly to Karga in a Spitfire, and as Algy, being in charge at the oasis, could not leave it, the matter resolved itself into a choice between Ginger and Henry. Algy didn’t care who went as long as the message was taken, and left it to the two officers to decide between themselves who should go.
Both wanted to go, possibly because loafing about the oasis with nothing to do was a depressing form of boredom. Clearly, there was only one fair way of settling the issue, and that was to toss for it. Ginger, to his disgust, lost the toss, and Henry, with a whoop of triumph, departed in the direction of the aircraft park.
‘Can I use your machine?’ he shouted over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘Mine’s at Karga.’
‘All right,’ agreed Ginger, ‘but if you break it I’ll break your neck.’ He strolled on to find Algy, and found him lying in the shade of a palm, apparently in earnest contemplation of the intricate tracery of fronds overhead.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ invited Algy.
Ginger sat down beside him. ‘Henry is pushing off to Karga right away.’
Algy grunted. He wasn’t particularly interested. ‘Where’s Hymann?’ asked Ginger.
‘I left him sitting near the spring,’ answered Algy. ‘I tipped off the flight sergeant to keep an eye on him. He’s a surly brute—I don’t want him here with me.’
The restful silence was suddenly shattered by the starting growl of an aero engine.
‘That must be Henry,’ murmured Ginger. ‘I’ll go and see him off, and then come back.’ He got up and walked away through the palms in the direction of the sound.
It happened that between him and the machines there was an open, sandy glade, and for this reason he had a clear view of what was going on. It was as he expected. A mechanic was in the cockpit of his Spitfire having just started up the engine for Henry, who was adjusting his dark glasses and sun helmet preparatory to taking over from the mechanic.
Flight-Sergeant Smyth and a number of airmen were working at a test bench not far away. Sitting under a tree near them, as Algy had described, was Hymann, who now rose to his feet and strolled, hands in pockets, towards the Spitfire, not unnaturally, to watch it take off. He was a good deal nearer than Ginger, and consequently reached the machine first. There was nothing in his manner to arouse suspicion, and, in fact, probably because the German was on parole, no suspicion of anything wrong entered Ginger’s mind.
What happened next occurred with the speed of light. The mechanic, having finished his task, climbed out of the cockpit on to the wing, and jumped lightly to the ground. At the same time Henry stepped forward to take his place, and had lifted one foot to the wing, when Hymann, with a tigerish leap, sprang forward, swinging a heavy spanner in his hand. It descended on the head of the mechanic, whose back was turned, and who, therefore, did not see the blow struck. Ginger did, and with a warning shout dashed forward. The shout was lost in the mutter of the engine, but something made Henry turn. He was just in time to see the mechanic sink unconscious to the ground. He also saw who was responsible, and what he did was perfectly natural. He jumped off the wing to grapple with the Nazi who, without pausing for an instant, had jumped over the prone body of the mechanic with a view to striking down Henry, and so reaching the cockpit.
Ginger saw all this as he raced towards the scene, but he was not in time to help Henry, who was not only unarmed, but a good deal lighter than the German. There was a brief struggle, and then the spanner came down on Henry’s head with a force that would certainly have split his skull had not the sun helmet taken some of the shock of the blow.
Henry staggered away, reeling drunkenly, and fell. Moving with feline speed the Nazi sprang into the cockpit and opened the throttle wide. The Spitfire jumped forward, head-on towards Ginger, who was still some ten yards or so away. He had to leap aside to avoid the whirling airscrew, but made a grab at the leading edge of the port wing. But the machine was now moving fast; the wing struck him across the chest; for a moment he clung to it desperately, but there was nothing for his clawing fingers to grasp. They slipped off the polished surface and he went down heavily on his back. The aircraft raced on, and reached the aisle that gave access to the open
sand.
Mouthing with rage Ginger dashed after it, although he knew that nothing now, except a gun, could prevent the aircraft from getting away. The flight sergeant and several mechanics also ran after it, although they were just as helpless. Ginger threw up his arms in impotent fury as the Spitfire reached the sand and shot like an arrow into the air.
‘Start up another machine!’ yelled Ginger to the flight sergeant. He was dancing in his rage.
Algy came running up. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘Hymann’s got away. The swine brained one of the mechanics. Henry is hurt, too. Look after them. I’m going after Hymann. I’ll get that skunk if I have to follow him to Timbuctoo.’
But a Spitfire is not started in a second, and it was nearly five minutes before Ginger, in Henry’s machine, was lined up ready to take off. Ginger fumed at the delay. The instant the machine was ready he scrambled into the cockpit and taxied tail-up to the take-off ground, and so into the air. Hymann was already out of sight, but he knew the direction he had taken and settled down to follow.
His boiling rage cooled to a calculating simmer of anger, and he began to think more clearly. The desire for revenge against the perfidious Nazi became secondary to the necessity for putting him out of action, if it were possible, before he could report the presence of Biggles’ squadron at Salima Oasis to his chief. If the Nazi got away, and Ginger was afraid he might, Biggles’ present plan might be completely upset.
Ginger flew flat out with his eyes on the sky, hoping to catch sight of his now hated foe. He could not forget or forgive the foul blow that had struck down the unsuspecting mechanic. Moreover, that the Nazi should escape was bad enough, but that he should take his, Ginger’s, Spitfire with him, added insult to injury.
The others had been right, thought Ginger moodily, as he roared on. Biggles should not have accepted a Nazi’s parole. It was clear now that Hymann had only given it in order to obtain the freedom that made escape possible. So brooded Ginger in his anger as he sped on with his eyes questing the sky. Only occasionally did he glance at the ground to check up on his course.
He was not to know that even if the machine he was flying was capable of doubling its speed he would never overhaul the Nazi, for the simple reason that the German lay in a tangle of charred wreckage among the rocks, shot down, by a stroke of ironic justice, by his own commanding officer, von Zoyton. He had already passed it, and the burnt-out Whitley, without seeing either; and if it appears strange that he did not see these grim remains, it must be remembered that his eyes were on the sky, not the ground; and, moreover, he was flying low, for he had not wasted precious seconds climbing for height.
His brain was racing in a single track—the thought of Hymann, and what his escape might mean; and for that reason he did not consider the risks he was taking in approaching enemy territory, risks which, in the ordinary way, might have given him reason to pause in his headlong pursuit.
He had already reached a point farther to the northwest than he had ever been before, but because he was low he was able to make out two landmarks which, by a curious chance, he had seen from a distance. These were the two rock formations which he had observed when lying on the ground with Biggles on the occasion when they had watched the searchlight. One was the mass of rock shaped like a frog, and the other, the four spires.
Still seeking his quarry he raced on over the first. A few minutes later he roared over the second, and as he did so he saw something that brought a flush of exultation to his cheeks. Away ahead he picked out a speck in the sky, circling over what he presently made out to be an oasis not unlike Salima. At first, probably because his mind was centred on it, he thought the aircraft was a Spitfire, and it was not until he drew close that he saw, with a pang of disappointment, that he had been mistaken. The machine was a Messerschmitt 109, with a blue nose and fin. Ginger’s mouth set in a thin line. He was in the mood for a fight, and he was prepared to fight anything. Hymann, apparently, had got away, but the Messerschmitt would at least provide him with a satisfying target. With great consideration, he thought, it had turned towards him—or at any rate, it was now coming in his direction. Holding the joystick forward for a moment for maximum speed he pulled up in a rocket zoom that took him up behind the Messerschmitt. The instant he was level with it he pulled the Spitfire on its back, and then half rolled to even keel. In a split second he had fired his first burst. But in,some mysterious way the Messerschmitt had flicked into a vertical bank and so avoided his fire. It seemed that the Messerschmitt preferred to take evading action rather than fight, for it now did its best to avoid combat.
Flinging his machine on its side he dragged the joystick back into his right thigh, which for a second brought his sights in line with the Messerschmitt’s tail. Again his guns streamed flame, spitting lines of tracer bullets across the intervening distance. This time they hit their mark, but even in that moment of speed and action Ginger found time to wonder why the Messerschmitt pilot made no attempt to return his fire, for there had been a brief opportunity for him to do so.
But that didn’t matter now. The blue fin was shattered. An elevator broke off, and the machine reeled before going into the spin from which it could never recover. Ginger was not surprised to see the pilot fling open the hood of his cockpit, climb out on to the wing and launch himself into space. His parachute opened, arresting his headlong fall, and he floated downwards.
Ginger watched the falling pilot for a moment; then his eyes looked past him at the ground. He was startled, but not surprised, to see four Messerschmitts racing across the sand in a frenzied take-off. This was more than he was prepared to take on single-handed, and prudence counselled retreat while there was time. He waited only for a moment to survey the ground for the missing Spitfire, but it was not there, which puzzled him, for he thought Hymann could barely have had time to put the machine out of sight.
Turning, he headed for home. He had plenty of height, so he did not fear that the Messerschmitts would catch him. Nor did they. A few minutes later, when he looked back, he could see no sign of them.
Looking down at the ground, however, he saw something else, something that made him hold his breath in astonishment. Lying close to each other were two black airframes, obviously burnt-out aircraft. Near the larger one six figures stood waving. Six people? Why, he thought, that must be Biggles and the others. Strangely enough, in his excitement he had forgotten all about the Whitley. Now he remembered, and wondered what Biggles would have to say about his ill-advised behaviour. He decided to go down and get it over. In any case, Biggles ought to know about Hymann getting away. Choosing a suitable spot he glided down, and having landed, walked briskly to where the little group awaited him.
He noticed at once that Biggles was not there. He observed, too, the German officer. But what puzzled him most was the expression on the faces of his friends. With their eyes round witl1 wonder they simply stood and stared at him. Bettie muttered incoherently, making meaningless signs with his hands.
‘What’s the matter with all of you?’ demanded Ginger. ‘Is there something odd about me?’
Bertie pointed at the burnt-out Spitfire. ‘That’s — that’s —your machine, old boy. We thought you were flying the bally thing.’
Understanding burst upon Ginger. ‘Great Scott!’ he cried. ‘How did it happen?’
Tug answered. He indicated von Zoyton with his thumb. ‘He did it. Who was in the machine—Henry?’
‘Why, no,’ gasped Ginger. ‘It was Hymann. He broke his parole and bolted in my Spit. So that’s what happened to him. No wonder I couldn’t overtake him. It seems as though Biggles was right, as usual. Hymann’s lying didn’t get him far. By the way, where is Biggles?’
‘Gone to have a dekko at the German landing ground, look you,’ replied Taffy.
Ginger stared. He pointed at the remains of the Whitley. ‘I thought that was the Whitley!’ he exclaimed.
‘It was,’ Bertie told him. ‘Von Zoyton made a bonfire of
it before he landed.’
‘But—but you hadn’t another machine?’ cried Ginger. ‘What did Biggles use?’
Tug grinned. ‘He borrowed von Zoyton’s kite for the evening.’
A ghastly thought struck Ginger, turning his blood cold and making his knees weak. His tongue flicked over his lips as though he had difficulty in speaking. ‘It wasn’t.. . it wasn’t by any chance a Messerschmitt —with a blue nose?’ he gulped.
‘Sure, that’s the bird,’ declared Tex cheerfully. ‘Say! What’s wrong?’
Ginger clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Heaven help me,’ he breathed in an awe-stricken whisper. ‘I’ve just shot him down.’
There was dead silence for a moment. Then Bertie spoke. ‘Where did it happen?’
Ginger swallowed. ‘Right over the enemy aerodrome,’ he answered chokingly. ‘So that’s why he didn’t return my fire!’
Von Zoyton laughed harshly.
Chapter 8
A Desperate Venture
Ginger ignored the German. He was overcome by the state of affairs that had arisen, and his paramount sensation at that moment was one of utter helplessness. Not only was Biggles a prisoner—for he could not imagine that he had escaped capture—but the entire squadron was threatened with extinction. One Spitfire was the only connecting link with the base, and he wondered vaguely whether it would be possible to transport the others home one by one, or if he should ask them to walk, while he dropped food and water to them during their long journey to the oasis.