by W E Johns
‘Great Heavens!’ breathed a voice.
Ginger stared at the face of the man who stood bending over him. It was Biggles. His eyes were round with wonder and his expression one of utter disbelief.
‘Ginger!’ he stammered. ‘I thought... I thought — you were dead,’ he gulped.
‘Yes, I know. It wasn’t me, though. It was Hymann.’
‘If I hadn’t used your nightshirt for a gag, and so seen your uniform—’
Ginger, remembering the two sentries, raised a warning finger. He felt sure the scuffle must have been heard; and, sure enough, one of the sentries came round the corner of the hut.
‘Is this a free fight?’ he inquired humorously, in German.
‘Yes,’ answered Biggles, in the same language. ‘You’re just in time.’
There was a crack as his fist met the sentry’s jaw, and the man, unprepared for such a reception, went over backwards, the rifle flying from his hands.
‘Give me that nightshirt, Ginger,’ said Biggles. ‘We’d better truss him up before he starts squawking.’
‘There’s another sentry about somewhere.’
‘I fancy he’s gone back to his post,’ answered Biggles, rising to his feet, looking down on the sentry who, tied up in the gumbaz, looked unpleasantly like a corpse.
‘Where have you been since I shot you down?’ asked Ginger.
‘So you’ve discovered it was me you chose for a target?’ returned Biggles, coldly. ‘If you want to know, I’ve been frizzling on the crown of a palm. But don’t let’s waste time over that—I’ll tell you about it later. We’ve got to get out of this. How did you get here?’
‘We grabbed the enemy’s car. Bertie is with me.’
‘Fine! I could have been outside the oasis by now, but it struck me that while I was here I might as well try to collect General Demaurice. I was lying here when you kindly trod on my face. Where’s Bertie?’
‘Over by that bush.’
‘And the car?’
‘In a gully behind the oasis. Taffy is sitting at the wheel.’
‘Good! Stand fast. I’m going to see if I can find the General.’ Biggles disappeared into the darkness.
In a fever of anxiety Ginger waited. Once or twice there was a buzz of conversation inside the hut, but no alarm was sounded. Then Biggles came back, bringing with him a man whom Ginger recognised as the French General.
‘It’s tough on the others,’ murmured Biggles, as they walked towards the bush where Bertie was waiting, ‘but they’ll have to wait. We can’t take them all.’
‘How many prisoners are there?’ asked Ginger.
‘Fourteen. I told them we’ll come back for them as soon as possible.’
They reached the bush. Bertie was astonished.
‘I say, old battle-axe, this is wonderful, absolutely marvellous. Congratulations—’
‘Save them till we’re out of the wood,’ cut in Biggles crisply. ‘Lead on to the car, Ginger—you know the way.’
‘Everything going like clockwork, by Jingo,’ declared Bertie, as they came in sight of the car still standing where they had left it.
As he spoke there came shouts that rose to a clamour from the direction of the camp.
‘You spoke a bit too soon,’ Biggles told Bertie. ‘Either they’ve missed the General, or found the sentry I had to truss up.’
Taffy was there. He beamed when he saw Biggles, and started to say something, but Biggles stopped him.
‘Get going,’ he said, ‘and put your foot on it. I’ve an idea we’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest.’
As they got into the car, from the direction of the aerodrome came the roar of aircraft engines being started up.
Chapter 9
A Perilous Passage
The car was soon racing back over its trail at a speed that caused the sand to fly, and Ginger to hold his breath, for he remembered Taffy’s reputation for breaking things. The wilderness was littered with boulders, and they had only to strike one at the rate they were travelling to end in dire calamity. He mentioned it to Biggles, who, however, thought it better not to distract Taffy’s attention from what he was doing.
‘The nearer we get to Tex and Tug before the storm hits us the better,’ he remarked. ‘It’s going to be a race, and every second is valuable.’
‘Storm? What storm?’ asked Bertie.
‘The one that will hit us when the Messerschmitts find us,’ answered Biggles, grimly. ‘You heard the engines being started? They aren’t going on a joy-ride, or anything like that. In a minute they’ll be looking for us.’
‘We’re not showing any lights,’ Ginger pointed out.
‘No matter. They may not spot us while we’re in this gully among the rocks; but the moon is coming up, and when we have to cross open sand we shall be as conspicuous as a spider on a whitewashed wall. The Nazis have several machines besides Messerschmitt 109’s; I noticed, among others, a Messerschmitt 1101 fighter-bomber. If that baby finds us we are likely to have a rousing time.’
‘I’ll have a look round to see if I can see anything,’ said Ginger, and climbed up the central turret until his head and shoulders were clear above the metal rim.
Overhead, the heavens were a thing to marvel at. Stars gleamed like lamps suspended from a ceiling of dark blue velvet. The rising moon cast an unearthly radiance over the sterile wilderness. He could not see any hostile aircraft—not that he expected to; nor, for some time could he hear anything on account of the noise made by the car; then a sound made him look up, and he saw something that turned his mouth dry with shock. Almost immediately overhead a dark shape suddenly crystallised in the gloom, growing swiftly larger and more distinct. Knowing only too well what it was he let out a yell and tumbled back into the car.
‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a dive-bomber right on top of us!’
Luckily the car was now running over an area of flat sand, like a dry river bed, and almost before the words had left Ginger’s lips Taffy had swung the wheel hard over, causing the car to dry-skid so violently that those inside were flung against each other.
An instant later the car swerved again, and nearly overturned, as the blast of a terrific explosion struck it.
‘Shall I stop and let you out?’ yelled Taffy.
‘No—keep going!’ shouted Biggles. ‘He’ll find it harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one. This car’s our only chance of getting back—we can’t afford to lose it. Keep going towards the rendezvous, but take your orders from me. When I shout “now,” turn as sharply as you dare.’
So saying, Biggles ran up into the turret. He saw the attacking machine, a Messerschmitt 110, immediately, for it was flying low. As he expected, it had overshot them, pulling up after its dive, and was now turning steeply for a second effort. He watched it closely, saw it line up behind the speeding car, and put its nose down in a dive that grew swiftly steeper. He waited for the bombs— there were three this time—to detach themselves before shouting ‘Now!’
Again the car turned so sharply that he was flung against the side of the turret. He ducked below the rim and waited for the explosions that he knew must come.
Three mighty detonations, coming so close together that they sounded as one, shook the car as if it had been tissue paper. They were followed by a violent spatter, as of hail, as sand and stones smote the armour plate.
‘I say, old top, how many of those blessed things does the fellow carry?’ asked Bertie, in a pained voice. ‘Beastly noise—nearly made me drop my eye-glass.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ answered Biggles, smiling, and returned to his watch tower.
Twice more the aircraft dived, but each time the bombs missed their mark, for which the pilot was not to be blamed, for the fast-moving car did not keep a straight course for a moment.
‘I think that’s the lot,’ said Biggles, watching the Messerschmitt, which after circling, had turned away.
But now two Messerschmitt 109’s had arrived on the scene
; he guessed that the explosions had brought them to the spot, and knew that they would use their guns.
‘Keep going,’ he told Taffy. ‘You’re doing fine. We’re more than half way. That bomber may have gone home for some more pills, so we’ve got to beat it to the rendezvous. In any case, there’s a brace of 109’s overhead—look out, here they come!’ Biggles’ voice ended in a shout, and he dropped back into the car, slamming the cover behind him.
A few seconds later a withering blast of bullets struck the metal plating, without piercing it, although the noise was alarming. A tracer cannon shell went clean through the turret like a flash of lightning, but fortunately did no damage. It missed the French General’s head by inches, but he only smiled.
‘We can’t stand much of that,’ remarked Ginger.
‘You keep swerving,’ Biggles told Taffy, ‘but keep a general course for the rendezvous. Maybe I can discourage those fellows from being over-zealous.’ He picked up the Tommy gun and mounted the turret in time to see a Messerschmitt racing along behind them almost at their own level.
A Tommy gun was not an ideal weapon for his purpose, because it has to be held, accuracy being hardly possible in a moving vehicle; but the stream of bullets which Biggles sent at the pursuing Messerschmitt served a useful purpose in that they made the aircraft turn aside, so that the pilot’s aim was spoilt, and the bullets merely kicked up a line of sand. Moreover, evidently realising that he was not shooting at a helpless target, the pilot and his companion turned away and exercised more caution in their attacks.
‘What will happen when we get to the rendezvous?’ asked Ginger. ‘We can’t leave Tex and Tug.’
‘I don’t propose to leave them,’ answered Biggles.
‘What about the prisoners?’
‘We’ll decide what to do with them when we get there.’
Biggles climbed down into the car. ‘Drive straight in when we get there,’ he told Taffy. ‘Maybe we can find cover among the rocks till these confounded Messerschmitts get tired of shooting at us, or run out of ammunition. At the rate they’ve been using it that shouldn’t be long.’
Unfortunately, the arrival at the rendezvous coincided with the return of the Messerschmitt 110.
Biggles had just got out of the car, and was walking towards Tex and Tug, who were sitting on either side of the little group of prisoners. Tug had a Tommy gun across his knees, and Tex had pushed his revolver into his belt. All this was clear in the bright moonlight. Bertie, Ginger, Taffy and General Demaurice were filing out of the car to stretch their legs.
Biggles said to Tug, ‘Is everything all right?’
Tug said that it was. ‘What’s this coming?’ he asked, staring at the sky towards the northwest from where now came the roar of an aircraft travelling at high speed.
Biggles thought quickly, and for a few seconds without reaching a decision. The approaching machine, coming from that direction, could only be an enemy. The pilot would see the car, or if not the car, the black wreckage of the burnt machines. There was still time to take cover, but the problem was what to do with the prisoners. The car would be the target, and it was a matter of common sense to get away from it.
By this time the aircraft, flying low, was close, and Biggles had to make up his mind quickly. ‘Scatter and take cover!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Get away from the car—General, get amongst the rocks—anywhere—but get away.’
‘What about these guys?’ Tex indicated his prisoners. ‘Take them with you—I’ll help you,’ answered Biggles, tersely.
But it was not to be as easy as that. A stream of tracer bullets flashed through the air, thudding into the sand and smacking viciously against the rocks.
‘Down everybody!’ yelled Biggles, and flung himself behind a boulder.
An instant later there came the shrill whine of a bomb. It was short-lived. There was a blinding flash, a deafening roar, and everything was blotted out in a cloud of black smoke and swirling sand.
After that it was everyone for himself. It was impossible to maintain any kind of order. Between bursts of fire and the crash of bombs Ginger sprinted for his life to a tall outcrop of rock, and flung himself at the base. Somebody was already there. It was the German driver of the car. Ginger ignored him; at that moment he was not concerned with prisoners. The noise was appalling; bombs exploded and machine guns crackled against a background of aircraft engines. There was obviously more than one machine now, and looking up Ginger could see three, circling low and turning to fire at the stationary car.
What with the noise, and the glittering lines of tracer shells and bullets, the place was an inferno. The air was full of sand, which made breathing difficult. Where the others were, and what they were doing, he had no idea, but he was terribly afraid that casualties were going to be heavy unless they had got well clear of the car.
Suddenly the roar of engines increased to a terrifying crescendo, and the air seemed to be full of machines. Ginger could count six, and at first he thought they were all Messerschmitts; then one swept low over him and he could see from the silhouette of its wings that it was a Spitfire. He could only suppose that Algy, or Ferocity, or Henry, or all three, had arrived from Salima. The machines began to shoot at each other, and Ginger watched spellbound the firework display thus provided. It gave some relief to those on the ground, for as they fought, the opposing machines climbed. In one respect Ginger thought, the Spitfires held the advantage. The Germans must have used up most of their ammunition before the British machines had arrived on the scene. An aircraft—Spitfire or Messerschmitt he could not tell—burst into flames, and crashing among the rocks gave a finishing touch to the lurid scene. Then for a little while the noise of engines receded, presently to increase again in volume as three machines—all Spitfires—came tearing back. Ginger knew then it could only be Algy, Ferocity and Henry.
For a minute or two the machines circled and then departed in a south-easterly direction. Ginger saw a figure stand up not far away and recognised Biggles. He ran over to him.
‘They’re going home,’ he said, pointing to the Spitfires.
‘Yes. They were quite right not to risk a night landing at a place like this,’ answered Biggles. ‘Gosh! What a party! I think it’s all over. Where’s everybody?’ Cupping his hands round his mouth he shouted, ‘Hi! Where are you?’
Dark figures, some near and some far, began to appear out of the settling sand. Bertie arrived first.
‘I say, you fellows,’ he said in a worried voice, ‘have you seen my bally eyeglass—I’ve lost it?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Biggles, ‘it’s in your eye.’
‘Well I’m dashed! Do you know, I never thought of looking there,’ murmured Bertie, apologetically.
Taffy came, limping. He had been wounded in the leg by a bullet, but he said it was only a scratch.
The General came, brushing sand off his uniform and muttering his opinion of the Nazis in a low voice. He had lost his cap.
Biggles spotted a body lying in a grotesque position on the ground, and ran to it to discover that it was the German driver. He was stone dead, shot through the head. Tug came, staggering. He had, he said, been flung against a rock by blast, and knocked out. He was all right now. Tex came running from the desert.
‘I’ve lost the prisoners,’ he said.
Biggles pointed to the dead man. ‘There’s one,’ he observed. ‘What happened to the rest?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Tex. ‘I was close to them when a bomb smothered us with sand. When it cleared they weren’t in sight.’
‘It doesn’t matter, except that I should have liked to keep von Zoyton,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Naturally, he’d grab the chance to get away. I’m glad things are no worse. That was a Messerschmitt that crashed—we can’t do anything about it. Let’s go and look at the car.’
It had not, after all, received a direct hit from a bomb, although there were several craters near it, and as well as being half smothered with sand it was ti
lted on one side. Their combined efforts were required to right it. The plating had been pierced by several cannon shells.
‘Good thing we didn’t stay in it,’ observed Biggles, dryly. ‘The thing that really matters is the engine. Get in, Taffy, and try it. If the engine works the car will still be serviceable, and I’d rather ride than walk. We’re a long way from home.’
The engine started without any trouble at all, much to Biggles’ satisfaction.
‘All right, we’ll see about getting home,’ he announced. ‘The Messerschmitts will be out after us again as soon as it gets light. They’ll probably come here first, and seeing the car gone will know we’ve got away. They’ll follow our tracks, no doubt, but that can’t be prevented.’
‘What about having a look round for von Zoyton?’ suggested Ginger.
‘We can’t stop to look for him now—not that we’d ever find him in the dark amongst all this rock. His people will pick him up in the morning.’
They all got into the car which, with Taffy still at the wheel, resumed its journey across the desert.
‘Our jolly little plan seems to have come unstuck this time,’ murmured Bertie.
‘You mean my plan,’ answered Biggles. ‘I get the credit when things go right, so I’ll take the kicks when they go wrong. This time it didn’t work out. Plans don’t always work out, you know. If mine never went wrong I shouldn’t be a man, I’d be a magician; and, moreover, I should have won the war long ago. Actually, the thing hasn’t worked out as badly as it might have done. It was that skunk Hymann bolting that upset the apple cart. How did he get away, Ginger?’
Ginger told the story of the Nazi’s escape.
‘Well, he didn’t get far,’ remarked Biggles. ‘He’d have done better to have kept his parole.’
‘What happened to you when I shot you down over the enemy aerodrome?’ inquired Ginger. ‘I have a rough idea because I heard the German sentries talking, but I’d be interested to hear the details.’