Biggles Sweeps The Desert

by W E Johns

  Forward and still farther forward Biggles thrust the joystick, the needle of the speed indicator keeping a quivering record of his rate of dive. The top layer of Messerschmitts seemed to float up towards him as the distance closed between them. At any moment now von Zoyton might glance in his reflector and see what was coming down behind him, but so far he had not moved. The 109 F. was still cruising on even keel. Biggles could see every detail of the machine clearly. He studied it dispassionately, noting that von Zoyton had even found time to paint his nose and rudder blue; but his hand made no move towards the firing button. For the moment he was not concerned with Messerschmitts; his target was the machines that alone could wipe out Salima beyond recovery. His Spitfire, nearly vertical, flashed past the noses of the three Messerschmitts.

  He went straight on down towards the second formation. He knew that von Zoyton would be tearing after him now, but confident that the Nazi could not overtake him before he reached the Junkers he did not trouble to look back. If all the three Messerschmitts were on his tail, as he guessed they would be, they would have to be careful to avoid collision with the second layer when he went through it. In this way he was for the moment making their superior numbers a handicap, not an asset.

  He flashed past the middle layer of the four 109’s like a streak of lightning and the Junkers lay clear below, as helpless as whales basking on a calm sea. Down—down—down he tore, his airscrew howling like a lost soul in agony. A glance in the reflector now revealed a sight that brought a mirthless smile to his lips. The sky behind seemed full of machines, some near, some far, but all following the line of his meteoric drive. Satisfied that he had achieved his object in throwing the Messerschmitts into a confusion from which they would take a minute to recover, he took the nearest Junkers in his sights. But he held his fire. The range was still too long, and he had no ammunition to waste on chancy shooting.

  Not until he was within five hundred feet did his hand move to the firing button. Then his guns flamed, and the Spitfire vibrated under the weight of metal it discharged. His face did not change expression as he saw his tracers cutting white lines through the air into the fat body of the troop carrier. A fraction less pressure on the control column and the hail of bullets crept along the fuselage to the cockpit. Splinters flew before their shattering impact. A tiny spark of fire appeared, glowing ever brighter.

  Biggles waited for no more. A touch on the rudder-bar brought his nose in line with the leading Junkers. Again his guns spat death. Again splinters flew as his bullets ripped through the swastika-decorated machine, which staggered drunkenly before making a swerving turn, nose down.

  So close was Biggles by this time that he had to pull up sharply to avoid collision. While in the zoom, the grunt of guns behind him made him kick out his left foot, which brought him skidding round as though struck by a whirlwind. He had a fleeting view of a 109 as it flashed past. He jerked up his nose, fired a quick burst at it, and then snatched a glance around to see what was happening.

  The picture presented was one that only a fighter pilot sees. The sky was full of aircraft, banking, diving and zooming, as much to avoid collision as to take aim. From the eddying core of the dogfight a number of machines appeared to have been flung out. A Messerschmitt was going down in flames. Another Messerschmitt and the Defiant, locked in a ghastly embrace, were flat-spinning earthward. There was no one in the cockpit of the Defiant. From the Messerschmitt the pilot was just scrambling out. Flung aft by the slip-stream he hurtled against the tail unit and bounced off into space. A Spitfire and the blue-nosed 109 F were waltzing round each other. Von Zoyton seemed to be trying to break away, but every time he straightened out the Spitfire dashed in, guns blazing, forcing him to turn. Below, only two Junkers were in sight. They were some distance apart. One was making for the oasis, nose down; the other was circling as if the pilot could not make up his mind what to do. All this Biggles saw in an instant of time. Without hesitation he roared down after the Junkers that was still heading for Salima.

  Again he held his fire until the last moment, and then poured in a long, deadly burst. The bullets missed the fuselage at which he aimed; they struck the port wing near the root, and the effect was as if the wing had encountered a bandsaw. It began to bend upwards. The slight play at the tip, always perceptible in a big metal wing, became a regular flap, horrible to watch. Then the sheet metal began to tear like paper; the wing broke clean off, and whirling aft, passed so close to Biggles before he could turn that he flinched, thinking that it must strike him. The Junkers rolled on its side, while from the cabin, in quick succession, the paratroops dived into space.

  Biggles turned away, and looking for the last surviving troop carrier saw that it had gone on, and had nearly reached Salima. Below and behind it parachutes were hanging in the air like scraps of paper wind-blown. It had succeeded, or almost succeeded, in its allotted task, and there was nothing he could do about it—except hope that those at the oasis would be able to deal with any paratroops that managed to reach it. His anxiety on this score was shortlived, and he smiled when he saw the armoured car burst from the trees and race towards the place where the paratroops would land.

  Satisfied, he turned away. His head was now aching unmercifully, and he was almost overcome by a fit of nausea. He knew that he had been flying on his nerves; that he had already overtaxed his physical strength and was not in a condition to carry on the fight; yet he could not bring himself to leave the air to a victorious enemy. Worried by a growing sense of unreality he began to fear that he might faint. There seemed to be very few machines about, and these were widely scattered; but he could still see four Messerschmitts. One was retiring, but the other three were converging on him. Where was Ginger? Glancing down he was just in time to see the Spitfire strike the ground flat on the bottom of its fuselage, bounce high, stall, and then bury its nose in the yielding sand. Ginger was out of the fight.

  Dry-lipped, feeling sick and faint, Biggles turned to meet the Messerschmitts. The matter would soon be over one way or another. He knew he could not hang out for more than asfew minutes. The Messerschmitts seemed to be a long way away. He could not think what they were doing. He found it hard to think at all. From their behaviour it seemed that the hostile aircraft were hesitating, inclined to break off the combat. Setting his teeth he flew straight at them. Then a movement to the right caught his eye, and he saw four machines in a scattered line roaring towards the scene. For a moment he stared at them uncomprehendingly. Then he understood why the Messerschmitts were packing up. The Karga Spitfires had arrived.

  But what were they doing? They appeared to dance in the air like midges over a garden path on a summer night. They became blurred, like a photograph out of focus. The sky was beginning to turn black. Biggles bit his lip until it hurt. His hands were trembling, clammy; cold sweat broke out on his face. ‘My God!’ he thought. ‘I’m going to faint.’ Pulling back the cockpit cover he tried to rise, to throw himself out, but all the strength seemed to have left his body. Abandoning the joystick, he used both hands to raise himself, but as the full blast of the slipstream struck him he paused, gulping in the refreshing air. It revived him. He began to feel better. Things began to clear, so he slid back into his seat, cut the engine, and began a steady glide down. At first he was content to lose height, but as his strength returned he looked around and set a course for the oasis.

  His landing was purely automatic, although he would have run on into the trees had not a mechanic had the wit to dash out and grab a wing tip so that the machine slewed round, raking up the sand. Biggles switched off and sat still, limp from reaction. Flight-Sergeant Smyth’s face, pale with concern, appeared beside him.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ answered Biggles weakly. ‘Drink—get me a drink.’

  The flight sergeant shouted and a man came running.

  Biggles drank from the water bottle, carelessly, the water gushing unheeded down his chin and over the front of
his jacket. ‘Phew!’ he gasped. ‘That’s better. Give me a hand down, flight sergeant. I’m a bit shaky on my pins. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing much, sir. We soon mopped up the umbrella men3.’

  Tex appeared. With the flight sergeant he got Biggles down and steered him towards the palms.

  ‘I’m all right now,’ declared Biggles. ‘Let me sit in the shade for a minute. I must have got a touch of sun.’

  ‘What you’ve got,’ said Tex deliberately, ‘is a touch of overwork.’

  Biggles sat down and had another drink. ‘What about Ginger?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ answered Tex. ‘He ran out of slugs and came down for more—but he was in too much of a hurry considering his undercart was shot to bits and wouldn’t unstick.4 He came a lovely belly-flopper. He’s got a black eye and a split lip. The last I saw of him he was sousing his face in a bucket of water.’

  ‘What about Taffy and Ferocity?’

  ‘This looks like ‘em, coming now.’

  Looking up, Biggles saw them walking towards the oasis, dragging their brollies. Taffy was limping. They seemed to be having a heated altercation.

  ‘Look at them, the fools,’ muttered Biggles, beginning to laugh. ‘Tex, go and stop them, or they’ll be fighting each other in a minute.’

  Presently they came up. Taffy was incoherent. ‘He did it, look you!’ he shouted.

  ‘Did what?’ demanded Biggles.

  ‘Broke my Defiant. I wanted to go one way, whatsoever —’

  ‘And he wanted to go another way?’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Taffy disgustedly.

  ‘And between you you ran into a Messerschmitt? You see what happens when two people try to fly the same kite?’ said Biggles sadly. ‘Where are the Karga Spitfires?’

  ‘Chasing the Huns back home,’ grunted Taffy.

  Biggles started. ‘Hello! What the dickens... what’s this coming?’

  They all looked up as a deep-throated roar announced the approach of a heavy aircraft.

  ‘It’s a civil machine,’ said Tex. ‘It must be the freighter—bound for the West Coast. Sure, that’s it.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Biggles, ‘I’d clean forgotten all about it. No matter, it ought to be able to get through without any trouble. If it doesn’t—well, I can’t help it. I’ve never been so tired in my life. When Algy comes back tell him to carry on.’

  Biggles lay back, closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep.

  * * *

  1 Albert Ball, British World War I fighter pilot who shot down 44 planes. He was killed in 1917.

  2 Slang: shooting his machine gun at as many aircraft as possible.

  3 R.A.F. slang for paratroops.

  4 i.e. his wheels wouldn’t descend into landing position.

  Chapter 17

  The Last Round

  The sun was fast falling towards the western horizon when Biggles awoke. He was still lying under the palms, although someone had put a pillow under his head. Ginger, his face black and blue, lay stretched out beside him. The flight sergeant was standing by. Everything was strangely quiet. Biggles took one look at the sun and then called the N.C.O.

  ‘Flight sergeant, what do you mean by letting me sleep so long?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr. Lacey’s orders, sir. He said you were to sleep on.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Resting, sir.’

  ‘All right. Tell all the officers I want to see them in the mess tent right away.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Biggles prodded Ginger. ‘Here, snap out of it.’

  Ginger started and sat up. ‘What, again?’ he moaned.

  ‘We’ve only just started,’ asserted Biggles. ‘Come on over to the tent.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine—well enough to clean up Wadi Umbo. When that’s done you can sleep for a week if you like.’

  Biggles walked over to the mess tent, where he found the officers assembling. Addressing them he said, ‘What’s the idea, everyone going to sleep in the middle of a job?’

  ‘But I say, old centurion, I thought we’d finished,’ protested Bertie, adjusting his monocle.

  ‘You mean—you got von Zoyton?’

  ‘Well —er —no. ‘Fraid we didn’t quite do that.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He gathered his warriors around him and departed for a less strenuous locality—if you see what I mean.’

  Biggles turned to Algy. ‘Let’s have the facts. What happened after I came down? The last thing I remember—I must admit I couldn’t see very clearly—was the four Karga Spitfires about to pass the time of day with what remained of the Messerschmitts.’

  ‘They just pushed off home,’ announced Algy. ‘We followed them some way, and then, as I didn’t know what had happened here, I thought we’d better come back.’

  ‘So they got away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Biggles turned to Flight-Sergeant Smyth, who was standing by. ‘What’s the state of our aircraft?’

  ‘Five Spitfires, sir, including your own, which has been damaged by gunshots, although it’s still serviceable.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That should be enough.’

  ‘Enough for what?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Enough for a show-down.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘None, except that this squadron doesn’t leave a job half done. Anyway, I don’t feel like sitting here panting in this heat while von Zoyton sends for replacements and remusters his forces. Never leave your enemy while he’s feeling sore; either depart or finish him off, or he’ll come back and get you. That’s what my first C.O. taught me, and I’ve always found it to be good policy. We can’t leave here without orders, so we must go to Wadi Umbo, drive von Zoyton out, and make the place uninhabitable for some time to come. Not until we’ve done that can we report the route safe.’

  ‘How can we destroy an oasis?’

  ‘By putting the water hole out of commission.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Now. I’m going to wipe out the rest of von Zoyton’s machines, either on the ground or in the air—he can have it which way he likes. You’d better toss up to see who’s going to fly the other four machines. Don’t fight over it. It won’t be a picnic. Von Zoyton has just imported a nice line in pom-poms. Someone will have to stay in charge here, but the rest, those who are not flying, can make a sortie in the direction of Wadi Umbo in the car. We’d better get a move on, or it will be dark.’

  Ten minutes later the five Spitfires took off in vee formation and headed north-west. Behind Biggles were Algy, Bertie, Henry Harcourt and Ginger. Angus remained in charge at Salima; the others were following in the car.

  This time Biggles did not climb for height. The five machines, rocking in the intense heat flung up by the tortured earth, annihilated space as they raced low over rock and sand and stunted camel thorn. With his head newly bandaged, Biggles did not beat about the arid atmosphere; he went as straight as an arrow for Wadi Umbo, and inside half an hour, just as the sun was falling like a golden ball beyond its ragged fringe of palms, he was striking at the oasis with everything his guns had in them.

  When the Spitfires arrived Biggles caught the flash of an airscrew in the clearing that was used by the enemy as an aircraft park. Whether the machine had just come in, or was just going off on a mission, he did not know. He never knew. He gave it a long burst as he dived, and watched his tracer shells curving languidly towards the stationary aircraft. Skimming over the tree-tops he saw something else, something that filled him with savage glee. There was quite a number of men about. Most of them were dashing for their battle stations, but he did not trouble about them. In a small bay of the clearing he saw a Messerschmitt 109. Men were working on it, hauling in a serpentine pipe-line which seemed to connect it with the ground. The machine was being refuelled with a hand pump. This told him something he did not know before— the position of t
he fuel dump.

  Zooming, and banking steeply, he saw that the first dive of the five Spitfires had not been without effect. Two of the Messerschmitts were burning fiercely; another was so close that it was in imminent danger of catching fire. Men were dragging it away, but a burst from Biggles’ guns sent them running pell-mell for cover.

  He now concentrated on the fuel dump to the exclusion of all else. Three bursts he fired as he tore down, and at the end of the third he saw what he hoped to see— a burst of flame spurting from the ground. Then he had to pull out to avoid hitting the trees.

  Surveying the scene as he banked he saw that what was happening was what he had feared might happen at Salima. Under the hammering of five converging Spitfires the oasis was already half hidden behind a curtain of smoke through which leapt orange flames. A vast cloud of oily black smoke rising sluggishly into the air from the clearing told him that the oil was alight. The hut that had housed the prisoners, roofed as it was of tinder-dry palm fronds, was a roaring bonfire from which erupted pieces of blazing thatch that set fire to what they fell upon— the dry grass, tents and stores.

  The pom-pom gunners had no chance. Streams of shells soared upwards, but the flak1 came nowhere near the aircraft, and Biggles knew that the gunners were simply shooting blindly through the pall of smoke. Men appeared, running out of the inferno, some beating their jackets, which were alight, on the ground.