42 Biggles Follows On

by Captain W E Johns

  'Aside from the broad official aspect of the thing I have a personal interest in the matter,'

  resumed Biggles. 'Indeed, I should say a moral obligation. For the original deserters I have very little sympathy; no doubt they are feeling pretty sick with themselves; but I was instrumental in getting Guardsman Ross into the miserable position in which he now finds himself. I told him that, whatever happened, I'd get him out. The fact that he did a good job, all that was asked of him, makes it all the more imperative that we should not let him down. That the trail leads to the far side of the world, instead of being confined to Europe as was supposed, makes no difference. Had it been humanly possible I would have gone straight on after him; but it would have been worse than futile to try to cross the U.S.S.R. and China with such equipment as I had available. That's why I came home.

  What I want now is authority to make my own plans to collect Ross and bring him back here.'

  There was silence for a moment. The Air Commodore looked doubtful. 'Such an operation would be in the nature of a forlorn hope.'

  'You can call it what you like,' returned Biggles. 'The fact remains.'

  'Just a minute,' put in Major Charles. 'Let us get the thing in perspective. It seems to me that we have here two objectives. One is the silencing of this radio station. The other is the rescue of an operative who has become involved. From the national angle the first is by far the most important.'

  'From my angle, the second is the vital one,' said Biggles shortly.

  'The first question to be decided,' went on Major Charles imperturbably,

  'is whether to treat each operation separately, or combine them and deal with them as one?'

  The representative of the Foreign Office joined in the argument, addressing himself to Major Charles. 'When you talk about silencing this station, what exactly have you in mind? You will not, I hope, overlook the fact that we are not at war with Manchuria?'

  'I trust you're not going to quibble about that?' interposed Biggles trenchantly. 'Any place that is used as a base by the enemies of this country is at war with us as far as I'm concerned. If Manchuria set up a bleat, you could ask them what they're doing with our men.'

  The Air Commodore forced a tolerant smile. 'All right. Let us stick to the point. We are agreed that we have two objectives before us. The question is: are they to be tackled together or separately?'

  'That's not for me to answer,' said Biggles. 'My main concern is Ross.'

  'What about the other fellows in the camp, if they should want to come home?' queried Major Charles. 'Are you going to bring Ross home alone, or will you give them all a chance to get out?'

  'That will depend on how many there are of them,' contended Biggles.

  'There would be a limit to what I could take. I certainly wouldn't try to persuade these men to come, if they don't want to. If they like Communism, they can have it — until the time comes when they wish they'd never heard of it.'

  The Air Commodore resumed. 'Very well, Bigglesworth. Let us take your angle first.

  You want to fetch Ross home?'

  'Yes.'

  'How would you go about it, bearing in mind that we know nothing about this place Kratsen?'

  'I should start by finding out something about it, by air photography, if nothing else. In broad terms, as Kratsen is practically on the coast according to the map, I should take out a marine aircraft, basing it in Japanese or South Korean waters. The business of making contact with Ross would depend on how much I could learn about the place. I might put someone in to get the layout of the camp.'

  'Only a Chinese could do that.'

  'I realise it. I have one in mind.'

  The Air Commodore's eyebrows went up. 'You know a Chinese who would do that?'

  'I think so. You will remember Doctor Wung Ling? I flew him out to China not so long ago to salvage his father's treasure chest.1 When we parted he assured me that if at any time I needed his help he was at my service.

  That wasn't idle talk, either.'

  'Go on.'

  'That's all. Having got the necessary gen on the set-up, I should choose my time to go ashore and collect Ross.'

  'You make it sound all very simple.'

  'There's no sense in stock-piling difficulties before they arise. If I did that I'd never do anything. The longer you look at a mountain the bigger it looks.'

  'Very well. Let's say you find Ross. What about the other fellows?'

  'I've said that would depend on the number. If there were a lot I couldn't cram them into an aircraft. There are Commandos in Korea.

  They've made several raids. That means they have landing craft. They might co-operate by standing by to pick up extras.'

  'That means bringing the army into it,' protested the Foreign Office man.

  'If there was fighting there would be casualties. Our troops would be recognised. What excuse would we have for landing on neutral territory?'

  'Excuse!' breathed Biggles. 'Stiffen the crows! Has it come to this, that we have to have an excuse for getting a British soldier out of a foreign jail? This talk of excuses binds me rigid. All right. Have it your own way. We'll be civilians. If I decide I need more men I know one who'll come with me. He's an old hand at the game. Believe you me, by the time he's finished with it there won't be much left of this lying propaganda dump.'

  The Air Commodore's eyes went to Biggles' face. 'Who are you thinking of?'

  'Gimlet King.'

  'I thought so.'

  'He'll knock off hunting foxes for a while when I tell him what's cooking. He and that crazy gang of his should be useful. They're all civilians now.'

  'It isn't quite regular,' objected the Foreign Office man anxiously.

  'Regular! Suffering Icarus! What has regularity got to do with it? The trouble with us is, we're a thundering sight too regular. All we get for that is a kick in the pants. Don't talk to me about regulations!'

  'We don't want to start a war with China.'

  'Listen,' said Biggles, speaking distinctly. 'When I was a kid I hated war. And I haven't changed. But how have I spent most of my life? In wars, big and small. Why? I'll tell you. Because, instead of settling down to a quiet life as I intended I've been pitchforked into wars started by other people who have never been in a battle in their lives.

  I'm not starting anything. The other side has already done that. No doubt there are people who would like the police to pack up for fear of starting a war with the crooks, spivs and chisellers, who thrive like a lot of maggots on decent folk.'

  'Steady. Take it easy, Bigglesworth,' adjured the Air Commodore. 'There's no need to get worked up about it.'

  'Sorry, chief, but this sort of argument makes me tired,' muttered Biggles. 'Two nights ago I was sliding down a greasy roof in Prague. Last night I was dodging about in the Soviet Sector of Berlin. D'you suppose I do this sort of thing for fun? When I scrape home by the skin of my shins, what do I hear but talk of excuses and regulations? Now let's get down to brass tacks. Do I go and fetch Ross or do I not? Say "No" to that and my resignation will be on your desk in five minutes. Then I'll buy an aircraft and do the job on my own account. Afterwards I'll settle down to grow mushrooms, or tomatoes or something.'

  'I don't see why you shouldn't go to fetch Ross,' said the Air Commodore awkwardly. '

  But you must realise that what we are proposing is a very serious business.'

  'Are you telling me? I'm the one it will be serious for if things go wrong. You gentlemen may lose your jobs. I shall lose everything from my neck up. I'm going to fetch Ross. I told him I would and no one is going to stop me. If the government wants the lid putting over the big mouth of the propaganda works at Kratsen I'll do it at the same time, if it's possible.'

  The Air Commodore looked round. 'I'll take responsibility for my Department,' he said quietly. 'What about you? You need know nothing about it if you feel that it may involve you in trouble.'

  Major Charles nodded. 'I have an interest in the affair,' said he. 'G
o ahead.'

  The Foreign Office official shrugged. 'I can't sanction the raid, of course; but I can shut my eyes.'

  The Air Commodore turned back to Biggles. 'There's your answer,' he said.

  'Make your own arrangements. I'll do my best to get you anything you think you're likely to want.'

  'You've no objection to me bringing in Gimlet King?'

  'None at all. You'd better keep quiet about that, though. Let me know when you're ready to move off'

  'I'll do that,' promised Biggles, and left the room.

  He walked back to his office where the others were awaiting the result of the conference.

  'Okay,' he said. 'We're going to fetch Ross. Ginger, get Gimlet King on the phone for me.

  If he isn't at home, you'll probably find him at the Ritz.'

  Algy's eyes opened wide. 'Is he coming with us?'

  'I hope so.'

  Bertie whistled. 'My word! This is going to be a jolly little frolic,' he murmured.

  CHAPTER XI

  Wung Ling Reconnoitres

  Ginger lay flat on his stomach and stared into a tenuous mist that was beginning to rise from the salt-marsh that spread away in front of him for as far as his probing eyes could reach. A crescent moon hung low in the heavens, turning the mist into a semi-transparent film that made it impossible to judge distances. Nothing was distinct. All that could really be seen clearly was the tops of coarse grasses that made a fringe at right-angles to his body. To left and right the scene was much the same, except in a few places where the dunes that lined the Manchurian foreshore of the Yellow Sea broke into gentle undulations. From behind came the gentle lapping of tiny waves expiring on a broad, sandy beach, that swung round on either hand in a vast curve that ultimately lost itself in the gloom of distances unknown.

  Beside him, in a similar position, lay a figure of about his own build, chin on hand, also gazing fixedly into the same vague landscape. This was

  'Cub' Peters, ex-commando, and junior member of the famous war-time troop known as King's Kittens.

  For a long while neither had spoken. Apart from the fretting of the sea upon the beach the only sound that broke the eerie silence was the occasional melancholy call of a sea-fowl.

  Ginger looked at his watch. 'He should be here by now,' he whispered.

  'I hope he hasn't lost his direction in this confounded fog,' answered Cub. 'It's easily done.'

  'He's got a compass.'

  'Then he should be all right.'

  Ginger moved his position slightly to relieve limbs that were becoming cramped on ground which, being damp, struck chill. Then, without relaxing his vigilance, he allowed his mind to wander back over the events of the past month.

  The first week of it had been spent in making preparations for a mission which, on account of its probable long duration, required extra careful planning. In this period Biggles had made contact with Captain 'Gimlet'

  King, war-time specialist in delicate operations in enemy territory. The Manchurian proposition had been put to him and he had accepted it with alacrity. He, in turn, had got in touch with 'Copper' Colson, 'Trapper'

  Troublay, and 'Cub' Peters, of his old troop, who had welcomed the invitation that promised more adventure than was available in civil life.

  Biggles had been right in his estimation of Wung Ling. The young Chinese doctor, when the scheme was explained to him, had at once dropped what he was doing in order to take advantage of an opportunity of striking back at a regime that had destroyed not only his own ancestral home, but the ancient culture of his native land.

  The aircraft chosen for the enterprise was a Scorpion flying-boat, originally a military development of the Sunderland, designed for long-distance work, but later modified for civil transportation. It had not gone into production, but the prototype had for some years been on the establishment of a Royal Air Force Communication Squadron. In fact, it still was; but it happened to be one of the aircraft that had been made available under a reciprocal arrangement between the Air Ministry and the Air Police. Powered with four Bristol

  'Hercules' engines, it had accommodation for sixteen passengers.

  A fortnight had been spent on the journey to the Far East, for, as Biggles pointed out, there was no particular hurry. He did not know how long it would take Ross to get to his ultimate station at Kratsen and he did not want to arrive too soon. It had been decided to use South Korea as a base, this being nearer than Japan to the objective, and a mooring had been arranged at the international marine aircraft establishment of Kungching, where servicing facilities were available. There was also an R.A.F. maintenance unit, under the command of a Group Captain, who acted as Liaison Officer with the American Forces of the United Nations. So far the operation had been merely a matter of routine.

  On arrival, Biggles' first step had been to present himself; and a letter of introduction that he carried, to the R.A.F. officer in charge. Asked if there was anything he needed, he said all that he required for the moment, apart from fuel, was a set of air photographs of the Kratsen area. Such photographs, he explained, were essential for the job on which he was engaged, but he was reluctant to show the big flying-boat over the objective. Apart from the obvious risk of having it shot down or damaged by enemy fighters, he was anxious to avoid doing anything that might give the broadcasting station reason to suppose that it was under observation.

  It turned out that no photographs of that particular area were available.

  However, the Group Captain said he would see what he could do about it.

  That he wasted no time was evident when, twenty-four hours later, he presented Biggles with a beautiful set of pictures, both vertical and oblique, that had been taken at his request by an American photographic reconnaissance unit.

  With these on the table in the cabin of the Scorpion the next phase had been planned. The photographs showed that wealth of detail for which modern photography is remarkable, but the most vital factors still remained an unknown quantity. The pylons, three of them, were plain to see from the shadows they cast; but among the several buildings which the pictures revealed, it was not possible to determine which one held the prisoners. For that the deserting soldiers would be treated as prisoners Biggles did not doubt. More information on this aspect was required before a raid could be made with any sort of confidence. This difficulty had been foreseen, and accounted for the presence of Wung Ling in the party.

  He was now called upon to assume the role for which, by reason of his nationality, he was ideally adapted. Ginger had rather wondered how the Chinaman would feel when confronted by the cold, hard facts of reality; but he need not have worried. Wung Ling, like most of his countrymen, was not demonstrative, but it was clear that he was deriving no small satisfaction from this opportunity of hitting back at the people who had robbed him of all he possessed.

  There were, Biggles explained, two ways of 'putting him in.' He could either be landed on the coast, a matter of some four miles from the actual objective, under cover of darkness, or he could be parachuted in.

  Wung Ling elected to use the parachute method, explaining, naïvely, that he had always wanted to experience the sensation of a parachute jump.

  This suited Biggles, as the drop could be made from a small machine, which again would save the flying-boat a journey into dangerous waters.

  One trip it would have to make before the final raid, and that would be to pick up Wung (as they now called him) at the end of his reconnaissance. There could be no question, Biggles declared, of putting down a land machine, in the dark, on ground which, from the photographs, appeared to be mostly bog or paddy-fields — either of which would probably throw the machine on its nose.

  It was decided that Wung should have three days in which to gather the information required. That is to say, the flying-boat would stand by, at a spot on the coast to be selected from the photographs, at midnight, on the third night after he had parachuted in.

  This, it was thought, would give him ample tim
e to get the particulars that were wanted.

  There was practically no limit to these, stated Biggles. Every scrap of information that could be gathered would be useful. Most important of all was the location and construction of the prisoners' sleeping quarters; the number of men occupying them; their routine, and the position, number and nationality, of sentries guarding them. Also, the number of troops at the station.

  Wung said gravely that he would find out about these things, and it was arranged that he should be put in that night, as the weather was favourable and nothing was to be gained by waiting. He went ashore with Biggles to acquire a suitable outfit from the Korean refugees, whose crowded camps could be seen outside the town. Biggles, on his part, went to the R.A.F. Liaison Officer to arrange for the loan of a small aircraft suitable for the sortie. He had brought a parachute with him.

  The flight was made as scheduled. Biggles flew the machine, and gliding at a great height unloaded his passenger between the coastline, plainly seen in the moonlight, and the cluster of lights that marked the position of the radio station. The last he saw of Wung was a fast-diminishing black dot below him. He continued his glide until he was far out to sea before opening up and returned to base without incident.

  The three days had now expired, and the next step in the programme, the operation of picking up Wung, was now in progress. Five members only of the party were briefed for it, as no more were required. Biggles, with Algy as reserve pilot, flew the Scorpion. From it a rubber dinghy was launched, putting ashore Bertie, whose duty it was to stand by it, and Ginger, who with Cub for company, had advanced to the top of the dunes in order to keep watch for Wung, in case he should fail to strike the exact spot where the dinghy was waiting. They would also be in a position to help him should he arrive hard pressed, which was unlikely, but possible.

  Ginger and Cub waited, watching, straining their eyes to pick out tangible objects in the miasma.

  The hour appointed for the rendezvous had passed by fifteen minutes, and Ginger was just becoming alarmed, when a single, ghost-like figure loomed up with startling suddenness in the mist, proving how deceptive it was.