They were, in fact, some time in finding the particular valley they sought, but after losing height and circling for a while it was the old castle, its crumbling battlements silhouetted for a moment against the sky, that gave them its position. An orange-coloured piece of material was presently put out by the people there, but by that time wheel marks in the sandy ground, which could not be
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obliterated or camouflaged except by natural dust storms, had revealed the actual landing area.
Five minutes later the Beechcraft's wheels were running in the grooves.
After the machine had run to a standstill Biggles taxied on to where some men were sitting under an awning near a line of dilapidated-looking tents and a long wooden hutment.
Nothing about the place came up to Ginger's expectations. He had expected something like a proper service station. From what he had seen of the surrounding country he knew that the landscape could be nothing but an arid, dusty, barren scene of hopeless desolation, a waste of rock and sand, fit only to be the abode of snakes and scorpions; and in this he was not mistaken. It could hardly be otherwise, he reflected. Fertile places are occupied, and the secret squadron, by its nature, had to be far from possible observers. The wild hillmen, out of touch with the rest of the world, hardly counted as human beings. How the pilots bore the solitude and lack of amenities he could not imagine. However, he was to learn in due course.
The castle, the only feature in sight, was an imposing building. Standing like a giant defying time on a spur of rock he quailed at the thought of the plight of the wretched slaves responsible for its construction; for no voluntary labour would have undertaken such a task in such a place.
Who had ordered the building of it he did not know, and could not imagine. He had seen similar castles farther south; but those had been built by the Crusaders, near the caravan routes. This was out of the world. Three aircraft, more or less covered by ragged khaki dust-sheets, stood in the shade of a nearby escarpment.
There were about a dozen men sitting about waiting for the Beechcraft to switch off. Not one got up to offer a greeting. They were, perhaps, too bored, or too tired, thought Ginger. Their appearance certainly supported that view, for a more scruffy-looking lot of white men he 117
had never seen. Shorts and open-necked shirts, the worse for wear and none too clean, was the common dress. Ginger had half expected to find the garrison in uniforms. Two or three of the men had half-grown beards, and these doubtful adornments, with long hair in need of cutting, did nothing to improve their appearance. None of the men had shaved for days; and if there is one thing more dilatory-looking than long hair it is an unshaven chin. One thing was plain. Something was radically wrong at the air headquarters of the Committee of Three, and discipline, if ever there had been any, had gone by the board.
Said a bearded man, sitting on an oil-drum, as Biggles and Ginger moved into the shade of the awning: "Where are the cigarettes?"
Biggles, naturally, looked a bit puzzled. "Cigarettes?" The man frowned.
"Didn't you bring any?"
"Only what I have in my case."
"Where's Leffers? He was to bring a stock."
"If you're waiting for Leffers to bring a supply you'll wait a long time."
"How so?"
"He's dead."
This piece of information caused a stir; and consternation, although this obviously was not so much sympathy for the dead man as his failure to produce cigarettes, which were evidently in short supply. There was some swearing.
"He didn't say anything to me about cigarettes," volunteered Biggles.
Which was perfectly true.
"What happened?" he was asked.
"He was shot by someone in the Continentale, in Alex. I saw him at the club."
"Klein, Voss, now Leffers," muttered a disreputable-looking youth.
"What's Klutz playing at, leaving us in the cart like this?"
"Klutz isn't playing at anything. He was shot at the same time as Leffers."
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"How come you to know all this?"
"We'd just flown in from Algiers and were in the hotel at the time. We heard the shooting, and seeing what had happened pushed off before •the police arrived. We'd met Leffers by appointment at the club. Those were our orders. He told us to meet him at the airport at six. That's all he told us, except about this place. Knowing what had happened we came on alone. What else were we to do? We couldn't go back to Algiers and we daren't stay in Alex."
"What about the other man—the feller who's to take Klein's place?"
"Leffers didn't say anything to me about that. Would you like me to go back and fetch him?"
There was some sarcastic laughter.
"What's the joke?" asked Biggles.
"We're out of petrol," was the staggering reply. In fact we're out of everything except bully and biscuits," added the speaker bitterly.
"Why not do something about it?" suggested Biggles. "I imagine you've got radio. Why not put an S.O.S. through to Alex.-"
"We had radio but it don't work any more. Klein put it out of action to stop us bleating."
The story that was now unfolded caused Ginger no great surprise. It was in fact a sequence of natural consequences. In the first place the members of the secret squadron were men of doubtful, if not bad, character. Rebels by nature, it would not take much to upset them.
Secondly, there was the soul-destroying location of the airfield with a climate few white men could endure for long without special equipment and amenities.
For a while everything had run on oiled wheels. Klein, with his two trusted lieutenants, Voss and Leffers, had maintained discipline and organized a steady supply of stores—the most important of which, in a nervy, thirsty climate, had been beer and cigarettes. But then Klein's 119
own nerves had broken down and he had taken to drink. In such a situation things had gone quickly from bad to worse. Klein had quarrelled with Voss and Leffers. The men grumbled, saying that Klein was keeping the beer and cigarettes for himself. Morale had crumbled. Klein had taken the output valve from the radio to prevent any of his men from complaining to Alexandria when his back was turned. He carried it in his pocket.
He was never sober. He was drunk when he had got into his machine to do a bombing job that had been ordered. That was why he had flown into the hill. The output valve had gone west with him. Voss had flown to Alexandria to report to Klutz, get a new machine and fresh recruits. He hadn't come back. Then Leffers had gone. Now he, too, had been killed.
The disgruntled men in the Valley of the Tartars, having faith in Klutz's efficiency, had sat waiting for him to put things right. Now Klutz was dead. Someone suggested that Raban, who was a smart guy, might do something. They knew Raban, from which it appeared that they were deserters from the Foreign Legion.
Ginger could have told them that Raban's activities had also ended. It was clear to him that the squadron was in a bad way. Lindsay, and to some extent themselves, had already struck the Valley a blow that might prove mortal. Its one hope of survival was von Stalhein, who was a disciplinarian, and efficient. The same man might be responsible for their own non.survival should he arrive on the scene while they were there, he reflected ruefully. And without petrol they looked like staying there. The great redeeming factor of the situation was the radio being out of action.
The men were still grumbling about what had happened, most of them blaming Klein.
From their conversation Ginger made it out that there were three pilots.
The rest were mechanics or camp assistants. They were of mixed nationality, but all spoke either English or French, which they would have learned in the Legion.
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"Blaming Klein won't help now," Biggles pointed out. "As you've probably realized, we'
re new. We were promised something a bit different from this."
"There may be a row about you taking that plane," said a man. "It's one of those the Committee keep for their o
wn use."
"I wasn't to know that. What do you mean by one of the Committee's machines? Have they others?"
"How do you suppose they get stores and heavy stuff out to us?"
"I wouldn't know."
"They keep a Douglas D.C.3 at Alex. for the job." explained another man.
"Feller named Liebnitz flies it. He's in Alex. now, loading up—that's if he ain't been bumped off, too.
He was to bring petrol for the next job."
"What's the idea of keeping you so short of petrol?" asked Biggles.
There was more cynical laughter. Said a man : "Don't be such a sucker. If there was plenty of petrol left lying loose somebody might go for a ride and not come back. I would, for one. Sitting here day after day, frying like an egg in a pan."
"We've had a thirsty trip," remarked Biggles. "How do we go for water?"
"There's plenty of that—but who wants to drink water in a place like this."
Biggles shrugged. "We shall have to drink something or shrivel in this heat."
"There's a well in the castle."
"I see." said Biggles. "What are you fellows going to do?"
Nobody knew. At all events, nobody answered.
"Sitting here waiting for something that may never come isn't my idea of fun."
"Okay, wise guy," growled a big, unshaven fellow. "You think of something if you're so smart."
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"Somebody will have to go to Alex., and get this mess straightened out."
"How?"
"I wasn't thinking of walking," answered Biggles evenly. "Isn't there an oilfield somewhere near here?"
One of the men laughed harshly. "You don't dig petrol out of the ground, pal. You get crude oil. They haven't struck it yet, anyhow. They're still drilling. That's what we're supposed to be doing here."
"I see. Where do you reckon is the nearest place we could get petrol?"
The men looked at each other and agreed it would be Mosul, in Northern Iraq.
"That's about two hundred miles from here," said Biggles.
"How are you going to get two hundred miles?"
"Well, I've a little petrol left in my tanks and I imagine the tanks of the machines I see over there aren't bone dry. Put it all together, and with what I have left I could go to Mosul. Even if I couldn't top up there I could get a message through to Alex."
"That's an idea," said someone. "I've had about enough of sitting here sweating. Our pay'
s overdue. The next thing we'll hear is there ain't going to be any more."
Ginger wondered why the men hadn't thought of Biggles's suggestion themselves, but he gathered from the conversation that followed that not only were their three machines military types, which would be hard to explain in Mosul or anywhere else, but as a result of their several sorties they might be identified. It wouldn't be safe to land them anywhere except in their remote retreat. It was generally agreed, however, that the Beechcraft, being a civil type, might get away with it.
It was too late to start for Mosul that day—or it would be by the time any remaining petrol had been transferred to the Beechcraft—so Biggles said if they'd do that he'd go in the morning. Meantime, somebody pointed out, the
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Douglas plane might arrive with Klein's successor—and some beer.
Ginger hoped fervently that it would not.
Now that there was something to do. the atmosphere of pessimistic resignation gave way to a less depressing mood all round. Biggles parted with most of his cigarettes. "Where do we sleep?" he asked.
"You can please yourself whether you sleep in a tent and get sandfly fever or doss down in the castle with the snakes, scorpions and mosquitoes," he was told.
Biggles said they would go to the castle. It should be cooler than a tent. "What about grub," he asked.
"There's plenty of bully and biscuits in the wooden hut. Help yourself."
he was informed.
Collecting their kit from the Beechcraft they walked on to the hut, a prefabricated structure that had evidently been flown out and assembled on the spot. Nobody went with them. The door stood wide open.
Biggles took one step over the threshold and then stopped, staring at the litter inside. It was plain that this one weatherproof building was the general store, workshop and armoury. Broken packing-cases lay around.
Tools were flung anyhow on a bench. Spare parts, oil and petrol drums were piled in heaps. Some small bombs, explosive and incendiary, lay in a corner. But what delighted Ginger were some weapons, rifles and pistols, that hung at all angles, on nails, on the walls, over more broken packing-cases, this time of ammunition.
"Just take a good look," invited Biggles grimly. "And I've heard fellows in the services wondering why discipline is necessary! This is what happens when there isn't any—when a bunch of men are left to themselves.
It's nobody's job to do anything, so everybody does nothing. Is anybody watching us?"
"No."
"Then we'll have a couple of Lugers and some ammunition. Imagine it. Even in a place like this these fools haven't the wit to post a guard. I know what'll happen 123
here one day. I can only marvel that it hasn't happened before."
"What?'
"I'll tell you presently. We mustn't be too long. Grab a gun. We'll take some rations, too."
Presently, heavily laden, they walked on towards the castle, a matter of only a few hundred yards away.
"A pretty rotten lot," was Ginger's verdict of their new comrades.
"Rotten maybe, but dangerous," replied Biggles. "When we arrived they were about ripe for mutiny. I suspect some of them would have pushed off had they anywhere to go, and any way of getting there. What they may not realize is—and I'm pretty sure I'm right in this—they'll never get out.
The Committee will see to that. The old saying, dead men can'
t talk, is still true. That could be one of the reasons why this place was chosen for a hide-out. All the surviving members of the Committee have to do is withhold petrol—when it suits them—and these poor fools have had it. There's no walking home from the Valley of the Tartars."
"That goes for us."
"I realized that before I landed. I must admit I was a bit shaken when they said there was no petrol. I relied on there being plenty here, so we could fly out when it suited us. That's why I've put forward this scheme of going to Mosul. I shan't come back, of course. I've seen all I want to see here. Some of these fellows will rat on each other when they're questioned by the police, to save their own skins. They always do. So the whole racket will be exposed. There's only one snag now to get over."
"What's that?"
"I still don't know what country we're in, so who's going to handle the job? To bring it before an international court would mean argument, and argument means delay —during which time the wise guys at the top would pull their irons out of the fire and get away with it. However, that'll come later. The thing is to get away from here, 124
and the sooner the better. I don't like the idea of this Douglas being available in Alex.
Von Stalhein might decide to use it. There's a pilot there, too—this fellow Liebnitz."
"What did you mean about these fellows being crazy not to post a guard?"
"Had any of them served in the R.A.F. they'd know. The Kurds, some of the wildest tribes on earth, live in these hills. Like the Pathans and Wazirs on the North-West Frontier they've lived for thousands of years by raiding the people of the plains. That's their life—business and pleasure combined. They pinch anything, from camels to corn, but the most valuable loot of all is weapons and ammunition. They can't get those any other way; but they must have them to raid, and they must raid to live. Once upon a time they relied on speed to get back to the hills before they were overtaken. But they weren't fast enough for aircraft. Some years ago, when we took care of Iraq, our chaps caught them in the open, and so taught them that the good old raiding days were over. The R.A.
F. is no lo
nger here, but you can bet the Kurds haven't forgotten what happened when they were. They hate aircraft, and with good reason. One day they'll raid this place as sure as fate. They would probably have done it by now had they realized what things were like here. There's nothing to stop them as far as I can see. That's another reason why I shall be glad to see the back of it."
Ginger looked apprehensively at the stark, apparently dead hills that frowned on them from three points of the compass.
"Let's have a dekko at the castle," said Biggles.
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CHAPTER XIII
A CASTLE WITHOUT A NAME
UNDER ordinary conditions the castle would have interested Ginger immensely, particularly if he had known something about it. It interested him now—but not for academical reasons. Its time-weathered walls revealed its antiquity; but, now that he was close to it, it was the size of the place that fascinated him. He reckoned it covered a good acre of ground.
It was plain at first glance that the primary consideration of the architect had been defence. Everything else was secondary. The site itself had obviously been chosen to that end. On three sides the walls rose sheer from perpendicular rock faces. Even so there was not a window
—if occasional narrow slits could be called windows—less than thirty feet from the ground.
There was only one approach to the single entrance. This was a stone arched bridge over a ravine, just wide enough for one. man to cross at a time. There was no parapet. The ravine, about fifteen feet across, was not very deep, and looking down as they walked over Ginger saw, from the chaos of boulders at the bottom, that it had at one time been a water-course. Great boulders and detritus that had rolled down the hills through the ages also lay on all sides, although, by a curious chance, none had struck the bridge or it must have been carried away.
From the far side of the bridge steps had been hewn in the rock to a doorway, again just wide enough to admit one man at a time. There was no actual door. In fact, as they discovered later, there was no wood in the place at all. As they mounted the steps to the entrance Ginger 126
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