by W E Johns
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE BOOK
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
BIGGLES DEFIES THE SWASTIKA
Chapter 1: An Unpleasant Awakening
Chapter 2: Alarming Developments
Chapter 3: Across the Frontier
Chapter 4: Cross-Examined
Chapter 5: Unexpected Allies
Chapter 6: The Navy Arrives
Chapter 7: What Happened at Stavanger
Chapter 8: Explanations And Decisions
Chapter 9: Back at Boda
Chapter 10: On the Run
Chapter 11: Complications
Chapter 12: Desperate Measures
Chapter 13: Fresh Plans
Chapter 14: Trapped!
Chapter 15: The Last Round
BIGGLES DELIVERS THE GOODS
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor
Chapter 2: Li Chi Outlines His Plan
Chapter 3: Sortie to Elephant Island
Chapter 4: Ginger Takes a Walk
Chapter 5: Biggles Makes a Reconnaissance
Chapter 6: Up the River
Chapter 7: War Comes to Shansie
Chapter 8: Decisions
Chapter 9: Ayert Goes Ashore
Chapter 10: Preparations
Chapter 11: Ginger Gets a Shock
Chapter 12: How Algy Ditched the Gosling
Chapter 13: Algy Meets a Friend – and an Enemy
Chapter 14: Enter the Liberators
Chapter 15: Shocks for Biggles
Chapter 16: Sortie to Shansie
Chapter 17: The Raid
Chapter 18: Li Chi Comes Back
Chapter 19: The Pace Grows Faster
Chapter 20: The Storm Breaks
BIGGLES DEFENDS THE DESERT
Chapter 1: A Desert Rendezvous
Chapter 2: Desert Patrol
Chapter 3: What Happened to Ginger
Chapter 4: Shadows in the Night
Chapter 5: The Decoy
Chapter 6: Biggles Strikes Again
Chapter 7: Events at the Oasis
Chapter 8: A Desperate Venture
Chapter 9: A Perilous Passage
Chapter 10: The Haboob
Chapter 11: Happenings at Salima
Chapter 12: The Enemy Strikes Again
Chapter 13: Biggles Takes his Turn
Chapter 14: The Storm Breaks
Chapter 15: Abandoned
Chapter 16: The Battle of Salima
Chapter 17: The Last Round
BIGGLES FAILS TO RETURN
Chapter 1: Where is Biggles?
Chapter 2: The Reasonable Plan
Chapter 3: The Road to Monte Carlo
Chapter 4: The Writing On the Wall
Chapter 5: Bertie Meets a Friend
Chapter 6: Strange Encounters
Chapter 7: Good Samaritans
Chapter 8: Jock’S Bar
Chapter 9: The Girl in the Blue Shawl
Chapter 10: Shattering News
Chapter 11: The Cats of Castillon
Chapter 12: Bertie Picks a Lemon
Chapter 13: Pilgrimage to Peille
Chapter 14: Au Bon Cuisine
Chapter 15: Conference at Castillon
Chapter 16: Biggles Takes Over
Chapter 17: Plan for Escape
Chapter 18: How the Rendezvous was Kept
Chapter 19: Farewell to France
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY CAPTAIN W.E. JOHNS
COPYRIGHT
About the Book
BIGGLES DEFIES THE SWASTIKA
Caught up in the German invasion of Norway in the early days of the Second World War, Biggles has to use all his cunning to stay one step ahead of the enemy. With his old opponent Von Stalheim hot on his trail, it’s going to take a daring act to avoid the horror of the Nazi firing squad.
BIGGLES DELIVERS THE GOODS
Deep in the jungle heartland of Japanese occupied Malaya, Biggles and his team operate a secret commando base. It’s deadly, dangerous work, risking enemy capture and Biggles is fighting to bring all his men out alive.
BIGGLES DEFENDS THE DESERT
With a dangerous mission ahead and the threat of being shot down in the waterless wasteland of the African plains, Biggles is in the desert, defending the vital air-route from the West coast of Africa to the Middle East. When a number of planes fail to arrive at their destinations, Biggles is there to find out why – and stop it happening again.
BIGGLES FAILS TO RETURN
Biggles is missing in action. Last seen lying shot and wounded, surrounded by the enemy, his chances are looking bleak. But Algy, Ginger and Bertie will not give up until they find him, dead or alive, and if this means going behind enemy lines, then that’s what they will do.
To the Cadets of the Air Training Corps, many of whom will soon be carrying on the Biggles tradition, as those already in the Service carried it during the Battle of Britain, and are still ‘Venturing Adventure’ above the near and the distant corners of the earth.
INTRODUCTION
The writing of the Biggles stories started in the 1930s as something of a family affair. My uncle, Bill Johns, encouraged by my aunt Doris, wrote stories that were very much based on his own experiences. Another uncle, Howard Leigh, illustrated them, my aunt, Marjorie Leigh, typed the manuscripts and acted as secretary – and they all lived together in two pretty cottages in Lingfield, along with my granny, Florence Leigh. An early commune!
My first recollection of Bill is of staying with him in Scotland. I was suffering from a gumboil and feeling pretty sorry for myself. Bill recommended that the perfect cure would be bathing it with whisky – rather a shock for a seven-year-old!
Raconteur is the word that best describes Bill. He was a master at telling a story and loved an appreciative audience. Often people not directly involved in his conversations were drawn to him as he talked. To a child, he was a fascinating person, a source of amazing adventure stories, both written and told. The gift of his books every Christmas and birthday was something I anticipated with huge pleasure.
In later years, at Park House, Hampton Court, he was often to be found, champagne in hand, sitting in his glasshouse admiring and tending to his orchids. He was very proud of his personal key which opened the gate to the palace gardens when they were closed to the public. He and Doris would often walk there together in the evenings.
Bill remained a storyteller to the end, and after a lifetime of fascinating experiences he was never short of a tale to tell.
Thinking about him now, after all these years, I realise that he lived life to the full and took advantage of every opportunity. His life, with all its experiences, makes a jolly good story too.
James Broom
July 2012
CHAPTER 1
AN UNPLEASANT AWAKENING
SQUADRON-LEADER JAMES BIGGLESWORTH, D.S.O., better known in flying circles as ‘Biggles’, was awakened by the early morning sun streaming through the open window of his room in the Hotel Kapital, in Oslo. As he stretched out his hand towards the bedside bell, to let the chambermaid know that he was ready for his coffee, he became vaguely aware that instead of the usual bustle in the street below there was a peculiar silence, as if it were Sunday. It struck him that he might be mistaken in the day, and that it was Sunday after all; but this thought was instantly dismissed by the absence of church-bell chimes. He reached out for the morning paper, which the hall porter, without wakening him, had on previous days put on his bedside table, only to frown with surprise and disapproval when he found that it was not there.
Looking back, he could never understand why this sequence of events did not suggest th
e truth to him. Perhaps he was not fully awake; or it may have been that his mind was filled with other things. Be that as it may, no suspicion of the real state of affairs occurred to him. He was in no immediate hurry to get up, for he had nothing in particular to do, so he lay still, basking in the early spring sunshine, thinking over the peculiar nature of the mission that had brought him to Norway, and wondering if it was time for him to get into touch with Colonel Raymond, of the British Intelligence Service, with a view to asking if he could now return to France.
When, some two months earlier, Colonel Raymond had broached the project to him, Biggles had listened without enthusiasm, for he was quite content to be where he was. At that time he was in France, commanding a special squadron which included amongst its pilots his two best friends, Flight-Lieutenant the Hon. Algy Lacey and Flying-Officer ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite; and one of the reasons why he received Colonel Raymond’s proposal with disfavour was that the acceptance of it meant leaving them, and going alone to Norway.
The mission which Colonel Raymond asked him to undertake was, on the face of it, neither difficult nor dangerous. Briefly, it was this. According to reports received from their secret agents, the British authorities were of the opinion that the Nazi government contemplated an invasion of Scandinavia, and in the event of this taking place, British troops would at once be sent to the assistance of the country attacked. But this was only the major issue. If troops were sent, then they would have to be supported by aircraft, and Colonel Raymond’s department was anxious to ascertain what air bases would be available. This did not mean established civil or military aerodromes, particulars of which were already known, but tracts of land which might, in emergency, be converted into aerodromes. Failing that, which lakes or fiords were the most suitable for marine aircraft? Such technical information as this could only be obtained by a practical pilot, and Biggles was asked to undertake the work. There were, however, minor difficulties, one of which was the political aspect. For example, if it became known that a British pilot was carrying out survey flights over Norway it might lead to unpleasant repercussions, and in order to avoid such a possibility a scheme had been evolved.
Biggles – assuming that he accepted the task – would proceed to Norway as a Norwegian subject who had for many years resided in Canada. This would account for his being able to speak English fluently, and at the same time explain his imperfect Norwegian. As a matter of fact, Biggles knew no Norwegian at all, and his first job would be to pick up the language as quickly as possible. For the rest, he would be provided with papers pronouncing him to be Sven Hendrik, born in Oslo. On arriving in Norway he would join a flying club and buy a light aeroplane in which he would make cross-country flights, ostensibly for sport, but in reality to collect the information required. Should the threatened invasion actually occur, all he would have to do would be to get into his machine and fly back to England forthwith.
It all sounded so very simple that it found no favour in Biggles’s eyes, and he said as much, pointing out that it was a job any pilot could do. But Colonel Raymond, with shrewd foresight, did not agree. He admitted that while all went well the mission was unlikely to present any difficulty, but should unforeseen circumstances arise – well, it would save him a lot of anxiety if someone of ability and experience was on the job. It would not last very long – perhaps two to three months. If he, Biggles, would undertake it, Algy Lacey could command the squadron in France until he returned.
In the end Biggles had agreed to go, for as the matter was put to him he could not very well refuse, particularly as Colonel Raymond asked him to go as a personal favour. So he said goodbye to Algy and Ginger and in due course arrived in Norway. He would, of course, have taken his two comrades with him had this been possible, but Captain Raymond vetoed it on the grounds that three strangers might attract suspicion where one would not.
For nearly two months he had been in Norway, making long survey flights in his little ‘Moth’ when the weather permitted, and swotting hard at the Norwegian language on every possible occasion. To live in a country is the best and quickest way of learning its language, and after seven weeks of concentrated effort Biggles was able to carry on a normal conversation in Norwegian. Also, by flying over it, he had got to know the country very well; indeed, there were few physical features that he had not seen, including the rugged coastline. He had sent his reports home with many photographs, so it was reasonable to suppose that he might be recalled at any moment. Indeed, it was in anticipation of this that he had left his room at the flying club, which was a small private landing-ground near the village of Boda, to see the sights. Oslo was only thirty miles from Boda. He apprehended no danger in leaving his base, for nothing of note had happened the whole time he had been in Norway, and as far as he could see nothing was likely to happen. In fact, in his heart he was beginning to suspect that the British Intelligence Service had been mistaken in thinking that the Germans were contemplating an attack on Norway.
He looked at his watch. It was now nearly eight o’clock, and still his coffee had not arrived. This was curious, for the chambermaid was usually prompt, and he was in the act of reaching again for the bell when a sound reached his ears that brought a puzzled frown to his forehead. However, still without alarm, he flung off the bedclothes and was on his way to the window when the door of the room burst open and the chambermaid appeared. She seemed to be in a state bordering on hysteria.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Biggles shortly.
The woman nearly choked in her excitement and dismay. With a quivering finger she pointed to the window. ‘The Germans,’ she gasped. ‘The Germans are here!’
Biggles experienced an unpleasant shock, for he realized that the woman was speaking the truth. Two swift strides took him to the window. One glance was enough. A double file of Nazi troops were marching up the street. A few civilians stood on the pavement, watching with expressions that revealed what they felt, but otherwise the street was comparatively deserted.
Biggles bustled the woman out of the room. He had often found it necessary to dress quickly, but never before had he got into his clothes with such speed as he did now. And all the time his brain was racing as he strove to form a plan, to make some provision for the alarming contingency that had arisen; in other words, to escape with all possible speed from the trap in which he found himself.
Where the Nazi troops had come from so miraculously, and apparently without opposition, he could not imagine. At least, he assumed that there had been no opposition, or he could not have failed to hear the firing. The thing was inexplicable. The Nazis, incontestably, were in control of the city, and that was sufficient reason for him to evacuate it with all possible speed. Curiously enough he did not expect any great difficulty in achieving this, for was he not, to all intents and purposes, a harmless Norwegian citizen? Even the Nazis, he reasoned, would hardly massacre the entire civil population in cold blood, nor would they prevent people from going about their normal business.
Before he had finished dressing Biggles had decided on his line of action. It was the obvious one. He would charter a taxi and drive straight to the aerodrome. Once there it would not take him long to get his machine out of its hangar and into the air; and once in the air, only engine failure would prevent him from reaching England. Fortunately, from sheer habit, he had seen his tanks filled before he left the aerodrome. So, broadly speaking, his flight – in both senses of the word – seemed a fairly simple matter. His luggage didn’t matter; there was nothing incriminating in it, and nothing that was irreplaceable, so he was quite prepared to abandon it. His only thought was to get to the aerodrome.
He took a quick glance at himself in the full-length mirror and decided that there was no reason why anyone should suspect that he was anything but what he pretended to be – a Norwegian subject. His grey flannel suit he had actually bought in Oslo on his arrival in the country. His nationality papers were in order and he had plenty of ready money, so it seemed that he had
little to worry about. Humming nonchalantly, he went down the stairs into the hall, and there he received his first shock. It was a rude one.
Four German troopers, under an unteroffizier,1 were there. They saw him at the same moment that he saw them, and as to retire would obviously invite suspicion he kept on his way. He was brought to a halt by the point of a bayonet. The unteroffizier addressed him harshly.
‘Who are you?’ he barked.
Biggles affected an expression of surprise. ‘My name’s Hendrik,’ he answered at once. ‘Why do you ask? What is happening here?’
‘Norway is now under the control of the Third Reich,’ answered the German. ‘Return to your room and remain there until further notice.’
Biggles looked at the hotel manager. Slumped at his desk, he was as white as death. He seemed stunned. ‘It is correct,’ he said in a low voice.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well,’ he said, and walked back up the stairs.
But this state of affairs did not suit him. Far from it. The last thing he intended doing was to sit passively in his room, so as soon as he was on the first floor he hurried to the end of the corridor and looked out of the window. It overlooked a courtyard – full of Germans. Plainly, there was no escape that way. He tried the windows of several unoccupied rooms, and finally found one overlooking a narrow side street. The only people in it were a small group of women, talking excitedly. They were, of course, Norwegians, so having nothing to fear from them, he opened the window wide, climbed over the sill, and, after hanging to the full extent of his arms, dropped lightly to the pavement. Another moment and he was walking briskly down the street towards a garage which he had previously noted. But alas for his hopes! A squad of Germans had already taken possession of the building, so Biggles walked on without pausing.
He was now somewhat at a loss, for although he had been in Oslo twice before, he was by no means sure of his way. He reached the main street to find it full of marching Germans, with Norwegians standing about watching them helplessly. What upset him, however, was the complete absence of motor traffic, and he realized with something like dismay that the invaders must have at once put a ban on mechanical transport. This was disturbing to say the least of it, but it did not affect his determination to get to the aerodrome. Nevertheless, he knew it was no use thinking of walking; it would take too long. He perceived that if the Germans had stopped motor traffic they would also have stopped private flying – or they would as soon as they reached the aerodrome. Thus, his only chance in getting away lay in reaching the aerodrome before the German troops took it over – as they certainly would.