Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  At that moment the German troops sprang up and ran forward. An officer was at their head.

  Biggles received them with a cold smile. ‘You’ve arrived at a useful moment,’ he said harshly, showing his Gestapo pass. ‘I saw these fellows skulking among the rocks so I went after them. You’d better get them to a safe place.’ As he spoke he took out his armlet and replaced it on his sleeve.

  The German officer, who was quite young, was all politeness. ‘Leave them to me,’ he answered. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you shouldn’t have risked your life as you did. These fellows are a desperate lot and they might have attacked you. We’ve been following them for some time, to round them up.’

  ‘No harm done,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘I must get on, so I’ll leave you to finish the job.’ With a curt nod he got back into his car and drove on into the town.

  Even before he reached it he saw that what the sailor had told him was only too true. German troops were everywhere, and five destroyers lay in the fiord. There was also a number of flying-boats and seaplanes.

  He went straight to General Headquarters and asked to see the officer in charge of operations. He had to wait a few minutes; then two senior naval officers came out and he was shown in.

  A Colonel, with his adjutant at his elbow, received him coldly but politely. From their manner Biggles judged that they had little love for the Gestapo, but feared them too much to be anything but civil. He showed his pass.

  ‘I’m looking for an English spy named Bigglesworth,’ he said without wasting words. ‘He bolted from Oslo, heading north. We have good reason to think that he was coming here. Have you any English prisoners?’

  ‘Yes, we have a few.’ The Colonel looked at his adjutant.

  ‘Eighteen, sir, I think.’

  ‘Have they been examined?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is Bigglesworth among them?’

  ‘He may be, but if he is he didn’t give that name,’ answered the adjutant.

  ‘I’d better see them,’ said Biggles curtly.

  The adjutant took him to a small schoolroom which was being used as a prison camp. Several sentries were on guard. The prisoners were paraded. They stood in a line, coldly hostile, defiant, in spite of the state they were in, for they all looked as if they had been through a bad time. There were one or two Air Force uniforms, but most of the men were sailors. One, a leathery-faced old salt, cursed Hitler and everything German in a steady stream of invective.

  Biggles glanced at him. ‘Shut up!’ he snapped, ‘or I’ll give you something to curse about, Schweinehund.’ He walked slowly along the line.

  Now all this, of course, was merely play-acting, part of the scheme that had now crystallized in his mind. He would certainly not see the man he professed to be looking for, nor did he expect to recognize anyone; so he merely glanced at the faces as, with the adjutant and an armed soldier following, he walked slowly down the line. But when he came to the seventh man he stopped dead.

  It was Algy.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NAVY ARRIVES

  HOW BIGGLES KEPT control of himself at that ghastly moment he never knew. For two palpitating seconds he stood stock still, while he felt the blood draining from his face. Then he walked on, looking for Ginger, who he felt must be there too. But of Ginger there was no sign, so he walked back along the line to Algy, feeling that he ought to make some excuse for stopping in front of him.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’ he asked harshly.

  Algy didn’t move a muscle. Actually, he had got over his shock at seeing Biggles, for he saw him immediately he entered the room – long before Biggles saw him.

  ‘You may have seen my picture in the papers,’ sneered Algy. ‘I won the world championship at snakes and ladders – up one minute and down the next.’

  There was a titter along the line.

  Biggles spluttered with rage, German fashion. ‘Silence!’ he bellowed. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. ‘He isn’t here,’ he told the adjutant. ‘Let us go back to the Colonel – I must speak to him again.’

  They returned to headquarters.

  ‘Did you find your man?’ inquired the Colonel.

  ‘No,’ answered Biggles shortly. ‘There’ll be trouble if he gets away. He’s a dangerous man. I must ring up my chief in Oslo.’ He broke off and glanced over his shoulder as from outside the door came the sound of quick footsteps. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  The door opened. An N.C.O. came into the room and saluted. ‘Seven more prisoners, sir,’ he announced.

  ‘Good,’ said Biggles sharply. ‘My man may be among them. Bring them in here – you don’t mind, Colonel? I only want to see their faces.’

  ‘Bring them in.’

  The seven prisoners, the seven sailors whom Biggles had encountered on the hill-side, were marched in. Every face was expressionless.

  Biggles scrutinized each man in turn. ‘Who is the senior officer?’ he snapped.

  ‘I am,’ growled Evans.

  ‘Were there any more of you?’

  Evans did not answer.

  ‘Answer me!’

  Still the sailor maintained a stubborn silence.

  Biggles’ jaw set in true Prussian fashion. ‘I think you forget where you are,’ he grated. ‘I hope it will not be necessary for me to remind you. Were there more than seven in your party?’

  Evans hesitated. ‘There was one more, but he left us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get back to England, I suppose. He found a dinghy, and without waiting for us, rowed out to a steamer. But he wasn’t really one of our party.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As we walked down the coast we met him coming up. He said he had escaped from Oslo.’

  Biggles affected a start. ‘Oslo! What was his name?’

  ‘He told me his name was Bigglesworth. He seemed in a mighty hurry to get home. That’s all I know about him.’

  Biggles turned a grim face to the Colonel, who was watching the scene with intense interest.

  ‘You heard that?’ he said in a low voice. ‘That was my man without a doubt. He must have left the road and gone down to the rocks; that was how I came to miss him. It looks as if he’s got clean away. I’m afraid there will be trouble about this. I trust, sir, that you will confirm that I did everything possible in the time at my disposal? The man had gone before I got here. I’d better ring up my headquarters at once. As you are the senior officer here perhaps you would be good enough to speak to my chief?’ Biggles glanced at the escort. ‘All right; I shan’t want these prisoners again.’

  As they filed away Biggles’ eyes met those of Evans and flashed his thanks.

  The Colonel had already picked up the telephone. He handed it to Biggles who put a call through to Gestapo headquarters, at the Hotel Port, Oslo. When the operator spoke he asked for Oberleutnant von Hymann, and in a moment he was speaking to him.

  ‘This is 2001, speaking from General headquarters, Narvik,’ he said. ‘I have to report that I tracked Bigglesworth to here, but he had left in a steamer before my arrival. I obtained this information from a party of British prisoners with whom Bigglesworth had for a short time been keeping company. One moment, sir, the Commanding Officer will speak to you. I am telephoning from his office.’ Biggles handed the instrument to the Colonel.

  There followed a long conversation in which the Colonel confirmed in detail all that Biggles had said, and added details of how the information had been obtained, remarking that he had been a witness of it. He asserted that everything possible had been done to apprehend the wanted man, but as he had left the country before steps could be taken to arrest him no fault could be attached to anyone. The conversation was concluded and the Colonel hung up the instrument. He turned to Biggles. ‘Oberleutnant von Hymann says that you are to return to Boda at once,’ he said.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Biggles saluted and withdrew.

 
His plan had succeeded to the fullest possible extent, and but for one fly in the ointment he would have been elated. It was Algy.

  What Algy was doing in Narvik, and how he had come to be taken prisoner, Biggles, of course, had no means of knowing; nor dare he risk arousing suspicion by making inquiries; but from the fact that he was in R.A.F. uniform Biggles could only conclude that, in accordance with his request to Colonel Raymond, Algy had been sent to Norway in an aeroplane with a view to getting into touch with him. If that were so, what had happened to Ginger? It seemed certain that they would start together. One fact was significant, and Biggles did not overlook it. Algy had come to Narvik, and that at once suggested that Narvik was to be the scene of British operations, otherwise he would not be so foolish as to land in territory held by the enemy. Again, if he, Algy, had come to Narvik, then there was good reason to suppose that something was in the wind, that some plan had been evolved to bring Biggles to the same place, in order that they could make contact. But it was a problem no amount of reasoning could answer; the facts could only be obtained from Algy himself. The point paramount in Biggles’ mind was that von Hymann had ordered him to return to Boda, and to Boda he would have to go or lay himself open to dangerous questioning when he next saw the Gestapo chief. Yet he could not contemplate departing from Narvik leaving Algy a prisoner in German hands.

  He was still standing near the wharf pondering this difficult problem when a German flying-boat appeared round a bend in the fiord, flying very low and at terrific speed. It was obvious that the pilot’s mission was an urgent one. With professional interest Biggles watched the machine land and taxi quickly to the wharf where the other machines were moored. Even before the aircraft had stopped moving the pilot had scrambled out, shouting something in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. Instantly all was confusion.

  Biggles hurried forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked a soldier, for he had not caught the pilot’s words.

  ‘British destroyers are coming up the fiord – five of them,’ shouted the soldier as he dashed towards headquarters.

  Biggles’ pulses began to race. Things were going to happen in Narvik, that was certain. What part was he to play?

  His first thought was not for himself nor for Algy; it was for the destroyers. Was the Commander of the flotilla aware that six German destroyers lay in the fiord? If so, did he know where they were? They were not all in the open water. Some were hidden behind promontories of rock, where their presence would not be suspected. The British destroyers might be steaming into a trap, and if so his first duty ought to be to warn them, regardless of anything else.

  These were the thoughts that flashed through Biggles’ mind in that tense moment, and it did not take him long to reach a decision. The Dornier flying-boat from which the German had landed was still floating on the water where its pilot had left it. Nobody was bothering about it, which was hardly surprising, for everyone was much too engrossed in other affairs. Sailors were rushing back to their ships. Pilots were running to their moorings; some were already taxi-ing higher up the fiord to get out of the way of the storm which they guessed was coming. Anti-aircraft gunners were hurrying to their posts. Troops were taking up positions, mounting machine-guns at points overlooking the fiord.

  Biggles walked calmly down to the Dornier. A German pilot getting into a nearby machine had time to notice him, possibly because he was in civilian clothes.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he shouted.

  ‘Have a look at these Englander,’ answered Biggles promptly.

  ‘Can you fly?’

  Biggles laughed. ‘Watch me! I’ve just brought a message up from Oslo.’

  The German had no further time to waste on idle curiosity so he turned away. Biggles got into the Dornier and started the engine. Then, sitting quietly in his seat, he tore a page out of his notebook and wrote a message. On another sheet he made a rough sketch-map of the inner fiord, showing where the German destroyers were waiting. This done, he put both pages in his silver cigarette case and slipped it back in his pocket. A quick glance round revealed that the position ashore remained unaltered, so he eased open the throttle and surged towards the open water. Another moment and his keel was cutting a line of white foam across it. As soon as he was in the air he turned, and, flying low, raced down the fiord.

  He saw the British destroyers at once, for they were only about three miles away, steaming at high speed. They saw him, too – or the anti-aircraft gunners did, for instantly the air around him was filled with smoke, lacerated with flame and hurtling metal. With white face and set lips he swerved, dived and zoomed, anything to spoil the gunners’ aim; but he still held on towards the ships.

  His plan was to drop the cigarette case, with his message, on the deck of the leading destroyer, but such was the inferno that had broken out around him that he felt it was attempting the impossible. Apart from the ack ack fire, he knew it was no use trying to achieve his object by dropping the case while travelling in the opposite direction to the destroyers, for he would pass over them in a split second; his only chance was to overshoot them, turn, and then, travelling as slowly as possible, drop the message while going in the same direction.

  For the next two minutes he became a machine, a part of the aircraft. His brain concentrated on one thought only, but it was not easy. Shells burst in front of him, beside him, above and below him, causing the Dornier to rock like a leaf in a gale. It quivered and shuddered as pieces of flying metal ripped through wings and fuselage. Pieces of fabric streamed aft, and he fully expected the machine to break up at any moment. He had never known an aircraft to stand up to such punishment.

  He had a brief respite after he had flashed past the ships, for he was flying nearly on the water, and the gunners had not had time to turn their weapons.

  Steeling himself for the ordeal that lay before him, he banked vertically and started back, using the smoke thrown out by the destroyers as a screen as far as this was possible. The acrid fumes stung his eyes and made him cough as they bit into his lungs, but he gritted his teeth and held on, telling himself that it could only last another minute; then, one way or the other, it would be over.

  In a sort of hazy dream he counted the destroyers as he flashed over them, for his objective was the leader. One – two – three – four – the stern of the fifth came into view. With savage determination he jammed the joystick forward and dived into the very muzzles of the guns. His arm, with the cigarette case clutched in his hand, projected over the side. His fingers jerked open. The silver case flashed down. He saw it hit the deck, bounce, and slide to a standstill. Then he was past. But not unscathed. His port wing was wobbling and his engine was back-firing furiously. Black, oily smoke spurted out of it. Hot oil drove against the windscreen, blinding him. The stench of petrol vapour struck his nostrils, and he pushed the joystick forward, tilting his nose towards the water. The engine coughed, and stopped. Leaning over the side, he saw that he was almost on the water; he jerked the joystick back, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The hull struck the placid surface of the fiord with a crash, and the machine bounced high. For a moment it hung in the air, wallowing like a wounded seagull, then it stalled. There was another crash as it struck the water. The Dornier at once began to sink as water poured through a score of holes.

  Half dazed, Biggles scrambled out of the cockpit on to the back of the splinter-riddled hull. But in his heart he felt that his case was hopeless, for the leading destroyer was within a hundred yards, bearing straight down on him at a speed that would drive the knife-like bows through the flimsy aircraft like an axe. There was nothing he could do except hang on with one hand and wave with the other, although it seemed futile.

  As it happened, it was not. The destroyer altered her course a fraction, revealing a party of sailors crowding near the rail. The vessel was, of course, too close to stop, even if the Commander had wished to do so – which in the circumstances was hardly likely. But a rope coiled out. Well and truly thrown,
it fell across the fuselage, now half submerged by the bow-wave. Half smothered with spray, Biggles grabbed the line and gave it two quick turns round his waist. He had no time to do more. The next instant he had been whipped off his perch and was being dragged through the water. But he clung to the rope with both hands for he felt it was likely to cut him in halves unless something was soon done to relieve the strain.

  What happened after that he didn’t know. He never did know. All he knew was that he opened his eyes to find himself gasping like a stranded fish on the deck of the destroyer. Several sailors were looking at him curiously. Then an officer hurried forward and bent over him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘We got the case – and your message. But who the devil are you?’

  Biggles saw that the officer was staring at his swastika armlet, which for the moment he had completely forgotten. ‘Oh, that,’ he laughed weakly. ‘Don’t take any notice of that. I’m a British agent. Take me to your skipper at once.’

  Half supported by two sailors, for his legs were a bit groggy, he was taken to the bridge, where he was at once the cynosure of all eyes.

  He looked at the captain. ‘You got my message?’

  ‘Yes – but who—’

  Biggles broke in, and in a few crisp sentences told who he was, what he had done, and why he had done it. Naturally, he was able to go into more details than had been possible in the written message, with regard to the disposition of the enemy forces. ‘If you shoot at the shore batteries, try not to hit the schoolhouse – it’s full of British prisoners,’ he concluded. ‘Phew, I’ve had a hot five minutes.’

  ‘Hot!’ The captain permitted himself to smile. ‘I’d call it something worse than that. It’s likely to be hot on this ship, too, when we get round the next bend. You’d better get below.’

  Biggles tried hard to think. Had it not been for Algy he would have been quite content to remain where he was, but he felt that somehow he ought to get back to the schoolhouse. Algy had come out to help him, so he could not leave him now.

  ‘I’ve got to get back on shore,’ he said at last.