Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  ‘Yes, that sounds the best plan,’ agreed Algy.

  Biggles nudged him. ‘Just a minute. Don’t speak while this fellow is going by.’

  The man to whom Biggles had referred was in civilian clothes, and Algy assumed, not unnaturally, that he was a Norwegian. With bent head, as if deep in thought, he was walking quickly along the pavement. Not until he drew level with the car did he raise his head and look Biggles in the face.

  Recognition was mutual and instantaneous. It was Brandt, the existence of whom Biggles had almost forgotten. He was, no doubt, on his way to his headquarters at the Hotel Port.

  The German opened his mouth to shout, but the only sound that passed his lips was a grunt. Biggles’s left fist shot out and took him in the pit of the stomach; then, as his head jerked forward, Biggles’s right fist flashed up in a vicious hook to the jaw. Brandt went over backwards; his head came into violent contact with the wall at the back of the pavement, and he lay still. The whole incident occurred in two seconds.

  Biggles looked swiftly up and down the lane, then at Algy. ‘This fellow knows me,’ he said by way of explanation, for Algy, who had, of course, been unaware of this, had stared at the proceedings with amazement. ‘We daren’t leave him here,’ went on Biggles tersely. ‘Help me get him in the back of the car.’

  Not without difficulty, for Brandt was a heavy man, they bundled the limp body into the rear seat, from where it slid in a heap to the floor.

  ‘You get in the back and take care of him,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I’ll drive. I know my way about better than you do.’

  As he spoke Biggles got swiftly into the driving seat. Algy jumped in behind. The doors slammed. The car shot out into the road and cruised up the main street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Algy.

  ‘We’ll stick to our plan and make for Bergen. If we can’t make contact with the British force there we’ll push on to Fiord 21. I’d go right on to the fiord if I was certain we could get there, but now these landings have been made there’s no knowing what we shall run into.’

  ‘What are we going to do with this fellow? Are you going to take him with us all the way?’

  ‘Not on your life. We’ll dump him at some lonely place from which it will take him a long time to get into touch with Oslo.’

  Biggles drove on into the night, heading north. For twenty miles he travelled at a cruising speed, careful not to attract attention to himself by fast driving; then, reaching a wild stretch of country, he stopped.

  ‘We’ll leave Brandt here,’ he said quietly.

  The German was now semi-conscious. That is to say his eyes were open, but he seemed dazed – as doubtless he was, for the blow he had received on the head was a severe one.

  ‘Gestapo policy would be to bump him off, and so remove all risk of his setting the country on to us,’ murmured Algy reflectively.

  ‘Probably you’re right, but Gestapo policy isn’t ours,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘Let’s get on.’

  Leaving Brandt half sitting, half reclining, against a rock where he would be seen by the first passer-by when daylight came, they re-entered the car and continued their journey.

  ‘We must be getting pretty close to Bergen,’ remarked Algy after a long interval of silence.

  ‘It can’t be more than ten miles,’ replied Biggles.

  ‘If our fellows landed there, then there must be Germans here too,’ said Algy thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t it struck you as odd that there’s no sound of battle?’

  ‘Yes, there’s something funny about that,’ agreed Biggles. ‘However, we’re likely to run into troops at any moment. If we do I’ll ask them what’s happening.’

  Before long they reached the German forces. There was no need to seek them. The car was stopped by a patrol.

  Biggles got out, his pass in his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said casually. ‘We’ve got orders to keep watch for suspicious characters. What’s happening here?’

  The German he addressed, a sergeant, did not question his presence there, or his authority. ‘It’s all over,’ he startled Biggles by stating.

  ‘All over – what do you mean?’

  ‘The British have gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Biggles was flabbergasted.

  ‘Yes – we kicked them back into the sea.’

  Biggles laughed, but there was little humour in his voice. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Well, we’ll get on. By the way, we’re patrolling the coast northward; will there be any difficulty about getting through?’

  ‘If you keep straight on there may be,’ replied the sergeant. ‘There are barricades across the road and troops are moving. But if you take the next turning to the right it will take you right out of the battle zone.’

  ‘And if I turn left again farther on will that bring me back to the coast?’ Biggles had taken out his map and was looking at it in the light of a headlamp.

  ‘Yes, you could do that,’ agreed the sergeant.

  ‘Then we’ll try it,’ declared Biggles, folding the map and putting it back into his pocket. He got into the car and drove on.

  ‘Phew! That was a bit of a bone-shaker,’ said Algy in a strained voice. ‘I wonder what made our fellows withdraw?’

  ‘It’s no use guessing,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘We’ve got to get to Fiord 21 now, or we shall be in a mess. We’ve got to get there before daylight, too. There is this about it, we’re not likely to run into any opposition so far north. You try to get a spot of sleep. Later on you can relieve me at the wheel and I’ll have a nap. The worst of these jobs is, one doesn’t get time to eat or sleep.’

  ‘Good thing we’ve had a bit of practice at it,’ observed Algy, smiling weakly. He snuggled back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  Biggles drove on. He was tired to the point of exhaustion, and it was only by keeping a fierce hold on himself that he prevented himself from falling asleep over the wheel. He seemed to have been driving for an eternity. At last, as the grey of dawn stained the eastern sky, realizing that his endurance was at an end, he stopped the car and nudged Algy, who awoke with a start.

  ‘Take the wheel,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m about played out.’

  They exchanged seats, and Biggles sank back with a weary sigh.

  It seemed that he had no sooner closed his eyes than he was being violently shaken.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ said Algy tersely. ‘We’re there – or as near as we can get to the fiord by staying on the road. What had I better do with the car?’

  ‘Anything you like – we shan’t need it again,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Perhaps you’d better drive into that gully just ahead. Nobody’s likely to see it there, and it won’t give rise to inquiries should the Germans come along.’

  Algy obediently drove the car off the road into a narrow gorge, the sides of which were thick with stunted firs. They got out at once, closed the doors and returned to the road. By the time they reached it pink dawn had lighted the wild landscape, enabling them to see for a considerable distance, but to their relief no one was in sight. Some distance to the left lay the sea; nearer, a jagged ridge marked the crest of the cliff that hemmed in the fiord.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘If Ginger hasn’t got into trouble we’re as good as home.’

  Walking briskly, they soon reached the ridge. Throwing themselves flat, for it was a nasty drop into the fiord, they looked down. Neither spoke, although Algy hissed through his teeth.

  Ginger’s machine was not there. But the fiord was not abandoned. On its placid surface floated a squadron of Dornier flying-boats.

  1 Sound of a bursting bomb.

  CHAPTER 11

  COMPLICATIONS

  BIGGLES WAS THE first to break the silence. He lay still, staring down into the fiord.

  ‘It looks as if I was not the only one who realized that this fiord would make a useful operating base,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘You’re dead right there,’ agreed Algy, gazing down into the fiord, which present
ed a scene of lively animation. In addition to the flying-boats there were two store-ships, from which were being unloaded war materials of many descriptions. A large green and brown camouflaged tent had already been erected on the one spot available, and into this the stores were being carried by several men. A little group of pilots sat on the rocks near the machines, smoking.

  ‘What do you suppose became of Ginger?’ asked Algy, after he had gazed at the scene for a few minutes.

  ‘We can only guess,’ returned Biggles slowly. ‘If he was here when this crowd arrived they might have sunk him before he could get off the water. Not necessarily, of course. He would certainly hear them coming, and by acting quickly might have got clear. On the other hand, if he came back and found this lot here, obviously he wouldn’t land. From the fact that I can’t see any trace of his machine, or any quantity of oil on the water, I’m inclined to think he got away. In that case, knowing that we intended coming here, he’d stick around. There need be no doubt about that.’

  ‘Then where is he now?’

  ‘He might be sitting in another fiord not far away, or he might have gone off to get a load of bombs to knock the daylight out of these Dorniers.’

  ‘The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Laddie, there are times when you ask the most difficult questions. I’m dashed if I know what to do for the best, and that’s a fact. Personally, I should like to curl up and have a nice long sleep, but this doesn’t seem to be either the time or the place for a nap. We’re not out here on a pleasure cruise; we’re here primarily to gather information about the enemy. If, incidentally, we can make life hard for him, then it’s up to us to do it. We ought to let our people know that these Dorniers are sitting here. They’ve got some scheme on, no doubt. By watching them we may learn what it is. In any case, we daren’t go away, because if we do we shall certainly lose touch with Ginger. Sooner or later he’ll come back, and our only chance of making contact with him is to remain here. Give me a minute to think.’

  Biggles was still squatting among the rocks that lined the rim of the fiord, concentrating hard, when from out of the west came the roar of aero engines.

  ‘There they are,’ hissed Algy, pointing to a line of tiny black specks that had emerged from the thin mist that hung over the sea. ‘They look as if they’re coming straight to this spot.’

  By this time Biggles was on his knees, stiff with excitement. ‘You’re right,’ he rapped out. ‘They’re our boys, too, if I know the sweet song of Merlin engines.1 By gosh I’ve got it. Ginger has fetched them to bomb the place. Keep your head down. This is going to be a warm spot in a minute.’

  As they drew near, the machines, which it was now possible to identify as Skuas2 of the Fleet Air Arm, dived steeply. The Germans, of course, had seen them coming, and everything below was in a state of something like panic. Some of the pilots were getting into their machines. Mechanics ran for cover, or hastily mounted machine-guns. Engines burst into life. Smoke poured from the funnels of the store-ships, but, generally speaking, the Germans had no time to establish an adequate defence.

  Lying on the rocks Biggles and Algy watched the raid with bated breath. In line ahead, the British machines, flying low, swept up the fiord, and as they passed over the German camp a cloud of bombs went down. Spouts of water leapt high into the air, while echoes flung back the thunder of the explosions. After the first salvo the watchers could see nothing, for the fiord was filled with smoke, above which circled the Skuas, dropping the remainder of their bombs, or, when these were exhausted, firing into the rising cloud of smoke with their machine-guns.

  Biggles, watching the machines, had no difficulty in picking out Ginger’s seaplane, for it kept a little apart from the rest.

  ‘There he is,’ he told Algy. ‘We’ve got to attract his attention. He’ll be on the watch for us.’

  He sprang to his feet, but before he could do anything in the way of making a signal the smoke, rising from the fiord as from the crater of a volcano, hid everything from view.

  ‘Confound the smoke,’ snarled Biggles. ‘It’s going to jigger us. For all we know Ginger may have already spotted us. If he has he’ll land on the fiord – or at the entrance to it. I’ll tell you what. You stay here in case the smoke clears, in which case he’d be more likely to see you up here than down below. I’ll go down to the water to see if he has landed. If he has I’ll dash back here and let you know.’

  Biggles made for the landslide which, as far as he knew, was the only way down into the fiord. The smoke was still rising, so visibility improved as he went down, and by the time he reached the water level he could see for some distance. He noted that one of the store-ships was in flames; the other appeared to have run aground. At least five of the Dorniers had been wrecked; two had been beached, and the remaining two were taxi-ing at high speed towards the open sea. But he was not concerned with these things at the moment, for Ginger was just landing. As soon as it was on the water the seaplane swung round and roared towards the place where Biggles stood.

  Ginger, white with excitement, stood up in the cockpit and yelled, ‘Where’s Algy?’

  ‘He’s waiting on top!’ shouted Biggles. ‘We weren’t sure if you’d spotted us. Stand fast – I’ll fetch him.’

  Without wasting words, Biggles set off back up the landslide, little guessing what he was to find at the top.

  Algy had followed his instructions to the letter; that is, he had remained on the edge of the cliff overlooking the fiord. And, lying there, he distinctly heard Ginger hail Biggles – and, in fact, heard the brief conversation that passed between them. Yet, knowing the danger of departing from a fixed plan, he dared not leave the spot, for the smoke was thick around him, and there was a risk that if he started down the landslide he might pass Biggles without seeing him. If that happened then Biggles would arrive at the top only to wonder what had become of him. What he did was to fling his German greatcoat aside, for it impeded his movements more than a little; at the same time he stood up ready to make a dash towards Biggles the moment he saw him. He heard someone coming, and he thought, not unnaturally, that it was Biggles, although it struck him that there was a lot of noise being made by one person. Then, before he could move, out of the smoke burst a crowd of Germans – a few officers and the rest mechanics. One of the officers was still carrying a sub-machine-gun, with which, presumably, he had been firing at the raiders. The instant he saw Algy he covered him.

  The whole thing was so unexpected, and had happened so suddenly, that Algy had no time to do anything. Indeed, at that moment he wouldn’t have given a fig for his life, for the Germans were wild with excitement, and seemed likely to fire at him anyway. At point-blank range they could hardly miss. In the circumstances, self-preservation came first, and Algy probably did the wisest thing he could do. He put his hands up.

  Panting, the Germans closed in around him.

  ‘So we got one of you,’ said the officer who carried the machine-gun, in fair English.

  Algy nodded ruefully. His brain was still in a whirl.

  The officer smiled. He appeared to bear Algy no particular animosity. ‘Hot work, eh?’ he said, as one pilot to another.

  ‘Very hot,’ agreed Algy bitterly, wondering what was going to happen next.

  At that moment Biggles appeared over the rim of the fiord, not ten yards away. He stopped dead when he saw the crowd, but then came on again. He saw at a glance what had happened – that somehow Algy had got mixed up with the fugitives from the raid.

  ‘Hullo, what’s all this?’ he asked.

  ‘We got one of them,’ answered the officer who had spoken to Algy. Then a puzzled expression leapt to his face. ‘Where have you come from?’ he inquired. ‘You weren’t one of us.’

  As we know, Biggles was in German uniform, but as the officer had remarked, he was not one of the squadron that had been raided. Obviously it was no use trying to pretend that he was.

  ‘I was
just flying into the fiord when the British arrived,’ he announced calmly. ‘There wasn’t room to turn. Then the bombs burst and in the smoke I couldn’t see a thing. I managed to get down, only to crash against the rocks and sink my machine. After that I did what you evidently did – saw about getting out of the way until the British had gone.’

  The German officer laughed. He seemed to be a cheerful sort of fellow. It was obvious that no suspicion of the true state of affairs had entered his mind. Indeed, there was no reason why it should.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said. ‘The British didn’t waste any time in finding us and smoking us out.’

  Biggles got off this dangerous subject. ‘What are you going to do with this prisoner?’ he asked – speaking, of course, in German.

  ‘We shall have to take him with us. We can’t do anything else.’

  ‘And where are you going – I’m a stranger in these parts myself.’

  ‘So am I,’ confessed the officer readily. ‘It looks as if we shall have to walk, and try to find a telephone to get into touch with headquarters. I’m afraid there will be trouble about this. We’d got an important assignment.’

  ‘In that case I’ll come with you,’ said Biggles wearily.

  Meanwhile, Ginger, standing in his cockpit down on the fiord, could not understand why Biggles and Algy did not come. Naturally, he expected them down immediately, but when the minutes passed and they still had not come, he realized that something had gone wrong; but what it was he could not imagine. Presently, as the smoke began to clear, a rifle cracked and the bullet zipped through his fuselage. A moment later another whistled unpleasantly close to his head, and looking across the water he saw that the sailors on the store-ship which had run aground were shooting at him. Obviously he could not remain where he was, for he would soon be under the fire of every German who had survived the raid. All he could do was open the throttle and take off, hoping that from the air he would be able to locate the others and somehow pick them up.

  He soon saw them; he also saw the Germans and guessed pretty well what had happened. There was nothing he could do, and when the Germans opened fire on him with rifles and a machine-gun he lost no time in removing himself from such a dangerous position. The other British machines had already disappeared out to sea. For a little while, from a distance, he watched the party walking inland along the edge of the cliff. Then, feeling utterly helpless, he turned away and headed north.