by W E Johns
‘Get the door open,’ ordered Biggles crisply. ‘Ask Algy for my uniform – I’m none too warm.’
Ginger opened the door. A searchlight was groping dangerously close, and in the reflection of its light he saw the Bluebird skimming over the dancing ripples towards the machine, leaving a creamy wake to mark its course and reveal that it was running under power. It was about a hundred yards away.
Ginger waited, keeping an anxious eye on the questing beams, some of which were now raking the water. He supposed that the machine had been picked up by the sound-detectors – or it might have been the throb of the Bluebird’s powerful engine.
The motor-boat surged alongside.
‘Nice work,’ called Algy.
‘Nice work yourself,’ answered Ginger. ‘Make it snappy – we’ve sort of stirred up things where we’ve come from. If one of those beams hits us the Italians will start throwing things.’
1 A distance of approximately 180 metres.
2 Phosphorus-loaded bullets whose course through the air could be seen by day or by night.
CHAPTER 19
FAREWELL TO FRANCE
AS IF TO confirm Ginger’s prediction a deflected beam swept over them, halted, came back, and then held them in a flood of blinding radiance.
‘Biggles wants his kit!’ shouted Ginger. ‘He’s flying in his pants.’
‘Coming up.’ Algy threw a bundle aboard, and Ginger, with a shout to Biggles, tossed it into the cabin.
The passengers followed. First, Henri was lifted in. He was followed by his mother, sister, and the princess. Biggles, who had managed to get into his slacks, appeared, calling for François.
‘If you’ll take my advice, François,’ he said, as the others came aboard, ‘you’ll run that boat into Mentone. Say you were lobstering when the row started and you made for land to get out of the way. If they question you you can tell them that you saw a flying-boat pick up a party of people from Cap Martin. Adieu. I’ll see that your good work is put on record.’
‘Come back after the war!’ shouted François. ‘Au revoir. Au revoir, milord, et bon voyage1.’ With its propeller churning, the motor-boat backed away, turned, and sped like an arrow towards the land.
As Ginger slammed the door a shell screamed overhead and flung up a plume of water a hundred yards beyond. He hurried through to the cockpit and saw that Biggles was back in his seat. Glancing out of a side window he observed little tongues of fire spurting from the sombre mass of Mont Agel. More shells screamed.
‘Let’s get out of this,’ he told Biggles.
The motors roared; the aircraft raced seaward, tearing a long white scar across the face of the water.
Ginger waited for the aircraft to lift before he spoke again. ‘It’s annoying to be so short of juice,’ he remarked. ‘Where are you making for?’
‘Algeria.’
Ginger started. ‘Strewth! Why Algeria?’
‘Our chaps are there – or at least I hope they are. There’s nowhere else within range of our petrol. I’m by no means sure that we shall get to Algeria, if it comes to that. If we make it, we ought to arrive about dawn. Take over while I get into my tunic.’
Biggles finished dressing.
‘Okay,’ he went on. ‘Now go aft and warn Bertie and Algy to get in the gun turrets and keep an eye open for hostile aircraft – and by hostile, I mean our own. We’re flying under false colours, but our boys are not to know it.’
Ginger glanced through the window and saw that the rugged outline of the famous Azure Coast was already far behind. The searchlights were still waving, but they were mere matchstalks of light. He went back into the cabin and had a few words with the others, who had arranged themselves as comfortably as circumstances permitted. Mario, looking rather frightened, was squatting on the floor. Henri, pale but conscious, lay on the bunk. He was well enough to give Ginger a smile. Ginger received a similar greeting from Jeanette.
‘Biggles wants you to man the turrets and watch for any of our lads who happen to be out looking for trouble,’ he said, addressing Algy and Bertie.
‘I say, that’s a bit of a bore,’ answered Bertie. ‘By the way, why are we heading south? That isn’t the way home.’
‘It’s the way we’ve got to go,’ reported Ginger. ‘We’re short of juice. Biggles is making for the Algerian coast. He reckons we might just do it, but it’s going to be a close thing. That’s all. I’m going for’ard – see you later.’ Ginger returned to the cockpit.
For more than two hours the Savoia roared its trackless way across a lonely moonlit sea. The islands of Corsica and Sardinia with their needle crags had long been left behind. No aircraft was seen. The only marine craft was a destroyer, or light cruiser, off the south-west coast of Sardinia.
‘How about calling up our people on the radio and telling them we’re on the way?’ suggested Ginger once, in a moment of absent-mindedness.
‘And call up a bunch of Italian fighters at the same time?’ answered Biggles sarcastically. ‘Leave it alone. I’ve had all the trouble I want for a little while.’
Biggles was now flying with one eye on the petrol gauge and the other on the southern horizon – so to speak. Fuel was getting low. At a quarter to six a pink glow in the east heralded the approach of another day, and when, a few minutes later, a purple smudge materialised across the horizon Biggles announced his relief.
‘Just in time,’ he observed. ‘We’re down to our last pint. Keep your eyes skinned. Our only danger now is from our own aircraft.’
‘That would be a pity,’ murmured Ginger.
In ten minutes, under a sky aflame with colour and the disc of the sun coming up like a enormous toy balloon, the smudge had crystallised into a sandy coastline backed by sloping cliffs whose faces had been scarred and grooved by centuries of sun and wind and rain. The land ran east and west until it finally merged into the indefinite distance.
‘Africa,’ said Ginger quietly.
‘Algeria – I hope,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘This is where we shall have to watch our step.’
Hardly had the words left his lips when the port motor choked; the other did the same, and after a few back-fires they both cut out dead. By that time Biggles had pushed the control column forward, putting the aircraft into a shallow glide towards the land.
‘We shall just about do it,’ he observed.
Bertie appeared. ‘I say, chaps, get a move on,’ he requested. ‘There are three Hurricanes coming up astern.’ As he spoke, from somewhere not far away came the snarling grunt of multiple machine guns.
Biggles threw the Savoia into a steep side-slip. To Bertie he shouted, ‘Get out on the hull and put your hands up!’
Ginger looked down at a sea where white-capped breakers were flinging themselves on a foam-fringed beach. ‘You’ll never get down there,’ he asserted.
‘I’ve got to,’ answered Biggles grimly.
‘She’ll swamp.’
‘I intend her to – in shallow water,’ said Biggles crisply. ‘I’m afraid if we did manage to land our lads would shoot us up. I’m going to try to run in with the surf and beach her. There’s nothing else for it. You’d better get aft and warn everybody to be ready for a crash-landing. You and Algy stand by Henri.’
Ginger went aft – no easy matter considering the angle of the aircraft – to find Bertie in the main gun-turret making frantic signals to the pursuing pilots, who were probably finding it difficult to bring their sights to bear on a target which, as Biggles intended by his sideslip, was travelling on a deceptive course.
‘It’ll be all right,’ announced Ginger, with a confidence he certainly did not feel. ‘We may have to crash-land on the sand. Be ready to get out quickly.’ He caught Jeanette’s eyes and smiled encouragement, and then clutched at a seat as the aircraft came to even keel. Through a window he could see breakers curling for their rush at the beach. The aircraft was travelling in the same direction. Then spray blotted out the scene.
The machine raced on, over
taking waves that slapped like giant clappers at the skimming heel. Then came a shuddering jar that flung everybody forward. The door burst open. Water poured in and swirled along the floor. Shingle pattered like hail. With a final crash the aircraft came to rest, listing a little to one side.
Sliding to the door Ginger saw that they were on the beach, on the fringe of the sea where lacy foam made scalloped patterns on the sand. Somewhere near an engine howled. ‘Look after Henri!’ he shouted, and running up the shelving beach lifted his arms as a sign of surrender. He was just in time. A diving Hurricane lifted its nose, and instead of firing, as had clearly been the pilot’s intention, zoomed high. For an instant the noise of its motor drowned all other sound. All three Hurricanes went into a tight circle over the flying-boat.
Ginger turned to find Bertie and Algy coming ashore with Henri, and the others following. Biggles brought up the rear. Walking up the dry sand they stood in a little group. Biggles waved to the Hurricanes, and then, with the broad side of an oyster shell, wrote in huge letters on the smooth wet sand, the one word, ‘British’. A Hurricane came in low, wing down, and then, banking steeply, raced along the beach towards the west.
‘Do you know where we are?’ Ginger asked Biggles.
‘Not exactly, but I reckon we’re somewhere east of Algiers,’ answered Biggles. ‘That looks like a vehicle coming along the coast road. Perhaps the driver will give us our position. Let’s go up.’
As it happened there was no need for them to go to the road, for the vehicle turned out to be an American jeep filled with troops.
Biggles stopped, smiling. ‘Looks like the Yanks are coming,’ he observed. ‘They’ve spotted us.’
The jeep stopped with a jerk. The troops jumped out, and with rifles and Tommy guns2 advanced suspiciously, a sergeant ahead of the rest.
‘Okay, boys,’ called Biggles, ‘we’re friends.’
‘What goes on here?’ growled the sergeant, after a glance at the Italian aircraft. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, of the British Royal Air Force,’ Biggles told him.
The sergeant looked puzzled. ‘What are you doing with that ship?’
‘We borrowed it from the Italians to get across the ditch,’ returned Biggles. ‘We’ve come from France. I’ve got a sick man here, and there are ladies in the party, so I’d be obliged if you’d give us a lift to your headquarters. I’ve got to get in touch with a senior air officer as quickly as possible.’
‘Okay, British, get aboard,’ invited the sergeant. ‘We haven’t far to go.’
That, really, is the end of the story, for the rest was mere routine. Having explained the position to the officer in charge of the American landing party, after Henri had received medical attention and the others some light refreshments, the refugees were taken by road to British headquarters, in Algiers, where they were made comfortable. The A.O.C. sent a signal to the Air Ministry reporting their arrival. Henri was taken to hospital.
After that they spent a week in Algiers waiting for transport home – a period that was all too short for Ginger, who spent most of his time walking and swimming with Jeanette. At the end of the week they were flown to England in a homeward-bound troop-carrier. After seeing their overseas visitors comfortably settled the officers reported to Air Commodore Raymond of the Air Ministry, who congratulated them on the successful outcome of their mission.
‘Well, that’s that,’ remarked Biggles, after they had completed their reports and went out into Kingsway. ‘I suppose we might as well get back to the squadron.’
‘I’ve got a spot of leave to finish, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said Ginger meekly.
Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you want leave for?’
‘Well, I’ve got to see my tailors about a new uniform – and one or two other things,’ explained Ginger, in an offhand way.
Biggles smiled. Algy shook his head sadly. Bertie winked.
‘Give her my love, and all that sort of rot – if you see what I mean?’
‘You run away and polish your eyeglass, troubadour,’ sneered Ginger, and hailed a passing taxi.
1 French: Goodbye, my lord, and have a good journey.
2 A submachine gun, the original designed by Thompson, used by the American troops.
About the Author
CAPTAIN W.E. JOHNS was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The First Biggles story, Biggles: the Camels Are Coming, was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.
Also by Captain W.E. Johns
FIRST WORLD WAR
Biggles Learns to Fly
Biggles Flies East
Biggles: The Camels are Coming
Biggles of the Fighter Squadron
Biggles in France
Biggles and the Rescue Flight
BETWEEN THE WARS
Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor
Biggles and Co.
Biggles Flies West
Biggles Goes to War
Biggles and the Black Peril
Biggles in Spain
SECOND WORLD WAR
Biggles Defies the Swastika
Biggles Delivers the Goods
Biggles Defends the Desert
Biggles Fails to Return
BIGGLES WWII COLLECTION
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 9781448158812
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2012
Copyright © Captain W.E. Johns, 2012
Cover design copyright © David Frankland, 2012
First Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, 2012
Biggles Defies the Swastika
First published in Great Britain by Oxford University Press, 1941
Biggles Delivers the Goods
First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, 1946
Biggles Defends the Desert
First published in Great Britain as Biggles Sweeps the Desert by Hodder & Stoughton, 1942
Biggles Fails to Return
First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, 1943
The right of Captain W.E. Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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