Two figures, running hard, were in advance of the main group.
What happened next has already been related. One of the two leading figures, whom he now perceived was Biggles, turned towards the paratroops. The other ran on and jumped into the machine. This man was a stranger to Ginger, but he introduced himself without wasting words.
Ì'm Gillson,' he rapped out. 'This is my machine. Let me have her. Where are we bound for?'
`Salima— an oasis about a hundred and thirty miles south-east from here. You can see it for miles—you can't miss it.'
'Okay,' returned Gillson shortly. 'You'd better go and look after your C.O. He's outside somewhere.'
Looking through the side window, Ginger saw how dangerously Biggles was placed. He was content to leave the aircraft in the hands of a master pilot, so he made his way to the cabin door, where he found the rest of the prisoners pouring in. This prevented him from getting out. All he could do was to shout, 'Hurry along—hurry along,' in the manner of a bus conductor.
The prisoners did not need the invitation. They were only too anxious to get aboard, but for several seconds they prevented Ginger from seeing what was going on outside. He could, however, hear the crack of rifle fire,
which worried him. When finally the door was clear, he looked out to see Biggles retiring towards the Rapide in a cloud of dust. Then the machine began to move. This alarmed Ginger, although as the movement was as yet slight he hoped that Biggles would manage to get on board. More sand swirled, half hiding the scene.
By this time Ginger was shooting at the Germans as fast as he could pull trigger. He did not trouble to take aim, but blazed away simply with the idea of keeping up a hot covering fire. Then Biggles, when he was within a dozen yards of the aircraft, pitched headlong on the sand. For a moment Ginger did nothing, for his first impression was that Biggles had merely fallen; but when he did not get up he realised with a shock that he had been hit. At this juncture the aircraft turned still more towards the landing ground, driving a blind-ing cloud of dust straight into the faces of the Germans. The scene was completely blotted out. Ginger could no longer see Biggles although he was only a few yards away. He did what anyone would have done in the circumstances. He jumped out of the machine and, running to the place where he had last seen him, found him still lying as he had fallen.
With the object of carrying him to the aircraft, Ginger tried to pick him up, only to discover that to pick up an unconscious body is not the simple job some people may suppose. It is far more difficult than picking up a man who is only pretending to be unconscious. In sheer desperation he seized Biggles by the collar and started to drag him.
He could hear the machine, but he could not see it on account of the flying sand which, flung into his face with considerable force, nearly blinded him. For a minute he struggled on in a kind of frenzy. He knew it was no use shouting for help because the roar of the Rapide's engines drowned all other sounds. Then, to his horror, the sound began to recede, and as the aircraft gathered speed such a storm of wind and sand and debris was hurled behind it that Ginger dropped choking to his knees, covering his face with his arms.
As soon as it was reasonably possible he stood up. He knew that he had been left behind, and for a little while the shock bereft him of all power of thought. His brain whirled as a thousand thoughts crowded into it. Biggles still lay at his feet, dead or wounded, he did not know which. Overhead, the noise of aircraft began to abate, and he could hear orders being shouted through the settling sand, which was still dense enough to prevent him from seeing more than a few yards. Not knowing what he was going to do—in fact, hardly knowing what he was doing—he grasped Biggles by the collar of his tunic and started to drag him in the direction of the nearest palms. He knew where they were.
Reaching them he halted, and tried to think.
He was now out of the line of the Rapide's take-off, and the air was comparatively clear.
There was still a certain amount of noise, mostly in the direction of the burning lorries.
Judging by sounds, everyone on the oasis was there, trying to extinguish the flames.
Over-head the moon shone brightly, throwing a complicated pattern of shadows on the sand.
Ginger dropped on his knees and looked at Biggles in the hope of discovering where he had been hit. This was not difficult, for his face was covered with blood. With his handkerchief he was able to wipe most of it away, revealing a wound just above Biggles'
right ear. As far as he could make out it was a long laceration, tearing away skin and hair Another fraction of an inch
and the bullet would have missed him altogether; a fraction the other way and it would have gone right through his head.
Ginger decided that there was only one thing to do. He was not in the least concerned with being taken prisoner; he was concerned only in saving Biggles' life, if possible. The Germans, being in force, would have a medical officer with them. Clearly he must give him-self up in order to get assistance. Before doing this, however, he soaked his handkerchief with water from the water bottle which he carried, and dabbed it on Biggles' face. He also tried to pour a little through the pallid lips.
Unexpectedly, and to his joy, Biggles groaned, mut-tered incoherently for a moment and then opened his eyes. They stared at Ginger unseeingly.
Recklessly, Ginger poured more water on Biggles' head, and was overjoyed to see his eyes clear.
'What happened?' whispered Biggles in a weak voice.
'You've been hit,' answered Ginger. 'We're still at Wadi Umbo. The Rapide got away with the prisoners, but we were left behind.'
Biggles struggled to a sitting position, drank from the water bottle, and then buried his face in his hands. Presently he looked up. 'We seem to be in a mess,' he muttered. 'My head's thumping like a steam ham-mer.'
'I'm going to fetch a doctor,' declared Ginger.
`Nor Biggles' voice was firm. 'Don't do that. I don't think it's as bad as that. I'm still a bit dizzy, but maybe I'll be better presently. give it a minute or two, anyway.' Biggles laved his hands and face with water,
while Ginger took the field service dressing from the corner of his tunic and bandaged Biggles' head.
'That's better already,' announced Biggles. 'By gosh! That was a close one, though.
Where exactly are we?'
Ginger told him.
'Where are the Germans?'
think they're trying to put out the fire. I can't make out why they haven't found us.'
'Probably because they haven't looked,' murmured Biggles. 'Naturally, they would assume we had got away in the Rapide.'
'Of course—I didn't think of that.'
Biggles rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying. He leaned against a palm to steady himself. don't feel like packing up—yet,' he said. 'We've got a chance. Let's try to find a better position. The best place, if we can get to it, is the side of the oasis where we came in. The palms are pretty thick there, and I don't think it's used much.'
'Okay, if you think you can manage it,' agreed Ginger. 'You'd better put your arm round my shoulders. I'll help to steady you.'
Then began a long slow walk as they worked their way cautiously towards the desired position. Biggles' condition improved, partly, no doubt, as the result of his iron constitution, and partly on account of his will power. Comparative quiet had fallen on the oasis. An argument appeared to be going on at the place where the lorries had stood. A glow marked the spot. Occasionally figures could be seen moving through the trees.
Eventually the objective was reached, and there,
just inside the palms, facing the open sand, Biggles sat down to rest.
'How are you feeling?' asked Ginger anxiously. 'Not too bad,' returned Biggles. Tye got a splitting skull ache, otherwise I seem to be all right.'
'How about trying to pinch a Messerschmitt?' sug-gested Ginger.
Biggles smiled bleakly.
don't think I'm quite up
to that. Let's sit quie
tly for a bit and think things over. Everything went off fine. It's just a matter of getting home, now.'
As they sat and rested, every now and then, from somewhere in the desert, voices could be heard, calling. For some time they took no notice. Then Biggles looked up.
'What the deuce is going on out there?' he asked.
Ginger moved a little nearer to the open sand and gazed out across the wilderness. He could just make out several figures, apparently walking aimlessly, some near, some far.
One or two were leading camels.
get it,' he said slowly. 'The Spitfires, or the general commotion, must have stampeded the camels. They're all over the place, and the Arabs are out looking for them.'
'Is that so?' said Biggles, in an interested voice. 'Are there any camels in the camel lines—you know, the Toureg camp?'
'Yes, several.'
'See any Arabs?'
Ginger looked long and carefully. 'No. They all seem to be out looking for the strays.
Those who bring them back just tie them up and then go out to look for more.'
Said Biggles, in a curious voice: 'Ginger, have you ever ridden on a camel?'
'Come to think of it, I don't think I have,' answered Ginger. 'Why?'
'Because,' returned Biggles, 'I'm afraid you are going to have a perfectly beastly time.'
Ginger started. 'Doing what?'
'Having your first lesson.'
'What's wrong with a camel?'
'Quite a lot of things,' murmured Biggles. 'To start with, he is usually as bad-tempered as he is ugly. His breath stinks like nothing on earth, and if he doesn't like you he may spit in your eye a slimy lump of green cud. Riding a camel is like sitting on a broomstick in a choppy sea.'
'Why are you telling me this?' inquired Ginger, in a startled voice.
'Because this seems to be where we go riding on a camel in the desert—or rather, on two camels.'
Biggles got to his feet and surveyed the camel lines, which were quite near. think it's all clear,' he observed. 'Let's go across. I'm no lover of a camel, but I'd rather use his feet than mine, when it comes to foot work on the sand.'
Five camels stood in the line, contentedly chewing the cud. Three carried saddles; two were unsaddled. Biggles went up to the nearest beast that carried a saddle.
'You will discover that a camel saddle is designed primarily for breaking your back,' he observed. 'The first thing, though, is to make the animal kneel, so you can get on his back.' Then, looking at the camel, he said, 'Ikh.'
The animal took no notice.
hope I haven't lost the knack,' muttered Biggles.
'You have to get just the right intonation.' He tried again, with a more guttural accent. Ìkh.'
The animal groaned, and sank on its knees.
'There you are—all done by kindness,' Biggles told Ginger. `Get aboard. Sit side-saddle on the rug. Get the pommel in the bend of your right leg and hook your instep with your left heel. That's the idea. Hold tight!' Then, to the camel, he said, Dhai!'
Ginger grabbed at his saddle as an earthquake occurred under the front half of his camel, tilting him back at an angle of forty-five degrees. He leaned for-ward to prevent himself from sliding off; simultaneously the rear half of the camel heaved, and he was restored to even keel. He caught his breath when he looked down and saw how far he was from tile ground.
Meanwhile Biggles had followed the same procedure with a second camel. Mounted, he drew near to Ginger. 'You can hold your rein—there's only one—but it doesn't really do anything. You guide a camel by tap-ping its neck and regulate your speed with your heel.
No doubt your beast will follow mine.' To his camel Biggles said, `Yahh!', and the beast started to walk.
Ginger found himself lurching backwards and for-wards, just as though, as Biggles had said, he was on a rough sea.
shan't be able to stand much of this,' he muttered. shall be as sick as a dog.'
'That's all right,' Biggles assured him. 'You'll find it a bit tricky when we break into a trot; but if you can hang on while the beast gets in its stride, you'll find a camel easier to ride than a horse—look out! Those two fellows on the right have spotted us.'
A shout came rolling across the waste.
'Take no notice,' ordered Biggles.
There were more shouts, and the two men started to. run towards the camel lines.
'I'm afraid that's torn it,' remarked Biggles, quietly. 'Those blighters have guessed we're making off with their animals, and they've either gone to fetch help, or get mounted to pursue us. We'd better push along if I can get my brute into top gear.'
Biggles' camel, with heartrending groans, broke into a trot, and the next instant Ginger thought his end had come; but he clung to the saddle, and when the creature had settled in its stride it was not so bad. He saw that they were covering the ground at surprising speed.
For some time nothing was said. Ginger was in no state to talk. He was still wondering how long he would be able to stand the strain. Then came a shout behind. He dare not risk turning to look, but Biggles did, and announced that they were being pursued by the Toureg.
Ì'm afraid they'll catch us if we don't go faster than this,' he said. 'They're as much at home on a camel as we are in a Spitfire. They know how to get most out of their beasts.'
So far Biggles had followed the gully through which they had travelled to the oasis, but they now reached a point where it fanned out to open sand for a consider-able distance.
Beyond was more rock. Soon after they were in the open a shot rang out, and a bullet kicked up a splash of sand in front of them. More shots followed.
Biggles looked behind him. 'They're overtaking us — quite a bunch of them,' he
announced. 'Let's try to reach those rocks ahead. Hang on, I'm going to gallop. We may as well break our necks as be caught by those sheikhs behind us.'
Biggles' camel groaned again, and then broke into a full run. Ginger gasped as his beast followed. Then he could have laughed with relief.
There was no more jolting. It was like skimming through the air in a glider.
'How far away are the rocks?' he shouted.
'Two or three miles.'
Ginger risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Arabs coming at a full gallop, flogging their beasts and uttering piercing shouts. There was also sporadic shooting. He did not know what Biggles intended doing if they reached the rocks first, but he imagined that they would stop and fight it out. He could think of nothing else. It was certain that if they kept on the Toureg would overtake them, probably shoot them down from behind at close range. For the moment it was a race for the rocks.
They reached the outcrop a bare hundred yards ahead of their pursuers, and as a camel's legs are not constructed for travelling over rock Biggles made for an opening, just such a gully as the one in which Ginger had once landed his Spitfire. A minute or two later, after they had travelled about a hundred yards in the gully, Ginger's camel, for no reason that he could see, flung up its head and swerved. Unprepared for such a manoeuvre Ginger lost his balance. He made a wild grab at the animal's neck, missed it, and shot out of the saddle. The halter, to which he clung, broke his fall; then it slipped through his hands and he rolled over and over across the sand. He finished in a sitting position to see Biggles still racing on, evidently unaware of his fall.
'Hi! Biggles!' he yelled desperately.
Apparently Biggles did not hear, for he ignored the cry.
A thunder of hooves at the entrance to the gully
brought Ginger to his feet in a hurry, revolver in hand. An instant later the Arabs came pouring through the gap in the rock. They must have seen the loose camel which, having got rid of its rider, was standing on the open sand in the supercilious attitude that only these animals can adopt; possibly they saw Ginger as well, for with harsh shouts they pulled their beasts to a skidding standstill.
Ginger, without turning, backed towards the wall, revolver at the ready. He had given up
all thought of escape, but was determined to do as much damage as possible before he was shot, as he knew he must be at the end of so one-sided an affair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Biggles stop and then come tearing back. He was sorry about this, for he could not see what useful purpose Biggles hoped to serve. It looked as though he was throwing his life away uselessly.
By this time Ginger had reached the rock wall that bounded the gully, and with his back to it, in deep shadow, he brought a sharp fire to bear on' the Arabs, moving his position between each shot. This was neces-sary, for the Arabs were shooting now— the ragged fire of undisciplined men. They appeared to have no concerted plan of attack, but with a good deal of unnecessary noise, scattered, and began to advance, each in his own way.
By this time Biggles had dismounted and was run-ning towards the spot, keeping close against the rock. He disappeared into deep shadow, but his voice reached Ginger clearly.
'Can you get up the rock behind you from where you are?'
`No!' shouted Ginger. 'It's sheer.'
'Then retire towards me,' called Biggles. 'There's a place here. If we can get on the rocks their camels won't be able to follow. Keep coming—I'll cover you.' Biggles' gun spat.
Ginger began to run along the gully to the point where he judged Biggles to be; but evidently the move was seen by the Arabs who, with renewed yells and more firing, began to close in. In his heart he felt that the position was hopeless, and his reaction was a sort of reckless abandon that completely eliminated any-thing in the nature of fear.
'Come on Biggles!' he yelled. 'Let's paste the devils!' Crouching, he turned towards the Arabs who were now fast closing in; but a moment later, to his surprise, for he could see no reason to account for it, they began to retire. Thinking perhaps the Arabs were reluctant to face his fire, with a shout of triumph he dashed forward, shooting until a click told him that his gun was empty. By this time the Arabs were in full flight; they remounted their camels and raced for the open sand. And while he was still marvelling at this extraordinary behaviour there came a sound that brought him round with a gasp. It was the hum of a powerful car. Then a headlight blazed down the gully, flooding the scene with radiance. A machine-gun began its vicious stac-cato chatter, and he flung himself flat as a hail of lead ripped up the sand and spattered against the rock.
26 Biggles Sweeps The Desert Page 14