Biggles and the Deep Blue Sea

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: A TALK ABOUT ISLANDS

  CHAPTER 2: THE LONELY ISLE

  CHAPTER 3: CLARENCE COLLINGWOOD CRUSOE

  CHAPTER 4: NIGHT ALARM

  CHAPTER 5: MORE PROBLEMS

  CHAPTER 6: MYSTERY AFTER MYSTERY

  CHAPTER 7: WORRY FOR ALGY

  CHAPTER 8: FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  CHAPTER 9: HEAVY WEATHER AHEAD

  CHAPTER 10: COLLINGWOOD TALKS

  CHAPTER 11: COLLINGWOOD ENDS HIS TALE

  CHAPTER 12: PLANS AND SPECULATION

  CHAPTER 13: MURDER MOST FOUL

  CHAPTER 14: DEATH STRIKES AGAIN

  CHAPTER 15: AND AGAIN

  CHAPTER 16: STRANGER THAN FICTION

  CHAPTER 17: BONNEY HAS THE LAST WORD

  CHAPTER 1

  A TALK ABOUT ISLANDS

  BIGGLES sat in his usual chair in the office of his chief, Air Commodore Raymond of the Special Air Section, Scotland Yard, and waited for him to speak. The Air Commodore looked at his senior operational pilot with a curious expression on his face. ‘You’ve had quite a lot of experience of islands, Bigglesworth, haven’t you,’ he said. It was more a statement than a question.

  ‘Too much,’ Biggles answered. ‘I’ve been trotting about islands of one sort or another for so long that I dream about them. But any romantic notions I may have had about so-called desert isles was knocked on the head long ago. With all respect to Robinson Crusoe they’re not what they’re cracked up to be. There are too many perishing islands.’

  ‘Surely that depends on the island, where it is and the climate.’

  ‘Maybe, sir. But as far as I’m concerned you can have the lot.’ Biggles frowned suspicion. ‘Don’t say you’ve found another.’

  ‘Well, more or less.’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

  ‘Some people like islands.’

  ‘They can have ‘em. I know there isn’t an island left in the world that isn’t claimed by somebody. There was a time when there were plenty of odd islands scattered over the globe which nobody wanted, but aviation put an end to all that. There was a general scramble for any lump of rock sticking out of the sea that might serve as a refuelling depot, a radio station or a meteorological establishment. I remember countries nearly went to war over some of them.’

  ‘Being first in the field we got our share and stuck up a Union Jack to prove ownership,’ the Air Commodore said, with a smile. ‘Of course, the British Empire has shrunk considerably in our time, but we still have a few islands dotted about the Seven Seas,’ he added.

  ‘So I believe,’ answered Biggles. ‘I hope someone has kept a record of them. ,

  ‘No country is likely to forget a piece of property where its flag is flying.’

  ‘Huh! Don’t you believe it,’ Biggles said cynically. ‘What about Clipperton Island, or, as Mexico calls it, Isla de la Pasion. That’s one everyone forgot. It ended in a nice mess.’

  The Air Commodore puckered his forehead. ‘I can’t recall it. What happened?’

  ‘It gives point to my argument that people can forget their property. Clipperton, so called after a pirate of that name, is a lump of rock in the Pacific 600 miles from the coast of South America, two miles in circumference and nowhere more than sixty feet high. When the grab was on it was claimed by both France and Mexico, and the case had been referred to the International Court at the Hague when the war came along. Would you be interested to know what happened?’

  ‘Very. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating story, although not quite up to the generally accepted standards of a paradise island. Mexico jumped the gun by putting ashore, to keep their flag flying, a party of two officers and eleven soldiers. Some, including the senior officer, who may have read Swiss Family Robinson and imagined this was going to be a similar picnic, took their wives with them. As there was practically nothing edible on the island it was arranged for a supply ship to call once a month with a load of food. Unfortunately the government egg-head who dreamed up this slick operation, who must have been more hen-brained than most, overlooked making a note of it, with the result that the poor devils who had been put ashore were completely forgotten. Imagine the hours they must have spent watching for the ship that never came.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Three years. Then, by mere chance, an American ship happened to call. It found three women and some kids, skin and bones and rotten with scurvy, living like wild animals on any muck thrown up by the sea. One of the women survived. When no ship arrived, she said, and the men were so weak from hunger they could hardly stand, the senior officer and three men had set out in a leaky rowing-boat for the mainland, 600 miles away. They were never heard of again. Eventually the one man left alive on the island went raving mad, calling himself the king and making the women his slaves. One of the women brained him with an axe while he was asleep. Here you have true-to-life desert island stuff. If that could happen in one place I see no reason why it shouldn’t happen at another.’

  ‘I see you’re well-informed on the subject of islands,’ the Air Commodore said, dryly.

  ‘So well-informed that I wouldn’t care if I never saw another.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that.’

  ‘Ah! So that’s it. What’s the worry now?’

  ‘I’m not worried. But the Colonial Office has asked us to check up on a little piece of British property. It hasn’t exactly been forgotten, but it’s some time since anyone had a look at it.’

  ‘You’re talking about an island?’

  ‘Of course. We’ve been talking about islands.’

  ‘Sounds a nice little job for the Navy.’

  ‘There are reasons why it might be more advisable to send an aircraft. I’ll tell you why presently.’

  ‘To save me wasting your time, sir, by asking a lot of questions, suppose you do the talking and put me in the picture. How long is it since anyone stepped on this chunk of earth we’ve been asked to investigate?’

  ‘To the best of our knowledge — that is, from the official angle — twenty years.’

  ‘Twenty—’ Biggles stared. ‘Suffering Icarus! Why, the island may not even be there now. Islands have been known to disappear, plenty of them. I could give you quite a long list if I had nothing else to do. Really, sir, you can’t expect me to get wildly enthusiastic at the idea of looking for something that may not exist.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much fear of that.’

  ‘I’d hope not. But if no one has looked in for twenty years it can’t be much use.’

  ‘It might be. That’s what we’d like to know, and what we’ve been asked to find out.’

  ‘This place must be pretty remote.’

  ‘It is. Well off the track of ships.’

  ‘Where is it, exactly? Let me get my bearings.’

  ‘Come over here.’ The Air Commodore got up and crossed the room to a map of the world that covered most of one wall. Using his pen as a pointer he indicated a spot almost in the middle of the Bay of Bengal; or roughly half-way between the east coast of India and lower Burma. ‘Here we are,’ he said.

  Biggles looked. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘If you’ll look close you’ll see a microscopic dot, like a fly-speck, with a little red line under it to show that it’s British. It wouldn’t be shown at all in the average atlas.’

  ‘I suppose it has a name?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Jean Bonney Island.’

  ‘You don’t mean Bonny Jean?’

  ‘No. Jean Bonney. Bonney for short.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘It was the name of a ship, although I imagine the ship was nam
ed after a woman, possibly the owner’s wife. As you probably know, in the great days of discovery, when new islands were being found every other day, names ran short and it became the custom for mariners to name their discoveries after themselves, their ship or their employers. The Jean Bonney was the name of a craft, an East Indiaman, commanded by a Scot named Grant. He came across the island in the early eighteenth century, having been blown off his course by a hurricane. He went ashore for water and staked his claim by painting his name, and the name of his ship, with the date, on a rock. I believe it’s still there — or it was. Being far from any regular shipping lane, it couldn’t have been visited more than once or twice in the next hundred years.’

  ‘So there’s nothing worth taking away?’

  ‘We’re not so sure about that —now.’

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s that supposed to mean ?’

  ‘Come and sit down and I’ll tell you what started this particular ball rolling.’

  After they had returned to their seats the Air Commodore continued: ‘First I’d better give you the gen about this island. It has one or two unusual features.’

  ‘What is it — a coral atoll ?’

  ‘No. It’s mostly volcanic rock. It’s a little over a mile long, about three hundred yards wide, flat, tapering towards the end and lies low in the water. Not more than twenty feet high at the highest point; for which reason, Captain Grant says in his log, the watch didn’t spot it until they were nearly on top of it. He makes a note that he thought it might be awash in a hurricane. It lies on a line north-east and south-west. Keep that in mind. It’s important. There’s a slightly curving beach on the weather side, but Grant found it impossible to land there on account of the heavy surf. That, it has since been ascertained, is how it is on ninety-nine days out of a hundred.’

  ‘Then how did Grant get ashore?’

  ‘Just a minute, I’m coming to that. On the opposite side of the island there’s a coral reef enclosing the usual lagoon. The water there is calm, of course, but there’s a snag. Grant couldn’t find a break in the reef. In other words, there’s no entrance to the lagoon. If there is he couldn’t find it, and apparently he wasn’t prepared to risk his ship trying to get in. On the outer side of the reef the water drops sheer for a hundred fathoms. There’s nothing unusual in that. This enabled him to lie in close and have his crew carry one of the lifeboats over the reef to the lagoon. That’s how he got ashore.’

  ‘Why go to all that trouble?’

  ‘He needed fresh water, a common state of affairs in the days of sail.’

  ‘Did he find any?’

  ‘Yes. In holes in the rocks. Presumably they fill up during the monsoon. Just now you asked me why the Navy couldn’t be sent to make a survey of the island. It’s a dangerous place for a ship. Of course, it could be done, but a vessel of any size would have to make a slow approach, taking soundings, and then, to put a party ashore, lower a boat. All this would take time, enough time for anyone on the island who didn’t want to be seen to take cover and hide what he was doing.’

  ‘Is there reason to suppose there is somebody there?’

  ‘Let’s say there could be.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know. But I haven’t finished yet. The most interesting part of the story, from your angle, is yet to come. I’ve given you some facts about the island so that you’ll be able to follow it clearly without asking questions.’

  ‘I’m listening, sir.’ Biggles lit a cigarette.

  ‘Our interest in this out-of-the-way place started during the war when someone with imagination realized that Bonney might be useful for getting important people to the Burma campaign, by air, without the risk of being shot down on the way, as had happened more than once on the usual overland route. The Navy investigated and found that if some clearing was done it would be possible to make: a landing strip, a sort of half-way house between India and Lower Burma, far from any possible enemy air activity. The enemy wouldn’t even suspect it. Get the idea?’

  ‘It’s good to know somebody used his head.’

  ‘Well, the job was done. It was a risky operation, but in a war one has to take risks that would not be justified in peacetime. Emergency supplies were put ashore and some Nissen huts erected to accommodate them and a small maintenance staff. A shuttle air service was laid on. So a use for Bonney was found after all, and quite a few VIPs went to the Far East via this almost forgotten little island. The enemy never discovered it. The war ended, the maintenance party was taken off and Jean Bonney Island resumed its unbroken solitude. But that isn’t the end. Not quite. Did you ever meet an officer, a Squadron Leader by the name of Stonehouse?’

  ‘I can’t recall the name.’

  ‘No matter. All you need know is, when he retired from the Service he went into the City and became a successful financier. When he had made all the money he needed he packed up to enjoy it. He loved the sea, for which reason no doubt the first war saw him in the Royal Naval Air Service. When he had made his fortune he went back to the sea — the easy way. He bought an expensive steam yacht and with a hand-picked crew started on a quiet cruise round the world.’

  ‘Calling, I suppose, at Bonney Island.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. He didn’t even know the island existed. His war flying had never taken him within a thousand miles of it. But last year he was running from Singapore to Calcutta when he saw a curious thing. At least, as a pilot and considering his position, it struck him as curious. He saw an aeroplane. He heard it first, then he spotted it. Quite a small machine, he thought, but it was too far off for him to recognize the type. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing or where it could be going. He thought it so strange that he worked out its position and course; which he noted in his logbook. It was heading due east, apparently for nowhere. Not knowing of Bonney Island he reckoned the plane had about eight hundred miles of open water in front of it before it could make a landfall. He decided the pilot was either crazy or lost to the world.’

  ‘Didn’t he do anything about it?’

  ‘What could he do? The machine was in sight for only a matter of minutes. He tried to contact it by radio but got no answer. He didn’t attach any great importance to it, but when he was back in London he casually asked a friend at the Aero Club if he knew anything about the aircraft he had seen out in the blue. Now it happened that this friend had for a time during the war been working on the Bonney Island run, and he said, from its course, it looked as if that was where the unknown plane had been making for. Later, this friend, talking to someone at the Air Ministry, remarked that he’d heard the Bonney Island route had been reopened. The man said, if it had he knew nothing about it. Nor did he know anything about the plane. None had been reported missing in that area. To make a long story short, this rumour, by means that I needn’t go into, reached the ears of someone at the Colonial Office. That’s what set the ball rolling. He wondered if someone was trying to jump our claim to Bonney Island.’

  ‘And it was decided the time had come to have another look at it,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Exactly. I’ve told you why it has been thought advisable to send an aircraft instead of a ship. Anyway, the Navy hadn’t got a ship anywhere near the place. A plane would be less expensive, and faster.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘But you’re not happy about it.’

  ‘Frankly, sir, no.’

  The Air Commodore smiled. ‘Lissie prefers warm water jobs.’

  ‘So would I if there weren’t so many sharks in it. The Bay of Bengal is stiff with ‘em. Can you tell me anything more about this perishing island that’s making a nuisance of itself?’

  ‘It lies at the right angle for landings, either for the north-west or south-east monsoon. That’s what made a landing strip practicable.’

  ‘I was thinking more about food. Could a man live there should he get stranded?’

  ‘For a time, perh
aps, but I’m afraid he’d get tired of coconuts and fish. There’s nothing else, unless some of the seeds the maintenance party planted have flourished.’

  ‘Is the water of the lagoon deep enough for a marine aircraft to land on without tearing a hole in its keel?’

  ‘I don’t think it has ever been properly surveyed.’

  ‘I was thinking the landing strip might have become overgrown.’

  ‘In that case you’d have to take a chance with the lagoon, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re afraid, sir! Not as afraid as I am.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Bigglesworth. You know as well as I do that when a pilot starts to be afraid of anything the time has come for him to hang up his cap and goggles. But don’t let’s talk about it. Any more difficulties to raise before you go? You can usually think of some.’

  ‘For which reason, so far; I’ve always managed to get back. I like to know what I might run up against before I start. I find it’s better than bumping into something nasty unprepared.’

  ‘All right. You needn’t get sarcastic. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Supposing this island is still there, and I manage to find it, and I find somebody on it, what do I do?’

  ‘Find out who the man is, his nationality, and what he’s doing. That’s all.’

  ‘And if he won’t talk?’

  ‘Come home and report to me. Flying by dead reckoning, you should have no difficulty in finding Bonney. Pilots found it during the war. You should have ample endurance range with the Gadfly,1 the machine you used for that South American treasure ship job.2 It would take you right across the Bay of Bengal if that became necessary. It may not even be vital that you should land. You would from a low altitude be able to see any signs of activity, should there be any. Take a camera. But it doesn’t need me to tell you what to look for. There is this about it. You’re not likely to encounter any anti-aircraft opposition. How soon can you be ready?’

  ‘I should be on my way inside a week. That would give me time to check the Gadfly, give it a trial run and lay aboard some stores, to keep the wolf at bay while I’m there. Even if I see nothing on the island, I’d probably land on the lagoon for a rest. Long distance over-water flying is always a bit of a strain, knowing what would happen if one was ditched without a chance of seeing a ship. I only hope the coral hasn’t grown up from the bottom of the lagoon, or heavy seas thrown in chunks of the reef. That can happen. With a metal hull one snag could sink me. That’s why I still think this should be a job for the lads in navy blue.’