Biggles Defies the Swastika

by W E Johns

  Biggles groaned. He felt that the situation was beyond him. It had been bad enough before the other machines appeared, but now it was so complicated that he almost abandoned hope of finding a solution. It came to this. By some means or other he had to prevent himself from being shot down by Ginger; at the same time he had to warn Ginger of what was happening behind his tail. To achieve this difficult object the only thing he could do, he decided, was to place himself between the seaplane and the German formation; then in looking at him Ginger would—or should—see his danger. After that he would have to rely on his own resources.

  Things did not pan out as he had planned, however. He could see that he would fail, even before the worst happened, for by the time he had zoomed high preparatory to getting behind the seaplane, the German machines had closed in and had launched their attack.

  Ginger at once half rolled, a manoeuvre which told Biggles that he had perceived his danger. The rest was more or less a foregone conclusion, for the newcomers were Messerschmitt 110’s,*1 and there were eight of them. Ginger, abandoning the Dornier, now did his utmost to get away, but the seaplane was outclassed, as well as outnumbered.

  Sick at heart, Biggles landed to watch the end of the affair, for there was nothing he could do. White-faced, he threw open the cockpit cover and stared up at the circling machines. It could hardly be called a combat. Time and time again the Messerschmitts darted in at their prey, their guns spurting flame, and the great wonder to Biggles was that Ginger could hang on for so long. But the end came at last. A Messerschmitt came down on the tail of the luckless seaplane. Ginger swung round and pulled up his nose to meet it, but the next instant black smoke was pouring from his engine. The seaplane at once went into a steep side-slip towards the sea, but while it was still two thousand feet above it flames licked out through the smoke. Ginger appeared. For a moment he stood poised on the fuselage. Then he jumped clear.

  For a thousand feet he dropped like a stone, slowly turning over and over as he fell. Then a white ribbon flashed above him. It grew longer, and then his fall was checked as the parachute blossomed out.

  A great gasp of relief burst from Biggles’ lips as he dropped back into his seat. He pushed the throttle open, and in a moment was taxi-ing at dangerous speed towards the area where he judged Ginger would fall. There was a splash of foam as Ginger struck the sea.

  Biggles reached the spot within a minute, but all he could see was the parachute fabric spreading out like an enormous jellyfish on the surface of the water. It was the work of a moment to cut the throttle, reach over the side and seize the shrouds. He seemed to be hauling for an eternity before Ginger appeared, puffing and blowing like a grampus.

  Biggles never forgot the expression on Ginger’s face as he dragged him into the machine and relieved him of the parachute, allowing it to fall back into the sea. Ginger collapsed in a heap on the floor of the cockpit. He was too far gone to speak. He could only gasp and get rid of vast quantities of sea water.

  For the moment Biggles let him lie there. He wanted to get rid of the Messerschmitts, which were still circling round like a pack of hungry wolves. It was not a difficult matter. He merely climbed up on his centre-section and waved his arms, a signal which he hoped would be construed by the Germans as thanks for saving him, and at the same time convey to them that their assistance was no longer needed. Apparently the Messerschmitt pilots read the signal that way, for they at once reformed in formation and sped away to the south. Happening to glance towards the shore, a bare half mile away, Biggles saw a solitary figure standing on the edge of the cliff that frowned down on the strip of beach. He knew it could only be Schaffer, who must have chosen this grand-stand to watch the end of the affair.

  Biggles waved a friendly greeting.

  Schaffer waved back, and disappeared over the brow of a hill.

  ‘Who the deuce are you waving to—Algy?’ panted Ginger, dragging himself into a sitting position and wringing the water out of his hair.

  ‘No – a friend of mine,’ replied Biggles. ‘A German named Schaffer. Not a bad chap when you get to know him. This is his uniform I’m wearing; and, incidentally, this is his machine. He’ll have a tale to tell when he gets home.’

  ‘By thunder! He’s not the only one!’ declared Ginger weakly, but with heavy sarcasm. ‘So it was you I was trying to shoot down,’ he added.

  ‘Yes. Of course, you would have to choose me.’

  ‘I was in the right mood to shoot down anybody,’ declared Ginger.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, but I’m wet, and I’m cold, to say nothing of being tired and hungry,’ announced Ginger. ‘What about going home? I’m fed up with this. For the love of Mike, what’s going on here, anyway? Where’s Algy?’

  ‘The Germans have got him. He’s a prisoner in a store ship in the fiord.’

  ‘I thought I’d cleared that bunch out,’ swore Ginger furiously.

  ‘You didn’t do so badly,’ grinned Biggles. ‘One of the ships ran aground. The Boche have gone back there now, but they’ve no aircraft—at least, they hadn’t any when I left. This was the only one, so I borrowed it. Schaffer decided to take me down to Oslo to find out just who I was; at least, that was the intention, but on the way down we had a little dispute as to who should do the flying—and I won.’

  ‘So what?’ demanded Ginger.

  ‘There are two things we’ve got to do, and there’s no time to be lost.’

  ‘Is that all?’ sneered Ginger. ‘The last time I saw you there was only one thing to do, which was to get Algy out of Boda. Now there are two things. At the rate we’re going there will soon be three.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ sighed Biggles.

  ‘Well, what are these things we’ve got to do?’ demanded Ginger.

  ‘First, get a message to the Admiralty. Second, get Algy out of the clutches of the Nazis.’

  ‘Okay, go ahead,’ invited Ginger. ‘I can’t think any more.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to try,’ returned Biggles seriously, and described the trap into which the British fleet was steaming.

  ‘What d’you suggest?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘We’ve got to move fast,’ Biggles told him. ‘Schaffer is ashore, and while he’s got some way to go I expect he’ll make for the fiord. We shall have to part company again. You put me ashore somewhere near the fiord, and then go on and warn the fleet about the trap. I’ll try to get hold of Algy.’

  ‘How am I going to get near the fleet in this swastika-painted kite? They’ll shoot me to bits as soon as I show up.’

  ‘That’s a little problem you’ll have to work out for yourself,’ declared Biggles. ‘But I think your best plan would be to locate the fleet, and then land on the water somewhere ahead, with your prop stopped. They won’t shoot at you if they think you’re disabled, and they’ll certainly pick you up. Tell the skipper about the trap and ask him to send word to the troop transports.’

  ‘Good enough,’ agreed Ginger. ‘Where shall I put you ashore?’

  ‘Fly along the coast for about twenty miles; then anywhere will do.’

  ‘And what are you going to do? I mean, how shall I get in touch with you again?’

  ‘I shall make for the fiord and try to make contact with Algy. You’ll have to come back and pick us up. You should have no difficulty in getting hold of a machine—you might even go on using this one. If I get Algy away we shall stick to the coast. You’ll have to try to spot us; there’s no other way. We’ll make a smoke signal if we can. Now get going, or it will be dark, and then you’ll have a job to find our ships.’

  The sun was in fact fast sinking towards the horizon as Ginger took off and headed north, keeping close to the coastline. After a flight of ten minutes he landed again, near the entrance to a tiny fiord, into which he taxied.

  ‘This will do fine,’ announced Biggles.

  ‘Suppose someone sees you go ashore?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘It won’t matter, since I�
�m landing from a German machine, and in a German uniform,’ Biggles pointed out, as Ginger taxied to a natural wharf so that Biggles could land dry-shod.

  Biggles clambered up on the rocks. ‘So long,’ he called. ‘Don’t forget that everything depends on you now.’

  Ginger waved. ‘I’ll get through,’ he promised, and turned towards the open sea.

  Biggles watched him take off, and then, making his way to the top of the cliff, he turned towards Fiord 21.

  Ginger headed north-west, scanning the ever widening area of sea that became visible as he climbed higher and higher. It may seem strange that it had not occurred to him that he might be unable to find the ships he sought, but then it must be remembered that he was aware of their objective, and assumed that they would be steaming straight towards it; moreover, prior to his making contact with Biggles, his ship had actually been operating with the fleet, so he knew where it was at that time.

  It was not until he had been flying for nearly an hour, by which time sea and sky had merged in a mysterious twilight, that doubts began to assail him, doubts that sharpened quickly to alarm as his petrol gauge fell back and neither ship nor ‘plane broke the loneliness that surrounded him. In something like a panic he climbed higher in ever increasing circles. He could still see the rim of the sun, a slip of glowing gold, but he knew that it was invisible to those at sea level where purple shadows, fast darkening to sullen indigo, were obliterating the gently heaving water. With sinking heart he flew on, nursing his engine until the inevitable happened. It backfired as the petrol supply dried up; then it stopped altogether, and he had no alternative but to drop his nose and begin a long glide towards the sea. When, finally, he was compelled to land, he was in the grip of a despair such as he had seldom known. It was aggravated by a sense of impotence. He felt that he had let Biggles down; that he had let everyone down. Too late he realized that the last thing the fleet would do was to sail directly towards its objective.

  There was absolutely nothing he could do except climb on to the centre-section and stare dumbly into the leaden darkness that surrounded him. Except for a gentle slap of wavelets against the hull of his machine, silence reigned. Fortunately for him the sea was calm, but he had no guarantee that it would remain so, and he was well aware that should the wind freshen, bringing with it a heavy sea, then his frail craft, with no means of maintaining headway, would quickly break up. Not that he thought very much about this; he was far too concerned over the failure of his mission.

  How long he sat there he had no idea; he lost all count of time; but he reckoned that it was approaching midnight when he heard a distant sound that set the blood coursing through his veins. The sound was faint, but there was no mistaking it; it was the dull methodical beat of a heavy engine, but whether it was made by a British ship or a German Ginger had no means of knowing. The sound grew louder as the minutes passed, implying that the vessel was approaching, but as it showed no lights he was as yet unable to see it. He was showing no lights, either; nor, for that matter, had he any to show; so he was well aware that unless the vessel passed within hailing distance he would not be seen. The question that now arose, and he felt that it was a vital one, was this. Should he hail, or should he not? If he did, and the vessel turned out to be British, then all would be well; on the other hand, if it proved to be a German, then the worst would have happened. He decided to take the risk for since there were more British craft than German on the North Sea, he felt that the odds were in his favour.

  A squat, bulky ship took shape in the darkness, not more than a cable’s length away. Evidently the look-out did not see him, for it ploughed straight on without altering course, chugging into the darkness of the night on its unknown mission. Drawing a deep breath, and cupping his hands round his mouth, he let out a hail.

  It was answered immediately.

  ‘Ahoy there! Who are you?’ came a voice—in English.

  Ginger fairly gasped with relief. ‘Friend!’ he yelled back. ‘I’m in an aircraft, on the water. I’ve run out of fuel.’

  ‘Stand by while we come about,’ sang the unseen sailor.

  A bell rang and the black hull slowed down, churning the water as it swung round in a wide curve. In a few minutes it was alongside, and Ginger could just see a knot of figures near the rail discussing him in low tones. He heard someone say, ‘Blimey! Look out, it’s a Jerry bus.’ Whereupon he called out that the machine was, in fact, a German plane in which he had been trying to escape, but had landed on account of fuel shortage.

  No doubt his voice did much to prove his assertion, and he was soon taken aboard what turned out to be a British armed trawler, under the command of a naval officer. The aircraft having been taken in tow, Ginger was led to a cabin, where he explained his plight to two keen-faced officers, one of whom was the captain. To them, hardly pausing for breath, he poured out his story, laying particular emphasis on the trap that had been laid in West-fiord for the British fleet. He also described the base which the Germans had established in Fiord 21, and mentioned the store-ship that was still there.

  When he had finished he was given some refreshment while the naval officers withdrew to confer. ‘Whatever you do you must stop the fleet,’ he told them desperately. ‘I suppose you’ve got wireless?’

  ‘We have, but we’re sailing under orders,’ replied the captain. ‘What’s more, we’re only supposed to use our radio in case of dire emergency. It’s dangerous. The enemy can pick a message up as well as our people, don’t forget.’

  ‘But you’ve got a code.’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ admitted the naval officer, who seemed to be rather worried.

  And that is all Ginger was told. The officers departed and a steward brought into the cabin a square meal, which pleased Ginger not a little, for he felt that he could now safely leave things to the Navy. Somehow or other they would do what was required. What he himself was going to do he did not know. Engrossed in his meal, and thinking of the present rather than of the future, he had not even considered this aspect when he was flung across the cabin by a fearful explosion which took him completely unawares. Instantly all the lights went out.

  As he picked himself up he heard shouts on the deck above, and other noises which convinced him in a vague sort of way—for he was too shaken for lucid thought—that the ship had blown up. His meal forgotten, he made his way—not without difficulty for the trawler had taken on a heavy list—to the deck. He realized that some sailors near him were lowering a boat, but the darkness was such that he could see nothing distinctly; nor could he make out what was happening. The trawler lurched again, and almost before he was aware of his danger water was swirling round his legs. A sailor hurried past him, shouting, ‘Swim for it, boys!’

  Ginger would have asked him what had happened, but before he could do so the man had disappeared into the darkness. He moved forward, only to fall over what turned out to be a pile of lifebelts. Not knowing the ship, he had no idea where he was. There was no confusion; occasionally he saw forms in the gloom, but beyond the fact that the trawler was sinking he could not get a grasp on the situation. All he could see fairly clearly were the upper works of the vessel; they were leaning over at an angle so acute that they made him feel giddy. The doomed vessel lurched again, causing a great hissing of steam, and he realized that if he were to avoid being sucked down in the vortex, the sailor’s advice to ‘swim for it’ was not to be ignored. Sliding across the deck, he jumped blindly into the sea, and as soon as he came to the surface he started swimming as fast as he could to place as great a distance as possible between him and the vessel. He could still see nothing, but there were shouts in the darkness around him. They sounded strangely unreal.

  Whether he swam into the submarine, or whether it rose up under him, he never knew. He was suddenly aware of a black bulk right beside him, and, instinctively, he tried to climb on to it; but his clawing fingers could get no grip on the smooth metal. After that the whole thing became a nightmare. He didn’t know what
was happening and he didn’t much care. The fact was that exhaustion and shock had reduced him to a state of semi-consciousness. In a dreamy sort of way he was aware of hands clutching at his jacket, and dragging him up. What happened after that he did not know.

  Chapter 14

  Trapped!

  After he had watched Ginger out of sight Biggles made his way cautiously to the fiord. It took him some time to reach it, and if he had entertained any doubts about its still being occupied they were dispelled even before he reached the rim. Judging from numerous voices, and a certain amount of hammering, it sounded as if salvage work was in progress.

  From the edge of the cliff, which by this time he knew well, he looked down; but all was shrouded in darkness, and except for a cluster of lights near the stranded store-ship, whence came the noise of hammering, he could see nothing. It was towards this ship that Algy had been led, so he assumed—and hoped—that he would be in it. All his plans for rescue depended on that one fact. If Algy was not there, then he would not know where to look for him; but if he had been confined in the ship, then one factor was in his favour. He had not failed to note that the airmen and the sailors went about their work almost unmindful of each other, so there seemed a reasonable chance that, although the German airmen had been informed by Schaffer of his suspicions concerning Biggles’s real identity, the sailors knew nothing about it. After all, he thought, as far as the officers of the air squadron were concerned, he, Biggles, was by this time safely lodged in Oslo; and there appeared to be no reason why they should discuss the matter with the sailors. If that were so, then the sailors would know nothing about him. They would not know him by sight even if they saw him, and they certainly would not be prepared for an attempt to rescue their prisoner.

  Biggles made his way down the landslide without any great difficulty, but he took no chances and moved with extreme caution. Having reached the water-level, he then had to make his way along it to the rock on which the ship was beached. Fortunately it lay between him and the airmen’s camp, so he was saved the difficult business of getting through that. Looking along the beach, he could just make out the silhouette of a Dornier flying-boat riding at anchor a few yards from the shore, and he noted its position carefully.