Biggles In Borneo

by W E Johns

  “They’re penned in a house on the hillside. I haven’t seen the place.”

  “You seem to hear quite a lot about what is going on outside.”

  “That’s mostly because the Philippino prisoners have friends outside. They know everything that’s going on. Don’t ask me how they know, but they do. It’s probably drum talk. We often hear drums on the hills, where many of the natives have found refuge. Of course, the Japs have tried to round them up, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. The drums were going a little while ago. I fancy there’s something going on now. Take a look at those brown guys over there.” The general pointed. “They’re tough little guys at that,” he added. “It didn’t need us to teach them how to fight. We only gave them modern weapons, and as you may have heard, they put up a swell show before the islands were captured.”

  Ginger looked. At first he could see nothing unusual; then he realized what the general meant. Singly, and in twos and threes, the natives were drifting together until they stood in little groups. The movement was so unobtrusive that had it not been pointed out to him Ginger would not have noticed it. One of the natives strolled towards the general.

  “Ah-huh! Here comes the news,” murmured General Barton.

  The Philippino drifted up, rather than walked directly.

  “White men come,” he said in a low voice.

  The general glanced at Algy. “There you are! What did I tell you?”

  “Are you sure he’s not making a mistake?” asked Ginger.

  “These fellows are never wrong.”

  The Philippino spoke again. “Watch for message from the sky.”

  “That must be aircraft,” said Ginger excitedly.

  Again the native spoke. “Everyone be ready. All prisoner come this side. Dump, she go bang pretty soon.” The Philippino drifted away towards the far side of the compound, and Ginger noticed that there was a general movement in that direction.

  “Gosh! This is uncanny,” muttered Ginger. “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “I should say something’s going to happen. We’d better do as he says. When I first came to the islands years ago I used to laugh at these native tales—but I know better now.”

  Ginger was conscious of a strange tenseness in the atmosphere, although there was nothing definite to which this could be attributed. Nobody did anything unusual. A few men who had been inside the prison came out, that was all, but there was a brittle, attentive quality in the moonlit silence. It was like the silence that falls before a thunderstorm.

  “We’d better go across.” The general walked over to the far side of the compound and stood near the wire. Algy and Ginger went with him.

  Said Ginger to Algy, “Do you think Biggles could be behind this?”

  “I don’t see how he could be,” replied Algy. “It couldn’t be on account of us, surely, because I can’t imagine how he could know we are here.”

  “He’s a wizard at finding things out, all the same,” returned Ginger. Then he gripped Algy’s arm. “Hark!”

  From somewhere in the intangible darkness overhead, or nearly overhead, had come a faint pop.

  “If that wasn’t an engine misfiring I’ll eat my boots,” promised Ginger.

  “Sounded like it,” agreed Algy.

  At that moment the star-shell burst.

  It burst almost immediately overhead—although burst might not be the exact word.

  There was no sound. A light appeared in the sky, a white glowing ball of incandescent flame from which drifted a faint trail of smoke. The light gleamed faintly on the rim of a parachute from which it was suspended.

  “Parachute flare,” muttered Ginger, blinking in the brilliant, almost blinding radiance.

  Everything on the ground was revealed as clearly as though the sun had suddenly taken the place of the moon. Within the compound everyone stood still, staring upwards.

  “Now what?” murmured Algy.

  Even as he spoke the silence that had followed the appearance of the flare was shattered by the roar of aero engines. And thereafter so many things happened, and happened so fast, that Ginger was for a few moments completely bewildered.

  The Japanese sentries shouted. Whistles blew. A bell, evidently used as an air-raid warning, clanged. Above all these sounds now came one which, once heard, is never forgotten. It was the crescendo scream of falling bombs.

  “Hold your hat, General! Here they come!” shouted Algy.

  “By thunder! They’re coming close, too,” gasped Ginger, as he flung himself flat.

  The stick of bombs burst in swift succession. The ground rocked. Flames leaped.

  Splinters flew. As the roar of the explosions died away, more bombs could be heard coming; and with the sound came another, one which puzzled Ginger not a little. It was the howl of low-flying aircraft travelling at high speed. He couldn’t understand it. The bombing was being done from a low altitude, that was obvious, but not so low as the approaching machines, which, in any case, were coming in from a different direction.

  “Beaufighters!” shouted Algy. “I know the song they sing!”

  Then more bombs burst. Others were screaming down. The roar of the low-flying planes became a terrific sensation rather than a sound. A dark shape, like the shadow of death itself, swooped low, and tore across the compound with more noise than seemed possible. Something struck the ground with a crash. Ginger winced and, clenching his teeth, waited for the expected explosion. Not unnaturally he thought it was a bomb.

  Then someone shouted. He saw Algy jump up and run towards the middle of the compound, saw him stoop and lift what looked like a sack. Most of the white men ran towards him. By the time Ginger reached the spot he was emptying a bag. Out tumbled revolvers, an axe and two pairs of wire-cutters. Out, too, fell a large yellow envelope.

  Algy ripped it open and took out a single sheet of paper. He read the message aloud. It did not take long :

  “Cut your way out and take the road up the hill. B.”

  “Who knows the road up the hill?” shouted Algy at the top of his voice.

  It was necessary to shout in order to be heard, for by this time the noise baffled description. There seemed to be several machines in the air. Machine-guns were hammering, cannon-shells bursting, and tracer bullets flying in all directions. Anti-aircraft guns were firing, while all around fires were blazing.

  Several voices answered Algy’s inquiry, but before he could make top or tail of the clamour—for by this time everyone was in a state of high excitement—there came an explosion that knocked everyone flat.

  “It’s the dump!” shouted the general. “They’ve got the dump.”

  Algy jumped up. “All white men grab a weapon and follow me!” he shouted. “Keep your heads, and stay together.”

  With a pair of wire-cutters in one hand and a revolver in the other, Algy ran to the wire.

  A Japanese sentry came running. Several shots were fired at him and he fell. He seemed to be the only one. Ginger supposed vaguely that the others had either taken cover or had gone to the fires. He was not surprised that no one appeared to be concerned about the prisoners, for the town was now in a state of complete pandemonium.

  “Ginger, you stick with me!” shouted Algy, as his cutters bit into the wire. “And you, General,” he added.

  In three minutes a gap had been cut through the wire.

  Ginger turned to face the crowd of people behind him. “Keep calm!” he roared. “Keep together. Someone lead the way up the hill.”

  Actually the words did not come as smoothly as that, because the dump was on fire and the earth shook with sporadic explosions. Small arms ammunition was crackling like a thousand castanets.

  A tall Australian pushed his way to the front. “I know the hill. I’ll lead the way,” he offered.

  “Lead on,” said Algy. “Don’t stop for anything.”

  At this juncture apparently someone noticed that the prisoners were outside the compound. Several Japanese soldiers
appeared, not an organized body, but a number of individuals. In fact, nobody seemed to be in charge of anything. Men could be seen running to and from the many fires.

  Ginger, Algy and General Barton followed the Australian at the head of a straggling column. Just where they were going, beyond the obvious fact that they were mounting a hill, Ginger did not know. The whole thing was taking the form of a distorted nightmare.

  Shots were being fired. He saw some of the Japanese fall. Others ran, shouting, presumably for assistance.

  At first, when the refugees had started to climb the hill, there had been houses on either side, but these now gave way to open country and jungle. There was no more bombing, and the drone of aircraft had stopped, but the dump was still grumbling, sometimes breaking into violent explosions. Fires still blazed, and the sky was crimson with the glare.

  Presently Ginger saw a man sitting on a large boulder beside the road. It was a white man. He was smoking a cigarette. The lurid glare glinted on an eyeglass. The man got up. He spoke. “I say, is that you, Ginger, old boy?”

  “Bertie!” shouted Ginger, laughing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Been watching the fireworks. Jolly good show—what?” answered Bertie. “I say,” he went on, “that’s a pretty wild-looking mob you’ve picked up—if you see what I mean? Quite a party—quite a party. By the way, have you seen Jackson, or Rex, or our cannibal comrade, Suba?”

  By this time Algy had pushed to the front, and by holding up his arms managed to stop the procession.

  “No, we haven’t seen anyone,” he said. “Where is Jackson supposed to be?”

  “He’s gone to get his girl—at least, that’s what the silly ass told me. Pretty formidable proposition, should say—what?”

  “Where’s Biggles?”

  “He’s directing the jolly old operation. I was told to stay here until you came and then take you to the boat.”

  “Then what the dickens are we standing here talking for?”

  “No hurry, old boy, no hurry—we’re not after a beastly fox, you know.”

  “What am I supposed to do with all these people?”

  Bertie considered them through his eyeglass. “Dashed if I know, laddie. Pretty big handful—what? Shady-looking lot of coves, too. Perhaps Biggles will work it out. It’s time he was here. He said he’d be along. Rex should be here, too. He went for a stroll in the woods with Suba and a drum. I like this drum stuff. I wish I could do it. Ah! Who do I see coming? The big white chief himself, no less.”

  Ginger turned, and looking down the road, saw Biggles coming up the hill. Close behind him was Jackson and two white women. They were all running.

  Biggles arrived first. His face was streaked with dust and perspiration. “Glad you could make it,” he panted. “No time to talk now. The Japs are beginning to get over the shock. I saw some of them remustering. Has Rex arrived yet?”

  “Here he comes now, with Suba,” said Ginger, as he saw them emerge from the jungle and hurry towards the party.

  “Good. Everyone fall in behind me and try to keep some sort of order.”

  They all trooped along the road.

  Ginger’s head was still in a whirl. He tried to work out what Biggles intended doing with so many refugees, but he gave it up. Presently Biggles took a side turning, a lane that sloped steeply towards a narrow arm of the sea, which could be seen at no great distance. In ten minutes they had reached what turned out to be the estuary of a small river, flanked by dismal-looking mangroves, and there Biggles called a halt.

  “Now,” he said, “let us try to sort things out. Queer things happen in war, but this time we have certainly picked up some strange companions. How many people are there in your party, Algy?”

  “I didn’t count them, but I should say getting on for forty.”

  “That’s about the number Jackson reckoned. Somehow we’ve got to get them away. Naturally, I couldn’t just rescue you and Ginger and leave the others there. We’ve little time for introductions now, but I’d like to meet the general.”

  General Barton came forward.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Biggles. “You understand we can’t linger here talking, because the Japs will be on our trail by now?”

  The general agreed. “Go right ahead—don’t mind me.”

  “Jackson, I’ll leave you to take care of the ladies.”

  “I’m looking after them,” answered Jackson.

  Biggles then addressed the crowd. “Listen to me, everyone,” he called. “If some of you do not speak English, you must get the others to translate. I’m trying to get you away, so I want you to do exactly as you are told. In the mangrove swamp which you can see I have an aircraft on the water. It won’t hold you all, so whit I propose to do is this. I have been able to get hold of a small pearling lugger, the property of a local friend of Mr. Jackson’s. Those who want to leave Mindanao will get in the lugger in an orderly manner and sit down. I shall take it in tow behind the aircraft to an island which I have selected, one that we should be able to reach before daylight. More than that I can’t do for the present, because as soon as it is light enemy planes will be in the sky looking for us. When I cast you off at the island you must keep hidden until nightfall, when I hope to return and transport you all to safer quarters. Hurry along now, but keep in order. There is no need for panic.”

  Biggles turned and walked along a narrow path that followed the shore. It ended in the mangrove swamp, where it became necessary to climb over the roots of trees to the amphibian, which was on the seaward side. Angus Mackail was standing by it. Beside the aircraft rode the lugger to which Biggles had referred.

  Ginger spoke to Biggles. “Aren’t you taking a chance, towing a load like this?”

  “I don’t think so,” answered Biggles. “I don’t see why a flying-boat shouldn’t tow a surface craft. The strain will be getting on the move; after that it should be easy. I couldn’t do it if a sea was running, of course, but it happens to be dead calm.”

  Biggles stood and sorted out the refugees as they came along in single file, directing them into the lugger, or the amphibian, as he decided. First, the two white women were passed along to Angus, who saw them into the machine. General Barton, Rex, Jackson and Suba went next. Algy, Ginger and two men who had been wounded — one of them an elderly Chinese — made up the load. “Everyone else in the boat,” called Biggles.

  In a few minutes everyone was aboard. Biggles climbed into the Cayman and took the controls. The engines started, and the aircraft moved towards the open sea. A tow-line between it and the lugger was drawn taut, the amphibian bucking a little as it took the strain. A little toying with the throttle eased this, and as the lugger picked up speed there was no more trouble. The two vessels ploughed away across the placid sea.

  CHAPTER IX

  VISITORS AT LUCKY STRIKE

  THE Cayman and its trailer secured nearly two hours’ start before dawn came to make further progress unsafe. More than once the two vessels had been forced to seek the shadows of the islands as the drone of aircraft warned them that the hunt was on.

  At the first faint streak of dawn Biggles made for one of the smaller islands, and in a narrow creek explained the situation to the refugees. He pointed out the obvious danger of trying to go on as they were, and promised to return at the earliest possible moment.

  Putting the tall Australian in charge of the party which would necessarily have to be abandoned for the time being, he advised him to sink the lugger and keep close under cover. This the Australian promised to do.

  The Cayman then proceeded on its way—now, of course, in the air. Biggles, at the controls, was a good deal more worried than he would have cared to confess, for he knew that if he was seen by hostile aircraft his plight would be precarious. The Cayman, being unarmed, could only seek safety in sheer speed, and for this reason he kept close to the water, avoiding islands that might be in enemy occupation and in radio communication with Cotabato.

 
As he flew he watched the sky ahead, not only for hostile aircraft, but for the two Beaufighters which he had ordered to come to meet him, to act as escort. It happened that the Beaufighters arrived simultaneously with an enemy flying-boat. Biggles was content to leave them to settle the affair, and presently Ginger reported that the Japanese aircraft had been shot down. Shortly afterwards the Beaufighters roared up alongside and escorted the Cayman to its base, which it reached without interference.

  Biggles was tired. They all were. He had every reason to be glad that the operation had turned out successfully, but he felt that his command was getting out of hand. It had never been his intention to carry out rescue-work on a big scale, but he had been the victim of circumstances beyond his control. His main concern was to get rid of his guests as soon as possible. The only way he could do this was by sending them to Australia in the Liberator. Meanwhile, more than thirty people had been left stranded on the island, and these he was in honour bound to pick up.

  “We aren’t a fighting unit any longer,” he told his officers bitterly. “We’re a blooming transport company. We can’t go on like this—but what else could I do? I couldn’t have rescued Algy and Ginger, yet left all those other people to the tender mercies of that brute Yashnowada. Apart from the food question, which is going to be difficult with all these mouths to feed, I’m worried about petrol. If we run out of juice, and we certainly shall if we go on like this, we shall be in a mess. The Cayman will have to make three trips to the island to pick up all those people, and the Beaufighters will probably have to act as escort. Then the Liberator will have to make two trips to Australia to get the crowd there. Frankly, I don’t like all these people about, nor am I pleased at having to do so much flying. With a regular passenger service running— for that’s what it amounts to—the Japs will soon learn where we are.”

  Naturally, Algy and Ginger were anxious to know how Biggles had found out where they were, and how the rescue operation had been organized. Biggles told them about his trip to the island where the prisoner had been captured. From the prisoner it had been learned that they had been taken to Cotabato. The rest was fairly straightforward. The Liberator, the Cayman and both Beaufighters had been employed. First, the Cayman had landed in a lonely creek near Cotabato, putting ashore Biggles, Jackson, Bertie and Suba, who all had separate jobs to do. Jackson, naturally, was given the task of rescuing the two white women. Suba it was who conveyed the message to the compound by means of drum talk.