by W E Johns
“Do you mean you’ll do the job yourself?”
“You don’t think I’d ask a junior officer to take on a show like this, do you? I’ll go.”
The wing-commander shrugged. “All right—if that’s how you feel about it.”
Biggles smiled. “We’ll work it out between us, anyway. If Fee Wong is willing to go to Telapur, we should be a poor lot to jib at taking him.”
“Good. Make the trip as soon as you can. As I told you, the rains aren’t due for a fortnight; the monsoon is pretty constant, but as you probably know, it can vary by a day or two. Let me know how you get on. I must be getting back to Australia.”
Ten minutes later the wing-commander and his pilot climbed into their machine, and the Cloud headed southeast on its long run home.
Biggles watched it go with a faint smile on his face. “How do these chaps get these cushy jobs?” he asked Algy. “I’ve always wanted a job where I could float round in a comfortable aircraft and tell people to do the dirty work.”
Algy grinned. “And if you got it you’d stick it for about a week. It takes two sorts to fight a war—those who work out what should be done, and those who do it. You’re one of the people who do things.”
Biggles sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll have to think about this. Go and tell those fellows who are clearing up the mess on the aerodrome to get a move on. I’ll have a word or two with Fee Wong.”
After carrying out Biggles’s order Algy lost no time in seeking Ginger. He found him sitting on a log with Bertie discussing the recent crash.
“What’s going on?” asked Ginger suspiciously. “I’ll warrant that staff-wallah didn’t come all the way from Australia to wish us good morning.”
“Or to bring us a set of ration coupons—if you see what I mean?” chuckled Bertie.
“There’s no secret about it,” announced Algy, and then went on to supply the details.
Ginger and Bertie heard him out in silence.
“Why does Biggles always have to do these jobs himself?” grumbled Ginger, when he had finished.
“Because, although he wouldn’t admit it, he knows just how dangerous they are, and he’s got a curious sort of complex about asking anyone to undertake a mission that might cost a bloke his life. He finds it easier to do the thing himself.”
“I think it’s time we protested,” declared Ginger. “One of these days he won’t come back—and then what? The squadron wouldn’t be the same without him. Apart from any other consideration, it’s his personality that holds it together and makes everyone keen to pull on the rope.”
“Go and tell him,” grinned Algy.
“I’m serious,” asserted Ginger. “You go with me and I will.”
“I think I’ll stay here—yes, by jingo,” murmured Bertie, as Algy and Ginger walked towards the flimsy squadron office.
Biggles was bending over a map when they walked in. He glanced up. “Something wrong?” he inquired sharply.
“Yes, sir—at least we think so,” returned Ginger.
“Go ahead—I’m listening.”
“We—er—don’t think it’s right that you should take so many personal risks while there are other officers to do—er—jobs like this—er—latest one.”
Biggles straightened himself. “Oh! So that’s it? A conspiracy, eh?”
“No, sir. I’m only saying what the others think,” averred Ginger boldly.
“Perhaps you’d like to run the squadron?” suggested Biggles coldly.
“I would, sir, but I couldn’t—not as you run it,” said Ginger. “We take the view that if anything happened to you the squadron would be in a mess.”
Biggle’s eyes switched to Algy. “This is pretty close to insubordination,” he challenged.
Algy shook his head. “Ginger’s right. To start with, this isn’t an ordinary unit. Neither you nor anyone else could run these unorthodox outside shows if discipline was maintained to the same extent as it is at a training squadron. You have to relax discipline to give initiative a chance. It’s team work that sees us through. If we lose you the unit loses its head.”
Biggles smiled faintly. “That’s very kind and flattering of you, but why this sudden outburst of emotion?”
“You’re planning to do this job alone.”
“Why not? I’ve just been going over the ground. There’s nothing to it.”
“All the more reason why you should stay here and let someone else go,” argued Algy.
Biggles shook his head. “A lot may depend on the success of this show. The responsibility is mine, and that being so, I’d rather keep it than hang it on someone else’s shoulders.”
“I can understand how you feel about that,” confessed Algy, “but why go alone? You might run into a lump of flak; you might fall sick with fever; you might—”
“Look here, Algy,” broke in Biggles grimly, “if you are going to start running through all the things that might happen you’ll be here all day. The only real risk in this show lies in running into hostile aircraft during daylight hours. The rest should be easy.”
“Should be,” echoed Algy. “Then why not take us with you, if only for company? If you should need help—well, we’ll be there.”
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean the whole squadron?”
“No—just us two.”
“I see. You’d like to be in the party—is that it?”
“Well—er—more or less.”
“All right,” agreed Biggles. “I’m not a dog that I must keep the bone to myself. Come by all means. I hope you enjoy it. Personally I should say it will be a pretty dull affair.”
“When do we start?” asked Algy.
“Half an hour before sundown. I aim to do most of the show in the dark; there’s less likelihood of being seen by aircraft in the air or spotters on the ground. The thjng we’ve got to do is take Fee Wong to Telapur, put him ashore, and then get back without the enemy knowing anything about it.”
“What about equipment?” inquired Ginger.
“I don’t think we shall need anything special. We’d better take revolvers, and iron rations in case of a forced landing. Unless an emergency arises everyone else on the station will stand fast until we get back. Now, if you’ll leave me in peace for a little while, I’ve got some figures to work out.”
The sun was dropping towards the horizon when the Cayman was wheeled out ready for its long-distance raid. Biggles glanced at the sun two or three times as the party walked over to the machine.
“What’s the matter?” asked Algy, who noticed this.
“ Nothing—I hope,” answered Biggles. “I’m not quite happy about the mist that seems to be forming round the sun. I’ve got a feeling it means a change of weather. Still, we can’t do anything about it. You’d better take charge of things inside the cabin. Ginger can sit next to me. Let’s get away.”
CHAPTER XI
MONSOON
THE Cayman took off and roared away on a course that was slightly north of west.
Climbing steadily for height, it was over Sarawak, the land of the White Rajahs, when the sun dropped into the Indian Ocean. Then the South China Sea came into view, with here and there a tiny island, as lonely as a moorland milestone, breaking its surface. Somewhere in the dim beyond lay Malaya, the objective.
The Cayman roared on across the dome of heaven under a canopy of stars that gleamed like frosted incandescent lamps. For a time they remained constant; then, slowly but surely, the smaller ones began to fade; presently the larger ones went out, while around the moon there began to form a pale transparent veil or mist.
Biggles glanced at Ginger in the seat beside him and made a grimace. He could see him in the glow of the instrument panel. “Not so good,” he murmured. “I’m afraid weather is on the way. We may just be in time to miss it—or we may not. If it catches us out, my lad, you’re going to wish you’d stayed at home. You’ll remember this trip for a long time.”
Never was prophecy more compl
etely fulfilled.
Four hours passed. The sky was now overcast, ominous, but the sea could still be seen, or rather an occasional island, inky black, seeming to float in a great bottomless pool.
“Take a drift sight on one of those islands and see what you make of it,” ordered Biggles after a long silence.
Ginger started. He was nearly asleep, lulled into a feeling of false security by the unbroken drone of the engines. Five minutes later he answered.
“We’re running into a head-wind of about forty miles an hour.”
Biggles’s face hardened. “That’s what I thought. Fetch Algy.”
Algy appeared, crouching behind Biggles, who explained the position.
“When we started I reckoned we hadn’t more than half-an-hour’s petrol in hand. We’re running into a head-wind of forty miles an hour. I needn’t tell you what that means.”
“What are you going to do—carry on, or go back and wait for better weather?”
“If the monsoon is on the way we may have to wait three months for better weather,” answered Biggles curtly. “If we go on we shall get to Telapur—but we shan’t have enough juice to get back.”
Ginger spoke. “I suggest that we take Fee Wong to Telapur, and then start thinking how to get home. If we can get him there, and he can bust up that convoy, the rest becomes comparatively unimportant.”
Biggles glanced at Algy. They both smiled. “All right,” said Biggles quietly, “let’s go to Telapur.”
Shortly afterwards the black mainland of Malaya came into view. Biggles did not actually make a landfall, but while still some miles out to sea he turned north. The weather was no worse, and while it was dark he hoped to make out the mouth of the river. An objective that has never before been viewed from the air is seldom easy to find; nor was it in this case, and several times Biggles was misled by what turned out to be bays, or creeks, or channels behind islands too small to be shown on the map.
Fee Wong was of very little use because he had never flown over the country, and while he knew it well enough from ground level, he confessed frankly that from the air one place was as another. However, when Biggles did find the River Limpur, he was able to confirm by its course that it was the right one. By this time Biggles had cut his engines, and, gliding, had lost a good deal of height.
To spot the actual sawmills of Telapur was obviously out of the question. Nothing less than a large city could have been picked out. All that could be seen was the grey ribbon of the meandering river, bordered on both sides by the solid mass of the virgin forest. Fee Wong had asserted that he would be able to identify the spot when he reached it by a long, straight stretch which occurred just above Telapur, but now that the crucial moment had come it turned out that there were several such reaches. For this Biggles was not unprepared. Far from being surprised, he would have been astonished had Fee Wong been able to take him straight to the place. He knew that the Chinese was doing his best, so he was patient with him.
“How far is Telapur from the West Coast?” he asked.
But Fee Wong did not think in terms of miles. He could only say that it was about half-way across the Peninsula.
This helped Biggles quite a lot, for knowing from the map that at this latitude the Peninsula was about one hundred and fifty miles across, he could judge roughly when he was half-way. He flew lower, and as he flew, as is usually the case, it seemed to get darker.
He turned to Ginger. “There’s only one thing left to do,” he said. “Already we haven’t enough petrol left to get back to Lucky Strike, so whether we use a little more or less can make no difference. We can’t be a great distance from Telapur, so I’m going down to find out just where we are. If we put Fee Wong ashore anywhere along here he ought to be able to make his way on foot to his brother’s bungalow. If we find that we are too far up the river we might be able to float down; if we aren’t far enough, we might be able to taxi. You swop places with Fee Wong.”
Fee Wong came forward and sat in the seat next to Biggles. He looked long and steadily at the river, but it was the first time that he had seen it from above and he could not be sure of his position. He was honest enough to say so.
“Then I must go down and land,” said Biggles.
“Velly good,” answered Fee Wong imperturbably.
The actual landing was a hair-raising affair. First Biggles had to find a stretch of river running north-west to south-east in order to land into the wind. This was not absolutely vital on account of the high trees on either bank which would break the force of the wind, but it was a precaution. There was no stretch running absolutely in the desired direction, so he chose the nearest, and then glided down to land on water which at this point was between a hundred and two hundred yards broad.
The aircraft landed heavily, plunged on through a cloud of spray, came to rest for a moment, and then started floating with the stream.
“Look and see if you know where you are,” Biggles told Fee Wong.
The Chinese stood up, surveyed both banks, and then told Biggles that he knew just where they were. When Biggles asked him if they were above or below Telapur, he pointed down-stream. He was not able to state the exact distance, but Biggles gathered that the saw-mills were not far away.
“In that case the best thing we can do is sit still and float down,” answered Biggles. “On the whole we’ve done pretty well.”
The Cayman floated about a mile in a quarter of an hour and then stubbed its nose on a submerged sandbank. The tail drifted round, and turning slowly, the aircraft floated gently ashore against the south bank. To say that it drifted ashore may be misleading.
What it actually did was to drift into the tangled branches that hung far over the river, but it was still some yards from the actual bank.
“We may as well pull her right in,” said Biggles. “There will be less chance of her being seen by anyone coming up or down the river.”
This was easily done. By pulling on the branches it was possible to drag the aircraft against the bank. Having made her fast by the nose, they stepped ashore to stretch their cramped limbs.
“Well, this is it,” observed Biggles. “This is where we say good-bye to Fee Wong.” He turned to the Chinese. “Would you like us to stay here until you have made sure that your brother is at Telapur—or at any rate until you have seen that everything is all right?”
“You have not enough petrol to go back to Borneo?” queried Fee Wong.
“Don’t worry about that,” returned Biggles.
“What you do?”
“We shall fly as far as we can—perhaps reach the Borneo coast, or an island near it.”
Actually, Biggles had as yet formed no definite plan.
“Maybe my brother have petrol,” announced Fee Wong calmly.
Biggles started. “Say that again!”
“I say maybe my brother have petrol.”
This was something for which Biggles was not prepared. “Why should he have petrol?”
“He use petrol start engines in saw-mill.”
“This puts a different complexion on things,” declared Biggles. “You go along and find out if he has any. There’s no need for us all to come.”
“Shall I slip along with him?” offered Ginger.
“In country like this I think it would be wiser if we kept together,” decided Biggles. “If once we get separated anything can happen.”
“I go,” put in Fee Wong. “I come back pletty soon.” He scrambled up the bank and disappeared into the darkness.
“I hope he’s right about getting back pretty soon,” said Biggles, making a slap at his face as, with a shrill metallic ping, a mosquito settled on it. “We shall be torn to pieces by mosquitoes if we stay here long. I think our best place is in the cabin; it will at least afford some protection against the little beasts.”
They got back into the machine and settled down to rest. Biggles lit a cigarette. Ginger and Algy tried to sleep, but the mosquitoes decided otherwise and they soon gave up
in disgust. Then came a sound that brought Biggles bolt upright, rigid. It was the sharp patter of rain on the cabin roof.
“ Rain!” he ejaculated. “If this is the real rains starting we’re in for a lovely time.”
“What do you mean—the real rains?” asked Ginger.
“The monsoon isn’t due for a fortnight yet, and as a general rule it’s pretty punctual; but sometimes there is a sort of preliminary shower or two, just to give you a taste of what’s coming. Once in a while the monsoon arrives a bit ahead of its time, and if that is what has happened now we shall be in as unholy a mess as we’ve ever struck. I didn’t say anything about it when we landed, but it seemed to me that the river was running pretty fast, as if there had already been some rain here, or at the headwaters of the river. Maybe we shall learn the truth when Fee Wong gets back.”
Even while Biggles had been speaking the noise of falling water had risen to such a roar that Ginger found it hard to believe that it was caused by rain. He pulled the side window open and looked out. He could see nothing. Everything was blotted out by a curtain of water. It did not blow about, or rise and fall in volume: it came down in a constant downpour as if a million taps had been turned on. He shut the window.
“It’s certainly raining,” he told the others. “How long is it likely to keep on?”
“A week, maybe a month, perhaps on and off for three months,” answered Biggles.
“Three months!” Ginger looked aghast. “The world would be flooded.”
Biggles smiled wanly. “It is—at least, this part of the world. At home we get about twenty-five inches of rain a year. Here, it can do that, and more, in a day. They don’t measure it in inches but in feet. It’s no use kidding ourselves. I’m afraid the monsoon has started. It’s bad luck, coming like this ahead of its time, but we can’t stop it. It’s just one of those things. What I’m worried about is how far this will upset Fee Wong’s plan. The barges may leave before he can muster his sabotage gang. Meanwhile the river will rise so fast that you’ll think you’re going up in a lift.”