by W E Johns
As he spoke Biggles glanced across at the far side of the square and saw that several soldiers were emerging in a desultory fashion from a small door. 'It looks as if this place is a barracks as well as a prison,' he said tersely. 'I should say those troops are turning out for early morning parade. Judging by their uniforms they are legionnaires. If—' He broke off suddenly as two officers appeared round an angle of the wall a short distance in front of them. There was no question of avoiding them, for the officers had already seen them and were regarding them curiously.
Biggles took the bull by the horns. He walked straight on until he was face to face with the officers. 'Pardon,' he said, 'but does either of you gentlemen speak English?'
'Français,' answered one of them curtly.
'Good!' returned Biggles. 'Then would you please have the goodness to direct me?' he went on quickly, speaking in French. 'We have come to join the legion. Can you show us the headquarters or the stores where we may draw our uniforms?'
'There is the quartermaster's stores over there,' answered the officer to whom Biggles had addressed the question. He pointed to a section of the building near to where the troops were rapidly assembling. Then with a nod he strode off in that direction.
'Merci, mon Capitaine*,' said Biggles, and started walking briskly in the direction indicated. 'There seem to be as many foreigners in Barcelona as there are Spaniards,' he observed, throwing a glance over his shoulder to see if they were being watched. 'It shouldn't be difficult to get hold of some uniforms; if we can do that the rest should be easy. This is the place, I think. Leave me to do the talking.'
* French: Thank you, Captain.
They found a Spanish N.C.O.** in charge of the stores, and Biggles' nostrils twitched as they were assailed by the reek of garlic. 'We are new recruits for the legion,' he began. 'Do you speak English?'
** Non-Commissioned Officer, e.g. a Corporal or a Sergeant.
'I speak English like the Spanish,' returned the N.C.O. proudly. 'Also the Italian and the French. That is why I am here, a sergeant of the International Brigade*. Jolly good! Pedro—that's me. Yes, I am here.'
* The International Brigade consisted of volunteers from many nations, organized by the World Communist movement to fight for the government loyalist forces.
'I had noticed that,' replied Biggles seriously, repressing a smile. 'Every one said, "Find Pedro—he'll fix you up." '
'Yes, I fix everybody up,' declared the Spaniard warmly. 'With you I make my best fixings.'
'That's fine,' Biggles told him. 'What about some uniforms?'
The store-keeper eyed him reflectively. 'I go now for my coffee—not half,' he answered vaguely. 'You come back sometime and we make the fixings; so long good-bye.'
Biggles remained calm. He took a hundred-peseta note from his pocket and smoothed it out. 'We have come a long way and we cannot waste time,' he said. 'The captain is waiting.'
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. 'Quite right,' he said, taking the note from Biggles' fingers with an apologetic air. 'Help yourself,' he went on, indicating the stores with a wave of his hand. 'I go for coffee, you bet. When I come back you have the fixings. If any one comes you say that Pedro has gone for coffee. All right. Adios'.
'Adios,' echoed Biggles. Then, as the Spaniard went out of the door, he added quickly in a low voice, 'Make it snappy. We've got to get out of this place pretty soon or we never shall get out.'
No further time was wasted in discussion. There were plenty of uniforms from which to choose, many in a filthy condition, obviously having already seen service. But Biggles was not particular. He soon found one to fit him, and the others did the same. 'We might as well do the thing properly,' he advised, kicking off his flimsy shoes and replacing them with boots. An ammunition belt completed the outfit, and he turned to the door. 'All clear,' he said. 'Let's go.'
In line abreast they marched boldly towards the main gate, around which some soldiers, presumably the guard, were lounging, their rifles propped against the wall. They took not the slightest notice of the three pseudo-legionnaires* as they marched past them through the gate and out on to the road—not that there was any reason why they should, for troops were coming in and out all the time.
* Phoney legionnaires
'By gosh, we've done it!' whispered Ginger.
'Keep going,' Biggles told him under his breath.
Not until they had turned the corner did he slacken his pace.
'What now?' asked Algy.
'We've got to get the paper.'
'It's likely to take us some time to find the place.'
'I know the name of the hotel. I noted it as we went in. It is the Hotel Valencia. A taxi will be the easiest way to get there, if we can find one.'
Biggles looked up and down the street, but without seeing what he sought.
They walked some distance without success, from which Biggles concluded that the taxis had been commandeered for military service. They were just abandoning hope of finding any sort of vehicle when an ancient cab, drawn by an emaciated horse, came round the corner. Biggles held up his hand and the driver stopped. 'Hotel Valencia,' he said, and the driver indicated by a wave of his hand that he knew where it was.
The drive that followed seemed interminable, for in spite of the driver's whip-cracking and exhortations, the wretched animal could only amble at the best. It stumbled often, and on one occasion nearly fell. Ginger, incensed by this apparent cruelty to animals, began to expostulate, but Biggles silenced him. 'Keep quiet,' he said. 'You'll see plenty of this in Spain. You'll do no good by kicking up a row, so just forget about it.'
At length the long journey came to an end, and Biggles stopped the cab as soon as he realized that they were in the avenue in which the hotel was situated. 'We shall be less likely to attract attention if we walk,' he said quietly, after he had paid the driver. 'There seems to be nobody about, so finding the paper ought to be easy.'
Biggles' optimism seemed justified, for not a soul was in sight as they walked briskly past the hotel entrance to the waste plot of land beyond. Biggles stopped when they reached it. 'There's no need for us all to go,' he said. 'Ginger, you stay here and keep cave. Whistle if you see any one coming.' With that he hurried forward.
'I can see it,' he told Algy a moment later. 'Thank goodness! I had a horrible feeling it might not be there.' Stooping, he picked up the well-remembered ball of newspaper, and tearing it open, removed the ornament from the inside. He was about to take out the paper when a warning shout made him start round. Some-thing between a snarl and an ejaculation broke from his lips.
From all sides men in the uniform of the Guardia Civil were closing in on them.
Biggles' face turned pale. 'Ten thousand devils seize that hunchback!' he snapped. 'He laid a trap for us and we've walked straight into it.'
A score of rifles menaced them as the armed police advanced at a run. An order rang out.
Suddenly Biggles swung round. 'Ginger!' he roared. 'Catch!' and he hurled the ornament high into the air over the heads of the police.
Ginger, judging his distance, darted forward. For a moment he stood rigid, crouching like a cricketer waiting for a ball.
Biggles held his breath.
So did Ginger, as his eyes watched the curving flight of the ornament. Time seemed to stand still. Then, somehow, the image was in his hands, and he was streaking down the avenue like a rabbit making for its burrow with a terrier at its heels. Subconsciously he heard shouts, shots, and the scream of ricocheting bullets. He also heard Biggles' wild yell of 'Well caught!' A narrow passage appeared on his left, and he sped down it like a pickpocket with the police on his heels.
Chapter 8
Ginger Goes Alone
Ginger ran on in a daze, bewildered by the suddenness of the calamity that had separated him from the others. So, hardly knowing what he was doing, he ran blindly, nearly distraught with anxiety for the others and horrified by the responsibility that now rested on him. He was still clut
ching the ornament in his right hand when it occurred to him that it would be safer in his pocket. In trying to accomplish this it slipped from his fingers and crashed to pieces on the hard road. Snatching up the precious letter, he thrust it into his pocket, and then, seeing no signs of hue and cry, slowed down to a walk. Somewhere not far away a bugle was blowing a series of short, jerky calls, but he paid no attention to it.
He was just congratulating himself on having got clear away when the sound of running footsteps made him throw a nervous glance over his shoulder. He saw at once that his worst fears were realized. Two soldiers were coming after him at a run. They let out a shout when they saw him turn. That was quite enough for Ginger, who resumed his flight incontinently.
Panting, he burst round the next corner, only to pull up with a cry of dismay, for not fifty yards ahead were fully a dozen soldiers. The fact that they were hurrying in the same direction as he was made no difference to Ginger—the sight of any sort of uniform was enough to induce alarm; and while he stood staring about him wildly, seeking in vain for an avenue of escape, the two soldiers appeared round the corner behind him so that he was now between two fires, so to speak.
In his emotion Ginger went as far as to contemplate the destruction of the letter, if only to prevent it from falling into Goudini's hands. In fact, he had already put his hand into his pocket with that object in view when the soldiers in front broke into a run and disappeared round a corner, so he ran after them rather than be overtaken by those behind, who were obviously pursuing him—or so he thought. But when he reached the corner, and saw what lay ahead, he recoiled with a gasp of despair. It was a wide square, and it was swarming with soldiers, all surging towards a line of motor transport that stood under some trees on the far side.
It had just occurred to Ginger that no one was taking any notice of him when a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder from behind. Jerking round, he came face to face with a soldier who said something in a language he did not understand, although, naturally, he assumed that it was Spanish.
'What—what—?' he gasped.
A second soldier, a little fellow with a brown, alert face, who had been hurrying on, swung round. 'Blimey!' said a cockney voice. "Ullo, mate, are you one of our mob?'
Ginger stared. He began to think that he was going out of his mind. Slowly it dawned upon him that his fears had been groundless; that the soldiers had no designs against him. 'Are you English?' he asked, and then realized how foolish the question sounded.
'No; I'm the King of China,' grinned the cockney, his bright eyes twinkling, and then roared with laughter at his joke. 'Fred Summers, from Plaistow—that's me. How's yerself?'
Ginger smiled wanly. He felt weak with relief. 'I'm Ginger Hebblethwaite from Yorkshire,' he said. 'What's going on here?'
'Going on! Blimey, that's good. Didn't yer hear the alarm? They say the spaghetti-wallahs are busting our line, so back we go.'
'You mean—Italians—General Franco's Italians?'
'What else do yer fink I mean? Come on.'
'I see,' replied Ginger vaguely, beginning to suspect that he had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. 'I'm new here,' he explained.
'Well, that's all right, mate; you stick to me;' said the generous-hearted cockney confidently. 'I'll show yer round.'
'Round—round where?' Ginger asked the question, although in his heart he knew the answer.
'The trenches, of course. Come on.'
'But—but just a minute,' stammered Ginger. 'You don't understand. I—no, I'm going this way.' He started to back away, for he had no intention of going to a war about which he knew little, and cared less, if he could avoid it. But a brawny sergeant with a waxed moustache cut him off, and bundled the two of them towards the waiting transport.
'That's Froggy,' whispered Summers. 'He's a hot 'un, he is. They say he was in the French Foreign Legion in Africa before he came here, and I shouldn't wonder at it the way he goes on. You watch your step with 'im.'
But Ginger was barely listening. In a kind of dream he took the rifle that was thrust into his hands, and put some packets of cartridges into the pouch on his belt. But he was still thinking of escape. Twice he tried to break away, but each time the French sergeant, who seemed to suspect his intention, called him back, and he dared not risk it again. For the present, at any rate, he would have to obey orders, that was clear; so he climbed into one of the lorries with his new-found friend. A jabber of foreign languages fell on his ears; the reek of garlic hung in the dust-laden air.
'You'll be all right, mate, don't worry,' said Summers cheerfully, noticing Ginger's downcast expression. 'I'll keep an eye on you.'
"Thanks,' replied Ginger wearily, and sank down on a pile of equipment to try to think calmly, for the rush of events had carried him off his feet. Only one thing seemed to matter at the moment, and that was that he was on his way to the front with the letter in his pocket, not knowing whether Biggles and Algy were alive or dead. Even if they were alive they might never know what had become of him, he reflected miserably. And the more he thought about it, the more hopeless did the situation appear.
His morbid thoughts, pardonable in the circumstances, were interrupted by the forward movement of the lorry. A great crowd of women and girls were cheering themselves hoarse; the troops replied by blowing kisses and singing snatches of songs; but Ginger only stared glumly into the sea of faces. 'Anybody would think we were going to a beanfeast,' he thought bitterly.
Once clear of the square the lorry increased its speed, and soon they were racing down a dusty road between groves of olive trees and far-spreading vineyards beyond. Women ran out of the houses they passed and cheered the troops on their way. Ginger, still determined to return at the first opportunity, settled down to watch for landmarks. There was nothing else he could do.
He realized that he hardly knew what the war in Spain was about. It had never interested him. He had a vague idea that it was a civil war in which certain other countries had taken sides, but since he did not even know the original cause of the quarrel he had no sympathies with either side. In fact, it made the whole idea of taking part in the war more repugnant. He was deadly tired. So much had happened since the ship had been bombed; it seemed weeks since he slept in a bed. Twice he caught himself dozing; and each time he pulled himself together with a start, for he was still trying to follow the direction the lorry was taking. He settled down a little lower on the equipment. Some one put a folded blanket under his head, and looking up, he saw that it was the friendly little cockney. He smiled his thanks. The landscape became a blurred picture of gnarled grey olives, black, pencil-like cypresses, and rolling fields of grapes, under a sky of heavenly blue. He was very warm and comfortable. His eyes closed and this time they did not open.
When he awoke he noticed that the lorry had stopped, and he realized that it was the jerk that had awakened him. For a moment he could not remember what had happened; then memory surged into his brain and he stared about him in alarm. The clear, pale, eggshell blue tint of the sky told him that the afternoon had far advanced, and he was still marvelling that he could have slept so long when the muzzle of a rifle prodded his ribs, and he scrambled round to see 'Froggy' gesticulating at him. With a guilty start he saw that most of the troops had already dismounted, and were lining up a short distance away, so picking up his rifle he jumped down and joined them.
Fred Summers saw him coming and hurried to meet him. 'I was just coming back for you,' he said. 'They got me out first to unload some stuff. Well, 'ere we are. What do yer fink of it? Bit different from old 'Ampstead 'Eath, ain't it?'
'Yes, it certainly is,' agreed Ginger, staring about him wonderingly, for while he had been asleep the landscape had changed. No longer the smiling fields of grapes. All around, gaunt mountains thrust their peaks high into the clear sky. He was still staring when a machine-gun started its hateful chatter not far away.
'What's that?' he asked.
'What, ain't yer never 'eard a machine-
gun before?' was the surprised answer.
'Yes, of course,' answered Ginger. 'I didn't exactly mean that. I meant—what is it shooting at?'
'Franco, I 'ope.'
'But-'
'The trenches are just round that next hill,' explained Summers. 'Things are pretty quiet just at this minute, or you'd 'ave known all about it. I've bin 'ere before, and it's a hot shop. There's a big river called the Ebro just round the corner; that's where all the fuss is going on. They say Franco is trying to get across.'
'I see,' said Ginger vaguely. He was still by no means clear as to what was happening beyond the fact that he had arrived at the front and that a battle in which he would be expected to take part was imminent. The knowledge depressed him; he realized that to try to get away now would probably see him brought before a firing-squad and condemned to death for cowardice; but he was resolved nevertheless to seize the first opportunity of getting back to Barcelona. Had Biggles and Algy been there he would not have minded so much; in fact, he might have found the experience interesting; but with their fate weighing heavily upon him he could take no interest in anything. 'I'll get back somehow,' he told himself desperately.
Further rumination was interrupted by a general stir in the ranks as N.C.O.s hurried up and down getting the troops into column. An order was barked, and the regiment broke into a marching-song as it tramped up the dusty road towards its allotted station. Ginger did not sing. He did not even know the language in which the song was being sung. In any case, the last thing he felt like doing was singing; on the contrary, he fumed inwardly at the unfortunate series of accidents that had resulted in the present alarming situation. Nevertheless, once he smiled a grim smile, in which there was little humour, as he recalled that Biggles had started off originally on what was intended to be a spot of rest cure.