Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  In the bottom of this haven of refuge rescuer and rescued stared at each other. 'You asked for what you got,' snorted Ginger. 'You must have been daft to give that fellow such an easy shot.'

  The Scotsman blinked. 'Are ye telling me how to fly, ye little whipper-snapper?' he roared.

  'I am. But don't shout so loud,' returned Ginger. 'Let's get into the trench.' He started crawling up the side of the shell-hole, but the Scotsman dragged him back.

  'Wait, mon! It's you that's daft. Listen.'

  Ginger paused. Bullets were ripping through the machine. A shell sailed over and burst not far away, sending such a shower of broken rock into the air that the two occupants of the hole ducked and covered their heads with their hands.

  'We'd do better to stay where we are until the fire-works are over,' announced the Scotsman. 'Ye haven't a drink on ye, I expect?'

  Ginger shook his head as he crawled back to the bottom of the shell-hole. 'You're right,' he agreed. 'We'll wait until it's dark. It won't be long.'

  The Scotsman took a paper packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and lighting one, sent a cloud of smoke into the air as he made himself as comfortable as the place would permit. 'This matter of me making a fool o' mysel'. Ye're an expert, na doot?'

  Ginger ignored the sarcasm in the other's voice. 'No,' he said. 'But I watched the fight, and while I know that it's easy to sit on the carpet and criticize what somebody is doing upstairs, it seemed to me that you made a bloomer.'

  'Ye're richt, laddie,' admitted the Scotsman. 'But what d'ye know about fichting in the air?'

  'I've done a little,' Ginger told him.

  'Ye mean—ye're a pilot?'

  'I am.'

  'Then what are ye doing in the trenches?'

  For the first time in two days a thrill of hope shot into Ginger's heart as he saw to what possibilities the chance meeting might lead. 'I only arrived in the trenches by accident,' he declared. 'I want to fly.'

  'Ye're not pitching me a tale?' asked the Scotsman suspiciously.

  'I've flown pretty nearly everything from single-seater fighters to multi-engined transports and flying-boats,' returned Ginger. 'I'm not bragging. I'm just telling you. I shouldn't say that if it weren't true because you could soon prove me a liar by leading me up to a machine.'

  'Yet I find it a wee bit hard to believe, ye ken. Ye look sich a kid.'

  'So I may do, but I've been flying for years,' protested Ginger, warming up to his subject as he saw a chance of realizing his ambition. 'There's hardly a country that I haven't flown over—and I've done some war flying. Give me a 'plane with a gun on it and I'll soon show you whether or not I can use it.' Ginger was tempted to tell McLannock about Biggles and Algy, but he felt that it might lead to dangerous ground. Naturally, he did not wish to divulge too much now; there would be time for more after he had seen the result of his preliminary overtures.

  'Weel, if that's true, I can find a job for ye doon in my flight,' answered the Scotsman.

  'The easiest way to settle all doubt would be for you to lend me a machine—wouldn't it?' suggested Ginger earnestly. 'If I couldn't fly, I should be a fool to kill myself by trying, shouldn't I?'

  'Ay, that's richt enough,' admitted McLannock. 'But how did ye come to be shoved in the trenches?'

  'It was all an accident,' replied Ginger quickly and truthfully. 'It's a long story. Somehow I managed to get shoved into the International Brigade, and found myself up here in the line before I knew what was happening. That wasn't my wish, you may be sure. My trouble is, I can't speak Spanish, so I can't do anything about it. I shouldn't like my sergeant to think I was trying to swing the lead out of the line.'

  'No, that's true. Weel, if we can get out o' here I'll hae something to say aboot it. We're short o' machines, but shorter still of pilots, so if ye fly like the way ye charged across to me when I crashed, then losh, mon, I'll reckon the crash on the credit side of the book.'

  Ginger, his heart pounding with a new hope, looked at the sky. It was now dark, except where nervous sentries were firing star shells. The firing, too, had died away, except for an occasional fitful splutter of a machine-gun. 'I think we could get into the trench now,' he suggested.

  McLannock got stiffly on to his knees and peered cautiously over the rim of the shell-hole.

  'Are you hurt?' asked Ginger quickly.

  'It's nothin' but a wee bit of a bruise here and there,' was the casual reply. 'I think it's safe to move now, but we'll need to let the fellers in your trench know it's us, or maybe they'll pump some lead at us.'

  'Let me go first,' replied Ginger. 'I've got a pal in the trench who will know my voice.' And with that he began crawling quickly towards the trench.

  At a distance of about fifteen yards from it he cupped his hands round his mouth and called, 'Fred—hi! Fred!'

  A second or two later he saw the little cockney crawling to meet him.

  'Strewth! I fort you was scuppered,' said Summers hoarsely.

  'We're all right,' Ginger told him. 'Jock's here with me. Go and tell the troops not to fire.'

  Summers retraced his steps, and in a little while Ginger heard him calling that it was all right to proceed, so running forward, he jumped down into the trench, McLannock following closely behind him.

  They found quite a crowd waiting for them, including the French sergeant and the Spanish commanding officer, with whom the Scotsman at once entered into conversation, with much pointing in the direction of Ginger, who, in the meanwhile, was the subject of much congratulation. Even the French sergeant amazed—not to say embarrassed—him by patting him on the back.

  'You've done yourself a bit of good, mate,' whispered Summers in his ear. 'Strewth! not 'arf you ain't.'

  'I hope I have,' replied Ginger frankly, but he was thinking on altogether different lines from the cockney.

  Presently McLannock came back to him. 'I've just had a word with your C.O.,' he said. 'I think it can be fixed up. I'll be moving off now to the aerodrome. I'll be back in the mornin' maybe. Take care o' yourself till then. By the way, what do they call ye?'

  'Ginger.'

  'That's fine. I'll be seeing ye in the mornin'. Adios, and many thanks for hauling me oot fra' the crash.'

  A parting handshake, and Ginger sank limply on to the firestep. 'Gosh! that was a bit of luck,' he murmured.

  'No luck abart that, mate,' objected Summers, who had sat down beside him. 'That was guts. I 'ope you'll get something out of it.'

  'I hope so, too,' returned Ginger warmly. 'Is there any coffee about? I could do with some.'

  Chapter 10

  More Shocks for Ginger

  When Ginger awoke the following morning he was at once conscious of a feeling amounting almost to elation. He knew that the situation had changed for the better, but could not remember immediately what had happened. Then memory, which had been pent up by several hours of sleep, broke loose, and he flung his blanket aside impatiently at the thought of what the day might bring forth.

  Nor was he to be disappointed. After an hour of such anxiety as he had seldom known before, during which time he was obsessed by the fear that he might be killed by a stray bullet before his new plans matured, a messenger arrived to say that he was wanted elsewhere, and that a car was waiting behind the lines to transport him there. In his haste to depart, he nearly forgot something, but he remembered it in time, and asking the messenger to wait, he hurried to the ablution trench where, as he expected, he found Summers washing, whistling through his teeth as he deluged himself with cold water.

  He broke off when he saw the expression on Ginger's face. 'Blimey, mate, what's 'appened?' he asked quickly.

  'I'm leaving you; at least, I think so,' Ginger told him. 'I believe I'm being transferred to the Air Force.'

  'Lummy, ain't it dangerous enough fer yer 'ere?' gasped Summers.

  'It isn't that,' replied Ginger. 'I haven't time to explain everything to you now. Maybe we'll meet again —unless you'd care to be an air gunner, if
I could wangle it?'

  'Me! Not blooming likely,' returned Summers promptly. 'I'll stay where I ain't got so far to fall.'

  Ginger smiled and held out his hand. 'O.K. pal,' he said huskily. 'And thanks for giving me a helping hand. Best of luck.'

  Summers gripped Ginger's hand. 'Same to you, chum,' he said cheerfully. 'Mind you don't fall out. Adios.'

  'I'll try not to,' Ginger told him, and then, with something suspiciously like a lump in his throat, he returned to the messenger and followed him as he led the way up a communication trench to the support lines, and then on to the track where the lorry had halted, and where a ramshackle car now waited amongst the various paraphernalia of war. The messenger, who spoke only a few words of English, invited Ginger to get into the car, and then set off down the road at a speed that reawakened in Ginger the fear that he might be killed before he reached the aerodrome. However, he bore the ordeal in silence.

  An hour's drive brought them to open country, and shortly afterwards Ginger saw unmistakable proof that his destination was at hand—a wind-stocking hanging limply in the still, sun-drenched air. Rounding a corner, the hangars came into view.

  The driver pulled up with a jerk in front of a low wooden building, at the door of which a group of men in various degrees of undress, one or two carrying flying kit, were standing. Among them was McLannock, who at once hurried over to the car from which Ginger was now dismounting.

  'So ye've arrived in one piece; guid,' was his greeting. 'The boys are just going off on patrol, so ye'll have to wait 'till they come back before I introduce ye. I've told them what ye did yesterday. I've got to be off mysel' verra shortly, so let's see about this flying. I've a machine waiting. As soon as I see that ye know what to do wi' it, we'll fix things up.'

  'That suits me,' agreed Ginger, praying that he would not bungle the take-off.

  He followed the Scotsman across the brown, hard-baked turf towards the hangars, in which machines of many makes and sizes were standing. Some distance beyond stood a captured Italian twin-engined Caproni bomber which a number of mechanics were examining with interest. He paid little attention to it, for an awful problem suddenly confronted him, a problem demanding a decision of such vital importance that his lips turned dry at the thought of it. Briefly, it was this. Should he, or should he not, abandon Biggles and Algy, and attempt to fly across the frontier into France, whence it would be a comparatively simple matter to reach England? He realized, of course, that without knowing precisely where the aerodrome was situated, such a flight would entail difficulties, but he knew that he must be in Catalonia, so if he flew north he would, sooner or later, assuming that his petrol held out, arrive somewhere in France. So much he was able to work out by visualizing the map of that part of Europe. He knew that the delivery of the letter should be his first consideration; indeed, Biggles had said something to that effect; but he also knew that once out of Spain he would never get back again, in which case he would be helpless to aid Biggles and Algy, whereas now, if he could find them, they might all get away. In the end he decided to compromise. If by the end of three days he had not found them he would seize the first opportunity of flying to France, where he would post the letter, and then try to get back again, accounting for his absence with the best excuse he could invent.

  As it happened, he had been exercising his brain unnecessarily, as he was now to discover. A suspicion of this first came into his mind when he saw that the machine which some mechanics were pulling out of the hangar was a two-seater, although the type was unknown to him. Jock's next words confirmed it.

  'Ah weel,' he said, cheerfully, 'we'll juist see what ye can do. Get in the front seat; I'll take the back. She's fitted for dual, ye ken.'

  'Er—yes,' stammered Ginger, not a little taken aback at this development. He perceived now that the pre-caution Jock was taking was quite a natural one; his surprise was occasioned by the fact that he had merely taken it for granted that the machine would be a single-seater, because he knew that Jock normally flew one of that type.

  The Scotsman did not appear to notice Ginger's temporary embarrassment, but after handing him a flying cap and goggles, he spent a minute or two explaining the instrument panel, which, he said, was a Russian arrangement.

  'Anything in the guns?' asked Ginger, noticing two on the engine cowling.

  'Ay, bullets,' grinned Jock. 'Ye never know what ye're going to meet in Catalonia; it can be a Boche bomber or an Italian fighter—there's all sorts here. If ye're outclassed, ye juist run for it, ye ken. If ye don't think ye can fly her, better say so now; it may save me knocking ye on the head when we get up.'

  'Oh, I can fly her,' protested Ginger confidently, for he saw that the machine was a normal two-seater type, and therefore unlikely to show any peculiar vice. In fact, he was a trifle disappointed, for the machine was clearly an old one. He had hoped for something better, something more up-to-date, such as a high-performance fighter. However, he gave the mechanic the signal to swing the prop, and after allowing the engine a minute or two to warm up, taxied out into position for the take-off.

  'I needn't ask ye any more,' announced Jock over the speaking tube. 'I've seen all I need to know.' Which was no doubt true, because taxiing on the ground demands as much skill as flying in the air.

  'Are you ready?' asked Ginger.

  'Away ye go,' was the brief response.

  Ginger glanced ahead for a mark on which to fly, and then opening the throttle, took the machine into the air. He held her straight until he was well beyond the aerodrome boundary, and then commenced a steady climbing turn. 'Anything particular you'd like me to do?' he inquired.

  'No. If ye can fly, which I can see for mysel', there's an end to it. But I may as well show ye the line while we're up here. Turn to the right." Mark yon square hill on the left; it's a guid landmark for the aerodrome in bad weather as long as ye don't bump into it.'

  Still climbing, Ginger turned in the desired direction, noting with practised eyes such landmarks as he knew might be useful. The altimeter, being continental, registered in metres, not feet, but this was not entirely new to him, and he soon became accustomed to it, mentally converting metres into feet.

  By the time the River Ebro came into view they were at ten thousand feet, and once more Ginger asked for instructions. He thought the position of the enemy front line had moved, as if there had been a big advance, but he did not trouble to confirm this.

  'It's quiet, so ye may as well fly along the line for a bit; the trenches are plain enough to see,' was the reply.

  'What about the three machines over on the right?'

  Jock gave a startled exclamation. 'Losh, mon, I didna see 'em. They're Fiats. Better get back; we're no match for 'em in this auld pantechnicon.'

  Ginger turned instantly, for he had no desire to find himself involved in a dog-fight. But he flew with one eye on the Fiats which, starting with superior altitude, were rapidly overtaking the two-seater. 'They'll catch us,' he announced calmly.

  'Ay, so I see,' muttered Jock anxiously. 'Better let me have the machine.'

  'Have you got a gun?'

  'No.'

  'The gun control's on my joystick,' Ginger pointed out. 'I can't use it if you're flying. You'd better leave it to me. I shan't fight unless I have to.'

  'A'richt. See what ye can do. 'Twas my own fault for coming so far. Maybe if things get too hot ye'd better spin down out of it.'

  Ginger glanced down and saw a terrifying vista of rocky crags, for they were still over mountain country. 'I'd sooner take my chance up here than pile up on that stuff,' he said, at the same time pushing the stick forward for more speed.

  'Mebbe you're richt,' came from Jock anxiously.

  Ginger, looking back over his shoulder, saw that the three Fiats, now in a loose V formation, were less than half a mile behind and fast closing the gap between them. Watching the enemy machines closely, he flew on, and presently derived a crumb of satisfaction when, at a range of not less than a quarter of
a mile, the leading Fiat opened fire. This told Ginger a good deal. He realized that the leader was new to the business, and possibly nervous, or he would not have opened fire at a distance so far outside effective range. Further, if the leader was inexperienced in air fighting, it was reasonable to suppose that his two assistants were no better. It is upon such observations as this that success in air combat depends.

  By this time the two-seater was down to six thou-sand, still racing for home, but with a long way to go. Looking back again, Ginger saw that the Fiats had closed up, and were still gaining; and it was at that moment that the first thrill of resentment surged through him. Until then he would have avoided conflict at almost any cost, for he was—for good reasons— anxious to get back to the aerodrome. But it is not easy to accept blows without retaliating, and when presently a bullet struck the two-seater his irritation became cold anger. A snarl from Jock fostered an idea that was fast taking shape in his mind. His lips tightened, as did his grip on the joystick. He glanced up at the sun, now a blaze of white light in the blue sky, and then jammed the joystick forward for speed.

  He heard Jock gasp in dismay, for in such a position they were very vulnerable; but he was flying with his head turned over his shoulder, and the instant he saw the nearest Fiat tracer streaking towards him he dragged the stick back, and then pulled it into his right thigh. The two-seater zoomed up into the sun like a swerving rocket.

  Ginger was still watching the Fiats. The manoeuvre had —as he had hoped —taken them by surprise, and they hesitated; unable to look up into the blinding glare of the sun, they were uncertain of the two-seater's position, so being loath to part company, they broke formation and circled, two of them waiting for a move from their leader, or the reappearance of their quarry. This was a normal procedure: Ginger had expected it to happen and had made his manoeuvre with that object in view. The Fiats were where he wanted them. He could see them but they could not see him. His face was rather pale, but a faint smile crossed it as he thrust the stick forward at an angle that sent the machine down like a thunderbolt. One of the Fiats was a little apart from the others, the pilot still circling in obvious indecision. A touch of right rudder brought the nose of Ginger's machine in line with it, but he held his fire. This was his chance, and he had no intention of spoiling it through precipitate action. Not until he was within a hundred feet of it, and had it dead in the centre of his ring sight, did he squeeze the trigger-grip on his joystick.