Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  'How do you feel about it, Ginger?' asked Biggles.

  'Oh, let's go after the perishing letter,' replied Ginger carelessly. 'We are so up to the neck in trouble that things can't be any worse.'

  Biggles straightened himself. 'Well,' he said quickly, 'let's get on with it. If we stay here we shall only get the jitters. Don't hurry. We'll stroll across quietly, as if we've nothing better to do.'

  'Nor have we, if it comes to that,' mused Algy.

  Leaving the car where it was, they strolled casually across the parched earth towards the Caproni, which was now deserted, the novelty of it apparently having worn off. A number of mechanics were working on machines nearer the hangars, however, but they took no notice whatever of the three légionnaires.

  As they approached, Biggles ran his eyes swiftly over the machine, fully expecting to see some damage which would make their plan impracticable; but although there were some sinister-looking holes through the tail end of the fuselage and the fin, there appeared to be no damage sufficient to put the machine out of com-mission.

  'What about petrol?' asked Ginger.

  'It's a modern machine so there ought to be a gauge,' answered Biggles. 'If the tank has been holed it will show empty. We mustn't risk starting up until we have ascertained as far as possible that everything is O.K. If once we attract attention to ourselves we might be asked some awkward questions.'

  By this time they had reached the big bomber. 'She looks brand new to me,' continued Biggles, taking a cautious glance in the direction of the aerodrome buildings. 'Stay where you are while I have a look round inside.' So saying, he entered the Caproni by the door while the others, affecting the inconsequential manner of casual visitors, strolled round the far side of the fuselage.

  'Confound it! Here comes Harkwell,' exclaimed Ginger. He turned to warn Biggles, whom he could now see in the control cabin, but he desisted when he saw that Biggles had already noted the American's approach.

  Ginger turned to engage him in conversation as the best way of preventing suspicion. 'Where did this pretty baby come from, Cy,' he inquired cheerfully.

  The American did not smile. He looked tired. 'A feller sailed in with it a coupla days ago. Claimed he was fed up with the Franco mob. That sort of thing's always happening. Guess half these dons don't know what side they do want to fight on. Say, did I under-stand from Jock that you had been transferred to the squadron?'

  Ginger, wondering what the question might imply, hesitated for a moment. 'Why—yes,' he answered, realizing that denial might lead to more difficult questions.

  'O.K., that's swell,' returned the American, who did not appear to be interested in Biggles or Algy—not that there was any reason why he should be, since Ginger had introduced them as friends of his. 'We're short of fellers this morning,' continued Harkwell. 'Lopez has gone sick with toothache and Schnitz has got a touch of dysentery. I'd like you to make up the flight. We're taking off right now. I've taken over the flight now that Jock's gone west,' concluded the American by way of explanation.

  'O.K., Cy,' agreed Ginger. 'I'll just see my friends off, if you don't mind.' He spoke in even tones, although this fresh complication had thrown his brain into a whirl. To his infinite relief, Harkwell turned and walked back towards the hangars.

  Biggles instantly got out of the machine. 'I heard what he said,' he announced, with his eyes on the retreating American, and the hangars beyond, where five or six single-seater fighters were being lined up. 'I'm afraid it's going to take me a minute or two to get started up,' he went on quickly. 'If you don't go across right away Harkwell will be back to see what the devil's going on here. Then we shall be sunk. It's a pity to have to break up the party, but I don't think any great harm will be done. You go across, Ginger. When the engines are started up, the chances are that with so much noise close at hand they won't notice the Caproni's engines. When you are in the air, break away and follow us.'

  'But if I miss you—where are you going to make for?'

  'I can't tell you that. I know nothing about the country. Ultimately I want to get to this village where Jock went down—Ortrovidad, Harkwell called it, if I remember rightly.'

  'I say, there's a map in Jock's room. I saw it there,' burst out Ginger excitedly. 'If I could get hold of it I could fly to the village and you could follow me.'

  Biggles looked worried. 'This is getting an awful mix-up,' he declared. 'Don't forget you'll be in a republican machine—but there's Harkwell calling you. You'd better go. Do the best you can.'

  The American was standing by the line of single-seaters, the engines of which were now being started. Ginger ran towards him. 'I shan't be a minute, Cy,' he shouted. 'The country is a bit strange to me yet. I want to get that map out of Jock's room.'

  'Don't trouble to fetch that one. I guess you can have mine; I shan't need it,' retorted Harkwell. He climbed up to the cockpit of the machine nearest to him, and then jumped down with a folded map in his hand. 'Here you are,' he continued. 'That's your crate—the one with the yellow wheels. You'll find a cap and goggles in the seat, and a 'chute. That's all the kit you need here; it'll be as hot as hell presently. Stick close; we're liable to run into trouble the place we're going. Don't forget your 'chute—you may need it.'

  Ginger nodded. 'O.K., Cy,' he said calmly, but inwardly he was raging at the unlucky chance that was separating him from the others again so soon.

  As he walked briskly to the machine that had been allotted to him he looked across at the Caproni, but there was no sign of Biggles and Algy. His own engine had already been started, so he climbed into his seat, adjusted the parachute—more from a desire to appear normal than any other reason—and then put on the cap and goggles. This done, he examined the instrument board and tried the controls. He was relieved to find that there was nothing unusual about them, but he was by no means happy at the thought of taking up a machine which might have tricks about which he knew nothing. However, he had gone too far to draw back, so he looked across at Cy, who was watching him, and waved to show that he was ready.

  Instantly the American's machine began to move forward, followed by four others. Ginger slowly opened his throttle and raced after them, his entire interest now concentrated on his immediate task. But if he had any fears they were groundless, for the machine came off easily, and he was soon climbing up into his place in the formation. Not until he was satisfied that he was master of the machine did he dare to relax and risk a glance over his shoulder at the aerodrome. To his intense relief the Caproni was speeding across it, leaving a swirling cloud of dust to mark its passage.

  Taking the map from his pocket he unfolded it with his left hand, and holding it on his knees, studied it with as much attention as the situation would permit. Actually, few of the names meant anything to him, but with the aerodrome he had just left marked down, and the trenches, the map did at least give him a broad idea of the local geography. With some difficulty he found Ortrovidad which, as he expected, was not very far over the lines. This brief scrutiny having occupied as much time as the circumstances would permit, he folded up the map, put it into his pocket, and devoted his attention to the two other matters that now most concerned him—his own formation, and the Caproni, which he could still see far away below and behind him; but since the bomber was not climbing, and the single-seaters were, with resultant loss of speed, the distance between them had not altered except in the matter of altitude.

  The course on which the single-seaters were flying suited Ginger as well as any other, so he settled down in his seat, prepared to leave his companions and join the Caproni at the first favourable opportunity that presented itself.

  Chapter 15

  A Tragic Error

  With the formation still climbing, Ginger flew on through a cloudless sky. He was sorry the sky was cloudless; it would have suited his purpose much better had there been some clouds about, for they would have provided cover behind which he could have made his departure from the flight unobserved. As things were, one
or other of the pilots would be almost certain to see him go, and while this would not necessarily put him in a position of danger, he would have avoided it had he been able to do so.

  Watching the Caproni closely, he saw that it was following the formation, although remaining much nearer to the ground, and continued to do so after Harkwell, who was leading the formation, crossed the lines and bored steadily into hostile air. Up to this time he had been flying on a course not far from that which Ginger would have followed had he been alone, but when the American swung round to the left, presumably with the idea of flying parallel with the lines, Ginger knew that the time had come for him to leave, for he was travelling away from his objective.

  He did not go immediately. He wanted his departure, if it was noticed, to look accidental rather than deliberate, so he throttled back slowly and allowed his own machine to sink under the formation, where it could not be seen so well. And in that position he continued to lose height. Not until he was about two thousand feet below the others did he swing away and, cutting his engine, dive down towards the Caproni.

  It was lower than he thought, but he was not worried on that account. But when, watching the now distant formation, he saw the leader turn suddenly, he experienced a sudden thrill of apprehension. For the first time he realized the danger to the Caproni. Harkwell could have no reason for supposing that it was the machine which had been standing on the aerodrome when he left it. He would take it for an enemy.

  Ginger, tense, turned away. He would soon see whether the single-seaters were watching him or the bomber. He was not left long in doubt. He saw Harkwell's nose dip, and with the other four machines following, the American roared down after the Italian bomber.

  After a moment's indecision, Ginger, too, opened his engine and raced in the same direction. He did not know what else to do. Nor, for that matter, did he know what he was going to do. The Republican scouts were going to attack the bomber; that was certain. If Algy had a gun on board he might defend the machine. On the other hand he might not. He would hesitate to shoot at the American. Ginger was sure of that. Nor would he, Ginger, dare to use his guns even to defend the Caproni, for the men now plunging down to attack it were to all intents and purposes his friends. At any rate, they regarded him as one of their own side, so to shoot at them would be nothing less than murder.

  Sick with horror at the predicament in which he found himself, and furious that he had not made allowances for such a contingency, Ginger went on down. He knew that Biggles was already aware of his danger, for he saw the Caproni swerve away, and put its nose down in a wild dash that would take it farther into Franco country. But Harkwell, who was evidently a doughty fighter, was not to be intimidated by such tactics. Ginger saw tracer bullets stream from his guns.

  The Caproni whirled round in a vertical bank and cut under Harkwell's dive so that the bullets went over him, but the next moment the bomber was encircled by the other fighters who had followed their leader down.

  Ginger stared aghast. He knew that such a one-sided affair could have but one ending. Had there been open country below, Biggles might have gone down and landed, but underneath lay a wide area of scrub from which protruded gaunt outcrops of grey stone. To attempt to land on such a place would involve risks as great as remaining in the air. True, open fields and vineyards began some distance farther on, but could Biggles reach them? To Ginger, watching in a fever of anxiety, it seemed to be his only chance.

  So engrossed was Ginger in this catastrophic dog-fight that he did not once look in any other direction, and this omission might well have terminated the proceedings as far as he was concerned. It was brought to his notice by the harsh chatter of a machine-gun close behind him and the whip-like lash of a bullet striking his machine. With a violent start he kicked his rudder and then looked round, to stare in amazement at a cloud of strange machines, the nationality of which, since they were shooting at him, he had no reason to doubt.

  Curiously enough his first feeling was one of relief, for he perceived that if these were Franco planes —and they obviously were—they would protect the Caproni. But when one of them roared at him with its guns streaming flame he realized with an unpleasant shock that the situation had not improved. It had merely changed. It was he now who was being attacked.

  He did not hesitate. He decided to fight. That he bore no ill-will against his attackers made no difference. They were shooting at him. They would kill him if they could. They probably would, anyway. But he would not sit still and be shot like a rabbit. If they wanted to fight—well, they could have it.

  While these thoughts were racing through his brain Ginger had not been idle. Ability to think and act at the same time is the first essential qualification in air-fighting—so much Biggles had taught him; so while he endeavoured to focus the situation in its new light, he put his machine through a series of evolutions calculated to leave his opponents in considerable doubt as to his next move. Yet foremost in his subconscious mind was the determination not to lose the Caproni. He could no longer see it. For the moment he did not try to. But he did his best to get clear of the pack that was hammering at him in order to ascertain its position.

  A burst of bullets ripped through the centre of his top plane with a noise like matchwood being crushed under a steam-roller. Crouching low in his cockpit, he looked over his shoulder and saw a Fiat close on his tail. In the fraction of a second before he could take action to clear himself the Fiat had burst into flames. An instant later he saw the reason. As it plunged down-wards Harkwell's machine appeared through the smoke.

  As he roared past, the American raised his hand to Ginger. His teeth flashed in a smile of victory. What he clearly did not know was that a Fiat had dropped out of the blue and fastened on his tail. Ginger saw it. He dragged his joystick back viciously into his thigh, and as his nose whirled round he fired. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the American duck, thinking he was the target, so close were the three machines together. The Fiat zoomed vertically, hung on its threshing propeller, went over on to its back, and then plunged downwards, emitting a streaming cloud of white petrol vapour.

  'That's quits,' grunted Ginger, acknowledging Harkwell's wave of thanks. Then he thrust his joystick forward and, foot pressing on rudder-bar, he roared downwards in a wide circle looking for the Caproni. It took him a few seconds to find it. Then he marked it down, some distance away, streaking, nose down, well inside Franco territory. In a flash he was after it, looking back over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being pursued by a Fiat. Well beyond his tail a cloud of machines were still circling in a dog-fight from which neither side would, or could, break away. Ginger was content to leave it at that. If he could get away unremarked, so much the better, he decided, moistening his lips with relief at his escape from such a desperate set-to.

  Turning his attention again to the Caproni, he was a little surprised to see it diving as if it were being pursued. 'Here, wait a minute,' muttered Ginger. 'I shall be losing you yet.' With that he pushed the stick forward for every mile of speed his machine was capable of with the intention of catching up with the bomber. He fully expected now that it would ease up and wait for him, but far from that being the case, the Caproni only dived still more steeply, as if determined to increase its lead.

  Ginger, puzzled, lost forward speed by deliberately pulling his machine round so that those in the Caproni could see the colour of his wheels, for he knew that they would not have failed to mark which machine he got into on the aerodrome. But still the Caproni raced on with speed unabated.

  Ginger frowned. There must be something wrong somewhere, he mused. He glanced above and below but could see no sign of Fiats, or, for that matter, of Republican machines. It was, therefore, with some-thing like irritation that he pushed his joystick forward and roared down in a shrieking power dive. Not until he was far below the Caproni, by which time his speed indicator told him that he was travelling at nearly four hundred miles an hour, did he ease out. As he hoped, the speed
gained in the dive was sufficient to take him up alongside the bomber, and very close to it.

  What he saw made him catch his breath with a gasp of amazed consternation; it was so utterly unexpected that his hesitation to act instantly was pardonable. There were three men in the Caproni. Two were sitting side by side in the control cabin; he could see them clearly through the side windows. The third was standing up in the rear gun turret.

  There could be no mistake, although, for a split second, Ginger's astonishment was such that he doubted the evidence of his eyes. Then inspiration swept over him, and he realized the truth. He had been chasing the wrong machine. Simultaneously he began to turn away, conscious of a new danger. But it was too late. The rear gunner seemed to hunch himself up. His gun swung into view. Jets of orange flame spurted from the muzzle.

  Ginger winced as the bullets bored into his engine. He could feel the shock of them. The machine quivered. Black oil, hot and steaming, sprayed back over him. Then a dreadful roaring noise just behind him made him twist in his seat and look back in affright. What he saw seemed to turn his blood to ice-cold water—the horror that every airman carries deep in his heart, no matter how hard he tries to smother it. Fire! His machine was aflame. His rear tank was spurting smoke and swirling tongues of flame that licked hungrily along the fuselage and wrapped themselves around the tail assembly in an all-consuming embrace. Already the control surfaces were alight, the fabric tearing off in little wisps, exposing the charred framework under-neath.

  Ginger stared at this sight, paralysed with the horror of it, while a man might have counted three. He thought he was doomed, and decided—as many men have before him—to die suddenly rather than be burnt slowly to death. He flung off his safety-belt, and in doing so discovered that he had completely forgotten— so unaccustomed was he to using one—the parachute. A gasp of relief burst from his ashen lips. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the Caproni a short distance away—circling—the crew watching. With his left arm over his face to protect it from the heat which he could now feel, he scrambled out on to the port wing, and, as the machine lurched preparatory to its final plunge, he clutched the little brass ring that operated the rip-cord and launched himself into space.