Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  The machine, a flying furnace, roared on past him as he sank easily and smoothly into the void. The wide panorama of the earth beneath appeared to revolve slowly on a vast turntable. He felt his harness tighten as his downward progress was arrested, and looking up, he saw the billowing folds of the parachute mush-room out. Catching his breath, and thinking a mental prayer of thankfulness, he looked about him.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the trail of black smoke left in the air by his machine. It was like a huge ostrich plume, dark brown at the top, where the smoke had already begun to disperse, and growing darker as it neared its terrible fount. His eyes reached the machine just in time to see it crash on the pine-covered slope of a hill towards which he himself was falling.

  For the first time he took stock of the country below. He was now too low to see any great distance, but it appeared to be all wild and uncultivated, rolling pine-clad hills broken by deep valleys, although in places the hills had been terraced, the level areas thus provided showing the bluey-grey of olive trees. Here and there an isolated dwelling or abandoned ruin gleamed white in the sun. He noted that the ground beyond the hill on which his machine was blazing seemed to level out, and he thought he could just make out a road winding across it, but before he could subject it to a closer scrutiny his attention was attracted by the fast-increasing roar of aero engines. Looking up, he saw the Caproni diving towards him, with what intention he could not think. His curiosity was never satisfied, for the pilot of the bomber, as if fearful of colliding with the spreading silk, zoomed upwards, and although he banked as if intending to come down again, he suddenly abandoned his project for reasons which Ginger readily understood. He had almost reached the ground.

  He saw that he would fall on the pine-covered slope, which now appeared to be rushing up to meet him, and he prepared himself for the shock of impact by drawing up his knees and covering his face with his arms. There was a moment of breathless waiting, during which he could hear the drone of the Caproni's engines receding; then, with a violence that alarmed him, he was crashing through the topmost twigs and branches of the pines.

  He was groping for his quick release lever when he struck the ground with a force that knocked the breath out of his body. He rolled a little way helplessly, and was then pulled up short by the parachute's shrouds which had become entangled in the tree-tops. For a few seconds he lay still, panting; then, still fighting for breath, he scrambled into a sitting position to survey the situation. Seeing what had happened, he released himself from the parachute, and then, still half dazed with shock, examined himself.

  He soon discovered that he had suffered no serious injury. The side had been torn clean out of his tunic. Seeing blood on his shirt, he took the tunic off, and found that the blood was coming from a nasty scratch on his side—cause, presumably, by the end of a broken branch. His face and hands had also been scratched, but the wounds were superficial, so, after wiping them with the sleeve of his tunic, he thought no more about them.

  He became aware that he was parched with thirst, and it was with the thought of allaying this that he rose to his feet and prepared to move off. He picked up his tunic, but it was in such a state that it seemed hardly worth putting on. In any case, the noon heat was intense, and he did not need it; so, after transferring the automatic to his hip pocket, he threw it into the bushes and set off slowly up the hill with the object of surveying the landscape from the top, in order to decide which direction to take. 'Not that it makes much difference,' he thought miserably, as the depressing facts of his position began to occur to him.

  Chapter 16

  In Deep Waters

  It was with some trepidation that Biggles and Algy saw Ginger climb into the machine with the yellow wheels.

  'I wonder if we've done right to let him go,' muttered Biggles, looking worried.

  'We should have had Harkwell back over here if he hadn't gone, that's certain, in which case he might have wondered what we were up to. We must get out of Catalonia, and the only way we can do that is by flying out. I think Ginger is able to take care of himself.'

  'Well, I hope so; but I wish we could have kept together,' replied Biggles.

  'How is she for petrol?' asked Algy.

  'The tanks aren't full but there is enough for our purpose.'

  'We'll try to start her up. The formation is ticking over, so they'll be off" at any moment. We mustn't lose sight of Ginger's machine.'

  Biggles was already busy with the self-starter, and, as we already know, he managed to get the engines going just as the formation taxied forward to take off.

  Algy got into the seat next to Biggles, watching the mechanics near the hangar, several of whom were staring at the Caproni. One or two began walking towards it.

  'Better get her off",' Algy told Biggles. 'People are coming over here to see what's happening.'

  'So I see,' murmured Biggles. He did not like taking off" without testing the engine revolutions, but there was no time for that. Several mechanics were now running towards the big machine, which began to move forward as Biggles opened the throttle. He paid no further attention to them, but concentrated on getting off the ground. The machine came off easily; he held it straight until he was over the edge of the aerodrome, where he turned, and then began climbing towards the formation which he could still see ahead and far above him.

  'It looks as if we're all set for Francoland,' he observed cheerfully, a minute or two later, although finding that if he climbed he began to fall behind the fighters, he levelled out and contented himself with keeping them in sight, knowing that if nothing upset the plan Ginger would join them.

  Nothing more was said until Ginger began to drop below the formation. The distance between them was too far for them to identify the actual machine, but they assumed that the pilot of the straggling machine was Ginger—in which assumption they were, as we know, correct.

  'Here he comes,' murmured Biggles.

  'The others are coming, too,' announced Algy presently.

  Biggles bit his lip and looked down to see what sort of ground lay underneath them. 'I'm afraid this is going to be awkward,' he said uneasily.

  'If it comes to a dog-fight, nobody will know who is fighting who,' suggested Alby.

  'We shall get it in the neck, anyway.'

  'Looks like it.'

  'We shall have to bolt for it; there's no other way,' declared Biggles.

  And he attempted to do so, but the single-seaters, being faster as well as having height of the Caproni, rapidly overtook it.

  Algy was the first to spot the Fiats. They were on his side. 'Jumping crocodiles! There's going to be a mess in a minute,' he declared dispassionately. 'What a mix-up!'

  'Keep your eyes on Ginger,' ordered Biggles in a hard voice. He was turning to avoid the conflict, if it were possible. As he did so he saw another Caproni underneath them, diving for home. 'It's going to be a mix-up all right,' he remarked grimly. And then it struck him that Ginger would not know which of the two Capronis to follow.

  He was trying to work out a plan by which Ginger might identify them when Algy caught his left arm.

  'Look out!' yelled Algy. 'They're after us!'

  Biggles saw a fighter diving on him, and turned under it. Others roared round them. Then the Fiats came plunging into the melee, and that gave him an opportunity of side-slipping out of it.

  'That kid'll be killed if he isn't careful,' muttered Algy. 'They're all hard at it, the whole bunch of 'em. I don't know which one is Ginger. I've lost sight of him. Gosh, there goes a flamer!'

  Biggles could do nothing except fly on into Franco territory, while Algy kept him informed, as far as he was able to, of the progress of the dog-fight now some distance above them.

  'Hello, there's somebody streaking out of it,' cried Algy. 'Yes, it's him. I can see his yellow wheels.'

  'Is he coming this way?' asked Biggles, craning his neck to see the machine, which was on Algy's side.

  'No! He's going like the
devil straight into—what on earth is he doing?'

  Biggles knew, or at least he guessed. 'There's another Caproni like ours ahead of us,' he said savagely. 'He thinks it's us.' As he spoke he pushed the joystick forward for as much speed as possible, in the hope that Ginger would see them.

  But as we know, Ginger's eyes were on the Caproni ahead of him, and as the possibility of its being another machine did not enter his head, it did not occur to him to look behind him. Had he done so he would have seen the second bomber.

  Biggles did his best to overtake the yellow-wheeled scout, but the Caproni was slower, and he could not make it do the impossible. He could only watch, still hoping that Ginger would turn. And, watching, they saw the rest of the tragedy. They saw Ginger's swoop that carried him level with the leading Caproni, saw the gunner swing his gun round and take aim, and saw the smoke streak from the single-seater.

  'He's afire!' screamed Algy.

  Biggles did not answer at once. His face was grey. His eyes never left the single-seater. 'He's going to jump,' he ground out through set teeth. 'I should never have let him go—look! Thank God! He's got a brolly.'

  The relief with which they both saw Ginger's parachute open can be better imagined than described. The machine that had fired the shots roared on and was already some distance away when they arrived on the scene. Biggles zoomed at the lonely figure under the parachute, hoping that Ginger might see them, but at the last moment, rather than risk colliding with the silk and so killing all three of them, he pulled his machine clear. He knew the difficulty of flying near a body that is falling vertically.

  At that moment Ginger—although he was unaware of it—was only a few yards from the others, but they might have been poles apart for all the hope they had of getting together.

  Circling, Biggles and Algy watched Ginger crash into the tree and disappear from sight, although they could still see shreds of parachute silk caught up in the tree-tops.

  Biggles' eyes switched to the crashed machine, not very far away. It was still blazing furiously; what was worse, the dry pines and the undergrowth were also on fire, and the flames were spreading rapidly. Ginger had fallen just above, and Biggles saw the tragic possibilities at once.

  'If he's been knocked out in the fall he'll be burnt to death,' he said tersely. 'We've got to get to him. We've got to get down—anywhere. But we've got to get down.'

  He looked around swiftly, almost frantically, for a place sufficiently free from obstructions to permit a landing being made, but there was no such place within gliding distance. A little to the north the country seemed more open, so he dived towards it. His course took him over the brow of the hill on which Ginger had fallen, and almost at once his questing eyes fell upon a long, narrow piece of ground near a road that wound through the valley beyond. This open space was, in fact, little more than an unusually wide grass verge beside the road, or what would have been grass had the sun not shrivelled it.

  The heavy bomber at once began to sideslip* towards it. There was no means of ascertaining the direction of the wind, but the tree-tops told Biggles that there was little breeze, if any; not that it would have made any difference if there had been, for the proposed landing-ground was long and narrow, and permitted a landing only in one direction. Biggles levelled out over it. 'Hold tight,' he said grimly, and the next moment the Caproni was bouncing over hard ground that was rougher than it looked from the air. Once, indeed, the machine nearly cartwheeled as a tyre struck a small piece of rock. A smaller machine would have turned over, but the weight of the bomber brought it back to even keel, and it rumbled to a standstill in a cloud of dust.

  * Aircraft moving to one side while maintaining forward flight.

  Algy flung open the door. 'We are three miles from the place where he crashed,' he said. 'We'll have to run.'

  Biggles followed him to the ground, and then, looking about him, gave a sharp exclamation that was half way between anger and dismay. Algy, following Biggles' eyes, saw what had caused it. Fringing the more or less level piece of ground on which they had landed was a belt of pines, joined in places by others that connected it to the pine forest covering the hill beyond. From this belt of trees, under which they had evidently been resting, ran soldiers, possibly a hundred or more. Beyond these stood others, too tired to come forward but prepared to watch. There were also tanks, guns, and the usual transport wagons that accompany troops on the march.

  'Trust us to land beside a regiment,' said Biggles bitterly. 'We can't do anything. I only hope that there is some one among them who can speak English.'

  'If we take off our jackets they might think we belong to their own Air Force,' suggested Algy quickly. 'It's one of their machines, don't forget.'

  Biggles shook his head. 'Too risky,' he said. 'To conceal our identity makes us spies. They'd shoot us out of hand. No, we've got to face it. In any case, I fancy they've already spotted our uniform.'

  The leading troops had halted. There was a shout. Then they ran forward again, calling to each other in tones indicative of excitement. 'Italians,' murmured Algy.

  'They are,' agreed Biggles. 'Italians or Spaniards, it won't make much difference,' he added, raising his hands and walking towards an officer who was running forward with the others.

  The next moment they were both surrounded by a clamouring crowd. Biggles tried to make himself heard, but it was no use. The officer shouted at his men and the noise subsided somewhat.

  'We are English,' said Biggles. 'Do you speak English?'

  The officer eyed Biggles suspiciously. 'English,' he repeated, as if he did not understand the word, or if he did, was at a loss what to make of it.

  'Does any one speak English?' shouted Biggles.

  Two of the soldiers answered 'Yes.' One pushed his way to the front. 'I was a waiter in London,' he announced in a tone of voice suggesting that he was proud of his accomplishment.

  'Then tell your officer that an aeroplane has crashed over there. It is on fire. The pilot may be burned to death.' Biggles pointed to a cloud of white smoke that rose high into the air from behind the brow of the hill.

  The man saluted the officer and spoke rapidly. It was evident that his translation had been correct, for the officer rapped out an order at which several of the men broke away and started running towards the hill. This done, he spoke again, whereupon rude hands were laid upon the prisoners, and such things as they possessed were taken from their pockets.

  'Why are you flying in one of our aeroplanes?' demanded the officer, through the interpreter, after this had been done.

  'We escaped in it from Barcelona, where we were prisoners,' answered Biggles.

  The Italian smiled cynically, and, giving another order, led the way back to the shade of the trees, where he again addressed the prisoners through the interpreter. His manner was curt. 'This matter is not for me,' he said. 'I have sent a message to head-quarters. Meanwhile, you sit here. If you attempt to escape you will be shot.'

  There was no question of attempting to escape, for they were surrounded by a surging crowd of curious spectators. So, satisfied that they could do no more for Ginger, they sat down. A soldier better disposed than the rest gave them each a cigarette, which they accepted thankfully. They did not talk, for there was little to be said. They sat and smoked their cigarettes, waiting for what might befall, glancing from time to time in the direction of the hill, hoping to see Ginger coming.

  The sun began to sink towards the western hills. The soldiers who had gone to look for Ginger returned, but Ginger was not with them. Shortly afterwards a car came tearing down the road. The officer came back and announced that it had been sent to fetch them. They thanked him, took their places in it, and with four men as escort, set out for an unknown destination.

  The drive was shorter than they expected. After about twenty minutes the car entered a large encampment which had been erected round a central building of considerable size and importance. It was at the imposing entrance to this building, which now tu
rned out to be a large private house, that the car stopped. The prisoners were ordered to dismount, after which, accompanied by the escort, they were marched inside, halting before a door on the ground floor. A rap on the door and it was opened from the inside. They were marched in and the door closed behind them.

  Apart from the escort, which now lined up against the wall, there were four men in the room, all officers of senior rank. So much was obvious, but to what nationalities they belonged was not so clear. Two were certainly Italian. One, Biggles suspected from his close-cropped hair, was a German. They were grouped around a middle-aged man who sat at a massive writing desk littered with documents. It was he who spoke first.

  'Your names?' he demanded in a peremptory voice, speaking in English.

  'My name is Bigglesworth. My friend's name is Lacey,' answered Biggles evenly.

  'What are you doing here, and why were you flying one of our aeroplanes?' was the next question.

  'We landed here because we saw a friend shot down. We were flying one of your machines because it was available, and because we wished to escape from Barcelona.'

  'Why was it necessary for you to escape from Barcelona?'

  'We were wrongfully imprisoned there.'

  A faint smile crossed the face of the questioner. 'And your friend—the one who was shot down—was, I sup-pose, Mr. Hebblethwaite?'

  Biggles started. The question—it was really a statement—took him aback. 'Er—yes. That's correct,' he admitted.

  'You were on your way back to England—yes?'

  'Yes, it was our intention to get back to England as soon as possible.'

  The questioner's face set in hard lines. 'You are three English spies, yes?'