Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  Ginger got to the door of the hut just in time to collide violently with a man coming out. He staggered back under the impact, and, in spite of his efforts to keep his balance, he went down with a bump. The man fell back against the wooden wall of the hut. Ginger had only a fleeting glimpse of him, but what he saw suggested that the sentry had been asleep. He was coatless. His hair was tousled. He looked thoroughly startled. But he had remembered to grab his rifle. And this, with alacrity, he now pointed at Ginger, who was scrambling to his feet.

  But before he could fire Summers had flung himself at him and twisted his weapon out of his hand. It fell to the ground and the two men fell on top of it. The sentry was shouting, Summers was snarling, and at the noise Ginger's skin turned gooseflesh. He threw himself into the fray, only to whirl back as a boot caught him in the stomach. By the time he was on his feet again the shouting had stopped; he saw that Summers was astride the other, hands round his throat, beating his head on the ground.

  'All right! Don't kill him,' gasped Ginger. 'The keys! Get the keys.' Without waiting for Summers to obey, he ran forward and, with considerable difficulty, felt in the sentry's trouser pockets. The keys were not there. He remembered the coat. 'Stay where you are, Fred. Don't let him make a noise,' he croaked, and dashed into the corridor. A lamp was burning near a chair at one end. Over the back of the chair hung a coat. It took Ginger five seconds to reach it and take the keys from the pocket. He counted the doors from the bottom end—one—two—three. 'Are you there, Biggles?' he jerked out as with trembling fingers he tried the key in the keyhole.

  Biggles' voice answered from the inside. 'Keep your head, kid,' he said.

  Ginger gave a gasp of relief as one of the keys turned the lock, and the door flew open. 'Get outside,' he said.

  'What are you going to do?' asked Biggles crisply.

  'I'm going to get Jock. He's got the letter. You go and help Summers.' With that Ginger dashed to the door at the end of the corridor. It took him a minute to open it. As the door opened there came a murmur of voices from the darkness inside. 'Jock!—Jock! Where are you? Are you there, Jock?' he cried hoarsely.

  'Ay, lad, I'm here,' came the well-remembered voice from close at hand.

  'Come on.' Ginger turned and ran down the corridor to the outside door. The uproar below had ceased. The sentry lay still on the ground, Biggles, Algy, and Summers standing over him. Ginger, panting with exertion, took the lead. 'This way,' he said, and ran like a hare towards the place where he had cut the wire. He wriggled under the fence and waited for the others to come through. Another moment and they were all outside the compound.

  'Good work, laddie,' said Biggles. 'Which way?'

  'Any way as long as we get clear of this place,' said Ginger. 'There's a Caproni standing beside the road about three miles away. We'd better make for it.' He turned to Summers. 'You know this district better than any of us,' he went on quickly. 'You lead the way. Keep clear of lights and the village, and try to get us to the road where I picked you up this afternoon. Can you do it?'

  'You bet yer bloomin' boots I can. This way fer Blighty*,' answered Summers jubilantly, and set off at a trot across the field, just as the rim of the moon appeared above the distant hills.

  * Slang: Britain, home

  Chapter 19

  A Bitter Disappointment

  Without further conversation they made their way down an incline diagonally away from the lighted com-pound, now an indistinct scene of activity, and, still at a steady run, swung round in a wide detour that brought them to the road below the prison camp at a point not far distant from where Ginger had left the motor cycle, the existence of which he notified to Biggles. The result was a pause in the pines by the side of the road.

  'I don't think it's any use to us,' decided Biggles, after a moment's reflection. 'Only two could use it, and, in any case, as troops will no doubt be on the watch for it, it would be dangerous even to start it up. This place will buzz as soon as our escape is discovered. It was bad enough before, with parties out looking for Ginger.'

  'Ay, that's richt,' agreed Jock.

  'You'd better give me that letter,' Biggles told him. 'If the worst comes to the worst I shall have to destroy it. It's our affair, and there is no need for you to get mixed up in it.'

  'Ah, weel, as ye say.' Jock dug in the lining of his coat and handed the scrap of paper to Biggles, who put it in his pocket.

  'All right,' continued Biggles quietly; 'now let's make for the machine. We'll keep off the road. No noise. If there is trouble we may as well fight it out. If we're caught after what has happened—but we needn't dwell on that. I think everybody knows just how we stand. Let's get on.'

  They set off again, now at a brisk walk, conserving their wind and strength for an emergency should it arise. They reached the place where the road was under repair, but a cautious reconnaissance revealed that nobody was about, so they went on, gathering confidence but never relaxing their vigilance as they left the prison camp farther behind them. Motor vehicles came along the road, travelling in one direction or the other, and on these occasions, having plenty of warning, they drew farther into the trees until the danger of being seen was past. Another time they had to remain still for five minutes while a belated pedestrian—for it was now well after midnight, they judged— who turned out to be a peasant, went by. But at last, after a long walk, they drew near to the stretch of road beside which Biggles had landed the Caproni. For some time they had been aware of a red glow ahead, and now, rounding a corner, they saw the cause of it. The forest where Ginger's machine had crashed was still alight. The actual fire was still on the far side of the hill, which stood some distance back from the road, but even so it shed a ruddy light over the landscape. Biggles called a halt.

  'There were troops under the trees near the machine when I landed,' he told them. 'I think they were on the march; if so they will be gone by now, but we had better make sure. There's no need for us all to go. Stand fast everybody until I come back.'

  Still keeping off the road, Biggles strode forward a distance of about a hundred yards to a spot that commanded a view of the place where he had recently landed. Peering through the trees, he stopped suddenly. Then he went on to the very edge of the open space. His eyes swept over it. Yard by yard they examined the clearing and the edge of the tree beyond. He drew a deep breath and returned quickly to the others.

  'The machine's gone,' he said quietly.

  Jock fired an explosive curse.

  'Swearing won't bring it back,' said Biggles calmly. 'The question is, what do we do next? Incidentally, I couldn't see any troops about; that's one thing to be thankful for.'

  'By gosh, this is a blow!' murmured Ginger. 'We've got to get a long way from here by daylight, or we're going to have a thin time.'

  'We're going to get a long way, too, don't you worry,' replied Biggles grimly. He turned to McLannoch. 'Jock,' he said, 'you must have flown this bit of country more than once. How far are we from the nearest aerodrome?'

  Jock scratched his head. 'Corpidello would be the nearest, I'm thinkin'.'

  'How far is that?'

  'Aboot ten miles—twelve, mebbe.'

  Biggles whistled softly. 'Well,' he said in a resigned voice, 'it's no use moaning. We've got to get there. It's our only chance. If we can't make it by dawn—well, we shall have to hide in the woods and finish the trip to-morrow night. We shall have to hide up during daylight. Let's sit down for a minute. Rushing won't get us there any sooner; we should only exhaust our-selves.' He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree. The others took up positions, either on the tree or on the ground, to rest. No one spoke. The night was still; the only sound was the distant crackling of the fire.

  'We'd better get back a bit—I can hear a car coming,' murmured Algy presently.

  Biggles sprang to his feet. 'A car!' he echoed. 'At this hour of the morning! I believe you're right, all the same. If you are, that's the answer to our problem. Quick, you fellows, give me a hand with th
is tree.'

  'Losh, what are ye goin' to do wi' it?' demanded Jock in a voice of amazement.

  'Throw it across the road,' snapped Biggles. 'That'll stop the car. If it's a private car, it's ours. Give me that pistol Ginger.' Biggles thrust the weapon into his pocket and then helped the others to drag the fallen tree across the road. It was slender, so it entailed no great effort. 'Back under cover, every one, till we see what we've caught,' he ordered.

  There was a general rush for the trees as the wavering beams of the car's headlights came over the brow of a rise and probed the darkness ahead, making the pines on either side stand out flat, like stage scenery.

  'It's a private car,' whispered Biggles. 'Don't move till I say the word.'

  The car began to slow down when the headlights picked out the obstruction on the road, and came to a quiet standstill, with the engine just purring, a few yards short of it. The door was flung open and a man in a smart uniform stepped out. The lights of the car glinted on a row of medals. He looked at the tree, kicked it, and tried to move it, but it was too much for him. He called out something in an angry voice, whereupon a second officer got out of the car and came to his assistance.

  'Now,' hissed Biggles, and darted forward. 'Hands up!' he snapped, not caring whether the words were understood or not. The pointed muzzle of a pistol is an argument understood anywhere, by any one.

  The two motorists sprang round in affright, as they had good reason to, and then slowly raised their hands. Taken completely by surprise, there was nothing else they could do. They stared wonderingly at the five wild figures confronting them. Jock alone—unshaven, hair tousled, a club-like length of pinewood in his hand— was enough to frighten any one.

  'Do you speak English?' asked Biggles curtly.

  'Si-yes. Who are you? What is zis?' was the equally curt response.

  'I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I need your car,' said Biggles, his eyes noting the wings on the officer's breast, and drawing swift conclusions from them. 'I shall also need your tunics, and your caps,' he added.

  One of the officers snorted a protest, but Biggles silenced him. 'I have already apologized, gentlemen, but circumstances permit no other course. As an officer myself—flying officer—I feel for you, but—it is war. We are prisoners. We are escaping—and, I may say, we are desperate. Whether you agree or not, we shall have what we need. Will you give them to us, or must we employ methods that are—undignified?'

  One of the officers shrugged his shoulders in a manner which conveyed as much as he could have said, and slowly took off his tunic. The other, muttering under his breath, did the same.

  Biggles took off their straight-peaked caps, bowed, and stepped back a pace. 'It is with real regret that I must leave you to walk,' he said, and moved towards the car.

  Ginger hurried to his side. 'What about the telegraph wires?' he whispered. 'Wouldn't it be safer to cut them? There are houses lower down the road. They may have a telephone.'

  'Yes, cut them,' agreed Biggles shortly.

  Ginger ran to the nearest telegraph pole, but Sum-mers ran after him. He had guessed Ginger's intention.

  'Gimme them pliers; I'll soon 'ave 'em down,' he declared. He took the pliers from Ginger's hand and went up the pole like a monkey. Four sharp twangs and as many wires fell to the ground. He came down— looking more than ever like a monkey—and they rejoined Biggles at the car. Jock and Algy had dragged the tree aside.

  'Buenos noches, señores; gracias*!' Biggles bowed and got into the driving-seat of the car. Algy got in beside him; the others piled in behind. The car moved forward smoothly, leaving the two coatless officers in the road.

  * Good night, gentlemen, thank you

  'Blimey! This way for Marble Arch,' chuckled Sum-mers. 'A bit o' luck, eh?'

  'It's time we had a bit,' Ginger told him. 'It wasn't all luck, anyway. If Biggles hadn't—'

  'Don't talk so much,' broke in Biggles. 'Keep your eyes open and be ready to move smartly. We've some way to go, and anything can happen before we get to the aerodrome. We've got to find it, anyway. Are we going right, Jock?'

  'Ah think so. Speakin' fra' memory, there's only one road in these parts, and the aerodrome's beside it. What d'ye reckon to do wi' yon pretty jackets?'

  'Put 'em on in a minute,' returned Biggles. 'We shall at least look like officers, and not like a gang of toughs— at least, two of us will. For once, things are fitting in nicely, I believe. This car coming down the road wasn't an accident. It was going to the aerodrome. I've travelled down a road in a car at this hour of the morning many a time; and when I have, it has always been with the same object.'

  'Ye mean — ?'

  'What time do bombers usually bomb your back areas?'

  'Aboot dawn.'

  'That's what I thought. That's the usual time. After-wards they can rumble home and land in daylight. We ought to arrive at the aerodrome in nice time to find a formation of bombers getting ready to take off. That suits us very well. The chances are that the two fellows we stopped sleep out, and come to the aerodrome regularly in this car; which means that the arrival of this car won't cause any surprise. If Algy and I wear the borrowed tunics it should help the deception. If we are going to be hanged—and we shall be if they catch us — it may as well be for a sheep as a lamb. That is always one advantage of being absolutely desperate: you take chances which otherwise would sound awful. When nothing you can do can make things worse, it really saves you a lot of worry.'

  For twenty minutes the car raced on. There were no side turnings, so there was no risk of losing the way. They passed an occasional farm-house, and the head-quarters at which Biggles and Algy had been interrogated the previous afternoon, but at that hour in the morning they were silent. There was a sentry on duty at the entrance to the head-quarters, but he barely glanced up as the car raced by.

  The hills on either side had now given way to open, treeless country, and the reason for the location of the aerodrome became apparent.

  'How much farther, Jock?' asked Biggles.

  'I'm not sure, but it canna be far,' was the reply.

  A minute or two later the roar of an aero engine being run up confirmed his belief. As Biggles slowed down, the car breasted a slight fold in the ground and the black bulk of the hangars came into view. Lights were everywhere. They reflected on quickly moving figures, and on a line of six Caproni bombers that stood out in front of the hangars.

  Biggles switched off his headlights. 'We've two methods open to us,' he said. 'We can either get out here and try to approach unseen, and so make a rush for a machine, or we can drive straight in and play a big bluff. These people are, I fancy, Italians—or most of them. They've Italian machines, and these uniforms we have are Italian. I expect the mechanics, having been here some time, can speak Spanish as well as Italian, but I can't speak either to any amount, so there will be no question of talking. Algy, you and I will wear the borrowed plumes; the others get on the floor where they can't be seen.'

  Biggles stopped the car long enough for this operation to be performed. 'Now,' he said quietly, 'we'll make for the end machine on the right. I believe the props are already ticking over—I think they all are, if it comes to that, but there will probably be fewer people at the end of the line. We shall drive right up. These are the orders for the instant I stop. Algy, you'll take the left-hand chock, yank it away, and then get aboard. Ginger, you'll do the same with the right-hand chock. Jock and Summers and I will have to clear the machine, both inside and out, wherever the mechanics happen to be. There may be none, but as the engines are running it's pretty certain that there will be at least one fellow there—probably in the cockpit. It's neck or nothing, so if anybody tries to stop us, let 'em have it. Is that clear?'

  There was a low chorus of assent.

  Biggles, transformed in his borrowed uniform, slipped the car into gear. 'Here we go,' he said. 'England, home and beauty.'

  'Scotland for ever!' growled Jock from the floor.

  A gateway thr
ough a barbed-wire fence, with a sentry-box beside it, gave access to the aerodrome. A sentry was on duty. He brought his rifle to the slope as the car went through. Biggles took it straight on down the road, which ran along the rear of the hangars. Reaching the end one, he turned sharp left, which took him to the tarmac. A number of mechanics were hurrying about on various duties. They took no notice of the car. Out of the corner of his eye Biggles saw a group of leather-clad pilots smoking a last cigarette before the flight. He took no more notice of them. His eyes were riveted on the selected machine, for the ease or difficulty of the rest of their project rested on the number of mechanics with whom they would have to deal.

  He had not expected to be stopped, but he experienced a slight thrill of surprise, almost unreality, as he brought the car to a stop as close to the Caproni as he dared go. This, necessarily, was behind the wing, so that the car would not be in the way of the machine taking off. The unfortunate part of this position was, however, he could not see into the control cabin. To get into such a position he would have to go forward of the wing, but as this would involve loss of time he did not do it.

  A sleepy-eyed mechanic in dirty overalls was leaning against the trailing edge of the wing near the cabin door. He straightened himself slowly as Biggles jumped out of the car and went towards him. He looked mildly puzzled at seeing a strange officer, but nothing more. Biggles' fist flew out with all the weight he could put behind it. It caught the man fairly under the jaw, and he went down like an empty sack falling off a shelf.

  Without another glance at him, Biggles sprang into the cabin and went forward to the cockpit.

  A single mechanic was sitting in the pilot's seat, gazing with languid eyes at the dials on the instrument board, clearly unaware that anything unusual was happening. His first intimation of this was when Biggles' hand closed over his throat from behind and jerked him from the seat.

  Biggles flung him into the arms of McLannoch, who was just behind. 'Take care of him,' he shouted, and then got into the seat; his hand closed over the throttle. Looking down through the side window, he was in time to see Algy and Ginger running back, dragging the chocks. Twisting round in his seat, he saw McLannoch and Summers sitting on the Italian mechanic. Algy, panting, pushed past them, and sank into the seat beside him. 'All clear,' he gasped.