Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  'Ginger in?'

  'Yes.'

  Biggles pushed the throttle slowly forward. The engines roared. The big machine moved slowly for-ward. There was no wind, so the direction of the take-off did not matter. Swiftly gathering speed, the heavy bomber roared on across the darkened aerodrome. The tail lifted. The joystick in Biggles' right hand became rigid. He eased it back, gently. The vibration of the wheels ceased as the Caproni nosed its way up into the star-spangled sky. Slowly its nose swung round to the north, and remained there.

  Biggles found the watch on the instrument board, and his eyes flickered slightly with surprise. It was later than he thought—twenty minutes to four. He glanced at Algy, and saw that he was watching him.

  Algy leaned over. 'How far are we from France?' he yelled.

  Biggles thought for a moment, trying to visualize the map. 'Between seventy and a hundred miles to the Pyrenees,' he answered.

  Algy pointed towards the right-hand side window of the cabin. It was grey with the first pallid flush of dawn. He knew what Algy meant to convey. It would take them half an hour to reach the frontier, and they would have to cross it in daylight. He said nothing, but flew on, still climbing in order to clear the peaks that lay ahead.

  Slowly the grey turned to pink, and then to egg-shell blue. Ahead, seemingly close, but still many miles away, the jagged outline of the Pyrenees cut into the blue like a row of broken teeth.

  Biggles tapped Algy on the arm. 'Tell Ginger to get into the gunner's place and keep watch behind,' he said. He knew that it was unlikely that there would be a Franco aerodrome in front of them, for they were getting a long way from the theatre of war, so any danger would come from the rear, from the fast interceptor Fiats that might be sent after them.

  Algy went aft. He was away for some minutes. 'There are five machines behind us,' he announced calmly. 'They look like Fiats.'

  Biggles nodded. 'How far away?'

  'Two to three miles.'

  Biggles' eyes rested thoughtfully on the mountains ahead. Beyond them they would be safe. They were, he judged, twenty miles away. He made no comment, but moved the control column forward a little for maximum speed, turning his nose slightly towards what appeared to be one of the several passes through the mountains.

  Five minutes later rolling foothills lay below; the mountains themselves, gaunt and stark, raised an impressive line of peaks just ahead.

  Algy, who had again gone aft, returned. 'They're closing up,' he said.

  'Has Ginger got a machine-gun?'

  'No. I suppose the gunner brought his own gun with him.'

  Biggles nodded, and opening the side window, craned his neck in an attempt to see the pursuing machines, but could not, from which he knew that they must be directly behind. He could now see clearly the pass which he had chosen. The opening was not more than a mile away, although how far it extended he had no means of knowing. Another five minutes would see them comparatively safe. Seeing that he still had a few hundred feet of height to spare, he thrust the joystick forward for a final dash. Simultaneously, faintly above the roar of the engines came the crisp chatter of a machine-gun.

  Biggles pressed his right foot on the rudder bar; then the left. The machine swayed drunkenly. Again came the taca-taca-taca of a machine-gun, and an instant later a Fiat zoomed ahead, having overshot its dive.

  Biggles swerved away, but did not take his eyes off it. He saw its nose swing round; saw the bright orange flecks of flame dancing from the muzzle of its guns. There was nothing he could do, for the mouth of the pass yawned in front of him. A burst of bullets rained on the Caproni as it plunged into the chasm that split the range. One of the engines coughed, coughed again, and went dead, smoking. The bomber roared on, Biggles pressing on the joystick to overcome the torque of the single engine.

  A short distance ahead the floor of the pass rose abruptly, forming a ridge. It seemed that the Caproni would not be able to clear it. Biggles eased the stick back, but with a shake of his head allowed it to go forward again as the controls went slack with the threat of an impending stall.

  The Caproni rushed towards the rocks. Biggles could see every detail clearly. He could see a double gateway, with the little square huts of the customs people, and knew that it was the frontier. They appeared to swoop towards him. What had happened to the Fiats he neither knew nor cared. They no longer mattered.

  With every nerve taut, he steading the stick—eased it back ever so slightly. The machine responded, but its wheels were less than fifty feet from the rising ground, and the frontier a hundred yards ahead. Guards were rushing out of their huts, some to throw themselves flat, others to rush for the shelter of the rocks.

  The machine could not do it—Biggles knew that—at least, not in flight. There was one last chance that it might get across, however, and he took it.

  With his wheels ten feet from the ground, he jerked the stick back suddenly; then he thrust it forward.

  The Caproni reared like a wounded horse. Slowly, with a sickening roll, it wallowed towards the ground in an uncontrolled stall. The instant before its wheels struck, Biggles, with a swift movement of his left hand, flicked off the ignition. The wheels struck. The machine bounded. There was a splintering crash as it came down again on the brightly painted gates of the frontier, scattering them in a cloud of matchwood.

  Then came the long grinding crash of the machine itself. It tore through the second gates, smashed a wing-tip against a white pole carrying the red, white, and blue tricolour of France, and cartwheeled over and over down a steep slope on the other side. The wings collapsed in a tangle of wood, wire, and fabric. The fuselage rolled over three times, and then, sticking its nose into a huge boulder beside the track, came to a stop. All noise ceased. Utter silence reigned.

  Biggles, half-dazed, kicked out the remains of the side window, and having thus made an exit, turned to see what had happened to the others.

  Algy, white-faced, a trickle of blood on his lips, was groping about him wildly. Biggles pushed him through the exit, and then fought his way through splinters of debris to the cabin. Ginger was already half-way out through the gunner's cockpit, which the iron gun-ring had prevented from being crushed. McLannoch, Sum-mers, and the Italian mechanic, all looking not a little scared, were trying to get to their feet. 'Get out,' yelled Biggles. 'She may go on fire yet.' There was nothing he could do inside, so he scrambled back to the control cabin, and so through the window to the ground out-side. Fiats were still circling high overhead. They could not get lower on account of the towering rocks on either side of the pass. From the splintered gates of the French frontier post men in French uniform were running towards the crash. Biggles helped the others out of the wreck, and then sat down on a burst tyre to wait for them.

  Summers joined him, feeling himself tenderly. 'I knew I shouldn't like this flying game,' he announced ruefully. 'It's worse than the roundabouts on 'Ampstead 'Eath on a bank holiday.'

  Biggles smiled, and then stood up to meet the gesticulating frontier guards and customs officers. It took him some minutes to calm them. The discovery that they were British did more in this direction than any-thing Biggles could say.

  He took off his tunic and handed it to the N.C.O. in charge of the post with a little bow. 'A souvenir, monsieur,' he said smiling. Algy did the same.

  'I must take you to the officer in charge of my section for examination,' announced the N.C.O. apologetically.

  'That will suit me very well,' Biggles told him, in his own language.

  The little party set off down the hill.

  Chapter 20

  Adios — and Au Revoir

  There is little more to tell. Once in France, although there were formalities to be complied with involving a little delay, there was no further danger to be feared. By the courtesy of the officials, Biggles was permitted to put through a telephone call to the British Embassy in Paris, as a result of which railway tickets were provided to enable them to reach the French capital, where they were
met by a member of the staff to whom Biggles imparted the information that he had a document of the greatest importance to deliver to the Foreign Office in London. Communication between the Embassy in Paris and London expedited their departure, so that on the third day after their crash they were provided with identity cards. Biggles had been in touch with his bank, so, once more properly dressed, they took their places in the midday 'plane for Croydon.

  There a car awaited them, and they were taken direct to Whitehall. The others sat in a waiting-room while Biggles, as spokesman of the party, was conducted elsewhere. It was an hour before he rejoined them.

  'Well, that's that—thank goodness,' he announced. 'And now, what about a bite of real food somewhere?'

  'Here! Just a minute,' broke in Ginger. 'What did they say?'

  'Who?'

  'The fellow—or people—you just saw.'

  'Oh, nothing.'

  'Nothing?'

  'Well, I told them just what happened—and one or two other things which I thought would interest them.'

  'And they said nothing?'

  'Well, they said, "Thanks very much." What else did you expect them to say?'

  'After all the messes we got in over their perishing letter—by the way, what was in it?'

  Biggles shook his head. 'I haven't the remotest idea,' he answered lightly.

  'Do you mean to say they didn't tell you?'

  'You bet your life they didn't. But they've agreed to pay our out-of-pocket expenses—and when the British government does that you can reckon that they are very much obliged to you. That's right, Jock, isn't it?'

  'Ye're dead richt—but they did once gi' me a tin medal.'

  'They once gave me a week in jug for loiterin' wivout invisible means of substance,' growled Summers.

  Biggles laughed. Then he became serious. 'No, chaps,' he said, as they walked slowly towards the exit, 'it's just because any Britisher would do what we've done that the old Empire goes on. I've done what I set out to do, so what have I got to grumble about, anyway?'

  'What was that?' asked Algy. 'It's so long ago that I've forgotten.'

  'I've got rid of my fever,' murmured Biggles, and then whistled a passing taxi. 'Cafe Royal,' he told the driver, and crowding in with the others, slammed the door.