by W E Johns
Biggles moved on towards the lights, peering and blinking through eyes that were now heavy from lack of sleep. He was, although it is unlikely that he would have admitted it, nearly at the end of his strength, and was holding on by sheer will power. No man can go on indefinitely without sleep. Nor can a man live on his nerves alone, however hard he may try to do so.
Biggles edged his way forward, and there before him was his objective—the hangar, such as it was. His heart sank as he looked at it, for the activity in and around it settled once and for all any idea of approaching unobserved. Christophe, definitely, was taking no chances. There were at least a score of soldiers there, some sitting, some walking about. There were also some nondescript natives and, watching the scene, a party of the forest tribesmen.
The hangar was little more than a palm-thatched roof supported by poles, which it overhung. A halfhearted attempt had been made to fill in the sides with interlaced branches, but, having been carelessly done, most of these had fallen away with the result that the interior was plain to see. There stood the secret machine, propped up more or less in flying position but a bit lopsided. Some men were working on it, although what they were doing, or trying to do, was not evident. Whatever it was, they were making a good deal of noise about it, as is the way of natives the world over.
The machine had been put in nose first. Stacked in front of it, which was actually the rear of the improvised hangar, were a number of petrol and oil drums. Biggles stared at them. He was amazed. Also he was shocked. Even knowing how careless natives could be with inflammable and explosive objects he thought Christophe would have had more sense than to leave large quantities of petrol in a place where men walked about smoking. Naturally, he had wondered where the oil and petrol necessary to service the machine was kept, and had assumed it would be in a separate building. Not for a moment had it occurred to him that it might be right beside the machine. In one way it might appear to be a wonderful piece of luck in view of what he intended to do. But there was another side to it. Placed as they were he had no more hope of getting near them than he had of getting near the machine. In a vague sort of way, as he now realized, he had reckoned on finding the petrol store unguarded, which would have offered possibilities.
He looked at the petrol drums longingly; but there could be no question of getting near them. He looked at the roof. That, too, would only need a match to set it on fire, he could see. There was no hope of getting near that, either. In any case he would not be able to reach it. Even if he did manage to set it on fire, he reflected, it would be possible for the men, if they kept their heads, to drag the aircraft out before it was affected. They might not keep their heads if he opened fire on them, he pondered. But that was a forlorn hope, he decided, to be considered only in dire emergency if all else failed. There should be a better way.
Having learned all he needed to know about the place he backed away and leaned against a tree while he thought the matter over. In the end he was forced to admit to himself that there was nothing he could do while the present conditions prevailed. With daylight, perhaps, some of the men would go. There would be duties at the camp. He returned to where he had left the others.
Ginger was awake. Bertie was muttering in his sleep. Biggles felt his forehead, his pulse. “He’s running a temperature,” he announced softly.
Ginger nodded.
“That settles any argument about him walking to the aircraft,” said Biggles. “By tomorrow he’ll probably be in a high fever.”
“How did you find things?” inquired Ginger.
“Hopeless. The place is buzzing like a Woolworth store on a Saturday morning. The hangar has a thatched roof, as we thought. One match in the right place would be enough to set it alight; but the problem is how to get the match to it. You couldn’t get within twenty yards of it without being seen.”
“What about the old Indian trick?”
“What trick?”
“Shooting a blazing arrow into it. That’s how they do it in books and on the films.”
“So I believe. But this isn’t a book and it isn’t a film. I’ve always had a feeling that it isn’t as easy as it looks. Moreover, not being Indians we don’t walk about with bows and arrows in our equipment.”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t make one. After all, it needn’t be very efficient. I mean, it wouldn’t have to have a very long range. There’s no shortage of wood.”
Biggles became interested. “You know, laddie, I think you may have got something. What could we use for string?”
“I’ve got some flex with the radio in my bag.”
“That should do fine. Get it out and untwist a yard or so. I’ll see about cutting some sticks. We might as well try it as sit here twiddling our thumbs.”
As Ginger had said, there was no shortage of wood; but it was not easy to find a sort that would suit their purpose. At the end Biggles made his way to a clump of bamboos which he recalled seeing. These provided both the bow and the arrows, although he had to put in some hard work with his penknife to saw them to the proper lengths.
However, in something under an hour they had a fairly serviceable bow. Its range was short, but, they thought, sufficient. Tufts of dry grass were tied to half a dozen headless arrows, not without difficulty, for the moonlight was failing.
“I’d say that’s just the job,” declared Ginger enthusiastically.
“I’ll try it, anyhow,” said Biggles.
“May I come with you?” pleaded Ginger. “I’ve always wanted to see if this really worked,” he added.
Biggles looked at Bertie. He was still asleep. “All right,” he agreed. “We shan’t be away long whatever happens.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s clouding up. It’ll be as black as pitch under the trees. We’ll take a chance and start along the outside or it’ll be daylight before we get there.”
With Ginger at his heels he set off, and most of the distance was covered without difficulty and without incident. Just short of the hangar he turned into the trees, and after an awkward ten minutes was once more on the fringe of the light that came from it. Two more steps would have taken them into the open. The conditions were precisely the same as when he had last seen the place, except that more of the men were sitting down. Some appeared to be asleep.
Whispering to Ginger : “This is as near as we dare go,” he fitted an arrow to the bowstring. “Have you any matches?”
“Yes.”
“Strike one. Keep it shielded with your hands.” Ginger complied. Biggles lighted the tuft on his arrow, took quick aim and sent it flying.
It flew well enough, and landed on the roof. But by that time the tuft was no longer alight, the rush through the air having put it out. It smoked for a moment. The smoke died away.
“That,” said Biggles grimly, “is just what I thought would happen. On these films you talk about they get it better organized.”
“Try another,” urged Ginger. Another was tried, with the same result.
“Keep going,” said Ginger.
“Presently,” answered Biggles, “someone is going to notice one of these flaming arrows, when it will be us who’ll have to keep going.” All the same, he fitted another arrow and sent it on its way.
This one stayed alight, but unfortunately the point had entered the thatch at such an angle that the burning tuft was at least a foot away from it. For a minute they watched it hopefully, hoping it would fall, or that a spark would drop on the thatch.
But all that fell were some big spots of rain. Within a minute the rain was bucketing down.
Biggles threw the bow away with an exclamation of disgust. “Now you see the difference between your precious films and real life,” he muttered.
“Pity,” murmured Ginger. “It might have worked but for this confounded rain.”
“Never mind what it might have done,” returned Biggles. “After this deluge it’ll need a tin of petrol to set anything alight. We might as well get back to Bertie for all we can do here now.”
For a minute or two longer they stood watching the scene. Then, wet through, and thoroughly uncomfortable, for the rain was icy cold, they made their way back to Bertie. Just as they reached him the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The moon swung clear of the cloud.
As they huddled together, shivering, Bertie opened his eyes and asked: “How did it go?”
“It didn’t,” answered Biggles, sadly.
“Bad luck,” said Bertie.
Ginger sat hunched up, chin in his hands, gazed at the sky, wondering what the morning would bring. None of his conjectures, it may be said, were anywhere near the truth.
VON STALHEIN COMES BACK
DAWN CAME with a clear sky to find them stiff, weary and hungry, with Bertie running a mild fever.
Biggles hoped that some of the men who had been guarding the hangar would now return to the compound, instead of which, as he stood waiting and watching, Christophe arrived on the scene in the jeep. He got everyone on the move with a stream of orders and then surveyed the sky in a way which brought from Biggles the remark: “He’s expecting someone to arrive by air. I can only imagine it will be von Stalhein in the Hastings, with some mechanics. It’s quite certain Christophe won’t be able to do anything about the damaged machine without professional help.”
“Well, let’s hope it comes soon, so that we can get this business settled one way or the other,” said Ginger despondently. “I was never so browned off in my life. This doing nothing is slow death.’
“That’s better than sudden death,” stated Biggles cheerfully. “We’re still on our feet. That’s something.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What can we do? If we couldn’t do anything last night we can’t do anything in broad daylight, with people milling round the place. We shall just have to wait.”
Ginger looked at Biggles. Never had he seen him in such a state. His hair was matted on his head. His face was streaked with mud and drawn with strain. His eyes were bloodshot from need of rest and his shirtless torso marked with scratches and mosquito bites. Ginger realized that his own appearance must be much the same. He also realized that they were near the end of their physical resources. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but there was not a crumb of food left in the bag with which to satisfy it.
The light grew stronger.
Biggles stiffened and raised a hand as from the deep shadow of the trees behind them came a soft patter of footsteps on the fallen leaves. Ginger drew a deep breath of relief when presently the cause revealed itself. It was a monkey. For a few seconds it did not see them, but continued searching diligently for grubs under the leaves. When it did spot them it leapt into the nearest tree giving vent to its disapproval in a staccato chatter that was obviously a stream of abuse.
Biggles frowned. “Shut up, you little blighter,” he told it.
The monkey flew into a screaming fury.
Biggles glanced anxiously in the direction of the hangar. “If that bad-tempered little rascal goes on like that we’ve had it,” he told the others. “The natives will know what it means. If they don’t they’ll come to find out.”
A second monkey arrived. He, too, apparently, was curious to know what the fuss was about. Having ascertained he joined in the scolding.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders helplessly. There was nothing they could do about it.
Presently there were half a dozen monkeys sitting on a branch indulging in a chorus of recrimination. Some birds, also presumably attracted by the clamour, arrived on the scene. They swore at the monkeys. The monkeys swore back, and the din rose to a crescendo.
“The blacks may think they’re mobbing a lion or something,” suggested Bertie hopefully.
Biggles moved to the edge of the forest and took a peep. “Some have walked out into the open and are looking this way,” he reported. “I’m afraid this is where—” He broke off as the distant drone of an aircraft approaching took his eyes to the sky.
“Now we shall soon know the worst,” observed Ginger lugubriously.
“As things at the moment are about as dim as they could be, anything that happens should be an improvement,” returned Biggles, optimistically.
The monkeys were forgotten.
The machine turned out to be the Hastings, as was expected. It landed, swung round at the end of its run, and taxied ponderously towards the hangar, from which everyone had emerged to watch. At a distance of perhaps thirty yards it stopped.
“There’s a white man flying that aircraft—I can just see his face,” said Biggles suddenly. “I wonder what’s happened to Dessalines.”
No one answered.
The exit door of the aircraft opened and von Stalhein jumped down.
“So he has come back,” said Biggles.
“Yes, and with what sort of dirty card up his sleeve,” replied Ginger, little guessing what it was and how soon it was to be exposed.
Von Stalhein was followed out of the machine, in swift succession, by six or seven men. Ginger didn’t count them. They were white men, and his lips parted, and his eyes opened wide, when the truth hit him. For every man was armed with an automatic rifle. They fanned out advancing slowly.
“For Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Biggles, in a strangled sort of voice. “They can’t be thinking—”
He got no further. At a word of command every man of the newcomers opened fire. The hangar and its immediate surroundings were raked with bullets.
There was no challenge. No warning. Death streamed from the muzzles of the guns.
Never was a surprise attack more devastating, or more successful.
Christophe fell at the first burst. His wretched troops, overwhelmed from the start, and knowing it, hardly fired a shot. Some fell. The rest fled.
Ginger, stunned, bewildered, horrified, could only stare aghast. So this was von Stalhein’s answer.
But Biggles was moving, his eyes blazing. “The murdering hounds,” he rasped. “Stay here with Bertie.” With that he dashed along inside the forest towards the hangar. Dodging and ducking under low branches, skidding on the layer of wet leaves, he tore on, for the purpose of the attack was never in doubt. Von Stalhein had come for the secret weapon. He would be thinking it was his. Well, he hadn’t got it yet.
By the time Biggles had reached the hangar the firing had ceased, presumably because there was no one left to shoot at. He approached from the rear, and for that reason, on account of the foliage, he could not see what was going on outside. There was no one inside. Any men who had been there must have bolted at the first onset. Moving forward a little he saw the attackers closing in, von Stalhein with them. All were looking about them, perhaps fearing a counter-attack from the forest.
Biggles, in the deep shadow of the trees, dropped on his hands and knees, and keeping the stack of petrol drums between him and the entrance went on until he was close behind them. The reek of petrol struck his nostrils, and with savage satisfaction he perceived that some of them, struck by bullets, were leaking. One, almost riddled, fairly gushed petrol. He rose, and putting his foot against it, sent it rolling down under the nose of the aircraft, spilling its contents as it went.
Von Stalhein must have seen it. At all events, he rushed forward, and, of course, saw Biggles. He let out a shout.
Biggles yelled back, “Look out !” and holding the muzzle of his gun close against the ground where the petrol had been spilled, pulled the trigger, at the same time leaping back, for he knew what was likely to happen. Nor was he mistaken. There was a terrific whoof as the petrol exploded. Biggles just caught sight of von Stalhein taking aim at him when a sheet of flame leapt between them. Some shots were fired. Biggles didn’t know where the bullets went. He thought they went over him, for he was once more on his hands and knees scrambling back into the forest.
As soon as he was inside he jumped up, and bending low, ran for his life, travelling at an angle from the now blazing building. For two hundred yards or so he plunged on, and then fell from sheer
exhaustion, getting his breath back in great gulps, but watching and listening for sight or sound of pursuit.
There was plenty of noise, above all the roaring and crackling of the burning hangar and its contents: but he saw nobody, so whether or not he was being pursued he did not know. There was a lot of shouting and he thought it might be von Stalhein urging his men to try to save the machine. He didn’t worry about that. He had stood too many times by burning aircraft not to know the fearful heat produced. He imagined that the last thing Christophe would have provided himself with was fire-fighting equipment.
He went on a little way and rested again, although strangely enough, under the influence of excitement or success he felt less tired than he had been. The relief at knowing the secret plane was destroyed was a wonderful restorative. To be on the safe side he allowed a little time to elapse before he made his way back to where he had left the others, and then by a circuitous route.
He found them in a state of palpitating anxiety, for they had of course heard the uproar but had no idea of what had happened beyond the obvious fact that the hangar had gone up in flames. They were still in the same place.
Ginger greeted Biggles with a weak grin. “You pulled it off?”
“Yes.” Biggles’s face cracked in a smile. “And singed my front hair off at the same time.”
“Good show, old boy—jolly good show,” murmured Bertie.
“What’s happening, Ginger; can you see?” asked Biggles. With the peculiar smell of smouldering aircraft ashes in his nostrils he moved a little nearer to the edge of the clearing so that he could see for himself.
Through a pale blue smudge of drifting smoke he could see the Hastings standing where it had stopped, its engines still ticking over. Close to it, in earnest conversation, were von Stalhein and his men. Apparently there had been no casualties among them. Christophe still lay where he had fallen. Some of his troops were there, too, around the entrance to the hangar.