Biggles in the Orient

by W E Johns

Behind him, to the roll of exploding ammunition, the smoke of the funeral pyre made a white column high against the blue of heaven. He realised that it might be seen by the enemy and bring them to the spot. He didn’t care. He rather hoped it would. He was in the sort of mood when fighting would be a pleasure.

  It took him the best part of an hour to reach the river, and he was dripping with sweat when the turgid water came into view. The only living things in sight were a small crocodile, lying on a mudflat, and a grey heron, perched on a dead limb overhanging the water. There was no sign of Tug. He was some distance above the island that he had chosen for the rendezvous, and it required another twenty minutes of labour, working along the river bank, to bring him in line with it. There was still no sign of Tug, so choosing the crest of a small escarpment for a seat, he lighted a cigarette and settled down to wait. There was nothing else to do. The mosquitoes were still with him. He brushed them away with a weary gesture and mopped his dripping face, which was still pale, and set in hard lines. The strain of the last two hours had been considerable.

  He passed the next half-hour in silent meditation, pondering over the events of the morning, and the problem which they had done nothing to elucidate, before he heard the sound for which he was waiting—the drone of an aircraft. But because his ears were attuned to the nicer distinctions between aero engines, at first he was puzzled. Very soon, though, he solved the mystery. There were two engines, of different types. The main background of sound was provided by the deep roar of a high-performance motor, but against it, quite distinct, there was the busy chatter of a lighter type. It seemed unlikely that there could be two light planes in that particular theatre of war, so he was not surprised when a Gipsy Moth float-plane swung into view, tearing low up the river. Behind it, weaving in wide zigzags but definitely keeping it company, was a Hurricane.

  Biggles smiled faintly as he stood up and waved. The ill-assorted pair needed no explanation. Tug had returned in a marine craft as arranged, and it had brought an escort. Biggles’ immediate reaction was one of relief, not so much on his own account as because, in spite of the secret weapon, Tug had obviously managed to get home, and make the return trip. He had been gone a long time, and Biggles had just begun to fear that the nameless peril had claimed him.

  Tug evidently saw him at once, for he cut his engine and put the machine straight down on the water. Without waiting for it to finish its run he came round in a swirl of creamy foam to that point of the river bank where Biggles was now waiting. Biggles waded out through two feet of water and six inches of mud to the aircraft, and climbed aboard.

  ‘Good work, Tug,’ he greeted, ‘have any trouble?’

  Tug grinned. ‘Not a trace. I saw a bunch of Zeros*1, high up, as I went home, but they didn’t see me. Did you find anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was it—Grainger, Larkin, or Moorven?’

  Biggles started. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All three failed to get back. The others say the hoodoo got ’em all.’

  ‘The others? Do you mean that Johnny Crisp and Scrimshaw got back again?’

  ‘They did. I left Johnny stamping and cursing on the airfield, and Scrimshaw roaring round in circles looking for somebody to shoot. Odd, ain’t it?’

  During this brief recital Biggles had remained still, half in and half out of the spare seat, staring at Tug’s face. ‘Odd! It’s more than that. It’s more than that. It’s uncanny. It can’t be luck. It can’t be. But we’ll talk about that when we get home. Who’s in the Hurricane?’

  ‘Angus.’

  ‘Who told him he could come?’

  ‘Algy.’

  ‘Algy, eh? I like his nerve.’

  Tug grinned again. ‘Algy’s in charge, don’t forget, during your absence. Don’t blame him. The whole bunch wanted to come and Algy had his work cut out to keep them on the carpet. They reckoned someone ought to come to keep an eye on me while I was keeping an eye open for you. In the end Algy agreed to let one of the flight commanders go. Angus and Bertie tossed for it. Bertie lost. I left him trying to rub a hole through his eyeglass.’ While Tug had been speaking he had eased the throttle open a trifle and moved slowly to deeper water.

  Biggles was looking up at the Hurricane. ‘What the . . . ! What in thunder does Angus think he’s doing?’ he asked sharply.

  Tug looked up and saw the fighter coming down in a shallow swerving dive as if it intended pancaking on the river. ‘He’s giving you the salute,’ he said, slowly, in a voice that did not carry conviction.

  Biggles did not answer at once. He stared, while the Hurricane continued its downward swoop. ‘You’re wrong,’ he forced through dry lips. ‘Angus has bought it. Look out!’

  The warning was no mere figure of speech, for the Hurricane was coming in dead in line with the Moth. Tug realised it, and shoved the throttle open with a lightning movement of his hand. ‘Hang on!’ he yelled, as the engine roared and the light plane shot forward. He was only just in time.

  The Hurricane’s port wing-tip missed the Moth by inches. It struck the water with a mighty splash that drenched the Moth with spray and set it rocking violently. It bounced and splashed again, this time to disappear except for a swinging rudder.

  Tug tore to the spot. ‘I told him not to come!’ he cried wildly. Then again, ‘I told him not to come. I told him —’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Watch for me,’ he added, and dived overboard.

  When, a minute later, he reappeared, gasping, with Angus in his arms, Tug was out on a float, on his knees, waiting. He took Angus first, and then helped Biggles to get astride the float. The weight tipped the plane at a dangerous angle, and Tug leaned away to the other float to counteract the list. Angus was dead or unconscious—it was not clear which.

  ‘Help me to get him into the spare seat,’ ordered Biggles.

  ‘How is he do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he must be in a bad way. He’s got a broken leg, if nothing worse. We can’t do anything for him here. His only chance, if he is still alive, is hospital.’

  ‘But this machine won’t lift three—there’s no room, anyway.’

  ‘I know it,’ answered Biggles curtly. ‘You get him back. I’ll wait. I shall be all right here. You ought to be back in a couple of hours if nothing goes wrong. Better ’phone Algy from the slipway to let him know what’s happened—and tell him to keep everybody on the ground till I get back. That’s an order.’

  ‘Okay,’ grunted Tug.

  After some delay, and with no small difficulty, Angus’ limp body was lifted into the spare seat. As Biggles had said, there was no question of doing anything for him on the spot.

  ‘Run me close to the bank and I’ll get off,’ said Biggles. ‘There are crocs in this river.’

  Tug taxied close to the bank and Biggles waded ashore.

  ‘Okay—get cracking,’ ordered Biggles.

  Tug waved. The engine roared. The little plane swung round and raced away down the river. Biggles watched it until it was out of sight and then resumed his seat on the escarpment. Automatically he felt for his cigarette case. The cigarettes were, of course, soaking wet, so very carefully he laid them out on the rock to dry.

  Chapter 7

  Biggles Investigates

  Biggles waited, waited while the sun climbed over its zenith and began its downward journey. In the low ground through which the river wound its sluggish course, the air, heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation, was still. The heat was suffocating. The swampy banks of the river steamed, the slime at the water’s edge erupting gaseous bubbles. Biggles sweated. Once, a flight of three Mitsubishi bombers droned overhead on a westerly course; a little later six Zero fighters, flying at a great height, passed over, heading in the same direction, towards India.

  ‘They must know our machines are grounded, so they’re getting cocky,’ mused Biggles.

  It was clear that if the secret weapon was still in operation the enemy planes were not af
fected, which proved that the thing was under control, and discounted anything in the nature of poison gas which, once released, would be uncontrollable, and would—unless the Japanese pilots wore respirators—affect both friend and foe alike. If a beam, or ray, were being used, it could not be a permanent installation, for this also would operate against all types of aircraft regardless of nationality. Had enemy planes been insulated against such a ray the insulating material would have been discovered by technicians whose work it was to examine the enemy aircraft brought down on the British side of the lines. Not the least puzzling aspect of the new weapon was the distance over which it was effective—or so it would seem from the immense area in which British machines had been brought down. It suggested that the instrument was highly mobile, or else there was a number of them installed at points throughout the entire forest. Yet if this were so, why had the Hurricanes been allowed to reach their objective? Had it been possible to stop them, then they would most certainly have been stopped. The fact that the Hurricane formation had reached its objective that morning suggested that the weapon had its limitations. Thus mused Biggles, sweltering on his lonely rock.

  It was getting on for three hours before Tug returned. Biggles was glad to see the Moth, for apart from the delay, and the wearisome nature of his vigil, the danger of flying in the area had been demonstrated.

  ‘You’ve been a long time,’ greeted Biggles.

  ‘I had to snoop around a bit,’ answered Tug. ‘There are bandits*1 about, poking their noses close to India—taking advantage of our machines being grounded, I suppose.’

  ‘How’s Angus?’ asked Biggles anxiously, as he climbed aboard.

  ‘He’s alive, but that’s about all. They took him to hospital. I didn’t wait for details.’

  ‘Did he recover consciousness?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You spoke to Algy?’

  ‘Yes. I ’phoned him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, he got a bit worked up—wanted to send the gang out, for escort. I told him what you said about staying put. He just made noises.’

  ‘Where did you get this Moth, by the way?’

  ‘Raymond fixed it. It was up a backwater the other side of Calcutta. Raymond lent me his car to get to it. It used to belong to an air taxi company. That’s all I know. It flies all right—and that’s all I care.’

  ‘As we can’t land at Dum Dum we shall have to go back to the place where you got it.’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘Is Raymond’s car still there?’

  ‘No, we shall have to get a taxi.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Biggles as he settled himself in his seat. ‘Better keep low: we don’t want to run into a bunch of Zeros.’

  The flight to Calcutta was uneventful. On several occasions enemy aircraft were seen, mostly flying high, but the Moth, skimming the tree-tops, escaped observation. By the time it had been moored, and a taxi found, and the trip made to Dum Dum, the sun was low in the western sky. Without stopping to wash or remove the mud from his clothes Biggles walked straight to the mess. The others were waiting.

  His first question was, ‘How’s Angus?’

  Algy answered. ‘I’ve been to the hospital—just got back. They wouldn’t let me see him—not that there would have been any point in it. He’s still unconscious, and likely to remain so. He’s badly smashed up—broken arm, broken leg, three ribs stove in and concussion. If he gets over it, it will be months before he’s on his feet again. We can reckon him off the strength as far as this show’s concerned.’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Poor old Angus. Tough luck. Still, it’s something that he is still alive. I suppose it was expecting too much to hope that he might have come round. I wanted to talk to him. He might have been able to tell us something—what happened, and how he felt. As far as we know, he’s the first victim of the new weapon who has survived, or who has got back.’

  ‘Then you don’t know what hit him?’ said Bertie.

  ‘I haven’t the remotest idea,’ admitted Biggles. ‘The machine just dived into the drink as if the controls had jammed, or as if he had done it deliberately. That’s how it struck me. What do you think, Tug? You saw it.’

  ‘Same as you.’

  The others were crowding round. ‘You didn’t see anything break?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘Not a thing,’ answered Biggles. ‘When the machine hit the water, as far as one could see, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.’

  ‘What about Moorven’s crash?’ asked Algy. ‘Did you find anything there?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll tell you all about it later, after I’ve had a bite and a clean up. I really only looked in to get the latest news about Angus. I shall be busy for a bit, making out a written report on Moorven’s crash, handing over his effects, and so on. I also want to have a word with Johnny Crisp and Scrimshaw. There’s something unnatural about the way they always get back. It can’t be luck. There must be a reason, and if we can put our finger on it we shall be half-way towards getting this thing buttoned up.’

  At this point Air Commodore Raymond came in. ‘I heard you were back.’ he announced. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Just a minute, sir,’ protested Biggles. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat to-day yet, and blundering about in the jungle was a dirty business—as you can see. Give me a few minutes for a bath and a bite and I’ll tell you all about it. Wait here—the others will want to hear the story too. I’ll be back.’

  In rather less than half an hour he returned, his material needs satisfied. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he suggested.

  He then told his story. Narrated in his usual concise manner, it did not take long.

  ‘Then we still haven’t got anywhere,’ said the Air Commodore despondently.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ argued Biggles, ‘Certain broad aspects are beginning to emerge. When I’ve had time to think about them I may be able to get a line on the thing.’

  ‘What are you going to do next?’

  ‘It’s dark, so there’s nothing more we can do in the air. I’d like a word with Crisp and Scrimshaw. There’s a bit of a mystery about the way they keep getting back. Of course, it may be luck, but if it isn’t, then they, or their machines, must be immune from the thing that’s causing the mischief. I’d also like to have a chat with the last man who touched Moorven’s machine before he got into it.’

  ‘I’ve already made inquiries about that,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘It was a sergeant named Gray. He went over all the machines just before they took off. He seems to be terribly cut up about the three machines going west—somehow feels that they were his responsibility.’

  ‘But that’s silly.’

  ‘That’s what I told him.’

  ‘What sort of chap is the sergeant?’

  ‘He’s a fellow of about thirty, with ten years’ service. Exemplary record, and a first class all round fitter-rigger. Before the show, knowing what might happen, he went over every machine, and every engine.’

  ‘I see. Well, we’ll leave him till later. Let’s get hold of Crisp and Scrimshaw.’

  ‘Where shall we see them—in my office?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘No. Let’s make it informal. I can imagine how they feel. They’ll be more likely to open up here than in your office. And I’d like to ask the questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Very well,’ assented the Air Commodore. ‘Get one of your chaps to fetch them. He’ll probably find them in the bar at the central mess.’

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘Drinking?’

  ‘Scrimshaw, who normally doesn’t touch anything, is beginning to spend too much time in the bar. It’s understandable. After all, these two have watched a squadron wiped out, and some of them have been together since the Battle of Britain.’

  Biggles nodded to Ginger. ‘Slip along and fetch them,’ he ordered.

  Ginger went. The others continued the debate for the next few minutes, when Ginger
returned with the two officers.

  ‘Sit down, chaps,’ invited Biggles quietly. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs.’

  Crisp and Scrimshaw sat down. Biggles took a quick glance at them in turn as he offered cigarettes. They were both in the condition he expected, for he knew only too well the symptoms resulting from nerve strain, shock, and impotent anger. Scrimshaw’s face was flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright. He smoked his cigarette in quick short puffs, tapping it incessantly whether there was any ash on it or not. Crisp was pale but steady; his eyes were a little bloodshot in the corners. The fingers of the hand that took the cigarette shook; the forefinger was yellow with nicotine stain.

  ‘We’re trying to get to the bottom of this business,’ began Biggles casually.

  ‘Getting time somebody did something about it,’ rapped out Scrimshaw.

  ‘No one is likely to argue about that,’ replied Biggles gently. ‘All is being done that can be done. The Japs have slipped a fast one on us, and the only way we shall get it buttoned up is by keeping our heads. To let it get us on the floor would be playing into their hands.’

  ‘I hear you went down and looked at Moorven?’ snapped Scrimshaw.

  Biggles looked up. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I don’t know—I heard it.’

  ‘Where did you hear it?’

  ‘In the mess, I expect.’

  Biggles glanced round. ‘Have you fellows been talking?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody has spoken outside this mess,’ said Algy. ‘In fact, apart from my visit to the hospital I don’t think anyone has been out.’

  ‘I remember. It was Lal Din told me,’ said Scrimshaw.

  Biggles looked at Algy. ‘Has Lal Din been here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He served coffee after lunch.’

  ‘I told you not to discuss this thing in front of the staff,’ rasped Biggles.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  It was broken by Scrimshaw. ‘Pah! What does it matter?’

  Biggles ignored the question. ‘Let’s get on,’ he resumed, looking at Crisp and Scrimshaw. ‘So far you two fellows have been lucky –’