by W E Johns
Twice he taxied the full length of the lagoon, both to ascertain that the engines were giving their full revolutions and to make sure that there were no partly submerged obstacles in the way; and then, satisfied that all was well, he turned the machine round facing the longest run possible for the take-off.
With a muffled roar that sent a cloud of birds wheeling high into the air with fright, the amphibian sped across the placid water, leaving a churning wake of foam to mark her passage. With a normally powered machine it is likely that the take-off would have ended in disaster, for the Nemesis was loath to leave the water; but the extra horses under the engine cowling saved them, and, although they had very little room to spare, they cleared the trees, whereupon Biggles at once swung round towards the open sea.
The first thing they saw was the Seafret, cruising along near the shore at half speed, apparently looking for them. There was a bustle on her decks as the aircraft climbed into view, and as he swept low over her Biggles saw her commander wave to him from the bridge. There was no point in prolonging the flight, so he throttled back and glided into the little bay they had used on the previous day, and there, a few minutes later, the Seafret joined them and dropped her anchor.
‘What the deuce are you fellows playing at?’ roared Sullivan, half angrily, as he ran alongside.
‘Send us a boat and I’ll tell you,’ grinned Biggles. A boat was quickly lowered, and the three airmen, after making the amphibian fast to the destroyer, joined the naval officer on the quarter-deck.
Sullivan looked at them curiously. ‘What’s been going on?’ he asked. ‘We got the call signal, and your position, but that was all,’ he declared. ‘Since then we haven’t been able to get a word out of you, so we concluded you were down somewhere, either in the sea or on one of the islands.’
‘We were,’ Biggles told him. ‘Not that it would have made much difference if we’d been in the air.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because our wireless equipment is a nasty-looking heap of bits and pieces.’
Sullivan stared. ‘How did you manage that?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t manage it,’ answered Biggles grimly. ‘It was managed for us by a packet of bullets fired by a dirty skunk in a seaplane. Listen, and I’ll tell you what happened, although we’ve no time to spare: there are several things we shall have to do before we leave, and I have a feeling that we’re by no means safe here. We are close to the enemy stronghold, or my calculations are all at sea.’ Briefly, he described how they had found the flying boat and its dead crew and how, while calling up the destroyer for assistance, they themselves had been shot down.
‘It looks as if things are getting warm,’ muttered Sullivan when he had finished.
‘Warmish,’ agreed Biggles, ‘but they’ll be warmer still presently, I fancy.’
‘What’s your programme; have you made one?’
‘More or less. First of all, I want you to send a party ashore to bury poor Tom Lowery and his gunner. Get a report from the petty officer in charge to accompany mine to headquarters. He will find their personal effects lying near the crash where I dropped them when the Nemesis was attacked. They will be needed for the Court of Adjustment which I expect will be held at Singapore. While that’s going on I want a couple of strong fellows, with cutlasses or billhooks, to help me find the seaplane. We may discover something important either in the machine or on the body of the pilot—maps—logbooks—orders—you never know. As soon as we’ve done that you’d better push off back to the mainland out of harm’s way while we get on with the job of finding the base. We shan’t have far to look, if I know anything about it. It’s going to be a bit awkward without wireless, but we shall have to manage without it for the time being.’
Biggles turned to Ginger. ‘While I’m ashore, if Algy goes with the party to Tom’s crash, as I hope he will, I shall leave you in charge of the machine. If by any chance you are attacked by another aircraft, run her up on to the beach and try to keep the fellow off with your gun until I get back. Don’t attempt to take off. It’s no use taking on a single-seater while you’re by yourself in a machine of this size. Is that clear?’
‘Quite, sir,’ replied Ginger smartly, conscious of his responsibility, and that several pairs of curious eyes were on him.
A day of activity followed. It began with the destroyer’s boat taking two parties ashore. The first consisted of Algy with a dozen bluejackets1 equipped with picks and shovels, to whom had been allotted the dismal task of burying the two dead British airmen and collecting their effects. The second was smaller, being composed only of Biggles and two sailors who were to help him to cut a way through the dense jungle to the hill-side on which the enemy seaplane had fallen.
Ginger spent rather a lonely day, but he utilized the time by going over the Nemesis very carefully, examining the controls and other parts where the hard wear to which the machine had been subjected might be beginning to show. Later, in the afternoon, he refuelled from the Seafret’s store, a task he was just completing when a sharp gust of wind caused the Nemesis to yaw violently and send his eyes skyward. What he saw brought a slight frown to his forehead, and he finished his task hurriedly; but before he could return to the Seafret a hail made him look up, and he saw Lovell, the Navigating Officer, looking over the rail.
‘What do you make of this breeze?’ he asked with a hint of anxiety in his voice.
‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you,’ replied the naval officer. ‘The barometer’s falling; not much, but it looks as if we might be in for some weather. The skipper says it’s the tail end of a big blow centred somewhere near the Philippines, but for an hour or two it’s likely to get worse instead of better. What are you going to do?’
Ginger thought sharply. ‘I think I’d better run the Nemesis up on the beach,’ he answered. ‘She’ll be safe enough there. If I stay here and a sea gets up she may smash her wing-tips to splinters against your side. No, I’ll get her ashore. Biggles can’t be much longer, anyway, and if he’d rather she rode it out on the water he can tell me to bring her back when he comes down to the beach.’
‘Hadn’t you better take a man with you in case you need help?’ suggested Lovell.
‘Thanks! I think that’s a sound idea,’ agreed Ginger. ‘If the wind freshens I may have to peg her down.’
‘All right. Stand by, I’ll send you a hand.’
With a parting wave the naval officer disappeared and a few moments later one of the bluejackets who had been helping with the refuelling, a lad named Gilmore, ran down the steps and joined Ginger in the cockpit. It was the work of a moment to cast off, start the engines, and turn the nose of the amphibian towards the sandy beach that fringed the bay. As they reached it, Ginger lowered the undercarriage wheels, and the aircraft crawled ashore like a great white seal.
‘That’s OK—she’ll do here,’ declared Ginger, as he turned her nose into the slight breeze and cut the engines. ‘I believe we’ve had our trouble for nothing, after all; the wind seems to be dropping already.’
‘I expect we shall get it in gusts for an hour or two,’ replied the bluejacket professionally. ‘Are you going to tie her up or anything?’
‘Not yet. There isn’t enough wind to hurt at the moment, so I think I’ll wait for my skipper to come back and leave the decision to him. You can take a stroll round if you like, but keep within hail. I had a bad night so I’m a bit tired, and I think I shall stay here and rest.’
‘Then if it’s all the same to you I’ll have a stroll outside,’ decided the sailor. ‘We don’t often get a chance of putting our feet on dry land.’
‘That suits me,’ agreed Ginger, preparing to make himself comfortable, while the other jumped to the ground and disappeared under the wing.
A few minutes later Algy and his party, looking rather tired and depressed, emerged from the bushes, and while he was waiting for a boat to take him to the destroyer he expressed surprise at finding the Nemesis on the beach; but he nodded ag
reement when Ginger told him the reason.
‘I think you’re right,’ he opined, as the destroyer’s boat grated on the sand. ‘You’d better wait here until Biggles comes back; he can’t be very much longer.’
‘Right-ho! See you presently, then,’ nodded Ginger, returning to the cabin as Algy departed.
For what seemed to be a long time he sat in the machine with his feet up on the opposite seat, contemplating the project on which they were engaged; then, happening to glance at the sky through the window, he saw that its colour had turned to that soft shade of egg-shell blue that often precedes twilight. It struck him suddenly that it was getting late and, wondering what could be delaying Biggles, he rose to his feet, yawning, and looked out through the opposite window, which overlooked the jungle, casually and without any particular interest. But as he gazed a curious expression, in which incredulity, doubt, and alarm were all represented, stole over his face. He did not even finish his yawn, but allowed his lips to remain parted, while his eyes, from being half closed, slowly grew round with the intensity of their stare. The point on which they were focused was a narrow open space, not more than a couple of feet wide, between two clumps of fern-palm on the very edge of the jungle. It was already in deep shadow, but from out of its-centre peeped a face, flat, wizened, surmounted by a tightly fitting skull-cap. It was perfectly still, so still that it might have been a mask. The eyes did not even blink, but remained fixed so steadfastly on the aircraft that Ginger, still staring at it, with his pulses tingling, began to wonder if it was real, or whether his imagination was playing tricks with him. Shaking himself impatiently, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. The face was no longer there.
The shock of this second discovery moved him to action. Knowing how deceptive the half-light can be, he was still in doubt whether he had really seen what he thought he had seen. For a moment or two his eyes probed the edge of the jungle, scrutinizing every gap and clearing, but he could see no sign of life.
He noticed that the wind had dropped, for everything was still, and the heavy silence that hung over the scene seemed to charge the atmosphere with a sinister influence. Then he noticed something else, or rather the absence of something. There were no monkeys on the beach, as there usually were on all the beaches of the island, seeking their evening meal of crabs and shellfish. Why? He remembered Gilmore. Where was he? What was he doing? Swiftly he made his way through to the cockpit and, without exposing himself, peeped over the edge.
The first thing he saw was Gilmore, lying on the soft sand under the wing, asleep. He seemed curiously still, ominously still, even for sleep. His position was an unusual one, too—more that of a person arrested in the act of stretching than sleeping, for his back was arched in an unnatural manner. Ginger could not see his face, but as he stared at him he felt a sudden unaccountable twinge of fear and shivered as if a draught of cold air had enveloped him.
‘Gilmore,’ he whispered.
The sailor did not move.
‘Gilmore,’ he said more loudly, a tremor creeping into his voice.
Still the man did not move.
Ginger moistened his lips, and lifted his eyes again to the edge of the jungle.
This time there was no mistake. For a fleeting instant he caught sight of a leering face. Then it was gone. But he distinctly saw it go, merge into the dark background rather than turn aside. His heart gave a lurch, and while he hesitated, uncertain for the moment how to act, he heard a soft phut, as if a light blow had fallen on the fuselage just below him.
Even in that moment of panic his first thought was of Biggles, out there in the shadowy jungle. A swift glance over his shoulder showed the Seafret, motionless at anchor. It seemed a long way away. Turning, he was just in time to see a vague shadow flit across a narrow clearing.
He waited no longer. Drawing his automatic, he took aim at the bush behind which the shadow had disappeared and fired. He saw another bush quiver, and he blazed at it recklessly, emptying his weapon except for a single round which he saved for emergency.
As the echoes of the shooting died away everything seemed to come to life at once. Scores of birds rose into the air with shrill cries of alarm. There was a chorus of shouts and sudden orders from the direction of the destroyer, while at the same time there was a loud crashing in the bushes not far from the beach.
Ginger, wondering if he had done the right thing, saw with relief that a boat had been lowered from the ship and was already racing towards the amphibian; but before it reached the shore Biggles, gun in hand, followed by his two men, had burst through the bushes looking swiftly to right and left for the cause of the uproar. He started when he saw the Nemesis high and dry on the beach, and broke into a run towards it, only to slow down again with questioning eyes as Ginger jumped out.
‘What on earth’s all the noise about?’ he asked sharply, almost angrily.
Ginger, who had not yet recovered from his fright, pointed at the jungle. ‘Be careful,’ he shouted, almost hysterically. ‘Watch out—they’re in there.’
‘Who’s in there? What’s in there?’
‘Savages! Something—I don’t know,’ answered Ginger incoherently.
The destroyer’s boat reached the beach and, without waiting for it to be pulled up, Algy and several sailors armed with rifles leapt ashore and raced up to where the others were standing.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Algy quickly, looking from one to the other in turn.
‘I’m dashed if I know,’ replied Biggles. ‘Come on, Ginger, pull yourself together. What did you see?’
‘Faces, in the bushes.’
‘You haven’t been dreaming, have you?’
Before Ginger could answer, a cry of horror broke from the lips of one of the sailors and, swinging round, the others saw him staring ashen-faced at Gilmore, still lying in the dark shadow under the wing. Ginger took one look at the bared teeth and staring eyes, and then covered his face with his hands.
Biggles shook him roughly. ‘How did it happen?’ he snapped.
But a Chief Petty Officer who had seen much service in the Far East had taken in the situation at a glance.
‘Cover those bushes,’ he cried tersely to the sailors who were armed, ‘and shoot at anything you see move.’ He turned to Biggles. ‘It looks like Malay work to me, sir,’ he said crisply. ‘We don’t want to lose any more men if we can help it. It’s no use trying to fight them on their own ground, so we’d better retreat. Gilmore was killed by a blow-pipe—look at this.’ He held up a tiny pointed dart, discoloured at the tip. ‘One scratch of that and you’re a goner inside ten minutes,’ he declared. ‘I’ve seen ‘em before.’
‘Where did you find that?’ asked Biggles quickly.
‘Stuck in the nose of your aeroplane.’
‘Were you attacked, Ginger?’ inquired Biggles.
‘No. I only thought I saw a face, but it put the wind up me and, knowing you were still in the jungle, I fell into a panic, thinking perhaps a crowd of them were lying in wait for you.’
‘I should say they would have had you, sir, if they’d known you were in there,’ the Chief Petty Officer told Biggles seriously. ‘They’ve cleared off now by the look of it, but they won’t have gone far away. We don’t want to be caught here in the dark, so I suggest that you give orders for everyone to return to the boat; and I’d take the aeroplane out, too, sir, or you won’t find much of it left in the morning.’
‘What made you bring her ashore?’ Biggles asked Ginger as they started the engines.
‘A breeze got up, and I was told that the glass was falling, so I thought she’d be safer ashore than on the water.’
‘Yes, you were right there,’ admitted Biggles, as he eased the throttle forward and ran down into the sea. ‘It’s a bad business about that sailor being killed,’ he went on moodily. ‘Sullivan will jolly soon be getting fed up with me. I don’t know what’s wrong, but nothing seems to be going right on this trip. We’ve had nothing but casualties since the time we s
tarted.’
‘Well, it’s no use getting depressed about it,’ put in Algy. ‘Let’s get aboard and call a council of war.’
‘I think that’s the best thing we can do,’ agreed Biggles despondently. ‘It’s getting time we did something. So far the enemy seem to have had things pretty well their own way.’
* * *
1 Slang: sailors.
Chapter 9
A Nasty Customer
Sullivan awaited them with a gloomy face when, with the island a silent world of indigo shadows behind them, they returned to the destroyer, for the body of the dead sailor had preceded them. He did not speak, but his eyes rested on Biggles face questioningly.
‘Let’s go below,’ suggested Biggles curtly.
In single file they made their way to the commander’s cabin, where the three airmen threw off their coats and sank wearily into such seats as they could find, for although the port-hole was wide open, the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive.
‘I’m afraid you’re beginning to feel that I am making a mess of this business,’ began Biggles, looking at the naval officer, who had seated himself at his desk, and, with his chin cupped in his left hand, was moodily drawing invisible lines on the blotting-pad, with the end of a ruler.
Sullivan glanced up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and one can’t conduct a war without casualties; but I must admit that I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t taken on something rather beyond our limited resources.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder the same thing,’ confessed Biggles slowly, biting his lower lip and staring morosely through the open port-hole to where the distant, gentle swell of the sea was beginning to turn from navy blue to black. ‘It’s these casualties that depress me,’ he went on. ‘I’m not used to them. In the past we’ve taken many risks, willingly, even as we are prepared to take them now, but this losing of men—’ He broke off and began walking slowly up and down the cabin. ‘All the same, I don’t think we can stop now whatever the cost may be,’ he continued bitterly. ‘I suppose you know as much as we do about what happened on the beach just now?’