by W E Johns
In spite of his inconsequential manner Biggles was under no delusion as to the dangerous nature of the task in front of him. The landing in the sanseviera, a hazardous expedient, was only the beginning. After that there would be the bandits, and that they would fight with all the weapons they possessed was not to be doubted. By this time he knew the general configuration of the country, and such landmarks as there were; and although he made straight for the pin-point indicated by the crossed lines on his map, he had no intention of flying over it, knowing that if he did he must inevitably be seen by the bandits, who, if not actually suspicious of this prowling Tiger Moth, would be on the alert. He wanted, if possible, to take them by surprise. He hoped to find a landing-ground, one of the several comparatively open areas in the sanseviera, a few miles short of his objective—not too close, in case they should be heard. He recalled that there were some, but he did not know which was the best for his purpose, for he had never examined them with this object in view.
He circled low over half a dozen before he made his choice. The first four were too small, or too narrow, and the fifth had a native village in the middle of it. The sixth, which he reckoned to be about five miles from the pinpoint, was the best, so far. It was by no means an ideal landing-ground, and would have been out of the question for a heavy machine, being narrow, slightly on the slope, with a rough surface; but he thought it unlikely that he would find anything better, so he decided to take a chance.
The aircraft bumped and rocked when he put it down, and all but turned over when a wheel encountered a low bush; but it finished on even keel, so he taxied on to leave a clear run in for the following machine. Before signalling to Algy to land he went out and tore up the bush that had nearly turned him over. A quick survey of the clearing also enabled him to indicate the best area. With this advantage Algy landed without mishap. Both machines were now put in position for a quick take-off should one become necessary, after which Biggles produced the compass, without which progress on foot through the jungle would have been sheer guesswork.
The value of Wilks’s tip was at once proved, for there now appeared from the jungle a figure dressed in half-native, half-European style. That is to say, he wore a shamma, which looked like a dirty piece of sheet wrapped round his body, and over it, incongruously, a Sam Browne belt. A dilapidated slough hat, much too large, that had once obviously been the property of an Australian soldier, covered his head. His legs were encased in gum-boots, the origin of which was not so plain. In his left hand he carried a long spear, the butt of which rested on the ground, so that he was able to use the shaft as a support for his left leg, which in some curious way appeared to be curled round it. The impression created was of a one-legged man. A rifle sloped across his right shoulder.
“A Danakil,” said Sergeant Mahmud, and called to the man in what, presumably, was his own language.
A brief long-distance exchange of words followed. At the end the native advanced, reluctantly, and Sergeant Mahmud, acting as interrogator and interpreter, extracted this information. The native, as he had already conjectured from his habit of standing on one leg, was of the Danakil tribe. His name was Burradidi, and he was a hunter by profession. He was then out on a hunting trip. In answer to a question as to whether there were any white men in the vicinity, he answered emphatically that there were, at the same time pointing the direction with his spear. it was on this account that he had been nervous about coming forward, for until Sergeant Mahmud had declared himself to be a British soldier he had feared that the newcomers might be friends of these same white men. Asked if he would guide the party to these other white men, Burradidi refused point-blank, declaring that this was impossible. No native would go within miles of the place on account of the “air that killed.” This “air that killed” puzzled Biggles for some moments, until he realised that the man was talking about poison gas.
“Gontermann mentioned to me that Scaroni had provided them with other weapons besides mines,” he said in a hard voice. “Poison gas bombs must be one of them. That, apparently, is how they keep the natives at a distance. The more I learn about these thugs and their methods the more delighted I shall be to see them strung up.” To Sergeant Mahmud he said, “Explain to this chap that we have come to capture these users of air that kills. If he will help us to do this, the country will be well rid of them, and he shall have a hundred dollars1 into the bargain.”
At first the Danakil demurred, but a hundred dollars was a big sum of money, and in the end avarice gained ascendancy over fear. He offered to show them a path by which the camp of the white men could be reached; he would go part, but not all the way.
This suited Biggles, who, as a preliminary measure, merely wanted to find out the exact location of the bandits’ base, and ascertain how the flying part of it was organised—why it was, for instance, that no landing-ground was visible from the air.
The Danakil struck off into the jungle on a course that tallied with the pin-point, much to Biggles’s satisfaction. For the first time he was able to appreciate all that Wilks had said about the sanseviera. Burradidi had mentioned a path, but knowing the usual native idea of a path Biggles was astonished to find a passage more in the nature of a road. There was no surface to it, but swampy areas were made passable by “corduroy” tracks of tree-trunks lain side by side. The ugly sanseviera had encroached, and in places almost met overhead, which accounted for the fact that the road could not be seen from the air.
“I don’t understand this,” remarked Biggles. “This isn’t a native path. It looks more like an abandoned military road. By thunder! I’ve got it. Of course—what a fool I am. The Italians must have made this track during or after their conquest of the country, when they were trying to subdue the outlying tribes.”
Sergeant Mahmud questioned the Danakil on this point, and found that this was the case.
“It’s Zufra all over again,” declared Biggles. “Scaroni was with the Italians, and used this track for the transport of stores and petrol. No doubt he told Baumer about it. It wouldn’t surprise me if we found a serviceable landing-ground, suitable for military aircraft, at the end. No wonder our fellows never found the petrol dump. Scaroni wouldn’t have to go to much trouble to hide it, in this stuff.” He glanced at the scene around them.
It was all that Wilks’s informant, the pilot Saunders, had said of it—and more. The ground was little better than a swamp—enormous tussocks of coarse grass with pools of black, stagnant, evil-looking water, between them. From the tussocks sprang the coarse, mottled leaves, or rather spines, of the prevailing sanseviera. Rustlings in the grass, and soft furtive plops in the water, suggested a wealth of reptile life. Enormous black flies, as well as mosquitoes, rose in clouds. The air was hot, humid, and heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation.
The travellers sweated copiously as they marched, striking at the flies that swarmed about them, and tried to settle in their eyes. The great wonder to Ginger was how Saunders had managed to live for a fortnight in such horror without going mad.
For about an hour the party went forward through a never-changing scene. Then the Danakil stopped, and pointed with his spear. He would go no farther.
Biggles took the lead. “Come on,” he said softly. “No more talking.”
* * *
1 The only coins acceptable to natives of Abyssinia are Maria Theresa dollars, which have been the common currency for many years. Although obsolete elsewhere, they are still minted.
CHAPTER XVI
THE POISON BELT
ALMOST imperceptibly the scene began to change. The vivid green of the jungle turned slowly to a rusty yellow. The sanseviera still reared its octopus-like arms, but they were dead, and remembering what the Danakil had said it did not take Biggles long to guess the reason.
“Poison gas did that,” he whispered. “If Gontermann has used it against the natives he won’t hesitate to use it against us. Quietly now.”
They moved forward, slowly, picking their way wit
h care, and in this manner reached the outer fringe of the enemy camp. By that time they were all gasping for breath, and Biggles understood why Grindler had prefixed the word sanseviera with a curse. There was something about the steaming atmosphere that was not only oppressive, but positively suffocating. The place stank with the acrid smell of vegetation that had grown and died and rotted in successive layers through centuries of time. An occasional skeleton lying in the tangle of undergrowth did nothing to enliven the scene.
“Probably natives who were gassed,” said Biggles, referring to them, as he paused to wipe the sweat from his face.
It was at this stage that Algy made a remark which was to have far-reaching results, although he was unaware of it. Sergeant Mahmud was quietly preparing for action, and in the course of this he took from his pocket a pair of hand grenades and hung them on his belt. Algy looked at them with a disapproval which he made no attempt to hide.
“Look what the sergeant’s produced,” he growled. “He wouldn’t have flown in my machine with those in his pocket if I’d known about it.”
“Velly good,” said Sergeant Mahmud, imperturbably, tapping a grenade.
Biggles turned to look. “You be careful what you’re doing with those things, Sergeant,” he warned.
“Velly good, sahib,” acknowledged the sergeant, who was a man of few words.
There was not a soul in sight; all was silent except for the constant buzz of the flies, so with the others following Biggles now made a cautious reconnaissance. It occupied some time, but by the end he had grasped the general lay-out of the place, which was so plain for all to see that it hardly called for comment. It confirmed his conjecture that the camp had been originally a war-time emergency landing-ground. Skilfully designed by army engineers, particular care had been taken against aerial observation, and it was now easy enough to understand why the flights had failed to reveal it.
There was no exposed runway. A central building of wood frame construction, loop-holed for defence and thatched with layers of sanseviera, formed, as it were, the hub of a wheel; from it, like spokes, aisles had been cut in the jungle towards the four cardinal points of the compass. Over these aisles, camouflage netting, threaded with the eternal sanseviera, had been spread in such a way that they could be drawn aside to permit air operations on a small scale. It was really quite simple, yet effective, even though the camouflage, bone dry and withered from long exposure to the sun, showed signs of falling to pieces. This also applied to the central hutment which, from the cover of the jungle, Biggles surveyed from a distance of about fifty yards. He could get no closer without exposing himself, for the intervening space was open, in the manner of a parade ground, although even this had been strewn with dry banches of sanseviera to prevent detection from the air.
“Well, this is it,” said Biggles quietly. “I should say the part of the hut we’re looking at is the living accommodation; the machines are probably parked under that big awning carried out on poles from the far side.”
“Just what are you aiming to do?” asked Algy.
“I want to catch these criminals alive, arrest them in the regulation manner, if possible,” replied Biggles. “The place seems so quiet that I feel inclined to try to take it at a rush, before Gontermann can organise a defence.”
“If we could put the machines out of action for a start we should definitely make an end of their pirate pranks, whatever else happened,” suggested Ginger. “That would fix them in this area, and put a stop to this gallivanting round the globe.”
“I think there’s something in that idea,” assented Biggles. “If I could get across to the hut without being spotted I could work my way round it to the awning. We’ve got to cross the open, anyway, to reach the place. No doubt it was to prevent a surprise attack that the jungle was cleared. I’ll try it. You fellows stay here and keep me covered in case I bump into opposition.”
He had taken the first step into the open, and was crouching for a dash across, when an unexpected factor altered the entire situation.
Round the end of the building came a gaunt, mangy, Alsatian dog. It moved quietly, as though prowling with no particular object. Biggles froze. The dog stopped abruptly. Its nose went up, feeling the air, as though it had caught a suspicious taint. Its head came round and it looked straight at Biggles. It stiffened and bared its teeth, growling deep in its throat; then it broke into a clamour of furious barking which was all the more devastating on account of the previous silence. Inside the hut somebody shouted. Feet thudded on bare boards.
Seeing that it was now impossible to proceed with his plan, Biggles backed hastily into cover, and with a crisp, “Come on,” to the others, started to work his way round the clearing, away from the point where the animal had located them. He had no fixed plan. Indeed, in his heart he knew that now the alarm had been raised the odds were all against them, but he still hoped that it might be possible to reach the Renkells and put them out of service. This hope was short-lived. The dog followed, barking, and to complete the pandemonium a machine-gun came into action. A burst of bullets raked the spot they had just vacated.
Biggles blundered on, heedless of thorns and spines that tore at his clothes; but he pulled up short when a metal object, about the size of a cricket ball, came bounding across the clearing. It exploded with a sullen bang, splashing in all directions a black, oily fluid, from which vapour drifted sluggishly.
“The air that kills. No good,” muttered Sergeant Mahmud.
“Mustard gas,” rasped Biggles, as another gas bomb exploded. “I can’t see where the infernal things are coming from. It’s no use, chaps. We can’t fight that stuff. Let’s get out of this before we’re skinned alive. Back to the path!” His face was pale with chagrin.
They had started to retire when, as if he had suddenly remembered something, he caught the sergeant by the shoulder. “Just a minute, Sergeant,” he said tersely. “I hate letting them have things all their own way. Give me those grenades.”
Sergeant Mahmud handed them over. “Velly good,” said he.
Biggles’s face was set in grim lines as he forced a way to the edge of the clearing, where he crouched for a moment while he tore the safety-pins from the grenades with his teeth.
Then he made a short rush and flung the missiles in quick succession. The first landed on the roof of the hut; the second struck the side of the awning and dropped among the debris at the bottom. The two explosions merged. He did not wait for the smoke to clear to observe results, as the enemy continued to fire blindly through the smoke and the bullets were coming dangerously close. Moreover, another gas bomb came lobbing across the clearing. He dashed back to where the others were waiting, and shouting, “Run for it!” plunged on towards the path by which they had approached.
“That confounded dog upset the apple-cart,” he panted, as he ran on. Shots were still being fired from the hut, and the bullets came slashing through the mushy sanseviera.
Not until they were some distance down the path did he ease the pace.
“I imagine this is what the papers call being repulsed in confusion,” grunted Ginger.
“Not having respirators or gas-proof equipment there was no sense in staying where we were,” returned Biggles. “Once we were discovered it was all up. We couldn’t see them, but they could evidently see us.” Biggles went on at a steady dog-trot.
“What are we going to do?” asked Algy.
“Get back to Khartoum as fast as we can,” replied Biggles. “We’ll come back with the Mosquito and the Spur and prang this place off the map. The rajah’s sparklers will have to take their luck.”
“Look!” cried Ginger, pointing.
All eyes were turned behind and upward, to where a column of smoke was rising in the air.
“By gosh! It looks as though something has set fire to the sanseviera—perhaps the camouflage,” exclaimed Biggles. “It must have been one of the grenades. Come to think of it, that stuff was like tinder. It should make the place easy to fi
nd when we come back. Let’s keep going.”
They ran on. Ginger had never plumbed the extent of Biggles’s endurance; nor did he now, although he ran until his heart pounded in his ears and his knees felt like jelly. Towards the finish, the journey to where the Tigers had been left became a nightmare of mud, and sweat, and flies—and sanseviera.
Not until they reached the machines did Biggles stop and look back. The pillar of smoke had become a mighty cloud that rolled up and up towards the blue dome of heaven.
“It looks as if we’ve given them something to think about, something to keep them busy, anyway,” he muttered.
“I should say we’ve done more than that,” declared Algy, still staring at the signs of a considerable conflagration. “They may be smoked out.”
“The fire may reach their petrol,” puffed Ginger.
“Wishful thinking won’t get us anywhere,” contended Biggles. “Let’s get home and fetch a load of high explosive—something to really warm their hides.”
Both machines took off without mishap, and flying low for maximum speed set a course for the aerodrome. From time to time Ginger looked back to note the progress of the smoke, and was pleased to see that the volume was increasing rather than diminishing. He passed this information on to Biggles, observing that Algy’s prediction about the enemy being smoked out was now a real possibility.
They had just crossed the frontier, where the jungle gave way to typical Sudan desert, when Ginger, who again happened to glance back, let out a cry so shrill with alarm that Biggles turned sharply to see what was amiss.
“The Renkells!” shouted Ginger. “They’re coming this way—both of them.”
Biggles raced on. It now seemed certain that the enemy had been smoked out, or driven out by the fire—not that it mattered which—and he was by no means pleased. This evacuation was premature, and altered his plan. While the enemy were in the sanseviera he did at least know where they were, but now they might be going anywhere. It looked as if they might escape, after all, for his aircraft was neither equipped to catch the Renkells, or stop them. There were no guns in the Tiger Moths, and the comparative speeds were as a hen and a hawk. This irritating handicap so occupied his mind that it never struck him seriously that the Renkells might attack. If he thought about the possibility at all it was in an abstract sort of way; he assumed, rather, that even if the two Moths were seen, which was by no means certain, the gang would be in too much of a hurry to bother about them.