Biggles Buries a Hatchet

by W E Johns

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘That shows the right spirit, anyway,’ he conceded. ‘As it happens it may not be necessary for you to do either. If we go it will be by plane.’

  ‘That would be the ideal thing,’ stated the youth, calmly.

  ‘You realize that you’ll be lucky if you come out of this alive?’

  ‘What of it? When do we start?’

  ‘Not so fast,’ requested Biggles, seriously. ‘Raids like this take a little time to organize. If your uncle is inside for life, a day or two one way or the other won’t make much difference.’

  ‘I do not agree. Haste is necessary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If my uncle Erich is forced to do hard labour in that climate, and that is the usual way with prisoners, it would kill him. He is not a weak man, but he has not been used to that sort of thing.’

  ‘I see. How much do you know about Sakhalin?’

  ‘Only what I have told you.’

  ‘You know of no one at home who has been there — someone who knows his way about the prison?’

  ‘No. People who go to Sakhalin seldom come back.’

  ‘Not even the warders?’

  ‘Not even the warders, who are, of course, soldiers. Even for them it is a punishment station, like others in Siberia. No one would volunteer for such duty. Ordinary men would go mad from the monotony.’

  ‘And there is nothing more you can tell me?’

  ‘Nothing. I am sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry for what you don’t know.’ Biggles smiled. ‘All right, Fritz. That’s enough for now. We’ll have another talk later on.’

  ‘There’s just one thing I’ve remembered. In the old days, so I once read in a book, prisoners were sent by sea, from Odessa, to Sakhalin. Because it was a long journey they are now taken by aeroplane.’

  ‘Which means there must be an airfield.’

  ‘That is what I was thinking.’

  ‘You don’t know where it is?’

  ‘No. I have no idea.’

  ‘I see. Thanks.’

  The German left the room and Biggles got up and turned to follow him out. ‘I’ll get to work on this jaunt right away,’ he told the Air Commodore. ‘Take care of Lowenhardt and have him handy in case I should want to see him again. I like that lad. If I’m any judge he’s as straight as they come.’

  ‘He has guts, anyway,’ remarked the Air Commodore. ‘Let me know what you want. I’ll give you all the help I can.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir.’

  Biggles returned to his own office where he found the others waiting in expectation of news.

  ‘Well?’ queried Ginger. Then, looking at Biggles’ face, he added shrewdly, ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘We’re going to Sakhalin,’ announced Biggles calmly.

  Algy threw a glance at Bertie and Ginger in turn. ‘What did I tell you?’ He looked again at Biggles. ‘So you’ve offered to go and get dear Erich out of the mess he’s fallen into!’

  ‘I didn’t offer to do anything of the sort. I was asked to go.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The chief put forward the assignment, but the request came from higher up.’

  ‘And you’ve agreed to go.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘You must be out of your mind,’ declared Algy. ‘Think of the irony of it. Here’s the toughest job ever, and for what? To get your bitterest enemy out of a jam! Hold me up, someone, before I swoon.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to get in a flap,’ announced Biggles. ‘You needn’t come if you don’t want to. That goes for everyone.’

  ‘If it was anyone else but von Stalhein I’d say nothing about it,’ went on Algy. ‘I always said you’d end up by inviting him to dinner.’

  ‘Better that than glaring at each other over gun barrels.’

  ‘Okay, have it your way,’ said Algy, gloomily. ‘You’ll get no thanks from that frozen-faced Prussian even if you do manage to pull him out of the soup.’

  ‘I don’t help people to earn their thanks,’ returned Biggles, coldly. ‘If I can make von Stalhein see that we bear no grudge against him for what has happened in the past I shall be satisfied. One of the troubles of this world is, people will look back instead of forward.’

  ‘Let’s not go all philosophical,’ suggested Ginger. ‘When do we kick off?’

  ‘There are several things to do first,’ answered Biggles. ‘By the way, young Lowenhardt will be in the party.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Why the extra load, old boy?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Because he can speak Russian and we can’t. If I know anything that lad will earn his keep. Now stop quibbling and let’s get down to business.’

  ‘Business,’ breathed Ginger. ‘What exactly does that mean in this case?’

  ‘First,’ answered Biggles evenly, ‘we work out the best way to this perishing island. We then go there and find somewhere to get down. Next, we scout around for the prison and after that locate the cell in which von Stalhein is due to spend the rest of his days. All that remains then is to get him out, and home. That, I think, should be enough to go on with.’

  ‘Plenty, old boy,’ murmured Bertie, polishing his monocle. ‘In fact, we might say the lot.’

  CHAPTER 4

  OUTWARD BOUND

  SIX weeks later the veteran Sea Otter amphibian of the Special Air Police was droning its way through a midnight sky at maximum altitude above the glistening ice-cold seas of the North Pacific. To the west, the narrow La Perouse Strait that separates the northern tip of Japan from the island of Sakhalin showed up clearly in the light of a gleaming silver moon, nearly full, and a sky ablaze with stars. Far to the east, the vague shadows of the nearest of the Kurile Islands could just be discerned on the horizon. Ahead, the black mass of the island that was the objective, dotted with a few sparsely separated pin-points of light, rolled on and on northward towards the fitful flickering rays of the Aurora Borealis.

  So far the long journey out had been uneventful and had gone according to plan. To Hong Kong, the last British-held territory on the route, the flight had been mere routine. From there they had made the last long run to Japan, where, at American-maintained airfields, documents provided by the Air Commodore had facilitated their receptions and provided them with their fuel and oil requirements. Without such papers awkward questions would almost certainly have been asked, for apart from the personnel travelling in the aircraft the machine carried a quantity of tools and other equipment not normally to be found in a plane engaged in a round-the-world test flight — as was stated in the documents. Actually, they discovered that their arrival was anticipated, from which it was clear that the diplomatic wheels set in motion at home were working smoothly. Now, with Japan’s most northerly island fading behind them the difficult and dangerous task was about to begin.

  The Air Commodore had been extremely helpful in another respect.

  The big problem from the outset had been the choice of a landing-ground on Sakhalin, or on the water near it. Indeed, upon this was likely to depend the success or failure of the expedition. One mistake in this respect would be fatal, not only to the machine but to all of them, for without the aircraft in an airworthy condition there would be no way of getting home. Here, of course, the big handicap was the lack of reliable information.

  This problem of landing had been discussed over and over again before the start, the pros and cons of the two methods open to them being weighed against each other. These were, simply, whether to try to get down on the Tartar Channel, assuming it was still frozen over, or look for a creek or a river on the opposite side of the island. There could be no question of landing on the open Sea of Okhotsk, which more often than not was rough. It was likely that the Tartar Channel was still ice-bound, but there would be no way of confirming this until they got there. The assumption was based on the date when the ice usually broke up, which was still some weeks ahead. There would be plenty of room on the ice, althoug
h a night landing on it would be a hazardous operation; one which no pilot, however experienced, would willingly undertake.

  The big snag about this was, even supposing they got down safely, they would find themselves on the wrong side of the island, in that the prison was on the far side. They would, therefore, be faced with a long overland march in order to reach it. The state of the creeks and rivers on the nearer side was not known. They might be full of rocks or other obstructions. A reconnaissance flight in daylight would of course have answered most of Biggles’ questions, but this was not seriously to be considered, for the presence of a strange aircraft over such closely guarded territory could hardly fail to attract attention. The last thing Biggles wanted was to be seen, for should that happen their difficulties would be increased a hundredfold. Whether or not there were hostile military aircraft on the island, against which he would have no defence. Biggles did not know. Nobody knew, for this was one of the areas where the Iron Curtain had been drawn very tightly. However, there must at some time have been a gap in it, as Biggles discovered in Tokyo where, in the matter of co-operation, the long arm of the Air Commodore was again revealed.

  He had said to Biggles, just before the start: ‘When you get to Japan go and see Colonel Cyrus Bradfield. Tell him who you are and he may be able to help you. Here’s his address. He’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘You mean in this matter of getting down on Sakhalin?’ questioned Biggles.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks. Any information would be welcome,’ returned Biggles.

  Nothing more was said, but on his arrival in Japan, while the Otter was being refuelled. Biggles had gone, alone, to see the officer whom he suspected — correctly as it soon transpired — was attached to the U.S. Army Air Force Intelligence Service.

  ‘Sit down and take the weight off your feet,’ invited the Colonel, a keen-eyed, granite-faced man of about fifty, when Biggles had been shown into his office, and had produced his identity papers. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Can you give me any information about Sakhalin?’ questioned Biggles.

  ‘Not much. We’ve no great interest in the place. I’ve some aerial photographs you may see, if they’re any use to you,’ returned the Colonel.

  ‘They’d be most helpful.’

  ‘What part of the island interests you most?’

  ‘The southern end. Say, the south east.’

  ‘Okay.’ The officer went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a docket. ‘You needn’t answer this question if you don’t want to, but have you some particular purpose in mind?’

  ‘I have an assignment to land a plane and pick up a man.’

  The Colonel looked startled. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘I wish I was,’ answered Biggles lugubriously. ‘My first problem is to find a place to get down.’

  ‘That won’t be easy.’

  ‘So I gather, but I shall have to manage it somehow.’

  ‘What type of plane are you using?’

  ‘An amphibian. I’m prepared for dry ground or water — or even ice. Do you happen to know if the Tartar Strait is still ice-bound?’

  ‘I’ve no recent information about that, but it should be. Our planes don’t go that way more than is absolutely necessary. Here are the pictures. They’re all very high altitude stuff, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Lovely work, all the same,’ observed Biggles, picking up the top photograph of several. ‘Can you lend me a magnifying glass?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Mind if I study these for a little while?’

  ‘Go ahead. Take your time. I’ve some work on my desk I can get on with.’

  Biggles began his scrutiny, which lasted for the best part of an hour, by the end of which time he had committed to memory the areas with which he was likely to be concerned. ‘How long is it since these were taken?’ he asked.

  ‘The last lot were taken about six months ago.’

  ‘Do your pilots meet with any opposition when they’re engaged in these photographic missions?’

  ‘Very seldom. We don’t give anybody time to interfere. It’s a quick dash over at top speed at around forty thousand, so even if the ship was spotted it’d be back before anything could get up to it. Which reminds me, we did lose a machine, a Sabre, not long ago. We don’t know what happened to it. There’s been no word from anybody. It may have had engine trouble, or run out of gas due to getting off course. We don’t know. The pilot may have had to ditch his ship, but there’s just a chance he came down on Sakhalin. You might keep your eyes open for a crack-up while you’re there.’

  ‘He’d be wearing a parachute?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then he may have baled out.’

  ‘Could be.’

  “What was his name?’

  ‘Manton. Pat Manton.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for a lost American. One never knows. Thanks a lot, Colonel. You’ve been most helpful. If I can do anything for you at any time let me know.’

  ‘Forget it. Always glad to help a friend. Good luck to you — you’ll need it.’

  Biggles returned to the others well satisfied with his visit, for it had enabled him to make up his mind about the landing. Having given them the gist of his conversation he said: ‘There are two or three coves, or rather, estuaries, on the prison side that should suit us. Without knowing what the surfaces are like it’s bound to be tricky, particularly as it would be asking for trouble to use the engines at a low altitude. An even trickier problem may be to find somewhere to hide the plane when we are down. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes. I have at least got a definite landing place in my mind’s eye.’

  The Otter was now well on its way to that objective. Nobody spoke. All realized that the landing Biggles proposed to make would have been dangerous even in normal circumstances; the knowledge that should the aircraft be damaged the consequences would probably prove fatal, in that they would be left on the island with small chance of ever getting off it, did nothing to make the task easier or the prospects brighter.

  For some time, keeping well out to sea, the aircraft droned on across a vast bowl of darkness over which, such is the power of imagination, the stars were beginning to look hostile — or so it seemed to Ginger, who was sitting next to Biggles in the cockpit. Were eyes already watching them on radar screens? He didn’t know. He hoped he would never have cause to know. What kept coming back to his mind was that all this was to help a man from whom they had so often had most to fear. However, on this occasion they were at least relieved from that particular risk.

  The note of the engines dropped a tone as Biggles retarded the throttle and began edging nearer to what looked like a long ragged ink stain spilt on the face of the earth. Slowly, very slowly, its outline hardened as the machine dropped towards it. At ten thousand feet the noise of the engines died to a mutter, and with its port wing tilted down the Otter began to slip off height more quickly.

  Biggles did not speak. His gaze, probing the gloom, was fixed on the land coming towards them, and Ginger knew he must be searching for the estuary, the river mouth he had noted in the photographs. As the estuary was tidal, and the tide flowing at that hour, if they could get on the water they should be carried to the shore without having to open up the engines. That was the plan, to avoid being heard. Somewhere no great distance up the river were some scattered dwellings. These also had been noted on the photographs, although there was no indication as to whether or not they were occupied, and if they were, by whom.

  The state of the banks of the estuary was another unknown factor, although forest came very close to them. Should they turn out to be open mud flats, offering no cover of any sort, they would not be able to stay there, Biggles had said. To expect a medium-sized aircraft to remain in plain view for any length of time without being observed by someone would be asking too much. A deeply indented shore of cliffs would suit them. It had been impossible t
o make out such details from high altitude vertical photos. The question of cover was something that had to be taken on chance. But, as Biggles had remarked, they would have to take chances whatever they did.

  Algy, who had been checking for drift, reported that there was little if any wind.

  Five thousand, four thousand, three thousand feet registered on the altimeter, with the aircraft still going down at little more than stalling speed in order to reduce noise to a minimum, for an airborne aircraft cannot travel in absolute silence. Always there is the murmur of the motors and the whine of air over the plane surfaces, the wings and tail unit.

  From a thousand feet broad features of the scene below lay in clear view, although it was still not possible to make out the details. Biggles, tense in his seat, was still slipping off height, a manoeuvre that had the effect of taking the machine nearer to the shore. To Ginger the estuary appeared wider than he expected, although this, as he reasoned, may have been the result of the flooding tide. However, it narrowed rapidly towards its inner extremity.

  The Otter glided on, no lights showing.

  Ginger moistened his lips, dry from the strain of watching and knowing that the vital moment was at hand. The next two or three minutes would either spell disaster or relax the tension. All that could be seen of the surface of the water was the reflection of the stars, which told them that conditions were dead calm, as was to be expected from the absence of wind.

  Suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath Biggles eased back the control column and a moment or two later the Otter struck the water with a resounding splash. It bumped twice, the first time rather badly, and then surged on to run to a stop some fifty or sixty yards from a coal-black coastline. Biggles switched off and silence fell; a cold, sullen silence, with a menacing quality about it.

  I’m sorry about that bump,’ said Biggles, presently. ‘I don’t think I’ve done any damage, but by gosh! I nearly went right into the drink. I could have sworn I was higher than that. But it’s hard to tell just where the surface is when the water’s calm, even in daylight. Every time I make one of these landings outside a proper airfield I tell myself it shall be the last. However, this time we’re down in one piece, thank goodness, although I don’t mind telling you now that I nearly gave myself the heebie-jeebies doing it.’