Biggles Buries a Hatchet

by W E Johns

  Confirmation that it was von Stalhein came in a way that was as dramatic as it was unexpected.

  Just at the moment when the files of men were as close to the watchers as they would ever be a voice said in English with an American accent: ‘This is it. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said another voice, and there was no mistaking the curt, clipped manner of speech. Only von Stalhein could have spoken like that. The words came from the man who limped.

  In the events that followed Ginger was too shaken to wonder who the first speaker might be, or what he meant by his remark, although the explanation was soon forthcoming. One of the guards who carried a whip hurried along the line and shouting what was evidently an order, perhaps for silence, struck him a brutal blow across the back. The effect on the victim, who was carrying a new shovel on his shoulder, was anything but what might have been expected. He spun round in a flash, and wielding the shovel as if it had no more weight than a walking stick, brought it down with all his force on the head of his assailant. Then, even before the falling guard had reached the ground he had dropped the shovel and was streaking for the river. Knowing only too well what would follow his action he did not keep a straight line, but zig-zagged like a startled snipe. Shots rang out. Bullets whistled as the ripped the earth, whined as they struck rock, lashed into the trees.

  The fugitive raced on. He seemed to have a charmed life, although admittedly he was not an easy mark to hit. He reached the river, which here had a gravel bottom and was evidently the ford, as the runner must have known, or observed. Anyhow, it was not deep enough for swimming so he blundered through it in a cloud of spray. Once he stumbled, and Ginger, who was holding his breath, thought he had been struck. But no. He was on his feet again in an instant, wisely plunging downstream instead of against the current, which was lucky for the spellbound watchers, for this took him farther from the rocks behind which they crouched. Reaching the bank the fugitive hurled himself over it, rolled two or three times flat on the ground, leapt to his feet and darted into the forest where he disappeared from sight. A hail of bullets followed him, to tear splinters from the trees.

  ‘My gosh!’ breathed Biggles. ‘I believe he’s done it. He deserved to. I never saw a finer effort. Don’t move, anyone.’

  The other prisoners had of course halted. There was a babble of tongues. Guards shouted. In the general confusion another man tried to bolt, but he was unlucky, and perhaps foolish in that he ran in a straight line. A bullet brought him down before he had gone ten yards. This added chaos to confusion. Rifles covered the remainder. Whips were brandished and they were mustered into a group. The N.C.O. in charge of the guards was raging like a man demented. One of his men raced back over the track towards the prison. Four others crossed the river on the trail of the runaway, with small hope of finding him, Ginger thought, provided he had not been wounded. Now that the prisoners were standing still, huddled in a group, it was not possible to distinguish von Stalhein.

  As for Biggles’ party they squatted motionless among their rocks, still with shock, and, as far as Ginger was concerned, with the perishing cold.

  The prison bell began a dismal tolling, presumably to warn everyone of the escape. Search parties appeared, fanning out towards the forest.

  Biggles said softly to Ginger: ‘If they come on us we shall have to try to shoot our way out. I’ll not risk being captured.’

  The guard who had run to the prison returned, apparently with a message, for the N.C.O. shouted more orders. The prisoners were reformed in lines and their march to the mine was resumed. The guard who had been struck with the shovel, his head bandaged, made his way slowly to the prison. Only the dead prisoner lay where he had fallen.

  Fritz touched Biggles on the arm. ‘Miskoff says this is the time to go,’ he said.

  ‘I’d think so, too,’ returned Biggles.

  ‘Miskoff says he will take us a roundabout way to the hut so that we do not meet any soldiers.’

  ‘Good.’

  The Russian set off at a pace so fast that it took the others all their time to keep up with him. He kept this up for some time before settling down to a steadier stride — always, of course, in the forest.

  ‘Well, at least we found out what we wanted to know,’ said Biggles, as, with a good distance between them and the danger zone, they were able to breathe more freely.

  ‘My uncle was there,’ said Fritz, with tears in his eyes. ‘I saw him. I heard him speak. I know his voice. We must save him.’

  ‘Give us time,’ answered Biggles. ‘That wasn’t the moment, although it might have been had we known what was going to happen. But who could have foreseen a situation like that?’

  ‘That man who got away spoke like an American,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘So I noticed,’ replied Biggles. ‘I’m wondering if it could be the man Colonel Bradfield spoke to me about — an army pilot named Pat Manton. But it’s no use guessing about that. All I can say, is, I never saw a more desperate effort. It shows what one man can do if he’s prepared to back his luck against his life. He deserved to get away with it. I don’t mind telling you now I was scared stiff he would make for the rocks behind which we were hiding and so bring the whole pack on top of us. I’m glad he got clear although that may put us on a spot in that the searchers, working along the side of the estuary, may come on the Otter. Apart from that, with the forest stiff with soldiers it’s going to be difficult for us to move about.’

  Silence fell again, and a little later the party reached a landmark, two fallen trees, which told Ginger they were in the vicinity of Miskoff’s house. Presently the Russian stopped, saying through Fritz that he would now go on alone to make sure it was safe for them to proceed. All houses would be searched for the escaped prisoner, he explained. That included his own, and as some of the soldiers might be mounted, and would take the direct route, they might already be there.

  Biggles, who would have liked to push on to the machine as fast as possible, could raise no objection to this. So there they stood while Miskoff, who seemed tireless, strode on through the trees making no more noise than a shadow.

  Speaking softly Biggles said: ‘I would very much like to find that American no matter who he is. He might be able to tell us in what part of the prison von Stalhein lives, although from what Miskoff says it looks as if our best chance of making contact with him would be when he is out with a working party. When the American shouted ‘This is it’, before making his dash, he must have known there was someone in the gang who could speak English, which suggests he had previously spoken to von Stalhein, otherwise I don’t see how he could have known that. A prisoner here able to speak English must be rare. I fancy he intended to make a break, anyway, but when that lout hit him with a whip he lost his temper and lashed out with the shovel. After that he had to bolt. He had nothing to lose, because he would probably have been shot, anyway, for striking a guard.’

  ‘There seems to be a poor chance of us getting into the prison, or getting anyone out of it,’ returned Ginger, morosely. ‘Ten men in one cell raises problems. I mean, you couldn’t take one man out and leave the others. They’d all want to come, and you’d be landed with the entire bunch.’

  ‘I hadn’t overlooked that,’ returned Biggles. ‘That’s why I’m trying to work out some way of getting in touch with von Stalhein when he’s outside. If the whole gang made a break and took to the forest at the same time so much the better. The guards would be faced with a bigger job than hunting a single man.’

  They all sprang to the alert as from somewhere there came a sudden outcry. It lasted only two or three seconds and ended as abruptly as it had started.

  ‘Now what?’ muttered Biggles. ‘There’s somebody there besides Miskoff. He may be in trouble. We’d better have a look.’

  With the others keeping close he began a slow advance through the trees.

  CHAPTER 8

  A PILOT IS LUCKY

  THE little clearing, with Miskoff’s house
in the middle of it, came into view. Miskoff was there, standing in the open. With him was another man dressed in the unsightly prison garb. He had a black eye and a cut on his forehead was bleeding. They were gesticulating as if trying to talk in sign language. Lying on the ground, his rifle beside him, was a burly figure in the uniform of the prison guards. He did not move.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Biggles tersely, and strode forward. One glance at the man on the ground was enough.

  The escaped prisoner spoke first. ‘You looking for me?’

  ‘No, but I’m glad we’ve found you,’ answered Biggles. ‘Are you the man we saw make a break this morning?’

  ‘Sure. You saw that?’

  ‘We did. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Biggles pointed to the man on the ground. ‘Who did this?’

  The prisoner jerked a thumb at Miskoff. ‘He did.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘I guess he’ll never be deader.’

  ‘Let’s not stand talking here in case some more of ‘em come along.’ Biggles walked on into the trees.

  The others all followed.

  ‘First of all,’ said Biggles, speaking to the prisoner, ‘you’re an American, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Is your name Manton, by any chance?’

  ‘Sure. That’s me. How did you know?’

  ‘We heard in Japan that you were missing and it was thought you might have crash-landed on Sakhalin. In fact, Colonel Bradfield, one of your Intelligence officers, asked us to keep an eye open for you.’

  ‘My motor packed up. I hit the water well outside territorial waters. A patrol boat picked me up and brought me here. After that it was the same old story. They’d no right to hold me, but they claimed I was a spy, and, well, you saw what they did with me. You don’t talk like an American.’

  ‘I’m not. We’re British. Lowenhardt here is German.’

  ‘There was a German in my gang. I told him I was going to make a break. He said it was crazy. I’d never do it.’

  ‘His name’s von Stalhein?’

  ‘Sure. That’s the guy. What are you doing?’

  ‘Before we go into that tell me what happened here.’

  ‘I was heading along the waterfront looking for a boat. I reckoned if I could get any sort of craft I could make Japan. It isn’t all that far. I’ve seen the layout of this area from the air. I was in a hurry, too, to find a boat before they were all put under guard. Those I’ve seen were all on the other side of the water. It’s too cold for swimming. I’d never, been along here before. I saw this house and decided, if there was no one at home, to borrow something to cover up this outfit I’m wearing. There didn’t seem to be anyone around so I went in. Before I had time to do anything I heard someone arrive outside. I came out reckoning it was the owner, instead of which it was one of the guards. He coshed me with his rifle and then beat me up with it till I was too dizzy to think, let alone fight. I was about all in when this other guy steps up from behind. I was on the ground. That skunk of a guard was too busy kicking me to see anything else. I guess he never did know what hit him. One crack on the skull with that axe was enough. Who is this axe-swinger? I don’t talk his lingo.’

  ‘He’s an ex-prisoner, a Russian. He lives in this hut.’

  ‘You sure had a nerve, trusting him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a Russian, you say.’

  ‘What of it? You get good and bad eggs wherever you go. I’ve nothing against a Russian simply because he is a Russian. The people I don’t like are those who are running this place; and as far as that goes, Miskoff has even more reason to hate them than we have.’

  ‘I guess you’re right, at that,’ conceded Pat. ‘He sure hit that guard as though he enjoyed doing it.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Biggles,

  ‘All the same, he took a chance, helping me, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was out for blood, anyway. Apart from doing ten years in the prison his wife died yesterday. There’s her grave. He holds the prison officials responsible, so he’ll shed no tears for the man he’s killed.’

  ‘Must have been a pleasure,’ stated Manton grimly. ‘I feel a bit that way myself.’

  Miskoff said something to Fritz, who translated. ‘He says he helped the American because he thought he’d useful to you. If you don’t want him any more, he says he’ll set fire to the house and go to his cave in the forest.’

  ‘What about this body?’

  ‘He says he’ll dispose of it. We should go quickly in case any more guards come this way.’

  Biggles looked at Manton. ‘You’d better come with us. Miskoff can probably exist in the forest, but you couldn’t hold out for long. You’d starve to death.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘We have a plane here. It’s hidden in the rushes.’

  ‘A plane! Say, that’s great news.’

  ‘You’re a bit conspicuous in that outfit. I wonder if Miskoff can do something about that. Fritz, ask him if he has any spare clothes — anything will do.’

  Fritz spoke to Miskoff, and then said: ‘He has only the clothes he stands in, but he has an old skin overcoat you can have.’

  ‘That would be better than nothing,’ returned Biggles.

  ‘He wants to keep the rifle — the one carried by guard.’

  ‘If he wants it it’s his. He has more right to it than we have.’

  Fritz passed on the information, whereupon Miskoff walked off, picked up the rifle and took it into the house. He came out carrying what looked like an old skin hearthrug, half bald, which turned out to be some ancient wolf skins roughly sewn together to make an overcoat. He handed it to Manton, who put it on. It was much too big for him, but it served its purpose, which was for disguise rather than warmth.

  ‘We’ll press on,’ decided Biggles. ‘Fritz, you might thank Miskoff for what he has done for us. Say if we can help him at any time while we’re here we shall be happy to do so. He knows roughly where we’re hiding so if he finds himself in need of food he has only to come along and whistle.’

  With that Biggles set off. Miskoff’s deeply lined face was inscrutable as he watched them go.

  ‘He won’t go far away,’ predicted Fritz, ‘He’s determined to kill Vostov. When I asked him if another murder was really necessary, all he said was “This is Sakhalin”, whatever that might mean.’

  ‘He probably meant that murder here is the only way of settling scores,’ replied Biggles.

  Ginger was still pale. ‘There’s something so cold-blooded about Miskoff that it gives me the creeps,’ he remarked. ‘You can see that murder means nothing to him. He was no more concerned about having brained that guard than if he had swatted a mosquito.’

  ‘Who are we to condemn him?’ queried Biggles. ‘If you’d spent ten years in the grey horror they call Onor maybe you’d feel as he does. Not that he feels anything, unless it’s satisfaction from having killed one of the blackguards who have made him what he is. You have only to look at his eyes to see he doesn’t think any more. Misery has emptied his head of everything except hate. To all intents and purposes he’s dead on his feet. The thing we have to remember is, if we’re caught here we may end up in the same state. Things are likely to start buzzing when that guard fails to return to barracks.’

  ‘They sure will,’ asserted Manton. ‘What are you guys doing here, anyhow? You’re sure sticking your necks out.’

  ‘We’re here to try to rescue von Stalhein,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Friend of yours, huh?’

  ‘Not exactly a friend,’ murmured Biggles, dryly. ‘More often than not he’s been an enemy.’

  Manton stared. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you would.’

  ‘I’ve been told you British can be dumb.’

  ‘We can, when it suits us,’ returned Biggles, smiling faintly. ‘I’ll tell you more about this business when we get
to our ship.’

  ‘If you’re aiming to pick up von Stalhein, brother, all I can say is you’ve taken on something,’ declared Manton, grimly.

  ‘Are you telling us it’s impossible?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that; but it isn’t far short. My getaway isn’t going to make things easier for you. They’ll reckon I bumped off that guard that Miskoff killed. Not that it matters as far as I’m concerned. I’d be for the high jump, anyway, if I’m caught, for bashing that whipper-in this morning with the shovel. I’ll see to it they don’t take me alive, you can betcha life on that, siree.’

  ‘It isn’t only you,’ retorted Biggles. ‘That goes for us too. You can imagine what they’d do to us if they caught us on their perishing island.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ murmured Manton, warmly. ‘This is no health resort at the best of times, but after what’s happened today it’s going to be no place for people like you and me.’

  ‘This is where we’ve tucked ourselves,’ informed Biggles, stopping by the rushes at the spot where the aircraft was moored.

  Bertie appeared almost at once with the dinghy. ‘I was keeping an eye on the path and spotted you coming.’ He adjusted his monocle more firmly. ‘What-ho! Who have you collected?’

  ‘Manton.’

  ‘Jolly good. The more the merrier.’

  ‘What made you choose this place for a hideout?’ asked Manton, as Bertie paddled them to the plane.

  ‘Where else was there?’ returned Biggles. ‘I preferred this to the ice on the other side of the island, particularly as the ice might have started to break up for all I know. Have you anything against this for a mooring?’

  ‘No, except that the water here can be rough at times. But there’d be objections to any place within fifty miles of this bit of the Iron Curtain.’