Biggles in the Gobi

by W E Johns

  Having no more to say, Algy walked over to a stone that had been used as a seat and sat down on it.

  Ginger went with him. “That’s a tough break,” he commiserated.

  “Just as I thought we’d got everything on the top line,” muttered Algy.

  Ginger rested his chin in his hand. “Well, it’s just one of those things,” was all he could say.

  * * *

  1 Readers of Biggles Goes To School will know why Biggles was able to speak Hindi.

  CHAPTER X

  BAD LUCK FOR BIGGLES

  BIGGLES had met trouble from a cause which, while fortunately not common, has happened more often than is generally realised, and is a regular hazard over a particular type of country in certain parts of the world.

  In quite a few cases the result has been fatal for the aircraft and its crew. In a word, he was in collision with a bird.

  Collisions with smaller birds that congregate in numbers, such as seagulls, are such a constant menace on certain stations, notably marine airports, that all sorts of devices have been adopted to deal with the problem, from firing Verey lights to the flying of specially trained birds of prey. The ancient sport of falconry, revived on some R.A.F. aerodromes, has done something to reduce the danger by scattering the offending birds when an aircraft is asking for permission to come in.

  Naturally, the bigger the bird the more serious is the result of a collision, for which reason this particular type of accident has occurred most frequently with serious results over mountain regions overseas where eagles, condors, vultures and the like, are commonly to be found. The northern frontiers of India, Iraq and Palestine, have bad records, both civil and military machines having been victims. Aircraft have been brought down over the Andes and the Atlas Mountains of North Africa.

  There has been more than one fatal accident over the European Alps. It is not unlikely that some of the unsolved “mystery” accidents have been due to this same unpredictable factor, for which no pilot or his aircraft can be blamed. It is a flying risk that must be accepted in the same way that ships are exposed to dangers which neither seamanship nor scientific instruments have been able to eliminate entirely. No matter how wakeful an airman may be, all he can do to minimise the risk is by taking evasive action if he sees the bird in time. He does not always see it, nor can he be expected to see it if it is hovering in the sun well above him. Even if he does see it he may not be able to escape the bird if it attacks him, for the creature is in its element and he is not.

  The question of how far these accidents have been the result of a deliberate attack has often been argued. The most feasible explanation is that it happens both ways. But there certainly have been occasions when big predatory birds have made an unprovoked onslaught on what they may regard as an intruder in their own particular domain. Surviving pilots have stated this. A bird, apparently, has not the sagacity to realise that, no matter what may happen to the aircraft, it must itself be killed—as it always is.

  As far as the aircraft is concerned the result of such an encounter must, of course, depend on where it is struck; but it must be obvious that a weight of perhaps twenty pounds, travelling at high speed in the opposite direction, is bound to cause damage no matter where it may strike. Light planes have had a wing knocked clean off. Fabric coverings have been torn to pieces and wooden airscrews have been shattered. Even large machines have had a main spar fractured. Radiators have been holed. In every case the bird was smashed to pulp.

  The eagle that resented the intrusion of Biggles’ Halifax came at him out of the blue. He saw it a split second before it struck. There was no time to do anything. A black mass blotted out his view. Almost simultaneously there was a tremendous crash and the windscreen was smothered with a sticky mess of blood and feathers. Biggles realised instantly what had happened. Shouting for Bertie, who was in the rear turret, he slipped quickly into the second pilot’s seat, the forward view from his own being practically obliterated. It was not much better from the new position.

  Air pressure soon removed most of the feathers, but the blood appeared to be congealed, and the feathers that remained, some with pieces of flesh adhering, looked like sticking to it.

  He throttled back to little more than a glide until the extent of the damage could be ascertained.

  Bertie came scrambling into the darkened cockpit. He took one look and gasped: “I say, how disgusting!”

  “Go to the astral dome and see if you can make out what has happened to the rest of the bird,” ordered Biggles.

  Bertie hurried off, He was soon back. “It’s wrapped round the pressure pump,” he reported.

  “Then the pump can’t be working.”

  “Don’t see how it can, all tangled up in skin and bones.”

  “I shall have to go down,” decided Biggles. “I daren’t risk going on. This stuff will freeze solid when we come to the mountains. If it can be managed, I’d rather get down here while we’re under control. What’s below us? Have a look. I can’t see anything from here. Buck up!”

  The decision Biggles had made was prompted by the distance he had to go. Over a civilised country he would no doubt have tried to reach the nearest airport, which would not be far away; but he did not feel inclined to tackle twelve hundred miles over some of the worst country in the world with the possibility of structural or engine failure hanging over him. He was relieved to find the machine still airborne with the controls unaffected. It might have been worse, much worse. The bird might have struck one of the wooden airscrews, for instance, in which case the flying splinters might have smashed its neighbour, forcing him to go down immediately regardless of the type of country underneath. He had at least been given time to think.

  Bertie came back. “Keep her going!” he exclaimed. “Keep going just as you are. We’re in luck. You’ve a green flat patch straight ahead.”

  “Green?” queried Biggles, still losing height.

  “Well, fairly green.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t a bog?”

  “I couldn’t see any water. We’re over that broad basin between hills which we noticed on the way out.”

  Biggles went on down, peering through one of the small clear places in the perspex. He could see a range of hills some distance ahead.

  “Keep her straight,” commanded Bertie. “You’re doing fine. You’ve miles of room. I can’t see anything in the way.”

  In a long flying career Biggles had made many anxious landings. He had made landings in even more risky places, but seldom had so much depended on touching down without mishap. Not being able to see clearly was the trouble; otherwise, as he remarked when they were on the ground, the thing would have been simple. As it was, he could see through the side windows but not in the direction in which he was travelling. Bertie did all that was possible in the way of a running commentary. “You’re doing fine,” he kept saying, encouragingly. “Starboard a little... Little more... Okay. Hold her there. You’re at a hundred feet for a guess. All clear ahead. Nearly there. Steady!”

  Biggles eased the control column back gently. The machine began to sink.

  “Now!” yelled Bertie.

  Biggles flattened out, a few feet too high, judging from the bump he took when the machine lost flying speed. He held his breath until the machine touched again. Another small bump or two and the Halifax rumbled quietly to a standstill.

  “Magnificent, old boy! Absolutely magnificent!” cried Bertie.

  “A bit on the high side,” muttered Biggles, looking worried.

  “Better to flatten out too soon than too late, laddie.”

  Biggles closed his eyes, shook his head, and passed a hand over his face.

  “You know, Bertie, the trouble with me is, I’m getting a bit too old for this sort of aviation,” he said sadly. “All right,” he went on quickly, pulling himself together. “Let’s get down and see the extent of the mischief. Where did that infernal bird come from? Did you see it?”

  “Not until it was rig
ht on top of us. Came down like a ton of bricks. Beautiful dive, pretty to watch, and all that—but a bit too close.”

  Luck, it is said, usually balances itself in the long run. What Biggles saw when he jumped down and surveyed the landscape appeared to be a good example. It had been brutal luck to be grounded by a bird, but if it had to happen the creature couldn’t have chosen a better place for him. The collision had occurred over a range of hills that fringed the eastern side of a wide plain that was partly level and partly undulating. Areas of rushes in the lower places hinted at water not far down. This was to be expected, since the plain was really a vast basin that drained higher ground that surrounded it on all sides.

  But Biggles’ good luck, counterbalancing the bad, was even better than that. In the first place, he suspected that had he touched down on the area that supported the reeds the wheels of the heavy machine would have broken through the surface. Again, there were places where he might have run into foothills on the opposite side of the basin. It so happened that his run had taken him into a long straight arm of flat ground between these same hills. Of course, Bertie had seen these, for which reason he had been definite in his instructions to carry straight on. Finally, a little to one side there was grey stone cairn, apparently a shrine of some sort, since there were carvings on it, which Bertie admitted he had not seen.

  “It wouldn’t have improved matters if we’d bumped, into that,” remarked Biggles.

  Bertie agreed.

  As it was, the machine stood in a little world of its own without a living thing of any sort in sight. What relieved Biggles as much as anything was the fact that the flat arm of the plain ran on for some distance, giving him sufficient room to get off again quickly, should it be necessary, without turning the machine. As a sailor likes to be in a position to put to sea instantly in an emergency, so Biggles liked his aircraft to be all set for a quick take-off. He thought it was quite likely that they would have to take off in a hurry, always supposing that the Halifax was in a condition to do so.

  The examination of the aircraft did not take long. To say that no serious damage had been done would not be true; but it could have been much more serious. The sticky mess of gore on the windscreen was nothing. That could soon be cleaned off. Unfortunately, however the bulk of the bird, the entrails, sinews and talons, glancing off the perspex, had hurtled away until it was caught by the pressure pump between the top of the cockpit and the centre turret. Apart from that there was little to worry about. The eagle’s curved beak had gashed the leading edge of the centre-section. That, too could be put right, although it might take a little time.

  Grimacing with disgust Biggles removed the pulverised carcass from the pump and threw it on the ground. Then, very carefully, he examined the pump.

  “It’s a bit bent,” he announced. “Enough to throw it off balance, I’m afraid. I wonder the whole thing wasn’t carried away.”

  “Can we fix it?” asked Bertie anxiously.

  “I think so, but it’ll take time.” Biggles glanced at the sun. “It’s going to be thunderingly hot here presently so the sooner we get cracking the better.” He climbed down, wiping his hands on the grass and throwing off his jacket.

  Although the work to be done appeared to offer no great difficulty, and would, in fact, have been a simple matter at a maintenance unit where every sort of repair equipment was available, it was soon clear that, without such facilities, it would take some time. They worked all the morning, Biggles on the pump and Bertie on the centre-section, stopping occasionally to scan the landscape for possible visitors. None came.

  About two o’clock Bertie suggested that it was time they had something to eat, so Biggles reluctantly knocked off for this purpose. He walked over to the shrine and found, as he expected, that it was also a well, with a plaited rope and an ancient leather bucket for drawing up the water. The place gave the appearance of being seldom visited. There was drinking water in the machine, but none to spare, so this new source of supply enabled him to have a good wash which, after the dirty work on which he had been engaged, was desirable before touching food. He got his hands fairly clean by scrubbing them with sand and moss. This done, he joined Bertie, who was eating jammy biscuits in the shade of a wing.

  “You know, old boy, as long as we don’t get any bally interruptions it doesn’t really matter how long we stay here,” said Bertie. “It isn’t as though we had anything to do back at base.”

  “I can see an interruption coming now,” observed Biggles.

  “Where?”

  “Over there.”

  A solitary figure in a grey cloak had emerged from the hills and was walking towards them. They watched him with curiosity as, about every hundred yards, he stopped and rang a bell.

  “Well, stuff me with suet pudding! If it isn’t the muffin-man,” exclaimed Bertie. “He’s not likely to do what you’d call a roaring trade out here—if you see what I mean.”

  “I’d say he’s one of these wandering holy men out on a little stroll of a thousand miles or so. It looks as though he’s coming over to this shrine, possibly to get a drink. We needn’t worry about him. He’s not likely to interfere with us.”

  “As long as he doesn’t talk and give us away.”

  “That depends on where he’s going and who he talks to. Actually, these fellows are not much given to talking. They keep to themselves.”

  The man came on, occasionally stopping to ring his bell.

  “The old boy must be nuts,” murmured Bertie. “Absolute nuts. What’s the idea of the bell? Is that to let the customers know that he’s about?”

  “The bell is to scare off evil spirits,” explained Biggles. “Bells and gongs are reckoned to be pretty potent in this part of the world.”

  “He may have something there,” agreed Bertie. There’s certainly plenty of room for spooks to get around without bumping into each other.”

  The monk approached. He stopped at a distance of a few yards, leaning on his staff. With the other hand he held out a polished wooden bowl.

  “What’s in the dish?” asked Bertie.

  “Nothing,” Biggles told him.

  “I told you he was nuts.”

  “He’s hoping we’ll put something in it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Offerings. Money. He’s after our loose change.”

  “Ah! I should have guessed there was a catch in it,” said Bertie sadly.

  The monk bowed low, and said something in a high-pitched nasal voice.

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up. He smiled and answered. A short conversation ensued.

  “Are you kidding?” enquired Bertie, looking suspiciously at Biggles.

  “No.”

  “What lingo do you call that?”

  “Hindi. This old boy has been to India, or one of the frontier states.”

  Biggles got up, took some loose coins from his pocket and dropped them in the bowl.

  “What’s the use of money to him here, he can’t spend it?” said Bertie practically. “He’s right off his course for shops. Give him a biscuit.”

  Biggles took the suggestion seriously. He invited the monk to come nearer and gave him some biscuits. The man seemed delighted to have them.

  Another conversation followed.

  “Believe it or not, he’s making for the guest-house at Nan-hu,” Biggles told Bertie.

  “Tell him to remember us to the boys.”

  The casual expression on Biggles’ face changed. “That’s the brightest thing you’ve said for some time,” he asserted. “If he’s going there he could take a message. Algy might as well know what’s happened. If by any chance we can’t get the pump to function, he will at least know where we are and how we’re fixed. If we can’t get back to him on time he’ll understand why. It’s no use him standing on the airstrip, if it turns out that we can’t get back to Nan-hu.”

  Bertie looked shocked. “Can’t get back? I say, go steady old boy. You’re putting the wind up me.”

 
“Well, let’s look at it like this,” went on Biggles. “If it should so happen that we can’t get home, we shall have to try to get back to Nan-hu—somehow. It’s no use sitting here for the rest of our lives. Algy will get in a flap if we don’t turn up on time. This seems to be a heaven-sent opportunity to let him know what’s happened. We can do no harm by sending a message. This chap is going to Nan-hu anyway.”

  “True enough,” agreed Bertie.

  “I’ll send Algy a note,” asserted Biggles. He had another word with the monk. Then he tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote the message on it and handed it over. He also put the rest of his loose money into the man’s bowl.

  They talked a little while longer while the monk finished his biscuits.

  He then went over to the shrine, spent a minute or two on his knees, had a drink and went on his way. Biggles and Bertie could hear the bell, a strange sound in the empty wilderness, for a long time.

  “I told him if he met anyone on the way not to mention that we are here,” said Biggles. “Let’s get on with the job.”

  They resumed work.

  The sun was well down by the time Biggles was satisfied that they had at least done all that was possible. He made a test by running up the engines, and was well pleased to find that, as far as could be ascertained, everything was in order.

  “Are we pushing off right away?” asked Bertie.

  “I was just thinking about that,” answered Biggles. “If we take off now it means that we shall arrive back in Dacca in the dark. I’d rather get there in daylight, so that we can see what we’re doing.”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Bertie. “I don’t see any need to hurry. I’m quite comfortable here.” After a moment he went on, in a different tone of voice, as if an idea had struck him. “Wait a minute, old boy. Why need we go back at all?”