Biggles in the Gobi

by W E Johns

  There was a general scramble to get out of sight.

  Algy and Ginger remained near the mouth of their usual cave, in a position from which they would be able to watch what went on below with little risk of being seen themselves. They knew what was going to happen because the shooting had already started, although the opposing forces were not yet in sight. Shouts could be heard in the distance, but there was still a little delay before the combatants appeared.

  During this interval Algy gave it as his opinion that the Kirghiz had reached the oasis first, and as soon as they were able to take cover either among the trees or in the bed of the stream they had turned to fight a rearguard action. They would have no hope in the open against the superior force, which would quickly surround them.

  Apparently something of the sort happened, for the shooting drew nearer, very gradually, as if the bandits were disputing every inch of ground.

  But they had to fall back, and after a little while the first Kirghiz appeared, leading several sweating horses. He was limping badly, and Ginger recognised him as the wounded man whom they had sheltered in the cave.

  Watching the man as he led his companions’ horses into the shade of the poplars, Ginger felt a twinge of conscience at the part he was playing.

  He had no particular affection for the outlaws; they were, he did not doubt, what the missionaries had called them— thieves and vagabonds. But still, he couldn’t forget that they had been allies against a common enemy. True, in helping with the rescue of the missionaries the Kirghiz had been actuated mostly by monetary motives; but even so, it didn’t alter the fact that they had all worked together, and for that reason he felt that they ought to help him. And it is likely that he would have suggested this had he been able to see how they could serve any useful purpose. But what difference could two pistols make in a battle of this sort, he asked himself. His commonsense told him that to take part would merely be to throw their own lives away uselessly. He hoped the Kirghiz would win, if for no other reason than that Ma Chang and his troops were a greater menace than the outlaws, not only to themselves but to the world at large.

  Very soon a bitter battle was being fought out on the oasis. For some time neither side seemed to gain any appreciable advantage. The bandits, who must have known they were doomed, were obviously determined to sell their lives dearly. There were casualties on both sides. Men could be seen lying about. Some crawled or dragged themselves painfully to any protection they could find. Being wounded, Ginger noted, did not prevent the Kirghiz from fighting. While they could lift a rifle they continued to do so. No mercy was shown on either side. Wounded men were killed out of hand whenever opportunity offered. This reflected Ginger, with growing horror, was total war with a vengeance.

  The rattle of musketry, while not particularly heavy, was incessant, bullets kicking dust spots in the sand and slashing through the trees.

  The caves had so far been ignored; for which Ginger was thankful. The soldiers, of course, had no reason to seek refuge. But why hadn’t the Kirghiz retired to them? This puzzled Ginger for a little while. He could only suppose that they were reluctant to do so because, once inside they would be trapped, with no hope of ever getting out again. Apart from that they would be loath to abandon the horses on which their lives had always depended.

  Algy’s dominant emotions were helplessness and frustration. Never in so short a time had he been faced with successive situations in which he was completely powerless to do anything. Over and over again he asked himself what Biggles would have done in these circumstances.

  He was unable to find an answer, and doubted whether Biggles would have been able to find one, either. It was true that neither he nor those in the caves were in immediate danger. But the peril was plain enough to see. It was merely being postponed. The end would come when the battle was over and the troops could spare time to mop the place up thoroughly.

  From time to time he caught sight of Ma Chang, who was conducting what had started as a battle but was now becoming a massacre. He was tempted to take a shot at him, but perceived the folly of revealing that the caves were occupied. Once a Kirghiz broke cover and made a dash for the path leading to the ledge; but he did not get far. Several shots were fired. The outlaw spun round, lost his balance and crashed down into the stream. The Tiger ran over to him, and with what seemed to Algy to be a horrible exhibition of blood lust, fired a bullet into his head.

  The shooting was now becoming more desultory and Algy knew that the grim finale could not be long delayed. Every now and then, as one of the brigands was hunted down, there would be a brisk burst of fire. Then silence. The intervals between these incidents became longer, and the reason was evident. Any Kirghiz who were left alive were hiding, or trying to hide. Outnumbered as they were they had no chance. It must have been clear to them from the outset that their only real hope lay in flight, reflected Algy. The reason why they had stopped to fight it out, he could only suppose, was because their horses had reached exhaustion point.

  Came a time when the shooting ended and the troops began to muster where the guest-house had been.

  Algy looked at Ginger. “That seems to be the payoff,” he said softly.

  “I’m afraid the wretched Kirghiz have had the chop. It was bound to end that way. Nothing we could have done would have made the slightest difference.” He shrugged. “It’ll come to the same thing in the end, I suppose. There’s just a chance that the Tiger will push off now he’s finished cleaning up the Kirghiz, but we’d be silly to reckon too much on that. Well, I’m not going to be butchered like a sheep. If I can scupper that ruffian Ma Chang, I shall be satisfied. What’s going on down there? Something seems to be causing some excitement.”

  Ginger had been watching. “They’ve been looting the dead Kirghiz and must have found the cartons of food we gave them last night. Yes, that’s it. That’s a packet of English cigarettes Ma Chang is looking at.”

  “You’re right,” said Algy slowly. “I’m afraid that’s just about torn it.”

  Below, yellow faces were now upturned towards the caves.

  “I wonder what Biggles has been up to all this time,” said Ginger, switching the subject.

  Algy shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Perhaps it was as well that they couldn’t see Biggles at that moment.

  CHAPTER XII

  UNWELCOME VISITORS

  Fifty odd miles away, on the plain were the Halifax had force-landed, Biggles and Bertie had passed through a period of boredom in which their only occupations had been eating, drinking and sleeping, although, of course, unceasing watch had been kept.

  Bertie’s idea that they should stay where they were had been adopted, chiefly because Biggles thought there was less chance of the machine being seen by hostile eyes where it was, even though it was in enemy territory, than in the air. Indeed, as he said to Bertie, he wondered why he hadn’t planned the operation that way instead of having the situation forced on him. But then, as he pointed out, he hadn’t known of the existence of the plain, which provided an almost perfect natural landing ground. From the outset it had been the landing that seemed to present the greatest danger of the entire undertaking. Had he known at the beginning what he knew now he would have planned accordingly, if for no other reason than it cut out the hazards of flying over more than two thousand miles of some of the worst country in the world. So, strangely enough, as the machine had suffered no serious damage the accident of the collision with the eagle had been no bad thing after all.

  Apart from the itinerant monk, who had arrived so early on the scene, not a soul had appeared on the landscape. They might have had the continent of Asia to themselves. However, they did not relax their vigilance on that account. During the heat of the day they sat in the shadow of the aircraft. At night they took it in turns to sleep in the cabin.

  Their food supply was getting low but this did not worry them. An ample supply of drinking water was available close at hand. It was not very palatable, bei
ng somewhat bitter, but so far they, had suffered no ill effects from drinking it.

  Several times they discussed the pros and cons of flying to Nan-hu to see what was happening there. Biggles was against it. He was all for sticking to the letter of the plan as it was understood by themselves and Algy.

  There was no guarantee that the monk had reached Nan-hu, that he would ever get there, or if he did, how long the journey would take. If, argued Biggles, they arrived over the oasis before the monk got there, and before the time planned, Algy would be bound to wonder what on earth had happened. If the landing strip was ready—Biggles laid emphasis on the word if—all would be well. They would merely have to land and explain the circumstances. But if it wasn’t ready they would merely throw Algy into a state of confusion; after which they would have to return to the plain and risk another landing there having achieved nothing. The landing would always be a risk.

  Another point Biggles did not overlook was this. When he had written the message for the monk to take to Nan-hu, he had not ascertained the extent of the damage that the machine had suffered from its collision with the bird; for which reason he had taken the precaution of warning Algy that he might arrive later than the time arranged. Indeed, he had hinted broadly that he might not arrive at all, his purpose in this being to give the people at Nan-hu a chance to make their way to some place where food was available before their own supplies ran out. He wished now that he hadn’t introduced this possibility. It might have been better not to send a message at all. But at the time he had acted for the best. As he told Bertie, it is always easy to see mistakes after the event.

  However, as the days passed without incident there seemed every reason to hope that by arriving at the rendezvous on time the problem would solve itself.

  It was on the morning of the fifth day that the first sign of life appeared in the wilderness that surrounded them. It took the form of a small cloud of dust that moved swiftly from side to side of the basin about a mile distant. It never came any nearer, but passed straight from one range of hills to another. They watched with interest and eventually made it out to be a small party of horsemen, not more than three or four, riding close together.

  “Whoever those lads are they’re in a deuce of a hurry,” observed Biggles.

  “They’re not coming this way so we’ve nothing to worry about.”

  The little party disappeared into the hills and the dust settled.

  An hour later the same thing happened again, although this time the party seemed larger. It took the same line and eventually disappeared in the same way.

  “There seems to be something going on,” remarked Biggles casually. “The nomads who live in these parts may be rough riders, but I can’t believe they’d travel lickety-split like that without a good reason.”

  Bertie said he couldn’t agree more. Still, it seemed to be no concern of theirs so he couldn’t care less.

  Towards sundown the same thing was repeated, but on this occasion the riders were on a course that brought them near to the aircraft. They turned out to be two Kirghiz. They took no notice whatever of the aircraft although they must have seen it, but urging their sweating mounts on with whip and spur tore past and carried on towards the distant hills. Biggles, who had stood by the aircraft ready for trouble, watched them go with a puzzled frown.

  “As I said before there seems to be something going on,” he remarked. “Those chaps were killing their horses and they wouldn’t do that for the fun of it. They rode as if the devil himself was behind them.”

  “Absolutely, old boy,” agreed Bertie. “Queer business. They certainly seemed to know where they were going.”

  The explanation was forthcoming just as the sun was sinking behind the hills like an enormous crimson balloon, flooding the plain with a fiery glow. Out of the purple shadows appeared five more horsemen, riding hard.

  But this time they were not Kirghiz. They were Chinese cavalry.

  As soon as their nationality became apparent Biggles climbed quickly into the cockpit, telling Bertie to stand by his gun in the rear turret in case there should be trouble, which he fully expected.

  As it turned out his fears proved groundless. The soldiers reined in when they saw the machine. For a little while they remained grouped, talking, apparently at a loss to know what to make of the aircraft. Which was understandable. Walking their horses they came to within fifty yards.

  Biggles’ hand was on the starter. Bertie crouched behind his guns.

  The troops had another discussion which lasted about ten minutes. One of their number came a little nearer, made a wide circle round the Halifax without dismounting, and rejoined his companions. A minute or two later they all wheeled their mounts and rode of at a canter in the direction from which they had come.

  Biggles watched them merge into the shades of twilight. Then, satisfied that they had really gone, he climbed down. Bertie joined him. “What do you make of that little lot?” he inquired.

  “I think it’s pretty clear,” answered Biggles. “The Chinese are chasing the Kirghiz out of this particular part of the country. I imagine the riders we saw before this lot came were Kirghiz on the run. The troops didn’t know what to make of us. That isn’t surprising. One can understand that it would get them guessing.”

  “They didn’t try anything naughty.”

  “Why should they? For all they knew this might have been one of their own planes, or a Russian, which is practically the same thing.”

  “They must have seen us getting into the machine.”

  “Of course they did. They probably took us for Russian officers. After all, the last thing they would expect to find here would be a British aeroplane.”

  “True enough,” murmured Bertie. “They’ve toddled off, that’s the main thing. I thought for a moment we might be going to have a spot of bickering.”

  “They’d hardly risk shooting without knowing who they were shooting at,” averred Biggles. “No doubt they’re still talking about us. That doesn’t matter. Our worry is, will they let it go at that? I don’t think so. When they get back to their base, wherever that may be, they’ll be certain to talk to people who will make it their business to find out who we are and what we’re doing here.”

  “In that case, don’t you think we’d better push off?”

  “Push off where? It’s no use going to Nan-hu in the dark, and we haven’t time to get to Dacca and back here again for our appointment. I don’t see any reason to panic, but from now on we’d better keep our eyes open for visitors. They’ll arrive here in due course, I haven’t the slightest doubt. All we can do is hope that they won’t arrive before it’s time for us to get mobile. If they’ll leave us alone until tomorrow, we’ll take off and make for Nan-hu. It would be very awkward indeed if they came during the night, because while we might manage to get off the ground we haven’t enough fuel to cruise around for hours waiting for daylight.”

  “I see what you mean,” agreed Bertie.

  “Oh well, we shall just have to wait and see,” concluded Biggles.

  They kept watch until it was quite dark but saw no more travellers.

  Silence settled over the solitude. They ate a frugal meal under the stars, for the inadvisability of showing a light was too evident to call for comment.

  The night was then divided into two-hour watches, and once more in a solemn hush the long nocturnal vigil began. Biggles, who was taking the first turn of duty, squatted on a wheel and gazed into the gloom. He didn’t expect to see anything even if there was anything on the plain to see; it was too dark for that. Relief would come later with the rising of the moon. Meanwhile, he relied more on his ears to warn him of any movement.

  Bertie retired to the bed he had made in the cabin.

  The hush did not persist for very long. It was broken by a long drawn out sigh, and cool air playing on Biggles’ face told him that a breeze was stirring. At first it was welcome rather than unpleasant, for the air having travelled for miles over sand sup
erheated by the scorching sun of noon, was only cool enough to be refreshing. But by the end of an hour, by which time the sand had given up its heat, it was a different story.

  It became so bitterly cold that Biggles huddled on the lee side of an undercarriage leg. Not only was it the temperature that caused him to protect his eyes and ears with his hands. The wind had steadily gained strength. It swept unchecked across the open desert with disconcerting sighs and moans that peopled the lonely spaces with the demons which local lore asserted dwelt there. Biggles didn’t mind the demons. He was more concerned with the sand which, travelling on the wind, began to sting his face, and promised uncomfortable flying conditions if it got any worse.

  At the end of his watch, when he handed over to Bertie, he expressed his anxiety on this account. However, as they could do nothing about it they could only hope that the wind would expire with the rising of the sun.

  “You’d better wake me if it gets any worse,” Biggles told Bertie. “There is this about it. I don’t think we’re likely to have visitors while this goes on. It wouldn’t be easy to find the machine even if you knew just where it was standing.”

  This proved to be prophetic, for the night passed without anything serious happening. Gusts of wind occurred occasionally with the force of half a gale, but generally speaking the weather got no worse, which was as well, for when the dawn burst in the east in a riot of colour this was enough to raise a dust that reduced visibility considerably and blurred the outlines of such objects as could be seen.

  It was with a sense of relief that they stood together beside the plane and watched the dawn grow into another day. The sand was irritating, and they could well have done without it, but on the whole, they told themselves, they had been lucky. Visibility at the best was about half a mile, and that was sufficient for any purpose likely to be required.