by W E Johns
Biggles made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Oh, stop wasting time, von Stalhein. What is more to the point, I’m here, which should afford you considerable satisfaction. What are you going to do about it?’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘Hurry back home and tell the world how clever you are. Don’t forget to mention that you borrowed a neutral flag, will you, because I shan’t.’
‘As it happens, I am too busy at the moment to do anything of the sort, but I will take steps to transfer you to a place where you will be safe pending your trial for espionage.’
Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose to one who doesn’t mind sailing under a false flag, false charges are a mere detail.’
‘Do you deny that you are a spy ?’
‘I most emphatically do. How can I be a spy when I am wearing a British officer’s uniform? The rules of war demand that I be treated as a prisoner of war.’
‘I am not concerned with the rules of war—or any other rules, Major Bigglesworth. You have given me far too much trouble in the past for me to run one single risk of your escaping. I’ve got you, and I’m going to keep you until I hand you over to those who will know how to deal with you—and if you have any optimistic views as to what that will be I advise you to dispel them. It so happens that my chief is not far away, so perhaps it would be as well to settle the matter immediately. With you disposed of I shall pursue my quest for your base with greater assurance.’
‘I’ll bet you will,’ sneered Biggles.
‘For the last time, I will offer you certain considerations in return for information concerning the position of your head-quarters.’
‘And for the last time, von Stalhein, nothing doing. Save your breath. You’ll need it before I’m through with you.’
The German shook his head sadly. ‘As you wish,’ he said quietly. He gave a curt order to the escort and Biggles was marched from the room to a fairly comfortable cabin.
He heard a key turn in the door, and other sounds that told him that a guard had been posted.
Having nothing else to do, he sauntered to the porthole, not with any hope of getting through it for it was obviously much too small, but to see what happened to his machine.
Several men were working on it, cutting the engine from its bed. This was soon hoisted inboard, leaving the wrecked airframe floating on the water. The drifter then got under way, leaving the remains of the Willie-Willie rocking in its wake.
He was about to turn away when a gun crashed. For a moment he thought that the drifter was being attacked, but then he saw a shell burst near the derelict fuselage of his machine, looking strangely pathetic as it drifted alone on the water, and he guessed that von Stalhein had ordered it to be destroyed. That this supposition was correct was soon confirmed when several shots struck the machine, smashing the floats and causing it to settle slowly in the water.
Biggles turned, away from the porthole. As far as he was concerned the Willie-Willie was a complete wreck; he gave it no more thought, nor did he look at it again, so he was unaware that the airframe did not entirely disappear, but remained awash, kept afloat by the air in the undamaged portions of the wings and elevators.
He was lying on his bed, smoking, turning his position over in his mind, when he was surprised to hear the drifter’s engines slow down, and finally stop, while the clang of bells and shouted orders told him that something was happening. He knew that they could not yet have reached any of the German ports on the Baltic, for it was still twilight —about six o’clock as near as he could judge (his watch had been taken from him when he was searched), so he wondered what was happening. And it was with the object of trying to find out that he crossed again to the porthole. At first he could see nothing but water, but as the drifter slowly swung round he was astonished to see the hull of a big liner come into view. Nor was his surprise in any way diminished when he recognized it for the Leipzig.
What business the drifter had with the big ship he could not imagine, but he was soon to know. His door was unlocked. An escort appeared, and he was invited peremptorily to follow it. He had no alternative but to accept.
Across the deck of the drifter, up a gangway, and through a door in the side of the huge ship he was led, and finally halted outside the door of a stateroom. A brief delay, and in response to a sharp order he was marched inside.
He saw at once from the assembled company, and the manner in which it was disposed, that something in the nature of a court, or tribunal, had been convened; and he had no doubt as to the part he was to play. Facing him, seated at a long table, were four officers in German naval uniform. Between them sat an elderly man with iron-grey hair and piercing blue eyes who regarded the prisoner with more than passing interest. It was clear that he was the President of the court. At the end of the table sat von Stalhein, with some papers in front of him, and from one of these he now began to read so fast, in German, that Biggles had difficulty in following what was being said. However, he made no protest, for there was good reason to suppose that the result of the so-called trial was a foregone conclusion.
Von Stalhein finished reading and sat down. ‘You understand ?’ said the President in English, looking at Biggles with frigid hostility.
‘More or less,’ returned Biggles; ‘but before we go any farther I must protest against this court and the charges Hauptmann von Stalhein has enumerated. I am an officer of His Britannic Majesty’s Forces, on active service, and under the rules of war I claim the privileges of a prisoner of war.’
The President smiled grimly, an unpleasant smile which told Biggles at once that his protest was a waste of time. He had expected as much, but still he had felt compelled to make it.
The President looked at the men seated on either side of him. ‘I don’t think we need waste any more time over this,’ he said harshly in German. ‘We have heard of this man Bigglesworth before; he is one of the best men in the British Intelligence Service; we have reason to know him, for he has given us a lot of trouble in the past.’
‘A man dressed in the military uniform of his own country can hardly be called a spy, I think, if that is what you are trying to make out,’ put in Biggles coldly.
‘Pah! What is a mere uniform? Can you deny that since the outbreak of war you have been into Reich territory?’
‘I don’t deny it, but I was in the uniform I am now wearing. If that makes me a spy, then by the same token every German soldier in Poland is a spy, and the French troops in your country on the Western Front are also spies. Are they to stand trial for espionage if they are captured?’
‘It is not the same thing,’ said the President roughly, although he did not explain where the difference lay. ‘You know, of course, the price a spy must pay when he is caught?’ he added.
‘Yes, of course I know,’ replied Biggles bitterly.
The President nodded and made a note on a slip of paper. ‘Then the sentence of this court is that you be shot to death in—’ He broke off short, in a listening attitude. ‘What’s that ?’ he asked sharply.
Von Stalhein had jumped to his feet and hurried to a porthole. Simultaneously anti-aircraft and machine-guns broke into violent action. Above the din came the high-pitched scream of an aeroplane diving at terrific speed under full throttle.
Von Stalhein turned back swiftly into the room. ‘You had better take cover, sir,’ he said tersely. Then his eyes turned on Biggles, and his hand dropped to the revolver that he wore in a holster on his hip.
What he intended doing was not revealed, for at that moment the ship heeled over under the impact of an explosion so violent that every one in the room was hurled off his feet. With it came a blinding sheet of flame, followed a split second later by swirling clouds of black, oily, high-explosive smoke.
CHAPTER XII
A COLD SWIM
BIGGLES, coughing convulsively as the acrid fumes bit into his lungs, pushed aside a limp body that lay across him and staggered to his feet. He tried to see what had happene
d, but the lights had gone out and the room was black with smoke which made his eyes smart unbearably; from the angle of the floor, though, he knew that the ship had taken a heavy list to starboard, a list that was rapidly becoming more pronounced. The air was filled with an appalling medley of sounds—shouts, the hiss of escaping steam, the vicious chatter of a machine-gun, a series of explosions deep down in the ship, and the gurgle of rushing water; somewhere not far away a man was groaning. A sickening smell of scorching mingled with the fumes.
Trying to beat the smoke away from his face with his hands, Biggles groped for the door; he found it, only to discover that it was jammed tight and half buried under collapsed girders. Clearly, there was no escape that way, so in desperation he turned to where he judged the nearest porthole to be. At the same time the smoke began to disperse somewhat, and through a grimy haze several things were revealed. The first thing he noticed was that it was nearly dark outside. Then he saw that a great jagged hole had been torn in the ship’s side, and that owing to the list water was already pouring through it in an ever-increasing flood. Instinctively he made towards the hole, and looked out upon a fearful spectacle.
He had seen much of war, but never anything on quite such a scale as this, and the deep twilight only served to make it more terrible. The water was full of debris of all sorts, among which at least a hundred men were swimming or splashing. Many were shouting, either from fear, or to make their position known to others. A splintered lifeboat hung vertically by its bows from a single davit, while over all lay a cloud of smoke and steam.
With the water now threatening to sweep him off his feet, Biggles turned back into the room to see what had become of the members of the court, not from mere curiosity, but with the deliberate object of helping any who were unable to help themselves, for it was obvious that it was only a matter of minutes before the stateroom would be submerged.
He was only just in time, for in the deepening gloom he saw von Stalhein on his knees, taking aim at him with his revolver. Biggles sprang aside an instant before the weapon blazed, and the bullet ricochetted through the yawning hole in the ship’s side.
Biggles snatched up a broken chair and flung it at the German. At the same time he shouted, ‘Don’t be a fool, man; let’s get out of this. We can argue afterwards.’
Von Stalhein ducked and the chair missed its mark; but it served its purpose, for his next shot hit the ceiling.
Biggles waited for no more. It seemed to him that it was neither the time nor place for such a display of venom, so with a curt, ‘All right; have it your own way,’ he ran to the hole and dived into the sea.
For two or three minutes he put his entire energy into getting away from the ship; then, finding a piece of wreckage capable of supporting his weight, he rested, and took the opportunity of looking back. The sight that met his eyes remained engraved indelibly on his mind. The great liner was so far over on her side that her upper works still projected over his head. On its bulging side men were running about seemingly in an aimless fashion, although a few were jumping into the sea. He could no longer see the hole through which he had escaped—the hole which had wrought the havoc; but standing on a wrecked lifeboat he could see the lithe figure of von Stalhein, revolver in hand, looking out over the frothy water, apparently trying to see him.
‘My goodness, how that fellow must hate me,’ thought Biggles, for he could not imagine any normal-minded person behaving in such a way at such a time. ‘Well, I suppose he can’t help it,’ he mused, and dismissed the German from his mind, for he had more urgent matters to attend to. He was still much too close to the ship for his liking, for he knew what a tremendous vortex would be created when it went down.
Aware that he would not be able to swim very far in his clothes, he proceeded to divest himself of everything except his vest and pants, and he had just completed this operation when he discovered that he had a companion. He recognized him for the officer who had been in charge of the escort when he had been marched before the tribunal. He saw, too, that he was in a bad way, so he asked him, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t see; the oil has got into my eyes,’ was the answer.
Biggles pulled off his silk vest and thrust it into the man’s hands. ‘See what you can do with that,’ he suggested.
Hanging on to the wreckage with his left hand, the man lost no time in following the advice. ‘That’s better,’ he said presently. ‘I seem to know your voice. Aren’t you the Englishman?’
‘That’s me,’ admitted Biggles cheerfully, as he began paddling the wreckage farther away from the sinking ship.
The man went on wiping his eyes, clearing them of the heavy oil which had clung to the lashes. ‘Thanks,’ he said, handing the vest back.
Biggles smiled and put it on again.
‘Your fellow who did this made a good job of it,’ declared the German.
‘You’re dead right; he certainly did,’ agreed Biggles, spitting out a mouthful of sea water. ‘What sort of aeroplane was it—did you see?’
‘Yes, I saw it,’ answered the sailor, and gave Biggles all the description he needed for him to realize that it must have been either Ginger or Algy who had dropped the torpedo.
‘What were you doing round here, anyway?’ was Biggles’s next question.
‘We were hove to at the mouth of the channel, waiting for the tide.’
‘Channel?’ The word made Biggles prick up his ears, for if it was the channel that separated the mainland from the sandbank on which he had landed with Algy and Ginger, then it gave him a rough idea of his bearings.
‘How far are we from land?’ he inquired, for it was now too dark to see anything.
‘About a kilometre—more or less.’
‘Which way does it lie?’
The man pointed. ‘Over there. That’s the German coast, but the sandbank on the other side is nearer, I think. If you’re going to swim to it you’d better start.’
‘Why—is there any hurry?’
The man was looking past Biggles at something beyond him, and turning to see what it was, Biggles saw the drifter, the existence of which he had completely forgotten. It was moving dead slow through the water picking up survivors; its boats had been lowered and were doing the same thing. He had no desire to be picked up, for he had a shrewd idea of what that would mean in the end—particularly after the sinking of the Leipzig by one of his machines. He preferred to take his chance on the sandbank, or even the mainland, where, if he was found, he might pass as a survivor of the ill-fated ship until he could make plans to escape. There was always a chance that he might be able to steal a small boat and get back to Bergen Ait.
‘Thanks,’ he told the German gratefully, and struck off into the darkness.
‘Lebewohl! Good luck!’ called the German after him.
For some time Biggles did not look back, but devoted himself to getting clear of the danger zone, the position of which he could judge roughly by the frequent hails of men still in the water as they tried to attract the attention of the rescuers. There was no moon, but in the light of the stars he could just make out the dark hull of the drifter. But of the Leipzig there was no sign. In a vague sort of way he wondered what had happened to von Stalhein, but he soon dismissed him from his mind, for the water was cold, and although he was a strong swimmer, he knew that if he did not soon reach land he might succumb to exposure. So settling down to a steady breast stroke, which he knew from experience he could keep up for a long time, he struck out in the direction in which, according to the sailor, the sandbank lay. At present he could not see it; not that he expected to, for it was too dark to see far. It was disconcerting, this swimming through the darkness towards an unseen objective, for should he miss it his position would be hopeless; at least, from what he had seen of the Baltic while flying over it, he would not have given much for his chance of being picked up by a ship.
An hour later he was still swimming, but not so strongly, for his body was fast becoming numb from
the cold, and he dare not float to rest himself, as he could have done had the water been warmer. Shortly afterwards, however, he found it imperative to change his stroke, and in doing so he heard the sound which he had been hoping to hear—the measured beat of surf on the sandy shore.
With a prayer of thankfulness he struck out with renewed vigour, and a few minutes later found him staggering through shallow water to the beach. Not until he had crawled up on the sand did he realize how far he was spent; but even then what he feared most was that he might collapse from cold, for the night air was chilly. So with the object of restoring his circulation by the only means available, he set off at a jog-trot along the lonely beach, which seemed to stretch to infinity in front of him. He was deadly tired, but still he ran on, deriving some comfort from the warmth that his exercise was producing.
How far he ran he did not know. Nor did he care. He only knew that he seemed to have been running for hours when just ahead he observed some fairly high sand-dunes, and towards these he directed his steps, hoping to find shelter where he could take a breather.
Breaking into a sprint to satisfy himself that he still had it in him, he dashed round the foot of the first dune, and collided with stunning force with somebody coming the other way.
Tired as he was he was unable to keep his balance, and after a final stumble, in which he caught a glimpse of a dark human form, he plunged headlong into the loose sand.
Quick as he was getting on his feet, the other was quicker, and he went over backwards again with a gloved hand pressed savagely over his mouth. Gripping his assailant with his hands, and doubling his knees under him, he endeavoured to fling him off, but only succeeded in causing them both to roll over and over down the sloping sand.
They arrived at the bottom with Biggles underneath. He saw an arm raised to strike. The butt end of a revolver showed for an instant against the sky, and he clutched at it desperately. His assailant sought to free his arm, but just as furiously Biggles held on to it. Then came the end. But it was not the end Biggles expected, for, the struggle coming on top of his previous exertions, he was on the point of collapse.