Biggles Defies The Swastika Part 11

He was in the act of putting the revolver into his own pocket when Schaffer happened to glance round. He saw at once what was happening. Fear and anger leapt into his eyes.

'What are you -' he began, but Biggles cut him short.

I'm sorry, Schaffer,' he said curtly. 'I must ask you to let me have this machine. I should be sorry to have to hurt you, so I hope you'll be reasonable about it.'

Schaffer had turned as white as a sheet. His eyes blazed.

'Then I was right,' he hissed. 'You are a spy.'

It would be futile to deny it,' admitted Biggles, 'but if I am it is by force of circ.u.mstances and not as a result of any desire on my part. Actually, like you, I am a pilot. I was caught in Oslo when the war started and I've been trying to get home ever since. I am now going. Please vacate your seat.'

I will not,' snarled Schaffer, and abandoning the controls, he flung himself at Biggles in such a fury that Biggles was taken by surprise. Before he could prevent it Schaffer's left hand had caught him by the throat, forcing him back into his seat.

Biggles deliberately kicked the joystick, and then, hooking his leg round it, dragged it back. The machine plunged, and then reared up like a frightened horse. Instinctively the German spun round to right the aircraft, which was in danger of falling into a spin, but Biggles now caught him by the arms, and thrusting his knee in the small of his back, flung him back into the cabin. He then made a dive for the controls to prevent the machine from stalling.

Schaffer went at him again. He appeared to have gone mad.

'Look out, you fool!' yelled Biggles. 'You'll kill us both.'

Schaffer's only reply was to hook an arm round his neck.

Now if there is one thing a man cannot do it is fly an aeroplane and fight at the same time. The controls of a modern high-performance aircraft are extremely sensitive, and a movement of an inch of the joystick or rudder is sufficient to throw a machine out of level flight. To any violent movement of the controls an aircraft responds instantly.

In his efforts to free himself Biggles was compelled to release the controls, with the result that the machine was left to its own devices. His aim now was to break clear from the clinch in which Schaffer held him in order to get his hand into his pocket for his pistol. Schaffer knew this, and hung on like grim death. Locked in fierce embrace, they surged up and down the cabin. Still locked, they fell, and rolled towards the tail. Their weight caused the nose to rise, with the result that the machine stalled, and then plunged earthward like a stone. Torn apart by the rush through s.p.a.ce, both antagonists were flung against the instrument board. Through the windscreen Biggles saw the rock-bound coast leaping towards them, and realized that if something were not done instantly to check the fall, they were both doomed.

'Wait!' he yelled, and gabbing the joystick, eased the machine out to level flight. It finished only a few hundred feet above the cliffs.

Schaffer, panting with rage and exertion, fingers hooked ready to resume the struggle, waited.

But Biggles had had enough of this sort of fighting. One more bout like the last, now that they had no height to spare, would be the end. Satisfied that the machine was trimmed to fly straight, he whipped out the revolver-which Schaffer appeared to have forgotten- and covered the German.

'One move and I shall have to shoot,' he threatened. 'Believe me, I don't want to have to do that, Schaffer, but if it is to be one or the other of us, it isn't going to be me.'

Schaffer made no answer, so Biggles, still watching him, got more securely into the pilot'

s seat. He flew with one hand on the control column. The other held the revolver.

I'm going to land.' he said, s.n.a.t.c.hing a glance at the sea, which looked calm enough for that operation. 'We'll finish the argument in more stable conditions.'

He cut the throttle and began gliding towards the water. After the roar of the engine the silence was uncanny. A more fantastic tableau it would be hard to imagine, and Schaffer evidently realized it, for a peculiar smile crept over his face.

'You English bring your nerve with you,' he conceded.

'No use leaving it at home,' returned Biggles lightly. Another silence fell, broken only by the whine of wind over the wings.

The flying-boat was still a hundred feet above the water when into the silence burst the vicious clatter of machine-guns. A stream of bullets struck the hull. Gla.s.s flew from the instrument board, and splinters of three-ply from the fuselage.

Biggles steepened his dive. It was all he could do, for to examine the sky to locate the attacker would be to invite fresh trouble from Schaffer.

The German, however, was not prepared to submit so tamely. With a mutter of fury he flung open a small chest, of the purpose of which Biggles had been unaware, and dragged out a machine-gun.

Biggles acted with the speed of light. He jerked the throttle open and flung the machine into a vertical bank. Schaffer went over backwards, the gun crashing out of his hands.

Biggles left the controls, s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and then jumped back into his seat. He was only just in time, for the machine, now within fifty feet of the water, was wobbling on the verge of another stall.

Schaffer, who seemed to be slightly dazed by his fall, staggered to his feet as the keel kissed the water. It was a bad landing, not surprising in the circ.u.mstances, but Biggles didn't mind. He was only concerned with getting the machine down. The flying-boat surged on to a standstill, while from outside came the roar of an aero-engine.

Looking through a side window, Biggles saw that he had come to rest within fifty yards of the sh.o.r.e, which at that point took the form of a cliff, fringed at the foot by a strip of sand. Opening the throttle a little, he urged the machine nearer to it.

'Can you swim?' he asked Schaffer grimly.

Nes.'

'Then get going-it isn't far.'

Schaffer hesitated, but another burst of fire, which struck the machine aft, seemed to decide him.

I shall be interested to watch the outcome of the argument between you and your countryman,' he said bitingly. 'We shall meet again.'

'Perhaps,' smiled Biggles. 'If we do I hope it will be after the war. Look me up at the Aero Club, and I'll stand you a dinner in return for the use of your uniform.'

Schaffer nodded curtly and jumped into the water.

Seeing that it only came up to his armpits, Biggles flicked the throttle open and taxied away towards more open water. From time to time above the roar of his engine he could still hear the harsh tattoo of machine-guns. He was soon in a position to take off, but before doing so he looked out to ascertain the nature of the machine that was attacking him. He knew, of course, that it must be a British machine, and a.s.sumed that it was either a patrolling formation of the Fleet Air Arm, or a lone scout. Curiously enough, the truth never occurred to him.

He gasped when he saw the machine overhead, for he recognized it at once. It was Ginger's sea-plane.

Chapter 13.

Fresh Plans To say that Biggles was shaken would be to put it mildly, yet on second thoughts he perceived that the fact that Ginger was in the other machine made little or no difference to the situation. He could not hope to be recognized at the distance which separated the aircraft even if he showed himself, and Ginger would naturally take him for an enemy.

His problem was how to get away, for he could not engage in a fight with a British plane.

With his heart in his mouth, he proceeded to take off, for while he was doing so he was at a big disadvantage. However, as soon as he was off the water he held the machine down and looked back to see what Ginger was doing. He was not surprised to see him swooping down on his tail. And that was not all Biggles saw. High up behind Ginger's machine was a line of black specks, specks that grew larger even as he watched them.

There was no need to look twice to see what was happening; it was all too plain. Ginger, intent only on his quarry, had allowed himself to be surprised by a German patrol, and it was obvious from the way he was flying that he was still blissfully unaware of it.

Biggles groaned. He felt that the situation was beyond him. It had been bad enough before the other machines appeared, but now it was so complicated that he almost abandoned hope of finding a solution. It came to this. By some means or other he had to prevent himself from being shot down by Ginger; at the same time he had to warn Ginger of what was happening behind his tail.

To achieve this difficult object the only thing he could do, he decided, was to place himself between the seaplane and the German formation; then in looking at him Ginger would-or should-see his danger. After that he would have to rely on his own resources.

Things did not pan out as he had planned, however. He could see that he would fail, even before the worst happened, for by the time he had zoomed high preparatory to getting behind the seaplane, the German machines had closed in and had launched their attack.

Ginger at once half rolled, a manoeuvre which told Biggles that he had perceived his danger. The rest was more or less a foregone conclusion, for the newcomers were Messerschmitt 110's, and there were eight of them. Ginger, abandoning the Dornier, now did his utmost to get away, but the seaplane was outcla.s.sed, as well as outnumbered.

Sick at heart, Biggles landed to watch the end of the affair, for there was nothing he could do. White-faced, he threw open the c.o.c.kpit cover and stared up at the circling machines. It could hardly be called a combat. Time and time again the Messerschmitts darted in at their prey, their guns spurting flame, and the great wonder to Biggles was that Ginger could hang on for so long. But the end came at last. A Messerschmitt came down on the tail of the luckless seaplane. Ginger swung round and pulled up his nose to meet it, but the next instant black smoke was pouring from his engine.

The seaplane at once went into a steep side-slip towards the sea, but while it was still two thousand feet above it flames licked out through the smoke. Ginger appeared. For a moment he stood poised on the fuselage. Then he jumped clear.

For a thousand feet he dropped like a stone, slowly turning over and over as he fell. Then a white ribbon flashed above him. It grew longer, and then his fall was checked as the parachute blossomed out.

A great gasp of relief burst from Biggles' lips as he dropped back into his seat. He pushed the throttle open, and in a moment was taxi-ing at dangerous speed towards the area where he judged Ginger would fall. There was a splash of foam as Ginger struck the sea.

Biggles reached the spot within a minute, but all he could see was the parachute fabric spreading out like an enormous jellyfish on the surface of the water. It was the work of a moment to cut the throttle, reach over the side and seize the shrouds. He seemed to be hauling for an eternity before Ginger appeared, puffing and blowing like a grampus.

Biggles never forgot the expression on Ginger's face as he dragged him into the machine and relieved him of the parachute, allowing it to fall back into the sea. Ginger collapsed in a heap on the floor of the c.o.c.kpit. He was too far gone to speak. He could only gasp and get rid of vast quant.i.ties of sea water.

For the moment Biggles let him lie there. He wanted to get rid of the Messerschmitts, which were still circling round like a pack of hungry wolves. It was not a difficult matter.

He merely climbed up on his centre-section and waved his arms, a signal which he hoped would be construed by the Germans as thanks for saving him, and at the same time convey to them that their a.s.sistance was no longer needed. Apparently the Messerschmitt pilots read the signal that way, for they at once reformed in formation and sped away to the south. Happening to glance towards the sh.o.r.e, a bare half mile away, Biggles saw a solitary figure standing on the edge of the cliff that frowned down on the strip of beach. He knew it could only be Schaffer, who must have chosen this grand-stand to watch the end of the affair.

Biggles waved a friendly greeting.

Schaffer waved back, and disappeared over the brow of a hill.

'Who the deuce are you waving to-Algy?' panted Ginger, dragging himself into a sitting position and wringing the water out of his hair.

'No-a friend of mine,' replied Biggles. 'A German named Schaffer. Not a bad chap when you get to know him. This is his uniform I'm wearing; and, incidentally. this is his machine. He'll have a tale to tell when he gets home.'

'By thunder! He's not the only one!' declared Ginger weakly, but with heavy sarcasm. '

So it was you I was trying to shoot down,' he added.

'Yes. Of course, you would have to choose me.'

'I was in the right mood to shoot down anybody,' declared Ginger.

Are you hurt?'

'No, but I'm wet, and I'm cold, to say nothing of being tired and hungry,' announced Ginger. 'What about going home? I'm fed up with this. For the love of Mike, what's going on here, anyway? Where's Algy?'

'The Germans have got him. He's a prisoner in a store ship in the fiord.'

I thought I'd cleared that bunch out,' swore Ginger furiously.

'You didn't do so badly,' grinned Biggles. 'One of the ships ran aground. The Boche have gone back there now, but they've no aircraft-at least, they hadn't any when I left. This was the only one, so I borrowed it. Schaffer decided to take me down to Oslo to find out just who I was; at least, that was the intention, but on the way down we had a little dispute as to who should do the flying-and I won.'

'So what?' demanded Ginger.

'There are two things we've got to do, and there's no time to be lost.'

Is that all?' sneered Ginger. 'The last time I saw you there was only one thing to do, which was to get Algy out of Boda. Now there are two things. At the rate we're going there will soon be three.'

I shouldn't be surprised,' sighed Biggles.

'Well, what are these things we've got to do?' demanded Ginger.

'First, get a message to the Admiralty. Second, get Algy out of the clutches of the n.a.z.is.'

Okay, go ahead,' invited Ginger. 'I can't think any more.'

I'm afraid you'll have to try,' returned Biggles seriously, and described the trap into which the British fleet was steaming.

'What d'you suggest?' queried Ginger.

'We've got to move fast,' Biggles told him. 'Schaffer is ash.o.r.e, and while he's got some way to go I expect he'll make for the fiord. We shall have to part company again. You put me ash.o.r.e somewhere near the fiord, and then go on and warn the fleet about the trap. I'll try to get hold of Algy.'

'How am I going to get near the fleet in this swastika-painted kite? They'll shoot me to bits as soon as I show up.'

'That's a little problem you'll have to work out for yourself,' declared Biggles. 'But I think your best plan would be to locate the fleet, and then land on the water somewhere ahead, with your prop stopped. They won't shoot at you if they think you're disabled, and they'll certainly pick you up. Tell the skipper about the trap and ask him to send word to the troop transports.'

'Good enough,' agreed Ginger. 'Where shall I put you ash.o.r.e?'

'Fly along the coast for about twenty miles; then anywhere will do.'

And what are you going to do? I mean, how shall I get in touch with you again?'

I shall make for the fiord and try to make contact with Algy. You'll have to come back and pick us up. You should have no difficulty in getting hold of a machine-you might even go on using this one. If I get Algy away we shall stick to the coast. You'll have to try to spot us; there's no other way. We'll make a smoke signal if we can. Now get going, or it will be dark, and then you'll have a job to find our ships.'

The sun was in fact fast sinking towards the horizon as Ginger took off and headed north, keeping close to the coastline. After a flight of ten minutes he landed again, near the entrance to a tiny fiord, into which he taxied.

'This will do fine,' announced Biggles.

'Suppose someone sees you go ash.o.r.e?' queried Ginger.

It won't matter, since I'm landing from a German machine, and in a German uniform,'

Biggles pointed out, as Ginger taxied to a natural wharf so that Biggles could land dry-shod.

Biggles clambered up on the rocks. 'So long,' he called. 'Don't forget that everything depends on you now.'

Ginger waved. T11 get through,' he promised, and turned towards the open sea.

Biggles watched him take off, and then, making his way to the top of the cliff, he turned towards Fiord 21.

Ginger headed north-west, scanning the ever widening area of sea that became visible as he climbed higher and higher. It may seem strange that it had not occurred to him that he might be unable to find the ships he sought, but then it must be remembered that he was aware of their objective, and a.s.sumed that they would be steaming straight towards it; moreover, prior to his making contact with Biggles, his ship had actually been operating with the fleet, so he knew where it was at that time.

It was not until he had been flying for nearly an hour, by which time sea and sky had merged in a mysterious twilight, that doubts began to a.s.sail him, doubts that sharpened quickly to alarm as his petrol gauge fell back and neither ship nor 'plane broke the loneliness that surrounded him. In something like a panic he climbed higher in ever increasing circles. He could still see the rim of the sun, a slip of glowing gold, but he knew that it was invisible to those at sea level where purple shadows, fast darkening to sullen indigo, were obliterating the gently heaving water. With sinking heart he flew on, nursing his engine until the inevitable happened. It backfired as the petrol supply dried up; then it stopped altogether, and he had no alternative but to drop his nose and begin a long glide towards the sea. When, finally, he was compelled to land, he was in the grip of a despair such as he had seldom known. It was aggravated by a sense of impotence. He felt that he had let Biggles down; that he had let everyone down. Too late he realized that the last thing the fleet would do was to sail directly towards its objective.

There was absolutely nothing he could do except climb on to the centre-section and stare dumbly into the leaden darkness that surrounded him. Except for a gentle slap of wavelets against the hull of his machine, silence reigned. Fortunately for him the sea was calm, but he had no guarantee that it would remain so, and he was well aware that should the wind freshen, bringing with it a heavy sea, then his frail craft, with no means of maintaining headway, would quickly break up. Not that he thought very much about this; he was far too concerned over the failure of his mission.

How long he sat there he had no idea; he lost all count of time; but he reckoned that it was approaching midnight when he heard a distant sound that set the blood coursing through his veins. The sound was faint, but there was no mistaking it; it was the dull methodical beat of a heavy engine, but whether it was made by a British ship or a German Ginger had no means of knowing. The sound grew louder as the minutes pa.s.sed, implying that the vessel was approaching, but as it showed no lights he was as yet unable to see it. He was showing no lights, either; nor, for that matter, had he any to show; so he was well aware that unless the vessel pa.s.sed within hailing distance he would not be seen. The question that now arose, and he felt that it was a vital one, was this. Should he hail, or should he not? If he did, and the vessel turned out to be British, then all would be well; on the other hand, if it proved to be a German, then the worst would have happened. He decided to take the risk for since there were more British craft than German on the North Sea, he felt that the odds were in his favour.