Читать книгу Biggles of the Special Air Police - W E Johns - Страница 8

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“Out in happy Mandalay,

Where the flying fishes play

And the dawn comes up like thunder,

Out of China across the way.”

Ginger tried to remember Kipling’s famous lines as, looking ahead from the Air-Police long-range Wellington, he watched the dawn break over China. There was nothing thundery about it. Apart from some needle-points of fire far to the north, where the first rays of the rising sun lit up the peaks of unknown mountains, the scene was mostly grey; grey sky above, and, below, grey jungle, with the river-courses marked with wandering lines of milk-white mist. As for Mandalay, that had been left far behind, somewhere to the south.

Starting from Dum-Dum aerodrome, Calcutta, for nearly seven hours the Wellington had bored its way eastward through the night on a compass course, with an estimated time of arrival near the objective soon after daybreak. By making the flight by night Biggles hoped to escape notice. For the same reason Wung Ling had agreed that the hour of dawn, or as soon afterwards as possible, was the best time to arrive.

Wung Ling sat in the cabin. Algy and Bertie manned the gun-turrets; not that Biggles expected to be attacked, but he preferred not to be defenceless if it should happen. Ginger shared the cockpit with Biggles.

Somewhere below should be the famous Burma Road, that incredible highway that strides across mountains, rivers and swamps, from Lashio in Burma to Chungking in the heart of China. It was their landmark, their only landmark, by which Wung Ling could take them to his home—or what remained of it. As the light grew, Ginger studied the ground closely, hoping to pick it up. From fifteen thousand feet, the height at which they were flying, this should not be difficult, he thought. Failing to see it, he informed Biggles, who turned a trifle to the north, for according to his calculations they could not be north of it. Thus, by turning north they should cut across it.

A few minutes later it appeared, looking like a piece of tape dropped carelessly across the landscape. Biggles altered course again to follow it. “You’d better fetch Wung now,” he said. “He may be able to pick up his position and take us straight to his home.”

Ginger went through to the cabin, and was not a little astonished to find that their passenger had changed his western clothes for Chinese, and thus transformed himself into an Oriental in every sense of the word.

Seeing Ginger staring at him, Wung smiled and explained that he had done this for two reasons. As what he was doing was in the nature of a sacred trust he thought it right and proper to present himself at the home of his honourable ancestors dressed in traditional costume. There might also be an advantage in this if they found Chinese people in possession.

Ginger agreed, and having asked him to go forward to Biggles to act as guide took up a position from which he could watch the ground.

With the rise of the sun the clouds were dispersing, and patches of blue sky gave promise of a warm, sunny day. The Burma Road was now in plain view, with villages strung along it at irregular intervals like beads carelessly threaded. A little way ahead it made an abrupt turn to the north. Here the rugged nature of the terrain began to give way to a more open landscape, with much of the land under cultivation, although whether there were any actual crops it was not possible to determine. Across this, coming from some high ground to the north, flowed a broad, sullen river.

A quarter of an hour later the engines died, giving way to a comparative silence that seemed unnatural after the volume of sound that had persisted for so long.

Biggles’ voice came over the intercom. “Stand by, everybody. I’m going down.”

As the machine lost height, and the ground became more clearly defined, Ginger studied the scene below with more than casual interest, for he did not need to be told that this was the most vital part of the operation. The next half-hour would probably see the success or failure of the expedition.

As far as visibility permitted the land appeared to be a vast, almost treeless plain, although the occasional shadow thrown by rising ground revealed that it was not entirely flat. There was no sign of life anywhere. There were villages, or what looked like villages, mostly near the river-bank; but an absence of smoke from cooking-fires suggested that they were no longer inhabited. A patch of white near one of them Ginger knew from experience to be opium-poppies in flower.

The aircraft, still gliding, began to turn. A series of S turns followed, and, finally, a complete circuit. From this Ginger assumed that either Wung was not sure of his position or else Biggles was scrutinising the ground for the best landing area. He went forward to find out, and was disconcerted to learn that Wung, in spite of his assurances, had not so far been able to locate his home. He suspected that the river had altered its course, as happened not infrequently.

This was the first time that such a possibility had been mentioned. It was, thought Ginger, snag number one. Wung, he knew, was relying on the river to give him his bearings; if it had in fact moved, the result might be serious, for there were no other landmarks. If Wung could not pick out his own home in such a featureless panorama it was certain that no one else could. Tenuous mist still filled the low-lying ground.

Biggles continued to glide. Ginger could imagine his annoyance, for within a minute or two he would have to land or open up again. He had reckoned on being able to make a quiet landing, hoping by this to escape observation; for, as people do not normally walk about gazing at the sky, an aircraft usually announces its presence by sound.

Biggles chose what apparently he thought to be the lesser of two evils. He landed, touching down on a broad, flat piece of ground, that had once grown a crop of barley. That is to say, the corn had not been harvested, and never would be, for it had been knocked flat by wind or rain and afterwards trampled on. The grain was now sprouting in the ear, giving the appearance of young grass.

Everyone soon foregathered in front of the machine, for as far as could be seen no danger threatened. Indeed, the complete absence of life induced in Ginger a strange feeling of melancholy and depression. When he joined Biggles, Wung was saying: “Yes, I am right. I see now where I am. The river has changed, and the trees of our garden, which I expected to see, are no longer there.” He pointed to an area of stones—it could hardly be called a ruin—that lay scattered about some distance ahead. “That was my home,” he said, a suspicion of bitterness creeping into his voice. “No wonder I could not see the house, or the temple. Everything has gone. This is what war does to a country. It would be impossible for you to visualise this place as I knew it when I was a boy.”

“Get the pick and spade, somebody,” requested Biggles. “It’s no use wasting time. Someone had better stay with the machine, ready to get off should we have to retire in a hurry. Algy, you take charge of the machine. You’d better stay, too, Bertie. Take over the forward gun-turret, to keep off anyone who tries to interfere.”

Algy and Bertie took their places. Ginger went to the cabin and returned with a pick and a spade.

“Come on, let’s try our luck,” said Biggles. “Don’t look so worried, Wung.”

As the three of them walked towards the stones, Ginger remarked that in the absence of any sort of cover they could be seen from a great distance should anyone have watched the machine land. “Not that there seems to be anyone in sight,” he concluded.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that no one is watching us,” replied Biggles cautiously. “In undulating country like this there’s enough cover in the depressions to hide an army. Actually, this is the most dangerous kind of country to cross unless you know it, because you can’t see the depressions until you come to them.”

He spoke casually, and Ginger did not take the remark very seriously, but he remembered it a few minutes later when a horseman appeared to rise up out of the ground about half a mile ahead. On topping the skyline the man reined in and looked around, and it was soon evident from his behaviour that he had spotted the aircraft.

Biggles had stopped, of course, the moment the man appeared. The others halted with him, and together they watched to see what the rider would do. He was too far away for his nationality to be observed, but from his robes he was not a European.

The man let out a shout, fired a quick shot from the rifle he carried, and galloped away. This, however, was not the end. Within a minute five more men appeared at the same spot. They were evidently prepared for what they saw, for they did precisely what the lone rider had done.

Biggles, seeing what was coming, had dropped flat before the bullets whistled past, and the others followed his example. From a prone position they watched the men disappear over the brow of the next fold in the ground.

“What do you make of them?” Biggles asked Wung.

Wung said he did not know who they were, but supposed them to be the servants of one of the northern war-lords who were overrunning the country, seeking plunder. “This sort of thing was to be expected, I fear,” he said sadly.

“I’ve an uneasy feeling those fellows are not alone,” observed Biggles. “They behave as if they were members of a large party. If so, no doubt they will have gone off to tell their leader what they have seen. No matter. We knew that possibility was always on the programme. The point is, keeping quiet won’t help us now. Speed is the thing. Ginger, sprint back to the machine and tell Algy to bring it along to the stones. I’ll go on with Wung to try to unearth the chest.”

Springing to his feet, Ginger raced back to the aircraft. He discovered that Bertie and Algy had seen what had happened, and were prepared to move fast. Ginger shouted Biggles’ instructions to Algy in the cockpit, and by the time he had scrambled aboard the engines had started and the machine was on the move, taxi-ing ponderously over the ruined corn.

On reaching the stones Biggles shouted that the engines were to be kept ticking over. Ginger jumped down and joined him, prepared to help with the digging; but Biggles told him to watch the skyline for the return of the horsemen. This order he obeyed, taking up a position on a pillar that had once been one of the supports of a gate. A scowling face of carved stone that had once topped the pillar lay in the rank grass at his feet.

It was soon clear from the conversation near him that Wung’s sanguine belief that he could go straight to the spot was not working out in fact. This did not surprise him, for the place had been razed literally to the ground. Fire had swept over everything. Stones, tiles, and other building-materials, all charred, lay about in hopeless confusion, so that Ginger could well understand Wung’s perplexity. It was not until some of the foundations had been exposed, revealing where the doors had been, that Wung could get any idea of his bearings; and this took time. At length, however, he was confident that he had found the site of the garden. All that remained, he said, was to find the stump of the mulberry tree under which the chest had been buried. Fortunately there was only one such tree, and after turning over a lot of rubble the blackened stump was found. This took more time. And after that the site had to be cleared of rubbish before the actual work of digging could begin.

Biggles set to work with the pick, but he had not been at it long when Ginger announced that he could see the head of a man, apparently watching them, above the skyline about five hundred yards away.

“Keep your eye on him,” was all that Biggles said, without stopping work.

Wung seized the spade and began throwing the loose earth aside. His anxiety was understandable, for it was evident that if the treasure-seekers were driven away by an armed force the attackers, seeing the excavation, would guess what was there, and complete the job. If that were to happen the expedition would have done more harm than good, for the works of art, if not wantonly destroyed, would be scattered far and wide and lost for ever.

Biggles let out a grunt of satisfaction and then called out that he had reached the lid of the chest. But that did not mean that it could be lifted. Before that could be done it would be necessary to clear the earth from the entire top and perhaps from the sides.

The work was proceeding when Ginger had to warn Biggles that more heads had joined the original watcher on the skyline. A few seconds later a shot was fired, and a bullet ricocheted off a stone with a shrill whine.

“Okay, if that’s how they want it,” shouted Biggles. “Tell Algy to turn the machine until Bertie can bring his gun to bear. If there’s any more shooting, or if they try to get nearer, Bertie can give them a squirt to see how they like it.”

Ginger dashed to the aircraft with the message. The port engine growled, and the machine moved slightly. This brought another shot, whereupon Bertie’s gun chattered. Turf jumped into the air along the skyline and the heads disappeared.

Ginger was perspiring from a mixture of heat, excitement and impatience. Biggles seemed still to be having difficulty in moving the chest. Several times he seized the spade and worked furiously, but always there was a projecting stone, or some bulging earth, to prevent the withdrawal of the chest from the hole. The trouble was, there was nothing on the lid of the chest to serve as a handle, and the sides, not having been exposed, could not be reached.

It was at this juncture that the enemy made his attack in force, and from the way it was launched it was clear that the leader was no amateur at the game. The attack came from three sides simultaneously, each party making short rushes under cover of supporting fire in the approved infantry manner. Bullets flew thick and fast, if not with accuracy, and the position became desperate. Indeed, it seemed to Ginger at that moment that the game was lost. Bertie’s gun was in action, of course, but it could not cover three sides. Ginger heard several bullets strike the machine and he trembled for the fuel tanks. Suddenly the tail guns started their staccato rattle, and realising that Algy must have gone aft he took his position in the cockpit ready to move fast when the time came.

From this elevated position he became aware of something he had not previously noticed. Coming out of the east, a broad black cloud was bearing down on them with alarming speed. There seemed to be something strange about it, but he was too concerned with the position to pay much attention to it. He supposed it to be a thunder-cloud; and his fear was that in the reduced visibility caused by the downpour, if the storm broke, the enemy would get right up to them.

To his relief the firing suddenly fizzled out, and this he took to mean that the final charge was about to be launched. Not for a moment did it occur to him that the cloud had anything to do with it. Even when some of the attackers seemed to behave in a curious way, jumping up and pointing to the cloud, he could not think it was because they were afraid of getting wet.

The unpleasant thought now struck him that should the storm turn out to be one of exceptional violence they might find themselves bogged. Opening a side-window, he yelled a warning to Biggles, and his relief was heartfelt when he saw that he and Wung had at last succeeded in getting the chest out of the ground.

Biggles was in the act of mopping his face with his handkerchief. On hearing Ginger’s shout he turned and looked at the cloud. He dropped his handkerchief and moved fast. Wung, too, saw it, and his behaviour was even more remarkable. He threw up his hands as if in despair. However, seeing Biggles struggling with the chest, he grabbed it on his side and together they staggered towards the aircraft.

By this time the cloud had so far advanced that it was no longer possible to see the enemy. Whether the men were still there or not Ginger did not know. Bertie, apparently, thought they were; at any rate he was taking no chances, for his guns continued to pump lead, in short bursts, into the murk.

Biggles and Wung reached the machine and thrust their burden into the cabin. They scrambled in after it. The door slammed. Biggles came into the cockpit with a rush. At that moment the storm, with a crash and a rattle, hit the aircraft. Suddenly it was dark. But it was the noise that shook Ginger. It was as if the machine was being plastered with bullets. He had never heard anything like it. Staring at the windscreen in consternation as he made room for Biggles, suddenly he understood. It was not rain, or hail, that was battering the machine. It was a swarm of locusts.

Now, Ginger in his travels had seen odd locusts. He had seen small clouds of them. But not only had he never seen anything like this; it would have been beyond his imagination. It was a situation outside his experience, and what Biggles would do he could not think. It seemed out of the question to do anything, for the windscreen was blacked out with a weaving mass of insects that completely blotted the view forward. The attacking force was now a secondary factor.

It would be futile to pretend that Ginger’s thoughts were anything like lucid. His brain whirled. He was dazed by the din, and appalled by the beastliness of the whole thing. He could only stare at Biggles helplessly. Even Biggles looked pale, and more than slightly harassed.

The noise increased as Biggles eased the throttle forward and began a blind turn. Ginger shuddered when he thought of what the airscrews must be doing to the insects. He was glad they were metal, not wood, which would have been frayed, if not shattered, by the impact. Biggles gave the engines more throttle. The noise was indescribable.

Biggles’ eyes were on his instruments, and Ginger realised, not without qualms, that he was going to make a blind take-off. He shut his eyes and waited, prepared for anything.

In the event, the take-off turned out to be not as bad as he expected, at least, in the matter of time. For perhaps a minute the noise rose to a deafening crescendo, as if every exposed part of the machine was being torn asunder. Then it stopped, with the abruptness of a radio being switched off. Light flooded the cockpit. More and more blue sky appeared through the windscreen as the locusts on it, dead and alive, were whirled away by the pressure of air. The same thing must have happened everywhere, for when Ginger looked out he saw that most of the aircraft was clear of the pests. Below, a black blanket covered the ground.

Biggles caught his eyes. He smiled wanly. “Trust a treasure-hunt to produce something out of the ordinary,” he said grimly.

Five minutes later, well clear of the swarm, Biggles chose a fresh landing-ground and put the machine down. “I’m going to have a look round before I start over the jungle,” he announced.

Everyone got out while the machine was inspected. As far as could be ascertained, nothing had been seriously affected, although signs of the living bombardment were apparent in many places, mostly in the form of dirty smears all over the wings and fuselage, where insects had been pulverised. But this was all superficial. The windscreen and the gun-turrets were wiped down.

“You know, old boy, somebody once told me that locusts would eat anything,” remarked Bertie. “I could picture the little rascals gobbling up the fabric, and leaving nothing on the spars——”

“I had no intention of giving them time,” interposed Biggles. “I’ve never been in such a flap in my life. However, as the machine still seems to be in one piece, and we’ve got what we came for, let’s waffle along home.”

And there the story of the recovery of the Chinese treasure chest can end, for the return trip was made without incident and need not be described. Later on, Doctor Wung Ling received a token payment for his works of art from the authorities at the British Museum, where they may now be seen, and this enabled him to complete his studies.