Читать книгу Biggles in the Baltic. A Tale of the Second Great War - W E Johns - Страница 6

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At precisely ten o’clock, after a careful survey of the sea for ships, Biggles taxied out into the little cove under a moon that cut a swathe of silver light across the gently stirring ocean. The stars twinkled clear and bright in the autumn sky, into which the black silhouette of the rocky islet reared up like a mighty colossus. Without a glance behind him, he steered the Willie-Willie—its name now painted on the nose—into position for a clear run towards the open sea. The engine bellowed suddenly, and the machine surged forward, slashing a line of foam across the face of the water. The line ended abruptly as the aircraft soared like a gull into the air.

Holding the stick back with his knees, for the night air was as placid as a bowl of milk, he took a piece of chewing-gum from a pocket under the instrument-board and chewed it reflectively as he scanned the ever-widening horizon for lights; but neither gleam nor flash broke the sombre pall that war had laid over land and sea. Even the beacons of lighthouses and lightships had been extinguished. Only a weird blue glow illuminated the flickering instruments on the dashboard.

As the needle of the altimeter crept round the dial to the 10,000 mark Biggles turned the nose of his machine due south; still he climbed, but more slowly now as the air became more rarefied. Up and up—12,000—14,000—16,000—18,000—into a lonely indigo world; and still the machine bored upward. The blue light gleamed coldly on his face as he peered forward through the windscreen, looking for the land which he knew lay ahead. That Kiel would be ‘blacked-out’ after sunset was only to be expected, yet he thought there was a chance that the lights of moving traffic might reveal a road. But not a spark broke the stygian darkness.

At last the altimeter registered 20,000 feet, and the nose of the machine sank a little until it was on even keel; then, as the muffled roar of the engine died abruptly, the nose sank still lower and the Willie-Willie began to glide. The only sound was the soft hum of air passing over the surface of the machine.

Peering forwards and downwards, Biggles soon made out a vague mass which he knew was land, a vast black shadow that spread away until it was lost in the distance. Turning to the right, he followed the coast-line for a while, and then, after a glance at his compass and the moon, he headed straight towards it, losing height all the time, probing the darkness with his eyes, seeking the unmistakable landmark which he knew was there—the famous canal which connects the Baltic with the North Sea. At last he found it. The enemy might curtain their windows, but they could not curtain the moon, which, climbing higher, reflected itself on the water so that the canal lay like a silver ribbon across the sable land.

Biggles glanced at his altimeter again and saw that he was down to 8,000 feet; he would have wished to have been higher, for he still had some distance to go to reach his objective, but he dared not touch the throttle. One sound, and he knew that the silent atmosphere would be gashed by a score or more of blinding white searchlight beams. On he glided, the altimeter needle falling back as he followed the silver streak still far below.

He was down to 5,000 feet when at last he saw the slight curve in the canal that marked roughly the position of the ammunition dump. He could not see the actual buildings; he did not expect to; but he knew that they were there—assuming that Colonel Raymond’s report had been correct, and this he had no reason to doubt.

He eased the joystick back until it was ‘sloppy’ in his hand, so near was he to stalling; but every mile gained now was of value, and although he hardly dared to hope that he would be allowed to get over the target without being detected, he intended to get as close as possible.

He was about a mile away when a searchlight beam thrust upward into the darkness like a steel dagger; for a moment it remained still, quivering, and then began a methodical quartering of the sky. Another joined it, and another, and he knew that the sound detectors had picked him up, in spite of the fact that his engine was only ticking over. He swerved away from the beams, and then put his nose down steeply towards the objective. In a moment a dozen beams were criss-crossing around him like gigantic scissors, as the operators below strove to get him in their grip. Suddenly one cut a colossal arc across the heavens; for a fleeting instant it flashed on his wings, and he knew that silence would no longer serve him. Almost viciously he thrust the throttle forward, and the engine bellowed its roar of defiance; simultaneously he pushed the nose of the machine down and sped like an arrow towards his target. In an instant the air was split by flashes, some, very close, bright orange; others, farther away, dull crimson, as the anti-aircraft gunners flung up a furious barrage. He did not alter his course, but held straight on in a screaming dive, leaving most of the flashes behind him.

His face, ghostly in the pale blue light of the instruments, was expressionless; his jaw was set, and his mouth a thin straight line. Something struck the machine with a thud that made it quiver. His lips closed a little tighter and his eyes flashed to the tell-tale instruments; but the set look on his face did not alter.

Not until he was down to 500 feet did he pull the machine out of its dive. Then, calmly and deliberately, as he brought it to even keel, he leaned over the side, seeking the sheds. Around him the air was torn and gashed by flame and hurtling metal, but he ignored it, as he knew only too well that to think about it was to court fear. So he concerned himself only with one thing—the sheds.

At last he saw them, stretching in a straight line along the edge of the canal, precisely as they had been described. He kicked out his right foot and dragged the stick in the same direction, side-slipping to bring the machine over them. Satisfied that he had gone far enough, he centralized the controls, keeping his eyes on the leading edge of the starboard plane at the place where it joined the fuselage, waiting for the sheds to appear. There was no question of using bomb-sights.

As the sheds came in line with the edge of the plane his hand closed over the bomb-toggle. An instant longer he waited. Then he jerked it back—one ... two. The machine rocked as its load swung into space. Before it had properly recovered he had kicked out his right foot and was zigzagging at right angles from his original course; at the same time he held the joystick forward for all the speed he could raise, knowing that only speed could save him from the lines of white sparks that were streaming upwards, which he knew were tracer bullets.

He felt the explosion of the bombs rather than saw them, although the whole sky was lit up by a white glare; but the blast of air whirled the machine up like a feather caught in a gale of wind, and he braced his knees against the sides of the cockpit to steady himself. Banking vertically, he snatched a glance over his shoulder in time to see another explosion. The blaze half blinded him, but in the split second before it occurred he had noted that the end shed was on fire. There was, he knew, a chance that the explosions caused by this fire would set the others off, for contrary to the general impression, an ammunition dump does not necessarily go up in one terrific explosion. It can catch fire and burn for a considerable period, sometimes weeks, with sporadic explosions from time to time.

With the anti-aircraft fire still pursuing him, he zoomed low again at the sheds, releasing his incendiary bombs in a shower; then, banking vertically, he raced towards the open sea. A searchlight picked him up and held him, nearly blinding him with its brilliant glare. For a moment or two he flung the machine about wildly, endeavouring to shake it off, but the beam clung to him like a leech. His nostrils quivered as a wave of anger surged through him. ‘All right, if you want it you can have it,’ he grated through his set teeth, and shielding his eyes with his left arm, he spun round and raced straight down the beam. His thumb found the button on the joystick and jammed it down savagely, and the machine shuddered like a frightened horse as eight streams of bullets poured down his path of flight. It was an old trick, and it worked. The light went out, either because it had been hit or because the operators had bolted for cover out of the withering hail. Satisfied, he swung the machine round on its original course towards the sea.

Most of the lights and archie flashes were now behind him, and he guessed the reason. The listening posts had heard the other machines. He glimpsed a fast-moving spark, like a firefly, held in a beam above him, and he knew that it must be Algy diving at the target. An instant later two terrific explosions in quick succession lit up the sky like a flash of summer lightning, and again the blast of air lifted the Willie-Willie bodily. There were no more explosions, from which Biggles gathered that Algy had missed the sheds, although an ever-spreading crimson glow suggested that he had set some buildings on fire, and since these must have had some connexion with the dump the bombs had not been wasted.

The scene was now far behind him, too far for details to be picked out, so he allowed his nerves to relax and devoted his attention to the business of getting home.

Ginger, gliding at 5,000 feet towards the scene of action, had seen all that Biggles had seen. In fact, he had seen more, for so far he was unmolested, and flying on a straight course towards the canal, was able to get a clear view of it. From a distance he had seen Biggles’s bombs explode, and, shortly afterwards, the destruction of the end shed. He had watched the archie barrage following him, and then return with renewed violence to the area in which Algy in the Didgeree-du was now taking up the fight. He saw, too, the explosion of Algy’s bombs, although by this time he himself was preparing for action.

The wisdom of Biggles’s plan was now apparent, for not only was he down to a thousand feet, but he had been able to line his machine up with the sheds, which he could see clearly in the lurid glow of the fires, without his presence being suspected.

This satisfactory state of affairs, however, was not to last. Trembling a little with excitement in spite of his efforts to remain calm, he had commenced a shallow dive towards the objective when a searchlight suddenly swung round and flashed on his wings. It overshot him, and before it could turn back he had steepened his dive so that it sought him in vain. Nevertheless, the damage had been done, and in a twinkling the other lights were probing the air around him.

His mouth turned dry as the first archie shells lacerated the air dangerously close to him. He knew they were close because he could hear the muffled explosions above the roar of his engine, and Biggles had told him that archie was only dangerous when close enough to be heard. He had expected the barrage to be bad, but not quite as terrifying as this. Several times he felt splinters strike the Dingo, and although he tried hard not to think about it, his imagination refused to be side-tracked so easily. However, he kept his eyes on the sheds, determined to get a direct hit or die in the attempt. To endure all this danger for nothing was not, he thought, to be borne. Once he caught a glimpse in his reflector of the inferno that raged in the sky behind him, and the muscles of his face went stiff. Still, he reasoned, Biggles had gone through it; so had Algy; therefore, so must he.

An unseen missile crashed through the machine just in front of him with terrifying force. Something struck him on the cheek with the bite of a whiplash, and he grunted with pain. Putting his hand to the place, he stared fascinated by the sight of his own blood. Reaction came swift and strong; and, as so often happens, it took the form, not of fear, but of bitter resentment, and he looked for the target with a personal interest. ‘I’ll show you,’ he muttered furiously, and jammed the stick forward in a kind of fierce exultation.

Down—down—down, he roared, careless now of the storm of fire that raged about him. ‘I’m going to get those sheds or bust,’ he told himself desperately, and it was no idle boast. A glance at the altimeter gave him a shock, for the needle was nearly on zero; he had not realized that he was so low.

In a sort of daze, feeling that the thing was not really happening and that he would presently wake up, he took aim with calculated deliberation. He was still a little short of the target, and the second or two that he had to wait exasperated his patience. He wanted to see the bomb burst and blow everything sky high.

Slowly, as the wing crept up to the first shed, his hand groped for the bomb-toggle. ‘Now,’ he muttered, suddenly conscious of a sense of power, and pulled the handle back as far as it would go. The Dingo bumped as the steel-clad load of high explosive plunged earthward.

Ginger was torn between a desire to wait and watch what happened and an urge to dive clear; fortunately for him his common sense prevailed, or it is unlikely that he would have lived long enough to know how successful he had been. He had zigzagged away as Biggles had told him, and was about to turn to see the result of his effort when the entire world seemed to blow up, lighting earth and sky in one terrific blaze. He felt the heat of it on his face. The Dingo, caught in that fearful blast, soared dizzily, throwing him against the safety-belt with a force that made him gasp. Temporarily blinded and half-stunned by shock, he skidded crazily round the sky not knowing which way to go. In a subconscious way he noticed that most of the searchlights had gone out; nor was the archie as bad as it had been. The lattice mast of a wireless tower seemed to leap out of the darkness towards him, and he dragged the stick back into his thigh in a panic. He missed the mast by inches, but the shock did something to restore his senses to normal. ‘Gosh! I’m nearly on the ground,’ he thought frantically, and made haste to correct the error. He saw the canal, and made for it like a pigeon; for a few seconds he followed it; then, happening to glance at his compass, he saw that he was going the wrong way.

Again it was in something like a panic that he whirled the machine round and sped like a bullet towards the open sea. For some minutes the archie followed him, but in some curious way he had ceased to be alarmed by it. He began to laugh, but pulled himself up abruptly. ‘That won’t do,’ he told himself seriously, and remembering the wound in his face, he felt it carefully. It was still bleeding, but, as far as he could make out, not badly. In any case, he was not conscious of any pain, so he thought no more about it. He did not bother to climb for height, but checking his compass, set about getting home by the shortest possible route. He remembered Biggles and Algy, and wondered vaguely how they had fared, but his thoughts were chaotic and he found it difficult to concentrate. ‘I suppose I shall get used to this sort of thing,’ he mused philosophically.

He could see the black bulk of Bergen Ait some time before he reached it; indeed, he was surprised that he could see it so plainly. He scanned the sea for ships, but there were none in sight, for which he was thankful, for it permitted him to make straight for the cove.

It was clear when he reached it, but as he glided down he could just make out one of the other machines being towed into the cave. Three flashes of a green light gave him the signal to land, and in a minute or two he was on the water, taxi-ing towards where he knew the entrance to the cave to be. The Dingo seemed strangely sluggish, but he thought nothing of it until the motor-boat dashed out, with Briny in the bows making frantic signals to him to hasten. Obediently he gave the engine more throttle, and roared into the cave, where the motor-boat took the machine in tow and dragged it to the catwalk.

He switched off and pushed up his goggles. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked weakly.

Biggles answered. ‘You were sinking. You must have got a float holed. It’s all right now; the Flight-Sergeant will attend to it.’

Ginger sprang up in alarm. ‘Great Scott!’ he cried, ‘I didn’t know.’

Biggles helped him ashore. ‘Good work, laddie,’ he said patting him on the back; ‘you got it a beauty.’

‘How did you know?’ inquired Ginger. ‘Did you see it?’

‘I certainly did—that is, I saw the blaze on the sky. They saw it from here—and heard it.’

Ginger stared. ‘Well, do you know, that’s a funny thing,’ he said shakily; ‘I was right on top of it yet I didn’t hear a blessed thing.’ He staggered suddenly.

Biggles caught him. ‘Bear a hand, Algy,’ he said sharply, noting the blood on Ginger’s face. ‘He’s been hit. He needs medical attention.’

Ginger laughed foolishly. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he protested; ‘what I want is my supper.’