Читать книгу Biggles in the Orient - W E Johns - Страница 3

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With the serene dignity of a monarch bestowing a favour, His Majesty’s Flying-boat Capricorn kissed the turquoise water of the marine aircraft base at Calafrana, Malta, and in a surge of creamy foam came to rest by her mooring buoy, setting numerous smaller craft bobbing and curtsying in a gentle swell that was soon to die on the concrete slipways. Through the sparkling atmosphere of the Mediterranean dawn every detail of the rockbound coast stood revealed with a clarity unknown in northern isles.

In the cabin, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, more commonly known to his friends (and, perhaps, his enemies) as “Biggles,” yawned as he stood up and reached for the haversack containing his small-kit that rested on the luggage rack above his seat.

“I’ve had a nice sleep,” he announced inconsequently, for the benefit of the several officers of his squadron who were pulling on shoes, fastening tunics, and the like, preparatory to disembarking.

It was the same little band of hard-hitting warriors that had fought under him during the Battle of Britain, in the Western Desert, and elsewhere, and more than one carried scars as perpetual souvenirs of these theatres of war. That none had been killed was, admittedly, a matter for wonder. There were some who ascribed this to astonishing good fortune; others, to leadership which combined caution with courage. Other reasons put forward were superb flying, straight shooting, and close co-operation—which is another way of saying that sort of comradeship which puts the team before self. The truth was probably to be found in a combination of all these attributes.

There were the three flight commanders: Algy Lacey, fair and freckled; Lord “Bertie” Lissie, effeminate in face and manner, for ever polishing an eyeglass for no reason that anyone could discover; and Angus Mackail, twelve stone of brawn and brain, with heather in his brogue and an old regimental glengarry on his head. All wore the purple and white ribbon of the D.F.C.

The rest were flying officers; like the flight-lieutenants they were all long overdue for promotion, but as this would have meant leaving the squadron (wherein there was no establishment for senior ranks, and consequently no chance of advancement) they had forgone promotion to remain in the same mess. There was “Ginger” Hebblethwaite, a waif who had attached himself to Biggles and Algy before the war, and who had almost forgotten the slum in which he had been born; “Tex” O’Hara, a product of the wide open spaces of Texas, U.S.A.; “Taffy” Hughes, whose paternal ancestor may have been one of those Welsh knifemen that helped the Black Prince to make a name for valour, “Tug” Carrington, a Cockney and proud of it, handy with his “dukes,” hating all aggressors (and Nazis in particular) with a passion that sometimes startled the others; Henry Harcourt, a thin, pale, thoughtful-eyed Oxford undergraduate, who really loathed war yet had learned how to fight; and “Ferocity” Ferris, who, born in a back street of Liverpool, had got his commission, not by accident (as he sometimes said) but by sheer flying ability.

This strange assortment of humanity, which could only have been drawn together by the vortex of war, formed Number 666 (Fighter) Squadron, R.A.F. More usually it was referred to in places where airmen meet as “Biggles’ Squadron.” And this was the literal truth, for on the formation of the unit, to Biggles had been sent—with his knowledge, of course—pilots of peculiar temperament, men with only two things in common, utter fearlessness and a disinclination to submit to discipline—two traits that often go together. Nevertheless, by example, by the force of his own personality, and by a queer sort of discipline which appeared to be lax, but was, in fact, rigid, Biggles had moulded them into a team with a reputation that was as well known to the enemy as to the Air Ministry. The result was a third common factor—loyalty; loyalty to the service, to the team, and above all, to their leader.

“There’s a cutter coming out, presumably to take us ashore,” observed Algy, from a seat that commanded a view of the port. “Now we shall know what it’s all about. I must confess to some curiosity as to the whys and wherefores of this sudden rush to Malta.”

“It isn’t customary for an Air Commode to turn out to meet new arrivals,” remarked Ginger. “There’s an Air Commodore in the stern of that cutter—I can see his scrambled eggs from here.”

“Maybe it’s a new regulation. Welcome to your new home, gentlemen, and all that sort of thing—if you see what I mean?” suggested Bertie, brightly.

A minute later the Air Commodore stepped aboard. He went straight to Biggles, who by this time was looking a trifle surprised at this unusual reception.

“ ’Morning, Bigglesworth,” greeted the Air Commodore.

“ ’Morning, sir,” answered Biggles.

“Everything all right?”

“Why not?” queried Biggles.

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned the Air Commodore. “The Higher Command seems to be particularly concerned about you. You’ll find breakfast ready in the mess. Better not waste any time—you’ve only got an hour.”

The puzzled expression on Biggles’ face deepened. “An hour for what, sir?”

“To stretch your legs, I suppose.”

“But I don’t quite understand,” murmured Biggles. “I was ordered to bring my squadron here. Naturally, I assumed it was for duty on the island.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” returned the Air Commodore. “My orders—by signal received last night—were to give you breakfast and push you along to Alexandria. The aircraft leaves the water in an hour. My tender will take you ashore. You might as well leave your kit where it is.”

“Very good, sir.”

The Air Commodore walked forward to speak to the pilot.

“Well, stiffen me rigid!” exclaimed Ginger softly. “What do you make of that?”

Biggles shrugged. “I don’t make anything of it. We’ve got our orders. Alex it is, apparently. Let’s go ashore for a shower and a rasher of bacon.”

Eight hours later the Capricorn touched down in the sweeping bay of Alexandria. Biggles stood up and reached for his haversack.

“Just a minute,” said Ginger. “There’s another brass-hat in that cutter coming out from station headquarters.”

Biggles looked through the window. “You’re right,” he confirmed. “It looks as though the Near East is littered with Air Commodores. Unless I’m mistaken that’s Buster Brownlow. He’s a good scout. He commanded Ten Group in the Battle of Britain.”

The Air Commodore came aboard.

“Hello, Biggles!” he greeted. “Get cracking—you’ve only got an hour.”

Biggles started. “What, again?”

The Air Commodore raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean—again?”

Biggles laughed shortly. “Well, last night, out of the blue, I got an order instructing me to hand over my equipment and take the squadron by road to Pembroke Dock, where the Capricorn was waiting to take us to Malta. We made our landfall at dawn, after a comfortable trip. The A.O.C., Malta, pushed us along here. Now you’re telling us——”

“That you’re not stopping. Quite right. There’s a Wimpey on the tarmac waiting to take you to Baghdad, so you’d better get ashore.”

“Do you happen to know what this is all about?” questioned Biggles curiously.

“I know no more than you,” answered the Air Commodore, and returned to the motor-boat.

“Join the Air Force and see the world,” murmured Ferocity Ferris, with bitter sarcasm.

“That’s it. The service is living up to its jolly old reputation, what?” remarked Bertie.

The sun was setting behind the golden domes of Khadamain, the most conspicuous landmark in the ancient city of the Caliphs, when the Wellington rumbled to a standstill on the dusty surface of Hinaidi airfield, Baghdad.

Biggles stood up. “Now maybe we shall get the gen on this circus,” he asserted.

The cabin door was opened and an officer wearing the badges of rank of a Group Captain looked in. “Get weaving, you fellows,” he called breezily. “A head wind has put you ten minutes behind schedule. You’re moving off in fifty minutes. Leave your kit where it is and stride along to the mess for dinner.”

Biggles frowned. “What is this—a joke?”

“Joke?” The Group Captain seemed surprised. “Not as far as I know. What gave you that quaint idea?”

“Only that it’s customary for officers to know where they’re going,” answered Biggles. “This morning we were at Malta.”

“Well, by to-morrow morning you’ll be in India,” returned the Group Captain. “My orders are to push you along to Karachi. Someone may tell you why when you get there. See you presently.”

Biggles looked over his shoulder at the officers who, with their kit, filled the cabin. “You heard that?” he queried helplessly. “We’re on our way to India. The Air Ministry, having decided that we need a rest, is giving us a busman’s holiday. If this goes on much longer we shall meet ourselves coming back.”

“I don’t get it,” muttered Tex.

“Presumably none of us is supposed to get it,” replied Biggles. “No doubt we shall though, eventually, if we keep on long enough.”

The stars were paling in the sky when, the following morning, the aircraft landed at Drigh Road airfield. Karachi.

“This, I should say, is it,” said Tug confidently.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” murmured Henry Harcourt, moodily.

The pilots stepped down. As they stretched their cramped limbs two jeeps came tearing across the sun-parched earth. After they had skidded to a stop a Wing Commander alighted.

“ ’Morning Biggles,” he greeted. “Get your fellows aboard and I’ll run you to the mess. Coffee is waiting. You haven’t long——”

“Okay, okay, I know,” broke in Biggles impatiently. “We’ve only got an hour, then you’re pushing us along to—where is it this time?”

“Dum Dum. Our best Liberator is waiting to take you. Say thank you.”

“Thank you my foot,” snapped Biggles. “We’ve been careering round the globe for forty-eight hours. I’m getting dizzy.”

“I thought Dum Dum was a kind of bullet, look you,” grunted Taffy.

“So it is,” answered Biggles. “It also happens to be an airfield about two miles from Calcutta, on the other side of India. They say that in the old days the first dum-dum bullets were made there. I could use some, right now. Let’s go. Even if we’re condemned to chase the rainbow we might as well eat.”

It was late in the afternoon when the Liberator landed its load of pilots at Calcutta. Biggles was first out, fully prepared to see a duty officer with a fresh movement order in his hand. Instead, his eyes fell on the last man he expected to see. It was Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, who, as far as he knew, seldom left the Air Ministry.

“Hello,” greeted the Air Commodore with an apologetic smile.

Biggles shook his head sadly. “I should have guessed it,” he said wearily. “Was all this rushing from here to there really necessary?”

“You can decide that for yourself, after we’ve had a chat,” replied the Air Commodore seriously. “Do you want a rest, or shall we get down to things right away?”

“Is the whole squadron included in that invitation?”

“No. I’d rather talk to you alone in the first place. You can tell your fellows about it later on—in fact, you’ll have to. But the Air Officer Commanding, India, and the G.O.C. land forces, are here, waiting to have a word with you. That’ll give you an idea of the importance of the matter that caused you to be rushed out.”

“All right, sir. In that case we’d better get down to brass tacks right away. What about my officers?”

“They can go and get settled in their new quarters. Everything is arranged. You’ve got your own mess.”

“Then this really is the end of the trail?”

“I don’t want to seem depressing, but it’s likely to be the end of the trail in every sense of the word. We’re up against it, Bigglesworth, and when I say that you can guess it’s pretty bad.”

“So you send for me,” said Biggles plaintively. “We were supposed to be due for a rest.”

“I didn’t send for you,” denied the Air Commodore. “The A.O.C. fixed that with the Ministry. Admittedly, I mentioned your name. See what comes of having a reputation. Matter of fact, I wasn’t pleased myself at being hauled out here—I’ve been here three days.”

Biggles turned to speak to Algy. “Take over,” he ordered. “I’ll join you later.”

Without speaking, the Air Commodore led the way to station headquarters, where, in an inner office, the two generals were waiting.

“Sorry to rush you about like this, Bigglesworth, but there were reasons,” explained the Air Officer, holding out his hand.

Biggles nodded. “I’ve been in the service long enough to know that things don’t happen without a reason, sir,” he said simply.

“We brought you out here as we did, for two reasons. The first was speed, and the second, security. The fewer people who know you are here, the better. The Japanese High Command knows all about you, so if they learned that you were on the way out they’d put two and two together.” A note of bitterness crept into the Air Marshal’s voice. “They might even have prevented your arrival. Of course they are bound to find out sooner or later, but by that time you’ll be on the job—I hope. Take a pew.” The A.O.C. sat down, mopping perspiration from his forehead with a large handkerchief, for the air was heavy and hot. “Raymond, I think you’d better tell the story,” he suggested.