Читать книгу Biggles in the Orient - W E Johns - Страница 6

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The following morning, the first glow of dawn saw Biggles in the air, in the Typhoon, heading north for Jangpur, the Indian terminus of the China route. He had not far to go—a trifle more than a hundred miles. As he landed and taxied to the wooden office buildings he noted a general absence of movement, an atmosphere of inactivity. The duty officer, a pilot officer, came to meet him. His manner was respectful, but listless, as if his interest in everything about him was perfunctory. He told Biggles that the station commander, Squadron Leader Frayle, was in his office.

And there Biggles found him, looking as though he had not been to bed for a week. His eyes were heavy from want of sleep; his hair was untidy and his chin unshaven. The desk was a litter of dirty cups, plates, and glasses.

Biggles did not appear to notice this. “Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully. “My name’s Bigglesworth.”

The squadron leader’s eyes brightened. “So you’re Biggles? I’ve heard of you. Take a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks,” answered Biggles. “At this hour of the morning I work better on an empty stomach.” He pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette.

“What in the name of all that’s unholy brought you to this God-forsaken, sun-blistered dustbin?” inquired Frayle curiously.

“I’m told you’ve had a spot of trouble here,” replied Biggles. “I’ve been sent out from home to try to iron it out.”

“Go ahead,” invited Frayle bitterly. “The airfield’s yours—and you’re welcome to it. I’ve lost four officers and four machines in four days—the last four to go out, in fact. That should encourage you to keep your feet on something more solid than the floor of a fuselage. I’ve three officers left out of eighteen. Not bad going, eh?”

“I heard the position was pretty grey,” said Biggles sympathetically.

“Grey! It’s blacker than a black-out.” Frayle’s voice look on a quality of bitter resentment. “Grey, they call it. It’s hell, that’s what it is. Can you imagine what it’s been like for me, to sit here day after day sending out lads who I know I shall never see again?”

“I can imagine it,” answered Biggles quietly.

“There’s another one going this morning,” went on Frayle. “I didn’t order him to go. Not me. I’ve finished picking the roster with a pin to decide who was to be the next man to die. He just told me he was going. There’s a load of medical stores urgently needed in Chungking. To-morrow I shall be down to two pilots.”

“You haven’t tried doing the run yourself?”

“No. As I feel that would suit me fine. My orders are to stay on the carpet. They say my job is on the station. Well, to-morrow I’m going, anyway, orders or no orders. I can’t stand any more of this.”

“It’s no use talking that way, Frayle,” said Biggles softly. “You know you can’t do that.”

“But I—I——” Frayle seemed to choke. He buried his face in his hands.

“Here, take it easy,” said Biggles gently. “I know how you feel, but it’s no use letting the thing get you down like this. Get a grip on yourself. Can’t you see that by cracking up you’re only helping the enemy? What about this lad—has he gone off yet?”

“No, they’re loading up the machine.”

“Good. Stop him.”

Frayle looked up. “But this stuff is supposed to go through.”

“I know. Never mind. Stop him.”

“But what shall I tell headquarters?”

“You needn’t tell them anything. I’ll take the stuff.”

“You’ll take it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

Biggles smiled. “You may be right, but I’ll take this stuff to Chungking just the same. Send for the lad who was going. What’s his name?”

“Bargent. He’s a flying officer—a South African. You’ll find him as amiable as a rhino that’s been shot in the bottom with a charge of buckshot.”

“I’ll have a word with him. You snatch a bath, treat your face to a razor blade, and have something to eat; you’ll feel better. I’ll fix things while you’re doing it.”

Frayle gave the necessary order. Presently Bargent came.

“Now what’s boiling?” he demanded in a hard voice.

“You’re not doing this show,” said Biggles.

“And who says so?” questioned Bargent hotly.

“I say so,” replied Biggles evenly.

Bargent flung his cap on the floor, which was to Biggles a clear indication of the state of his nerves.

“And if you start throwing your weight about with me, my lad, I’ll put you under close arrest,” promised Biggles, in a voice that made the flying officer stare at him.

“But I want to go, sir,” said Bargent, in a different tone of voice.

Biggles thought for a minute. “All right. You can come with me if you like.”

“With you?”

“That’s what I said.”

The South African laughed shortly. “Okay. The machine is all ready.”

Biggles turned to Frayle. “How many machines have you got left?”

“Two, able to do the run.”

“What are they?”

“Wimpeys.”

“And one’s loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Did that arrangement appear in last night’s orders?”

“Yes.”

“In the ordinary way the other machine would stand in a shed all day?”

“Yes.”

“Have you a duplicate set of these medical stores?”

“We’ve a hundred tons, all overdue for delivery.”

“Where are they?”

“In store.”

“Locked up?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s your storekeeper?”

“Corporal Jones.”

“That’s fine,” declared Biggles. “I’m going to try being unorthodox. For a start we’re going to unload this loaded machine, and take every package to pieces. Then we’ll take the machine to pieces.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Biggles quickly.

“We’ve tried that a dozen times. You suspect sabotage? So did we. The first action I took was what you propose doing now, supposing that someone was sticking a time bomb in the load. We’ve never found such a thing, or anything like it.”

Biggles thought for a little while. “H’m. I was bound to try that,” he asserted. “But if you’ve already done it there doesn’t seem to be much point in repeating it, so we’ll proceed with the second part of the programme. I want you to go and tell Corporal Jones, privately, to prepare a second load. Tell him to keep it out of sight. Swear him to secrecy. In a minute or two I’ll bring the spare machine over and we’ll load it ourselves.”

“What shall I do with the first load? The machine is waiting to go.”

“For the time being leave it just as it is. Put a guard over it.”

“This all seems a waste of time to me, but I’m willing to try anything,” said Frayle heavily.

“Then go and talk to Jones. Tell him to get a move on. Then I’d advise you to have a clean up. You may be sick, but it does no good to advertise it.”

Frayle went off.

Biggles turned to Bargent. “You don’t fancy your chance of coming back from this trip, do you?”

“Not much. Do you?”

“Yes. I think we’ve quite a good chance.”

“What leads you to think you are any different from anyone else?” Bargent couldn’t keep sarcasm out of his voice.

“I didn’t say I was different. But I’ve done quite a lot of flying, and I’ve never yet seen in the air anything capable of knocking a machine down without showing itself. I doubt very much if there is such a thing. So far, anything I’ve seen I’ve been able to dodge. It may sound like conceit, but I fancy my chance of going on doing that.”

“Would you like to bet on it?”

Biggles hesitated, but only for a moment. “I don’t go in much for betting, but I’d risk a hundred cigarettes.”

“I’ll take that,” declared Bargent. “Just what is the bet?”

“The bet is, by lunch-time I shall be in Chungking, and back again here for dinner to-night.”

“You hope,” muttered Bargent. “I’d say you’re on a loser.”

Biggles laughed. “Well, you can’t win, anyway.”

Bargent started. “Why not?”

“If I lose—that is, if we don’t get back—I doubt if I shall be in a position to pay you and you’ll be in no case to collect your winnings. We shall both be somewhere either on the mountains or in the jungle between here and China.”

“I’m nuts. I never thought of that,” said Bargent, grinning, and then laughing aloud.

“That’s better,” remarked Biggles. “While you can keep a sense of humour you’ve got a chance. Come on, let’s go and get the Wimpey.”

Ignoring the machine that had been detailed, with its little crowd of loaders, they walked over to the hangar in which the spare machine was parked. Biggles climbed into the cockpit. “You stay where you are,” he told Bargent. “Walk beside me when I taxi over to the store. If anyone tries to get within ten yards of this machine throw something at him. If you let anyone touch you, my lad, you’re not getting into this aircraft. I’m standing to lose more than a hundred cigarettes on this jaunt and I’m not taking any chances. Understand?”

“Okay.”

Biggles started the engines and taxied slowly through the glaring sunlight to the store shed. On the way, some of the native porters that had been working on the other machine came hurrying across, but Bargent waved his arm, and yelled to them to keep away. He picked up and hurled a stone at one man who came after the others had stopped. He retreated.

Frayle, in a bath wrap, appeared at the storehouse door.

“Is the stuff ready?” shouted Biggles.

“Yes, it’s all here.”

“Help us to get it on board. Tell Jones to punch on the nose anybody who tries to get near us.”

“You do have some quaint ideas,” said Frayle, as he complied.

“Maybe that’s why I’m here,” murmured Biggles.

In ten minutes the big machine was loaded to capacity with bundles of British and American stores, labelled CHUNGKING.

“What about something to eat before you go?” suggested Frayle.

“No, thanks,” refused Biggles.

“It’s a long trip.”

“We can manage.”

“Not even a last drink?” queried Bargent.

“Not even a last drink,” decided Biggles firmly. “I make a point of doing one thing at a time, and the thing at the moment is to get this pantechnicon to China. Get aboard. So long, Frayle. I’m aiming to be back for tea.”

“I’ll have it ready,” promised Frayle.

“Put a guard on my Typhoon. Don’t let anyone touch it.”

“Okay.”

Before Bargent had properly settled himself in his seat Biggles had opened the throttle, and the big machine was bellowing across the airfield.

“Have you made this trip before?” asked Biggles, as he throttled back to a steady cruising speed of just over two hundred miles an hour.

“Four times.”

“You must be lucky.”

“Maybe so. But I reckoned it couldn’t go on. No sense in riding your luck too hard.”

“I suppose that’s why you were trying it on again to-day?” said Biggles smoothly.

“Pah! It had got to come sooner or later, and after seeing the others go, I thought the sooner the better.”

“Desperate fellow,” murmured Biggles. “Well, we shall see. Keep your eyes skinned.”

“I suppose you realise that we’re flying without gunners in the turrets?” said Bargent suddenly. “That’s asking for trouble, isn’t it?”

“I have a feeling that we shan’t need guns on this trip.”

“Why not?”

“Put it this way. Guns couldn’t save the other crews. If guns can’t stop this rot what point was there in bringing gunners? In the event of things going wrong we should only push up the casualty list. My gosh! That’s pretty rough country below.” Biggles was looking below and ahead at a terrible yet magnificent panorama of mountain peaks that stretched across the course from horizon to horizon.

“It’s like that pretty well all the way to China,” asserted Bargent. “Where it isn’t mountains, it’s what the books call untamed primeval forest. Anyone going down in it wouldn’t have a hope. They say it’s unexplored.”

“Let’s hope we shan’t have to explore it,” returned Biggles. “Let me know if you see anything queer, in the air or on the ground.”

After that the two pilots fell silent. The Wellington droned on, devouring space at a steady two hundred and twenty miles an hour. Mountains, groups and ranges and isolated peaks, many crowned with eternal snow, rolled away below. Valleys and depressions were choked with the sombre, everlasting forest.

“It’s about time we were bumping into something,” said Bargent once, after looking at the watch. “We must be half-way.”

“Begins to look as if this trip is going to cost you a hundred cigarettes, my lad,” said Biggles slyly, with a sidelong glance at his companion.

“If I don’t lose more than that I shan’t grumble,” murmured Bargent.

Two hours later the airport of Chungking came into view.

“That’s it,” confirmed Bargent. “What’s the programme when we get there?”

“We’ll sling this stuff overboard and start straight back,” replied Biggles.

“We’re not stopping for lunch?”

“We’re not stopping for anything.”

Bargent shook his head. “You certainly are a queer bird,” he muttered.

“So I’ve been told. But never mind the compliments. As soon as we’re in, jump down and keep the crowd away from this machine. I don’t want anybody to touch it. I’ll push the stuff out. They can collect it after we’ve gone. I shall leave the motors running.”

“Okay.”

As soon as the Wellington was on the ground a crowd of Chinese surged towards it; but Bargent held them off, gesticulating furiously. Biggles was throwing the stores out.

A Chinese officer came forward, speaking English.

“That’s close enough!” shouted Bargent. “Here’s your stuff. Some more will be coming through.”

“You in gleat hurry,” said the Chinaman, impassively.

“We’ve got to get back,” answered Bargent.

“No want any petrol?”

Bargent looked at Biggles.

“No!” shouted Biggles. “We’ve got enough to see us home.”

“You no stay to eat?” questioned the Chinaman.

“Not to-day, thanks,” returned Bargent. “I’ve got a date with a girl in Calcutta, and she’ll jilt me if I’m not back on time.”

The Chinaman grinned. “Me savvy.”

“Okay, Bargent!” shouted Biggles. “Get aboard. We’re on our way.”

The South African picked his way through the pile of bales that Biggles had thrown out of the aircraft, closed the door and resumed his seat. The engines roared, and the machine swung round, scattering the crowd, to face the open field. In another minute it was in the air again, India bound.

“Get those cigarettes ready,” said Biggles.

Bargent laughed. “I’ll help you smoke ’em.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” declared Biggles. “I reckon I shall have won ’em.”

There was no incident of any sort on the home run. There was no flak; no aircraft of any type, friend or foe, was sighted. As they glided in to land Bargent swore that he had never felt better in his life.

Frayle, in uniform, greeted them. “So you got back?” he cried in a voice of wonder.

“If you think this is a ghost plane, try walking into one of the airscrews,” invited Biggles. “You’ll find it hard enough, I’ll warrant.”

“Well, that’s a mystery,” said Frayle.

“Not quite so much of a mystery as it was,” returned Biggles.

“What are you going to do now?”

Biggles glanced at the sun, now low in the west. “I want to get back to Dum Dum before dark, but I’ve just time for a snack.”

“You think it’s safe to use the route now?”

“I didn’t say that,” answered Biggles quickly. “The Chinese now have a little to go on with, so you can afford to keep everything on the ground till you hear from me again. Yes, I know we got away with it this time, but that trick may not work again. By changing the planes at the last minute we slipped a fast one on the enemy. More than that I can’t tell you for the moment. I want you and Bargent to keep your mouths shut tight about this show. If you talk it may cost you your lives. Keep the machines grounded. I’ll be back. Now let’s go and eat.”

An hour later, in the crimson glow of the Eastern sunset, Biggles landed at Dum Dum and walked quickly to the mess, to be met by an enthusiastic squadron.

“I say, old boy, that’s marvellous—absolutely marvellous,” declared Bertie. “Don’t tell me you’ve been to China?”

“There and back,” answered Biggles. “Let’s get inside. I’ve got to talk to you chaps, and I don’t mind admitting that I’d rather curl quietly in a corner and go to sleep. I seem to have done a lot of flying lately.”

“If you’re tired, why not leave it until to-morrow?” suggested Algy.

“Because to-morrow morning I shall be just as busy—and so, perhaps, will you.”

“The point is, did you spot the secret weapon?” demanded Ginger.

“Not a sign of it,” returned Biggles, with a ghost of a smile. “Serious, now, everybody. Lock the door, Ginger. To-day I carried out what we might call an experiment,” he went on, when everyone had settled down. “It leads, as most experiments do, to another. To-morrow morning I’m going to do a sortie over Burma.”

“Alone?” queried Algy, looking askance.

“I hadn’t thought of taking anyone,” admitted Biggles.

“At least take someone with you,” pressed Algy. “There may be something in this double pilot idea.”

“It isn’t that I’m trying to run the show single-handed,” asserted Biggles. “It’s just that I want to avoid casualties if it is possible. There’s no point in using more men on a job than it calls for. One machine can do what I have in mind to-morrow morning. Why risk two?”

“Then why not take the Beau, or the Mosquito, and have someone with you for company?” suggested Algy.

“Yes. I might do that,” agreed Biggles.

There was a chorus of voices offering to go, but Biggles held up a hand. “There’s only one way to settle this, and that’s by drawing lots,” he declared. “That doesn’t apply to flight commanders, though; they’ll get their turns if I don’t come back. Algy, write six names on slips of paper and put them in a hat.”

“Aren’t you going to tell us what happened to-day?” queried Tex, while Algy was doing this.

“There’s really nothing to tell,” answered Biggles. “Nothing happened: that’s a fact.”

Algy came forward with a hat in which lay six slips of paper, folded.

“Shake ’em up,” ordered Biggles.

Algy shook the hat.

Biggles closed his eyes and put out a hand. His fingers closed over a slip. He raised it. In dead silence he unfolded it and glanced at the name. He took it to Tug and smiled.

“You’re it, Tug,” he announced.

“Whoopee! That’s a corker,” cried Tug. “That’s the first time I’ve ever won a draw in my life.”

“Unless it’s your lucky day it’s likely to be the last,” joked Biggles grimly.

“I’ll risk it,” flashed Tug, grinning. “What time do we leave the carpet?”

“We’ll decide that when we see what the weather is like,” returned Biggles.

“Do we wear brollies?”

Biggles shrugged. “In this affair they don’t seem to make much difference, but I suppose we might as well. Don’t mention this sortie to a soul, neither in nor outside the mess. Should anyone ask what we are doing you can say we’re browning off waiting for orders. That’s all. Let’s go in to dinner.”