Читать книгу Biggles Sees It Through - W E Johns - Страница 8

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For the whole of that day they pursued their quest with energy and speed, knowing that it was only a question of time before von Stalhein would return with reinforcements—to say nothing of sending aircraft to locate them; and it was for this very reason that Biggles concentrated his efforts in an easterly direction—that is to say, over Russia, feeling that it was the most difficult as well as the most likely locality. They could, he reasoned, fall back inside the Finnish frontier and carry on the search there when they were seriously interfered with by von Stalhein.

It was about four o’clock, and they were circling in the Blenheim looking for a suitable place to pass the night, when Biggles’s ever-watchful eyes noticed an unusual scar that ran in a straight line across the untrodden snow, and coming lower, he soon saw that it was a track made by a body of men. The line it took gave him a clue to the identity of those who had made it, for the line came from the scene of the camp which they had attacked. Coming still lower—so low, indeed, that his wheels were only a few feet from the ground—he perceived that the track had been made by the Russians subsequent to the attack, and not on their outward journey, a fact that he deduced from the absence of sledge-marks. He pointed this out to Algy.

‘We do at least know which way they’ve gone,’ he remarked.

‘How about following the track to see how far they’ve got?’ suggested Algy.

‘Good idea. It may give us a line on where they are making for, and consequently let us know roughly how long we may expect to be free from interference.’

Biggles was climbing steeply, following the track, when suddenly he gave a cry. He said nothing, but Algy was not long spotting what had called forth the exclamation. Some distance ahead the track started to traverse a long, narrow lake. But it did not proceed very far. It turned at right angles and made straight for the bank, where the snow was all trampled down as if a halt had been made.

An unpleasant sensation crept over Biggles as he circled low over the spot. Already in his heart he knew the reason for the sudden turn in the line of march, and why the halt had been made, but he hoped that he was wrong.

‘What can you see down there?’ he asked Algy in a curious voice.

Algy threw him a sidelong glance. ‘It’s no use kidding ourselves,’ he said evenly. ‘That’s a crashed aeroplane under that pile of snow; you can see that from the shape of it.’

‘Then it looks as if von Stalhein has tumbled on what we were looking for—by accident.’

‘It looks that way, but there’s still a chance that it isn’t the Polish machine—or if it is, that von Stalhein didn’t find the papers,’ said Algy, trying to be optimistic.

Biggles said no more. He cut the throttle, landed on the ice, and taxied up the track made by the Russians to the wreck. Without a moment’s hesitation, such was his anxiety, he jumped down, and closely followed by Algy, ran to the scene of the trampled snow. In the centre of it, still half buried, although a good deal of the snow had been dragged away, was the remains of a crashed aeroplane. Biggles tore more of the snow from one of the crumpled wings and exposed Polish military markings.

‘That settles any argument about that,’ he asserted harshly, and remembering the Professor’s instructions for finding the papers, he ran straight to the spot. His heart was sick with anxiety, for footmarks were everywhere, and it was obvious that the search had been thorough. He knew only too well that von Stalhein was nothing if not efficient. Within a minute he knew the grim truth, for exactly where the professor had described it was a large rock. Around it the snow had been trampled. Under the rock was a cavity, but it was empty. The portfolio had gone. Presently they found it, half buried in the snow a little distance away. The flap was open. It was empty.

Biggles took out a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand. ‘What d’you know about that?’ he said bitterly. ‘Von Stalhein never had a bigger stroke of luck in his life. He must have been going across the lake when he spotted the crash. The irritating part of it is, if we had left him to go on searching where he was when we attacked him, the chances are that he wouldn’t have found it. That was ten miles from here. The poor old professor no doubt meant well, but actually he couldn’t have chosen a worse hiding-place. It was so obvious. The rock was so conspicuous.’

Algy, too, lit a cigarette. ‘All the same, I don’t see where else he could have hidden it,’ he said slowly. ‘He couldn’t very well just tuck it into the snow, where it would have been exposed as soon as the stuff melted. Well, it certainly is von Stalhein’s lucky day. As far as we’re concerned—well, it’s a tough break. Von Stalhein wins the game after all.’

‘What d’you mean—wins the game?’ snapped Biggles. ‘This is only the first round. He can’t have got back to his base yet, and while he’s walking about Russia with those papers on him he can’t claim to have won—not while we’re still on our feet, anyway.’

Ginger and Smyth had come up. They did not need telling what had happened. The picture told its own story.

‘It looks as if this is where we go home,’ observed Ginger.

‘On the contrary, this is where we go after von Stalhein,’ returned Biggles curtly.

Algy smiled wanly. ‘Biggles old top, there are moments when I wonder seriously if you didn’t crack your skull in one of your crashes.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You’re daft to think of tackling——’

‘You said that last night,’ cut in Biggles.

‘I know, but it’s one thing to attack a sleeping camp, and quite another for us to take on that bunch of stiffs in cold blood. There can’t be less than forty of them.’

‘You haven’t forgotten that when they bolted quite a number of them left their rifles behind?’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten that either.’

Biggles’s face was grim. ‘I’m going to get those papers, or——’

‘Or what?’

‘Oh, stop arguing. Let’s get going.’

They hastened back to the Blenheim and got aboard. Just what Biggles was going to do he didn’t say. Possibly he wasn’t sure himself.

His first action was to locate the Russians, and, since they were on foot, this did not take long. The party appeared as a small black column moving slowly across the waste of snow. As soon as he saw it Biggles turned away.

‘They’ll have heard us,’ remarked Algy.

‘Possibly, but we’re too far off for them to recognize the machine,’ answered Biggles. ‘Bear in mind that ours isn’t the only ’plane hereabouts. For all they know it may be one of their own.’ As he spoke Biggles turned away from the track at right angles.

He flew on for about five minutes, during which time the Blenheim had covered ten miles. Then he turned sharp left, flew for another five or six minutes, and then left again, a manœuvre which, if the Russians had held on their course, put him well in front of them. From a thousand feet he started to examine the ground carefully, and apparently he found what he was looking for, for he turned away and landed on a convenient lake, running the machine on until it was close against the sagging pines that came down on all sides to the edge of the ice.

‘Get the guns out,’ he ordered crisply, and the weapons that had been used for the attack on the camp were again produced.

‘Start cutting some sticks—straight ones if possible,’ was Biggles’s next command.

‘What’s the idea?’ inquired Algy, taking out his pocket-knife.

‘You’ll see,’ returned Biggles briefly.

It took them about a quarter of an hour to find a dozen good sticks and strip them of their twigs. Biggles then gathered them under his arm, picked up a rifle, and telling the others to follow with the rest of the weapons, set off on a course that, as Algy soon realized, would intercept that of the Russians. A halt was called while Biggles climbed to the top of a hill to reconnoitre. He soon came running back.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘they’re coming. This way.’

A short walk brought them to a narrow depression between two banks, rather after the manner of a railway cutting. To enhance this effect, through it ran a number of lines in the snow, obviously the tracks of sledges.

‘This must be the track the Russians made on their outward journey,’ Biggles explained. ‘I spotted it from the air, and unless my judgement is at fault, the Russians are now cutting across to strike it, obviously with the intention of returning along it. The party should therefore pass through this cutting—in fact, they’re already within a mile of us. I’m going to ambush them here. Algy, you’ll take one of the machine-guns and stay where you are. Ginger, you take a rifle and get behind those rocks on the other side. Smyth, you take the other machine-gun and find a place near Ginger. Don’t let yourselves be seen. For the love of Mike keep your heads down until I give the signal.’

Biggles waited for the others to take up their allotted positions, and then, picking up the sticks, he worked them horizontally into the snow along each side of the cutting, pointing slightly downwards until they gave a fair representation of rifles covering the track. He then went down to judge the effect, and came back announcing that it was even better than he had hoped. He then took up his own position, one from which he could watch the approach of the Russians without being seen. ‘No shooting unless I give the word,’ he told the others. ‘Show yourselves when I go down to have a word with von Stalhein.’

‘Watch out he doesn’t plug you,’ warned Ginger anxiously.

‘He’d be a fool to do that, with nearly twenty rifles covering him,’ grinned Biggles. ‘If I know von Stalhein, he’s got more sense than to commit suicide.’

They hadn’t long to wait. Ten minutes later the Russians came into view, marching in columns of fours, about forty men in all. Von Stalhein, with the Russian leader, a man conspicuous by his height, and another officer in German uniform, presumably the pilot of von Stalhein’s ’plane, stalked along just ahead of the main body.

Biggles smiled faintly as they strode unsuspecting into the trap, for it was a situation after his own heart. He waited until they were within a score of paces, and then stood up.

‘Halt!’ he called crisply in German. ‘Von Stalhein, tell those men to drop their weapons. One shot, and I’ll tell my men to mow you down where you stand. You’re covered by machine-guns.’

Von Stalhein’s hand flashed to his pocket, but he did not draw the weapon he obviously had in it. His blue eyes moved slowly round the half circle of supposed weapons that menaced him.

Algy got on his knees and dragged his machine-gun into view. Smyth did the same. Ginger, too, could be seen. There was no reason why von Stalhein should for one moment doubt the truth of Biggles’s assertion. The Russians stood still, like a flock of sheep, staring at the ridge.

Biggles walked down the slope into the gully. Von Stalhein watched him, his eyes on Biggles’s face. His own face was expressionless.

‘We’ve met in some queer places, but I little thought that we should bump into each other in this out-of-the-world spot,’ began Biggles pleasantly, as he strolled up to the German. ‘But there,’ he added, ‘I suppose it’s only natural that we should so often find ourselves on the same job. I shouldn’t have troubled you, though, if you hadn’t been lucky enough to strike by accident what we were both looking for.’

‘Major Bigglesworth,’ said von Stalhein coldly, ‘there are times when I seriously wonder if you were created by the devil just to annoy me. I confess that nobody was farther from my thoughts at this moment.’

‘And nobody was farther from my thoughts than you, until you dropped into the game a few hours ago,’ replied Biggles. ‘It was like old times to hear your voice again.’

‘Then it was you who attacked our camp last night?’

‘Yes; but I don’t think attacked is the right word.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we took care not to hurt you. You don’t suppose that it was by accident that all our shots went over your heads, do you? I know that isn’t your way of doing things, but as I told you once before, I should be genuinely sorry if anything happened to you—you’re always the life and soul of the party. But we’re wasting time. You must be anxious to get back, and so am I. D’you mind handing over the papers?’

‘What papers?’

Biggles looked pained. ‘Really, von Stalhein, it isn’t like you to start that childish sort of talk. Don’t make me resort to violence—you know how I hate it. It’s my turn to call the tune. Pass them over and look pleasant.’

Von Stalhein’s eyes never left Biggles’s face. He allowed a frosty smile to part his lips. ‘Yes,’ he agreed bitingly, ‘it’s your turn to call the tune, but the game isn’t over yet.’ He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced a bulky envelope with the flap loose.

Biggles took the papers and glanced through them to make sure that they were what he was looking for. Satisfied that they were, he put them in his own pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said; ‘I won’t detain you any longer. Go right ahead.’ Biggles looked up at the ridge. ‘All right,’ he called, ‘let them pass, but at the first sign of treachery open fire.’ He stood aside.

Von Stalhein bowed, smiling sardonically. ‘We shall meet again before very long, I think,’ he predicted.

‘The pleasure will be yours,’ smiled Biggles. ‘Auf wiedersehen.’

Von Stalhein said something Biggles did not understand, presumably in Russian, to the leader of the party, who, while this conversation had been going on, had not said a word. His face expressed a mixture of consternation and amazement. However, he gave an order and the party moved forward. Von Stalhein did not glance back. They went on through the gully, and soon the party was again a black column tramping across the snow.

Biggles beckoned to the others and they hastened to join him.

‘Nice work, laddie,’ grinned Algy.

‘Not so bad,’ smiled Biggles. ‘Let’s get back to the machine. The sooner we’re out of this the better I shall be pleased. There’s a look in von Stalhein’s eye that I don’t like.’

‘But what could he do now?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve a feeling that he’s got something up his sleeve.’

‘D’you suppose that he’s sent somebody on ahead for reinforcements—I mean, before we stopped him?’

‘Don’t ask me, but it struck me that he wasn’t so upset as he ought to have been. Let’s go. Once we get in the machine he can do what he likes. Ten minutes should see us on our way.’

That a lot can happen in ten minutes Biggles was well aware, but he was certainly not prepared for what was to happen in the next short interval of time. In fact, the success of the mission seemed assured.

Twilight was closing in as they started back, a cold, eerie half-light that spread like a stain from the west over the dreary scene. Even the trees, drooping under their weight of snow, seemed to bow under the dismal depression that hung over everything like a blanket.

The airmen reached the Blenheim without misadventure, and Biggles was just opening the door when from the east came the low, ominous rumble of heavy bombers. At first the sound was no more than a deep vibrant purr that rose and fell in the still air, but it increased rapidly in volume, and it was obvious that the bombers were heading directly towards the spot where the airmen stood staring up into the sky.

‘There they are,’ said Biggles, pointing.

‘Five of ’em,’ muttered Algy, following the direction of Biggles’s outstretched finger. ‘We’d better push off.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Biggles tersely. ‘Von Stalhein must have sent a messenger on ahead, or somehow got in touch with an aerodrome. From the way they’re flying, these big boys are looking for us. Let’s go!’

Later on Biggles felt that he made a mistake in taking off as he did, for had the machine remained stationary there was a good chance that it would not have been seen. But it is easy to be wise after an event. The truth of the matter was—and Biggles in his heart knew it—that with the menace drawing swiftly nearer, he took off in too great a hurry. He did not fail to survey the line of his take-off before opening the throttle, for this was automatic, but instead of his usual intense scrutiny, he gave the surface of the lake no more than a cursory glance. It may have been that as, during the last twenty-four hours, he had made a dozen landings and take-offs from frozen lakes without seeing anything in the nature of an obstacle, he subconsciously took it for granted that this one would be no different from the rest. Be that as it may, Algy was no sooner in his seat than he opened the throttle, for by this time the bombers were nearly overhead.

It was not until the Blenheim was racing tail up across the ice at fifty miles an hour that he saw the little pile of snow directly in his path. For an instant he stared at it, trying to make out what it was, hoping that it was only soft snow; then, in a flash, he knew the truth, and it was the shape of the snow that revealed it. A floating branch or log had been frozen in the ice, and against it the snow had drifted.

Now to change the course of an aircraft travelling at high speed over the ground is a highly dangerous thing to do at any time; the strain on the undercarriage becomes enormous, and is transmitted to the whole machine. The designer cannot make allowances for such strains, and stresses the machine on the assumption that it will take off in a straight line.

As far as Biggles was concerned, it was one of those occasions when a pilot has no time to think. His reaction is instinctive, and whether or not he gets away with it depends a good deal on luck as well as skill. Thus was it with Biggles. To stop was impossible. To try to lift the machine over the obstacle before he had got up flying speed would be to invite disaster. Yet, at the same time, to touch either of his brakes would be equally fatal; so he pressed the rudder-bar lightly with his left foot, hoping that it would give him just enough turning movement to clear the obstacle. Had the machine been on a normal aerodrome he might have succeeded, but on ice it was a different matter. Instantly the Blenheim started to skid, and once started there was no stopping it. It did what would have been impossible on turf. Propelled by the sheer weight it carried, the machine kept on its course, but in a sideways position.

Knowing that a crash was inevitable, and with the fear of fire ever in the background of his mind, Biggles flicked off the ignition switch, and a split second later one of the wheels struck the log. The result was what might have been foreseen. The undercarriage was torn clean away, while the machine, buckled under the force of the collision, was hurled aside. There was a splintering, tearing series of crashes; the metal propellers bit into the ice and hurled it into the air like the jet from a fountain; the fuselage, flat on the ice, with one wing trailing, spun sickeningly for a hundred yards before coming to a stop.

No one moves faster than a pilot after a crash—that is, of course, assuming he is able to move. He is only too well aware that a fractured petrol-lead and one spark kicked out of a dying magneto can result in a sheet of flame from which nothing can save him.

Biggles flung Algy off his lap, where he had been hurled by the collision, and yelling to the others, fell out on to the ice. Algy followed. Ginger, wiping blood from his nose with his sleeve, tumbled out of the centre turret. Biggles dashed to the tail seat. Smyth was in a heap on the floor. They dragged him out, moaning and gasping for breath.

‘He’s only winded, I think,’ said Biggles tersely, kneeling by the mechanic and running his hands over him.

Smyth, still gasping, tried to sit up. ‘I’m all right,’ he panted.

In the panic of the moment they had all forgotten the bombers, even though their roaring now seemed to shake the earth.

Ginger was the first to turn his face upwards. ‘Look!’ he screamed.

From each of the bombers men were falling, one after the other, turning over and over in the air. Then their parachutes started to open, and a swarm of fabric mushrooms floated earthward. The sky seemed to be full of them. Biggles calculated that there were at least fifty.

For a moment nobody spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. The awful truth was all too plain to see, for already the parachutists were dropping on to the ice and, freeing themselves of their harness, were converging on the crash.