Chapter 4
Southward bound
For the rest of that first morning, the Gosling droned slowly southward. For the early part the course lay over lush forests, acres of sugar cane, orange groves, lakes and rivers. Only later would these give way to the famous pampas, the southern plains of shimmering grass with their vast herds of cattle. Settlements were frequent, and in mid afternoon they came to a major town.
"That will be Bahia Blanca," observed Biggles. "No point in wasting petrol going around it, we'll just keep on."
Once they were well clear of Bahia Blanca, Biggles throttled back and looked for a suitable beach, far from any settlement, to put the machine down on. The time was still on the early side, but, as Biggles said, they had had enough flying for one day. The beach that Biggles chose shelved too steeply for a landing, but after making a false run over the water to confirm that it was free from obstruction, he put the aircraft down without trouble. For the next few minutes, after Biggles had taxied close inshore, they were busy making everything snug. After that there was nothing more to do.
Biggles took the Primus from its locker. "We'll have a cup of tea and then go ashore to stretch our legs," he suggested.
"Are you going to sleep on board?" asked Ginger.
"I don't think so. I'd rather sleep on the beach under the stars. It's not too cold this far north, and we seem to have the place to ourselves."
The only signs of life were, in fact, a few gulls that wheeled around the aircraft mewing their disapproval of it.
By the time preparations were made to spend the night ashore the sun was dropping towards the peaks of the Andes far to the west. Early to bed, morning saw Biggles and Ginger deflating their pneumatic mattresses while the sun was still climbing up from the eastern horizon, and before long the Gosling was cruising down its southerly course.
Ginger knew that Biggles had no clear-cut plan of campaign. There was a faint hope that they might see one of the U-boats and track it to the place being used to load the diamonds, for a pilot is able to see a submarine as clearly under water as if it were afloat. However, no great reliance could be placed on this possibility, and therefore Biggles' first idea was to investigate the emergency landing strips marked on the Argentine airforce maps, and to also keep an eye out for signs of any airstrip not marked on the Argentine maps. Biggles reasoned that any airfield likely to be of use to the Germans would be close to the coast, and bear some signs of recent traffic, both by aircraft and ground transport. A truck or large car at the least would be required to transport the raw diamonds to the place where they were loaded onto the U-boat. He had said that he didn't think that it was worthwhile making investigations between Buenos Aires and Bahia Blanca, as Air Commodore Raymond was convinced the diamond mine must be located further south, and so the search would begin in earnest today.
For rather more than half an hour after taking off not a word was spoken. Ginger, with the Argentinian map on his knees, plotted a course south towards the first landing strip that Biggles proposed to investigate. As they approached it, he tapped Biggles on the shoulder, and pointed downwards. Suddenly, the port engine cut suddenly, picked up, went on again, cut again, and then continued with an uneven note. The machine lost height. Ginger, of course, assumed that the power unit was failing, and was about to make a remark to that effect when he saw Biggles' hand moving the throttle. Instead of saying what he was going to say, he remarked sharply: "What the dickens are you doing?"
"I'm afraid we may be going to have a spot of engine trouble," answered Biggles, smiling curiously. "We shall have a forced landing. I'm hoping to create the impression to anyone on the ground that we're having a spot of bother, which would account for us landing. I think we can take the risk of landing at these emergency landing strips. We shall find out what's going on a lot more quickly than if we stayed topsides."
The engine which had been running unevenly now cut abruptly and, powered only by the starboard engine, the nose of the machine went down, and in a minute was gliding down towards the bare brown earth that formed the surface of the airstrip. The white chalk circle could be clearly seen in the centre, and a tattered wind stocking flapped from a pole at one end, next to a small shed.
"Ginger, you fiddle about with the engine and make a pretext of fixing it, while I have a look about," ordered Biggles.
Biggles walked quickly over to investigate the shed. A sign in Spanish proclaimed it to be the property of the Argentinian Government, and promised severe penalties for unauthorised interference. Biggles pushed open the door and saw at a glance that it contained drums of fuel and oil together with sundry other supplies likely to be of use to stranded airmen. Everything seemed dusty and disused.
Next to the shed was the beginning of a rough track that led away through the low scrub that surrounded the landing ground, presumably in the direction of the nearest settlement. Biggles examined the ground closely for signs of recent use by motor vehicles, but without success. While he was doing so, a man, riding a weary-looking horse appeared. He wore a sombrero on the back of his head and the ends of a red handkerchief, tied round his neck, dangled on a check shirt. A long thin cigar drooped from his lips. He carried a quirt. A lariat hung from his saddle. He stopped, looked at the aircraft and smiled cynically. However, he answered Biggles cheerfully enough when he greeted him with usual "Buenos dias, senor."
It turned out that he was a local gaucho, or cowboy, and also the caretaker of the emergency landing ground. Having heard the Gosling's engine, and seen it land, he had come to investigate. Biggles explained that he and his companion were employees of an American firm, engaged in photographic survey work, and had made an emergency landing due to engine trouble. The fellow proved to be both friendly and talkative and in a few minutes had told Biggles that it was six months since the landing strip had last been used. Given the disused state of the track leading from the landing strip, Biggles felt inclined to believe that the man was telling the truth. Assuring the man that his colleague would be able to fix the engine problem, Biggles then walked back to the machine, where Ginger was making a show of clearing a blocked fuel lead.
"Who was that chap? What did he want?" questioned Ginger anxiously.
"Caretaker. He just happened to be about the place when we landed," responded Biggles briefly.
"Do you think they have these fellows stationed at all these emergency landing grounds? If they report back to Buenos Aires that they've seen us it won't be long before von Stalhein rumbles our game."
Biggles shrugged. "I doubt that cowboy will be reporting to anyone. I imagine he's paid a few pesos to keep an eye on things and make sure that people don't pinch the emergency supplies. Now, let's get mobile."
To narrate in detail the hours that followed would be monotonous reiteration. Suffice it to say that the procedure of landing at emergency landing strips was repeated twice, without result, before the day ended. It turned out to be a more time-consuming task than had been anticipated, as they maintained the subterfuge of having engine trouble as an excuse for landing. Photographs were also taken of an area that looked promising, but when they were developed and examined that evening they yielded nothing of interest.
Another dawn found the Gosling again in the air after another quiet nig ht spent on a deserted beach. As soon as it was light enough to offer fair visibility, Biggles headed south, as they were to rendezvous with Algy and Bertie at the island which Bertie insisted on referring to as Treasure Island, at ten o'clock that morning. They had no difficulty finding the place and presently, after following the usual procedure, the Gosling rocked gently to a standstill within a few yards of the beach in a cove on the sheltered side of the island. Finding a suitable patch of sand, Biggles lowered his wheels and crawled up on to it, so they could step out onto dry ground. The two airmen jumped down to stretch their legs and wait. Ten o'clock came and went but Algy and Bertie did not appear. Ginger looked anxiously up into the sky.
"They're late," he muttered.
Biggles was unconcerned. "I made sure we'd get here first," he stated calmly, lighting a cigarette.
After another half an hour or so, the hum of multiple power units was heard from the east, and a medium sized twin-engined flying-boat transport with the familiar red, white, and blue ring markings of the Royal Air Force painted on its boat shaped hull and wings, appeared. With the serene dignity of a monarch bestowing a favour the flying-boat kissed the calm water of the cove and in a surge of creamy foam came to rest not far from the shore. Algy and Bertie appeared at the cabin door and waved to Biggles and Ginger. They then busied themselves with launching an inflatable dingy, into which they piled a number of regulation four gallon petrol tins and some other supplies, and paddled slowly to where the Gosling was drawn up on the sand.
"How's it going?" asked Algy cheerfully, as he scrambled out of the dinghy. "Sorry we're late, there was a bit of a head wind coming across which slowed us down."
Biggles replied shortly. "We've seen nothing of interest as yet. Further, von Stalhein knows we're in Argentina, and he's already had one shot at putting us out of action - permanently. We'll give you the gen later. For now, all hands help to refuel the Gosling."
"But here, I say, old boy, what about a spot of brekker first?" protested Bertie reproachfully through his monocle. "We started for Treasure Island at a ghastly hour and the old tummy feels a bit emptyish - if you get what I mean?"
"I don't want your machine spending any more time within sight of the Argentine coast than it has to. A machine with Royal Air Force markings is bound to attract notice. The last thing we want is someone whistling up a flight of Argentinian fighters to shoot you down. They'd be within their rights to attack a R.A.F plane in their airspace without permission," was Biggles' uncompromising reply. "Get cracking."
Everyone helped to get the petrol tins up onto the beach, and the spirit they contained was transferred to the tanks of the Gosling in a couple of aluminium cans that Algy and Bertie had brought for that purpose. It was slow work, and it took them an hour to finish the job. Biggles relaxed a little when the task had been completed, and agreed to the preparation of a frugal snack. Over jammy biscuits and tea, Biggles and Ginger quickly related their adventures since arriving in Buenos Aires. Algy and Bertie reported that at the Falklands they had received a cordial welcome from the Colonial Secretary and the British Naval Officer in charge, but Air Commodore Raymond had not yet provided any military aircraft for their use. However, he had arranged for orders to be sent through to the Fleet Air Arm for the Royal Navy to make available any machines requested by Biggles from any aircraft carrier or other British ship which happened to pass through the vicinity. They had also brought to the Falklands Biggles' and Ginger's R.A.F. uniforms.
Biggles gave Algy and Bertie the second set of Argentine maps and arranged their next rendezvous. The risk of the flying-boat being seen and reported to the Argentinian authorities was discussed again. Biggles pointed out that, apart from the likelihood of the information being passed on to von Stalhein, unauthorised intrusions into Argentinian airspace by British military aircraft could become a political issue. Questions could be asked in the House of Commons. Biggles said that while Raymond had given him carte blanche to do what he liked, he was not prepared to take the risk of causing an international rumpus at this stage of the game.
"Did you never hear of a stuff called paint? We could paint out our own nationality marks and substitute those of Argentina," suggested Algy.
"It's going too far to paint the machine in Argentinian colours, but you can wash out the R.A.F. rings and British nationality markings and put up the letters S.K." replied Biggles.
Algy looked puzzled. "Whose markings are those?" he queried.
"As far as I'm aware, no country at all," smiled Biggles. "That's why I chose them. Now, you'd better get going. We'll see you in three days, at 10 am again. Here's the drill. If we're not at the rendezvous, you'll know something unforeseen has happened; but don't get in a flap, and don't be in too big a hurry to do something. Give us a day or two. Wait an hour or so at the rendezvous point, and then push off, keeping an ear open for radio messages. I shouldn't need to tell you that there will be no transmitting, except in case of emergency, for the obvious reason that signals might be picked up by the wrong people. Come back to the rendezvous twenty-four hours later, unless you hear to the contrary. This applies to all of our agreed meeting points."
As Algy and Bertie prepared to paddle back to their machine in the dingy, Bertie remarked in a disappointed voice, gesturing towards the scrubby trees that fringed the beach, "I say, chaps, this isn't my idea of a tropical paradise."
"What did you expect?" inquired Biggles.
"I thought there might be a few palm trees and what-have-you knocking about. At least it ought to be warm enough for bathing."
"It's the end of winter here in the Southern Hemisphere," returned Biggles. He added, "It'll get colder, too, as we get further south, and I expect we'll see seals and penguins - and where there are seals and penguins, there are probably sharks. That's another reason to keep clear of the water."
Bertie looked horrified. "I say, old boy, I thought sharks only lived in warm waters."
"Not at all. The biggest ones, the Great White Pointers, are found mostly in cold waters, in the Great Australian Bight, and off the Cape of Good Hope. They feed mainly on seals and sealions, but they're not partial about what they eat. I have a feeling that if they don't live in Argentinian waters, they have a cousin with similarly nasty habits that does. I suggest you avoid the water."
"No fear of me taking a dip, by Jove," replied Bertie warmly. "No bally fear."
Biggles and Ginger watched Algy and Bertie paddle out to the flying-boat. In a few minutes it took off and headed south. The Gosling followed suit shortly afterwards.
For over a week the search for the elusive landing strip continued, but without the slightest encouragement. Nor did Biggles and Ginger often see other aircraft. On a couple of occasions they sighted a passenger plane of the Argentinian national line, and they saw several small machines with civil markings. Once they saw three military machines of an American type flying in formation at high altitude but the pilots were either not concerned with them, or did not see them, for they made no move in the direction of the Gosling.
Neither Biggles nor Ginger said anything, but each knew what the other was thinking. Long silences made it clear that hopes of finding the objective were fading. Anything like enthusiasm had become mere labour. They rendezvoused another couple of times with the flying-boat, now painted with the meaningless S.K marks, to refuel and resupply. Algy and Bertie complained that the whole business was, as Bertie put it, getting more than a bit of a bind, but no one had as yet mentioned failure. At least the weather remained fair, with no sign of the fogs and storms that the American pilot had mentioned to Biggles and Ginger. However, the air had become progressively cooler as they moved south, and the vegetation changed to the grass of the pampas. Trees became uncommon, and they began to see the sheep flocks that Carruthers had mentioned, as well as cattle. They also saw something of the typical wildlife of the South American pampas: those ostrich-like flightless birds known as rheas, and vacunas, the wild cousins of the domesticated llama.
Biggles and Ginger had now worked their way within striking distance of the city of San Julian, and Biggles privately decided that when they had examined the area to the south, as far as Rio Gallegos, he would head back to Buenos Aires, make a negative report to Air Commodore Raymond through the British Embassy, and request permission to return home. While it was galling to admit defeat there seemed little else that could usefully be done, and while Biggles had complete confidence in Angus' ability to deal with any situation that might arise in his absence he had become anxious to rejoin the rest of the squadron in England.