Chapter 5
Bad luck for Biggles
Biggles had appointed a final rendezvous with Algy and Bertie at a little cove not far north of Puerto Guano. It may be said at the outset that the Gosling did not keep this appointment, due to a series of misfortunes such as to defy belief. Biggles and Ginger first met trouble, on the morning of the day preceding that appointed for the rendezvous, from a cause which, while fortunately not common, has happened more often than is generally realised, and is a regular hazard over a particular type of country in certain parts of the world. In quite a few cases the result has been fatal for the aircraft and its crew. In a word, they were in collision with a bird.
Collisions with smaller birds that congregate in numbers, such as seagulls, are such a constant menace on certain stations, notably marine airports, that all sorts of devices have been adopted to deal with the problem, from firing Very lights to the flying of specially trained birds of prey. The ancient sport of falconry, revived on some R.A.F. aerodromes, has done something to reduce the danger by scattering the offending birds when an aircraft is asking for permission to come in.
Naturally, the bigger the bird the more serious is the result of the collision, for which reason this particular type of accident has occurred most frequently with serious results over mountain regions overseas where eagles, condors, vultures and the like, are commonly to be found. The northern frontiers of India, Iraq and Pakistan, have bad records, both civil and military machines having been victims. Aircraft have been brought down over the Andes and the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. There has been more than one fatal accident over the European Alps. It is not unlikely that some of the unsolved "mystery" accidents have been due to this same unpredictable factor, for which no pilot or his aircraft can be blamed. It is a flying risk that must be accepted in the same way that ships are exposed to dangers which neither seamanship nor scientific instruments have been able to eliminate entirely. No matter how wakeful an airman may be, all he can do to minimise the risk is by taking evasive action if he sees the bird in time. He does not always see it, nor can he be expected to see it if it is hovering in the sun well above him. Even if he does see it he may not be able to escape the bird if it attacks him, for the creature is in its element and he is not.
The question of how far the se accidents have been the result of a deliberate attack has often been argued. The most feasible explanation is that it happens both ways. But there certainly have been occasions when big predatory birds have made an unprovoked onslaught on what they may regard as an intruder in their own particular domain. Surviving pilots have stated this. A bird, apparently, has not the sagacity to realise that, no matter what may happen to the aircraft, it must itself be killed - as it always is.
As far as the aircraft is concerned the result of such an encounter must, of course, depend on where it is struck; but it must be obvious that a weight of perhaps twenty pounds, travelling at high speed in the opposite direction, is bound to cause damage no matter where it may strike. Light planes have had a wing knocked clean off. Fabric coverings have been torn to pieces and wooden airscrews have been shattered. Even large machines have had a main spar fractured. Radiators have been holed. In every case the bird was smashed to pulp.
The condor that resented the intrusion of Biggles' Gosling came at him out of the blue. Biggles was taken completely by surprise, for as he later freely admitted to Ginger, he was under the impression that condors were strictly creatures of the mountains and was unaware that they routinely fly between their haunts in the Cordillera and the coast in search of food. He saw the bird a split second before it struck. There was no time to do anything. A black mass blotted out his view. Almost simultaneously there was a tremendous crash and the windscreen was smothered by a sticky mass of blood and feathers. Biggles realised instantly what had happened. Shouting for Ginger, who was in the cabin, he slipped quickly into the second pilot's seat, the forward view from his own being practically obliterated. It was not much better from the new position. Air pressure soon removed most of the feathers, but the blood appeared to be congealed, and the feathers that remained, some with pieces of flesh adhering, looked like sticking to it. He throttled back to little more than a glide until the extent of the damage could be ascertained.
came scrambling into the darkened cockpit. He took one look and gasped: "Crikey! What a mess!"
Almost immediately, one of the engines cut out dead. Then as quickly as it had stopped, the engine sprang to life again. Twice the engine cut out, and each time it picked up again. Another brief interval, and it went for the third and last time.
"I shall have to go down," decided Biggles. "I daren't risk going on. What's below us? Have a look. I can't see anything from here. Buck up!"
The decision Biggles made was prompted by the fact that their presence at any regulation airport was likely to be promptly reported to von Stalhein. In other circumstances he would no doubt have tried to reach the nearest airport, at San Julian. He was relieved to find the machine still airborne with the controls unaffected. It might have been worse, much worse. He had at least been given time to think.
Ginger came back.
"Keep her going!" he exclaimed. "Keep going just as you are. We're in luck. You've a long straight beach straight ahead."
Biggles went on down, peering through one of the small clear spaces in the perspex. He could see a wide bay some distance ahead.
"Keep her straight," commanded Ginger. "You're doing fine. You've miles of room. I can't see anything in the way."
In a long flying career Biggles had made many anxious landings. He had made landings in even more risky places, but not being able to see clearly was the trouble; otherwise, as he remarked when they were on the ground, the thing would have been simple, notwithstanding that only one engine was functioning. As it was, he could see through the side windows but not in the direction in which he was travelling. Ginger did all that was possible in the way of a running commentary.
"You're doing fine," he kept saying, encouragingly. "Starboard a little ... little more ... Okay. Hold her there. You're at a hundred feet for a guess. All clear ahead. Nearly there. Steady!"
Biggles eased the control column back gently. The machine began to sink.
"Now!" yelled Ginger.
Biggles flattened out, a few feet too high, judging from the bump he took when the machine touched down. Another small bump or too and the Gosling rumbled slowly to a standstill. Biggles closed his eyes, shook his head, and passed a hand over his face.
"All right," he said quickly, pulling himself together. "Let's get down and see the extent of the mischief. Where did that infernal bird come from? Did you see it?"
"Not until it was right on top of us. It seemed to fly straight into us."
The examination of the aircraft did not take long. Luckily, no real damage had been done, but it could have been much more serious. The sticky mess of gore on the windscreen was nothing. That could soon be cleaned off. Unfortunately, however, the bulk of the bird, the entrails, sinews and talons, after glancing off the perspex, had jammed one of the air intakes. It was this blockage that had caused the engine to cut out as the Gosling landed. Apart from that there was little to worry about. The condor's curved beak had gashed the leading edge of the centre section. That, too, could be put right, although it might take a little time.
Grimacing with disgust Biggles removed the bulk of the pulverised carcass from the air intake. "It'll take a little while to clean this up so the sooner we get cracking the better," he announced.
Although the work to be done appeared to offer no great difficulty, and would, in fact, have been a simple matter at a maintenance unit where every sort of repair equipment was available, it was soon clear that, without such facilities, it would take some time. They worked all the morning, Biggles on meticulously clearing out the air intake and Ginger on the centre-section, stopping occasionally to scan the landscape for possible visitors. None came.
It was midday by the time Biggles was satisfied that they had at least done all that was possible. He made a test by running up the engines, and was well pleased to find that, as far as could be ascertained, everything was in order.
"Are we pushing off right away?" asked Ginger.
"Yes," answered Biggles. "But we've no hope of making the rendezvous by tomorrow morning. Given that, I don't see any need to hurry. We'll keep on with our survey work, and catch up with Algy and Bertie the day after tomorrow. They know not to wait around for us if we're late, but to come back twenty-four hours later."
Biggles and Ginger encountered their second piece of bad luck on the morning of the next day. The sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky when the Gosling took off to continue its southward journey, but it had been in the air for less than an hour when a wraith of white mist enveloped the machine with a clammy embrace and blotted out the landscape. The noise of the engines faded suddenly as Biggles throttled back to lose height, and then sprang to life again as they sank through the vapour and the ground once more appeared below. From east to west, straight across their path, lay a dark, uniform indigo belt that could only mean rain, and heavy rain at that. Land and sea, at a distance of a mile or more, were swallowed up in gloom. Then, as so often happens in such conditions, the moisture-laden sky above began to close down on them. Twice within five minutes the machine was enveloped in opaque mist, so thick that the wing tips were lost in it and each time the pilot was compelled to lose height in order to keep the ground in sight. Then a sharp spatter of rain struck them, it formed into curious little globules on the metal skin of the wings, tiny beads of moisture that danced towards the trailing edge and then disappeared into space.
Visibility quickly grew worse until Biggles could only just see the ground from a hundred feet, so thick was it that at times it was difficult to see whether land or see lay below. He pushed his stick forward a trifle, staring down, and saw that they were passing over a little natural creek. The water in it was smooth, for the storm had not yet had time to beat up a big sea, and he made up his mind with the promptness of long experience. The roar of the engines ceased abruptly; the machine tilted in a swift "S" turn, sideslipped, flattened out, and cut a creamy wake across the smooth water of the creek.
"And that's that," observed Ginger philosophically, as the machine ran to a standstill.
"As you say, that's that," agreed Biggles, unfastening the strap of his safety belt. "And I don't mind telling you that I'm not sorry to be on the carpet. Did you ever see visibility cut right out like that in your life?"
"Never."
"Nor I. Well, we're down and that's something," went on Biggles.
"What are we going to do?"
"Taxi along this creek until we find a sheltered place to moor up, and then fix a spot of tea. One thing I'm not going to do is take off again in this soup. My goodness, hark at the rain."
"If it keeps on it looks as if we're here for the day."
"We are as far as I'm concerned," declared Biggles, as he opened the throttle and began taxiing along the low, bleak shore. "Fog is the dickens. Here we are, what about this?"
At the spot indicated, a short, narrow arm of the creek felt its way through wire-grass and sandhills that arose here and there from a swampy reed-covered plain.
"Do as well as anywhere," agreed Ginger. "Go ahead, taxi right in and beach her here. I'll get out and have a look around."
He jumped ashore on firm sand and ran to the top of the nearest sandhill. He was back again in a moment. "Nothing," he said, "Not a blooming thing in sight, although I can't see more than a hundred yards, if it comes to that."
"Well, come back in and let's have some tea; maybe the clouds will lift again presently."
In this hope they were doomed to disappointment, however, for several hours later, although the rain had stopped, the air was still thick with mist and visibility practically nil. Biggles looked at his watch, and turned to Ginger. "You realise what the first result of this will be?"
"No - what?"
"While this fog lasts we're tied to the carpet. If we don't turn up at the rendezvous in the morning, the next thing we shall have will be Algy and Bertie on the prowl, looking for us."
"That'll be a lot of use if we're blanketed in murk," said Ginger bitterly. "They won't be able to find us even if they come looking when we don't turn up. Curse the fog."
"Unfortunately, cursing it won't shift it," returned Biggles evenly. "It might lift at daylight, and we'll be able to get off then."
"At least we're not far from the objective," he continued, looking at the map. "This creek must be part of the estuary of the Coig River, which looks to be only a hundred or so miles from the place where we're meeting up with Algy and Bertie. The map indicates that the river breaks up into a lot of little channels when it gets to the sea."
Following this exchange there was a long spell of silence in which Biggles went outside and lowered his stock of cigarettes. Finally, he returned to the cabin and announced, "We may as well have something to eat and get some shut-eye. We'll sleep in the machine tonight."
Biggles was up not long after dawn, to discover with a shock that the land was still shrouded in white, opaque mist, that reduced visibility to zero. It was chilly, too, so he lost no time in putting the kettle on for a hot drink. However, to Biggles' satisfaction, quite suddenly the mist began to lift, thinning as it rose. A shaft of watery sunshine struck through it; an area of pale blue sky appeared, and like magic the air was clear except for a few swiftly dispersing clouds. He poked Ginger, who was still asleep, in the ribs. "It's daylight. Time to get moving."
At first Ginger merely groaned and snuggled further into his blankets, grumbling at the cold. Then he abruptly sat up and exclaimed, "Hark! What's that?"
From the distance, growing in volume every moment, came a rushing noise, as of an approaching hurricane.
"Geese, I should say," answered Biggles. "Geese or swans - or both."
And even as he spoke, with a tremendous clamour the birds began to pass low overhead. How many there were could not even remotely be guessed, for the swishing of wings lasted for several minutes. The sky was black with them.
Biggles lit a cigarette, and commented irritably, "I wonder how long this goes on? It looks as if we shall have confine our flying activities to the hours when a lot of perishing birds don't want to occupy the atmosphere. An aircraft might as well fly into a brick wall as into heavyweight poultry on this scale. The last thing we need is another collision with a bird."
More geese went over, the leader honking loudly. There were flights of other birds, too - swans, ducks and buff-necked ibis, whose characteristic melancholy cries they had heard before on their flight south. There must have hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of birds. It was certainly an unforgettable natural spectacle, and the noise of beating wings was deafening.
After half an hour or so the flighting ceased, and Biggles moved towards the cockpit. "Let's get mobile," he announced. "What the dickens was that?" he went on in alarm, as the machine gave a sudden lurch. He put his head out of the cabin window and frowned. "We're a nice pair of fools," he observed bitterly. "Well, that settles it, anyway; we're here for the rest of the morning now without any argument."
"Why, what is it?"
"The tide's gone out while we were gaping at those birds and left us high and dry; even if we could get our wheels down there isn't room to turn."