Chapter 9
The rescue
A wall of leaping flames six feet high swept towards Biggles and Ginger. They crouched low in their crevice amongst the rocks and held their handkerchiefs over their faces. Where there were shrubs, bracken, or anything else that would burn, the fire came on up towards the rocky outcrop, but amongst the rocks the herbage grew only in tufts and clumps, which slowed it down, as it had to jump from one to the other. Hot sparks rained down on them, and set patches of their clothes smouldering. Then with a roar and a hiss the fire swept past their hiding place.
Time wore on. The sea breeze began to clear away the smoke.
"Phew! That was a close squeak," whispered Biggles, removing the handkerchief from his face. His eyes were red and bloodshot from the irritation of the smoke, and his face was blacked with soot and flying ash. Ginger was in no better state.
"Keep your head down, Ginger," ordered Biggles. "We've lost all our cover now, and von Stalhein and his crowd may still be hanging around."
Cautiously, he rose to his knees and peered out. Except for a faint wreath of smoke here and there the fire appeared to have burnt itself out. The slope down to the beach was now as black as a coal face, and as far as the eye could see was a carbonised expanse on which nothing remained except a few outcrops of rock and the blackened skeletons of the larger bushes. There was no sign of von Stalhein and his party.
"The scenery wasn't exactly thrilling before, but now it would be hard to find a word for it," remarked Biggles succinctly. "What a mess. I can't see anyone about, so let's go on to where that track comes down to the beach. Watch how you go - these rocks will be hotter than Hades."
Biggles and Ginger made their way down the slope to the sand of the beach without incident, save that on one occasion Ginger incautiously stepped into a hollow full of hot ashes, into which he sank above his ankles. He leapt out again with alacrity. Biggles smiled. "What's so funny?" snarled Ginger, frantically brushing hot embers out of his socks.
"You, laddie," Biggles told him cheerfully. "I haven't seen you move so fast in a long time."
As Biggles had expected, they found a definite well-worn track leading away from the beach at its southern end. Drifts of ash covered it in places, but it could be clearly seen winding towards the top of the ridge.
"This should lead us to the road," declared Biggles with satisfaction, striking out along the path. "It's starting to get dark, and I want to get out of this mess while there's still enough light to see."
They had not gone far when they struck a trickle of dirty water running down from the higher ground. "Water!" gasped Ginger. "Let's have a drink. My throat's like dust after breathing all that smoke."
In a moment they were both drinking greedily out of their cupped hands.
"That's pretty good stuff," vowed Ginger, rinsing his grimy face.
"You wouldn't think so in the ordinary way," grinned Biggles, taking another sip or two and allowing the liquid to trickle over his lips with ineffable relish.
Refreshed, Biggles and Ginger went on in light that was beginning to fail with the close of day. Just as it was getting too dark to see anything distinctly they reached a road. Although rough and somewhat rutted, it was broad and appeared to be of some importance. The fire had burnt itself out at this point, and the vegetation on the other side of the road was markedly different from the coastal scrub they had seen near the beach, being mostly waist high grass broken by the occasional clump of bushes.
Biggles stepped out onto the road and looked up and down. It was deserted. He observed, "I hate walking, but there's no other way. Let's get weaving."
"What are we going to do about Algy?" questioned Ginger.
"I don't quite know - yet," replied Biggles. "There's a good chance that Algy will be at the old Aeronavale base at Puerto Guano. The first thing is to get there. When we've done that we'll see what can be done."
"What if von Stalhein is waiting for us to arrive?"
Biggles shrugged. "We shall have to go anyway, but he must be hoping that we were burnt to death in the fire. That may make him careless."
Biggles and Ginger set off, heading south. Half an hour's walk brought them to a crossroads, at which stood a couple of dilapidated road signs bearing the names Puerto Guano and Rio Gallegos. "Left to Puerto Guano - one kilometre," translated Biggles. "Straight ahead to Rio Gallegos - we don't want to go there."
They had not been walking long before they came to two straggling rows of more or less dilapidated dwellings. As the moon had not yet risen, it was by now completely dark. Lights showed at the windows of the houses. Cooking smells were in the air.
Amongst the houses there was also a little general shop and a hardware store, indicated by sundry pot and pans outside the door. By the light of an oil lamp swinging from a chain, the proprietor of the hardware store - a gaunt, lean old man with a hooked nose - could be seen packing up his merchandise and preparing to close his shop. There were only a couple of other people about, and they paid no attention to Biggles and Ginger.
"These must be the homes of the workers at the port and the meat freezing plant," murmured Biggles. "I wonder if we dare ask the way to the airstrip?"
He halted and spoke politely to the old man in his best Spanish. With the courtesy that is natural to Spaniards, or people of Spanish descent, everywhere - provided that they are not rubbed the wrong way - the old man paused in his work and explained that at the far end of the village the road turned downhill to the harbour. Another road led uphill to the airstrip.
"Se prohibe la entrada," he added emphatically, followed by a torrent of Spanish too rapid for Ginger to understand.
"Muchas gracias, senor," acknowledged Biggles.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the old man, Biggles said to Ginger in a low voice, "Did you hear what he said? Strangers are discouraged from visiting in no uncertain fashion. One of the local lads got himself shot at a little while ago while trying to pinch some corrugated iron to repair the roof of his house. We shall have to watch our step."
On the other side of the village the thick coastal scrub resumed but Biggles and Ginger found the turn off to the airstrip without difficulty. A faint noise of sheep bleating could be heard in the distance, which puzzled Ginger until he remembered the existence of the meat freezing plant.
Before Biggles and Ginger had gone far lights began to show ahead and they knew they were nearing the end of the trail, but it was now too dark to see anything distinctly. Then the sound of an automobile engine coming up the road behind them sent them into a ditch at the side of the road. The vehicle turned out to be an American jeep. It drove past. As there was no one behind the jeep, Biggles and Ginger crawled back out of the ditch as soon as it had gone past. The jeep stopped no more than twenty yards ahead. Standing there, they watched a wooden gate, festooned with barbed wire, dragged open. On the other side of the gate was a sentry-box, but it appeared to be disused. The glare of the headlights of the jeep reflected on a continuation of the wire told them that the airfield, or whatever lay beyond, was enclosed, and that they were on the wrong side of the wire.
The jeep drove through the gateway and stopped. The gate was pulled back across the end of the track, and the vehicle drove on.
"Now what?" breathed Ginger.
"We'll follow the fence," answered Biggles. "There must be a way through that wire."
Biggles, with Ginger close behind him, had almost reached the fence when from somewhere in the darkness ahead came a sound which brought him to a halt. It was a low snarl. Biggles' eyes probed the shadows ahead but without success. He drew his automatic. The movement was greeted by another snarl, this time with a definite menace in it. Biggles started to back away, his pistol at the ready. "Let's get out of this," he said crisply. Quite apart from a disinclination to fire a shot which would betray their presence to the enemy, he had more sense than to take on a sizeable wild beast with a hand gun in what was almost pitch darkness.
There was another snarl, and Ginger caught a glimpse of a black, slinking shadow bounding away with feline grace.
"What in the name of goodness was that?" he exclaimed in alarm. "It looked like a jaguar!"
"It couldn't have been a jaguar; they only live in the jungle," replied Biggles. "But there is another kind of big cat in south America - the puma."
"One wouldn't be likely to be here alone. It's almost certain to have a mate. I don't feel like blundering about in the dark - we might bump into it," he continued. "We'll stay here until the moon comes up and we can see what we're doing."
Biggles sat down on the ground, took out his cigarette case, and calmly lit a cigarette. Ginger sat next to him, a little shaken by their encounter with the puma. An hour passed with hardly a word spoken. Once there was a crashing in the bushes and a squealing noise, not far away. The squealing ended with a pathetic, choking sob; then a silence followed by a ghastly purring sound.
Ginger shivered, and remarked, "That doesn't sound very pretty, does it?"
"By the time that puma has had a good fill of fresh meat he'll be more likely to think about forty winks than worrying us," said Biggles, without emotion.
An hour or so later the moon, nearly full, rose over the horizon and flooded the scene with its silvery radiance. By its light they investigated the fence; and it did not take them long to perceive that without wire cutters there was no hope of getting to the far side of it. It appeared to be of recent construction, and with strands stretched taut only a few inches apart it was not less than eight feet high, with loops or festoons of barbed wire along the top to entangle anyone who tried to climb over it. But then, as Biggles pointed out, had the fence not been manproof there would have been no point to it. "The Germans always are thorough in little things," he observed. "Von Stalhein is taking no chances with unwelcome visitors."
"Let's go back to the village and see if that fellow at the hardware shop has a pair of wire cutters," suggested Ginger.
Biggles shook his head. "No use," he said briefly. "He wouldn't have anything like that in his stock. We\rquote ll press on in the hopes of finding a hole somewhere."
They trudged along the fence for a few hundred yards but without success. Biggles was just about to suggest returning to the entrance to the enclosure and examining the possibility of throwing their jackets over the wooden gate, and by this means attempting to climb it, when his foot caught in an unseen obstruction. Instinctively, he put out his hand to seize hold of the fence, but at the last moment he remembered the barbed wire, which was capable of tearing his hand to shreds, and consequently measured his length on the ground. He sat up with a grunt of satisfaction. "This is a stroke of luck."
Ginger ran to help him. "What d'you mean, a stroke of luck?" he inquired sarcastically. "Have you sprained your ankle?"
"No, I'm fine. Look at this armadillo burrow I fell into. It goes under the fence. The little beasts are terrific diggers, and with a bit of work we should be able to make this hole big enough for us to get through."
They set to work with a will at enlarging the hole, using a couple of sharpened sticks that Biggles cut with his jack-knife. It was not easy, and hands, which had to be used to scrape away the loosened soil, were soon showing signs of harsh treatment. But progress, if slow, was made. After a while the hole was big enough to put head and shoulders through. Ginger wriggled through. Biggles followed. Being somewhat larger than Ginger, his jacket caught on the bottom strand of the wire, and it took a couple of minutes for Ginger to disentangle him. Finally, however, they both stood on the other side of the fence, warily surveying the scene that lay before them.
In the moonlight Biggles and Ginger saw a number of hangars spaced out along the runway. Dark patches on the ground between the hangars indicated the presence of abandoned gun-pits. Clustered at one end, close to the gateway to t he airfield, were a number of smaller buildings. From one of the buildings, yellow light shone through the windows. The jeep that they had seen earlier was parked in front of it.
"No one on guard duty," whispered Biggles.
"Do you think it's a trap?"
"That's a risk we shall have to take. We'll see if we can get up to that building and find out what's going on."
There were no trees, no bushes, nothing to offer cover, for these, as is customary near aerodromes had been removed to prevent them from becoming obstructions to the movement of aircraft. However, they worked their way cautiously towards the building with the lighted windows, keeping to the shadows of the buildings as far as possible. Eventually the objective was reached. Several of the windows appeared to be open, and a buzz of conversation could be heard. Light streamed from an open doorway, which was sheltered by a portico. Three or four rifles had carelessly been left leaning against the wall near the door, and Biggles eyed them thoughtfully, his military training revolting at such behaviour.
Suddenly to their ears came the soft strumming of a guitar. Presently the guitar playing ceased, and from somewhere not far away came the voice of a man singing, loudly, in a rather unmelodious baritone. The words were in English, and to Ginger nothing had ever sounded more incongruous; for the mournful ballad was one once popular in the early days of war flying.
Who cares to the dust returning,
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall be no more.
"What the deuce is going on?" exclaimed Ginger. "A concert?"
"That's Algy," snapped Biggles. "Come on. He must be reckoning we're somewhere about."
He hurried around a corner, guided by the sound as the singer continued.
So stand by your glasses steady,
This world is a world of lies,
A cup to the dead already,
A glass for the next man who dies.
The voice was coming from the moonless side of a small square building standing a little apart from the others.
Looking up Biggles could just make out the square of a small window, high up, and a pale disk which he knew was a human face.
"Algy! Is that you?" called Biggles softly.
The answer cam instantly. "Yes, I'm here, Biggles. Is Ginger with you?" came Algy's voice, cheerfully. "I was hoping you were around, hence the singing."
"D'you call that singing?" said Ginger scornfully.
"What's wrong with my singing?" demanded Algy coldly.
Biggles broke in. "Cut that out," he snapped. "Algy, what's stopping you from getting out?"
"Iron bars. I can't budge them. I fancy this was the detention cell when this base was occupied by the Argentinian Airforce. It seems to be used as a storehouse now – I'll tell you about that in a minute."
"Where's the door?"
"Around the other side."
"Are we likely to be disturbed by a sentry?"
"No, there's no guard, but I fancy one would have been posted if von Stalhein was still here," replied Algy.
"What, has he gone?" questioned Biggles in astonishment. "He doesn't leave a job in the middle."
"Yes, he's gone. I don't know why or where. As soon as we got here, some Argentinian fellow came running up to him in a state of great excitement, and gave him a wireless message. He gave orders for his machine - that blue-nosed Messerschmitt - to be refuelled, and then he jumped into it and flew off. He was in a tearing rage, too. Anyway, as soon as von Stalhein left the Argentinians pushed me in here and locked the door. As soldiers they seem to be a bunch of useless erks, but they've treated me very decently. They gave me a good dinner and half a bottle of wine with it."
"You lucky blighter," snorted Ginger. "My stomach's falling out. It's about time we had something to eat."
"Stop thinking about food. We're wasting time," retorted Biggles curtly. "I propose to look around the sheds here for some tools, a file or something, and see if we can cut through the bars on the window."
"It's not a very big window," said Algy dubiously. "I shall have a dickens of a job getting through it. And it's very high up. I'm standing on a bench as it is. What about breaking down the door?"
"What with?" replied Biggles sarcastically. "It'll be made of solid wood. We'd need an axe to knock it down with, and that would make a tremendous racket."
"What about shooting out the lock?"
There was a short pause while Biggles considered the idea. "No," he decided. "It would take too many shots - and the first one will bring a crowd here."
The mention of the lock gave Ginger an idea. In a voice quivering with excitement he asked, "Biggles, have you still got those skeleton keys that fellow dropped in our hotel room in Buenos Aires?"
Biggles started. "By James, Ginger, I have," he declared. "My brain must be getting addled."
He ran around to the other side of the building and put his hand in his pocket for the skeleton keys. After some failures one was found to fit the door. Biggles pushed it open.
The building, which was just one big room, was dimly lit by a stub of candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. A bench had been pushed against the wall beneath the window on the other side. In one corner was a trestle bed, with blankets folded at its head. There was no other furniture. Piled in another corner were a large number of small but obviously heavy sacks. All these things Biggles saw in much less time than it takes to describe.
Algy was standing in the middle of the room. He gestured towards the sacks and said in tones of suppressed excitement, "What do you think of these, Biggles? I haven't been able to open one but they seem to be full of pebbles."
Biggles took his jack-knife and cut a slit in one of the sacks. Out trickled a quantity of what looked like coarse gravel and river pebbles.
"Ah," breathed Biggles. "Uncut diamonds. It's plain enough to see through the thing now. No doubt the U-boat ties up at the wharf at some unearthly hour and they run the stuff down to the harbour in a lorry."
Algy grinned. "I thought so. Those Argentinians will get a kick in the pants from von Stalhein when he discovers that they locked me in his diamond dump."
Ginger broke in impatiently. "Now that we've found what we've been looking for, let's get out of here."
"Good idea," declared Algy. "How did you fellows get past the wire, anyway?"
"We crawled through an armadillo burrow," replied Ginger. He looked at Biggles questioningly. "Are we leaving the way we came?"
"No," replied Biggles. "This walking makes an old man of me. My legs were made for rudder-bars, not padding the hoof like an animal. We've got to get transport of some sort. There's a jeep parked outside the Agentinian mess. We'll take it."
He continued, "Algy - you drive. Ginger and I will deal with any of the Argentinians who try to stop us."
Swiftly, and without any attempt at concealment, Biggles walked straight across the open moonlit area towards the jeep. Algy and Ginger followed. They reached the jeep just as a man appeared at the door of the building. He saw them and shouted something, then snatched up one of the rifles and raised it to his shoulder.
"All right. Let her go," ordered Biggles. "Don't stop for anything. This is it."
He snapped off a couple of shots from his automatic in the general direction of the doorway. He did not trouble to take aim, but blazed away simply with the idea of keeping up a hot covering fire. Ginger joined in.
The gears engaged and the jeep moved forward, gathering speed. Its headlights cut a wedge of light through the darkness. By the time it had reached the gate it was doing forty. Faced with a right-angled turn and knowing the tendency of a jeep to overturn when cornering at high speed, Algy had to steady the pace, but he was still going fast when with a splintering crash the jeep smashed into the gates. The gates collapsed, the jeep swerved violently, grazed the trunk of a small tree, and ricocheted back onto the road. Algy clung to the wheel. The others clung to the sides of the jeep.
A few shots were fired. A bullet whanged against some metal part of the vehicle, and they were away.