Chapter 11
Move and counter move
Only a few minutes after taking off from Vicuna the little village of Puerto Guano came into sight and Ginger could see a ship, as tiny as a child's toy at that distance, tied up at the mole busy loading what were presumably frozen carcasses of mutton. The odd thought struck Ginger that he might, one day, after he arrived home, find himself eating a chop from one of those same dead sheep.
Without bothering to circle the aerodrome, Biggles took the Dragon Moth down and landed, finishing his run near the hangars. "Keep out of sight, Ginger," he ordered. "There's no need for the Argentines to know that there's two of us on this job. Step in only if I get into a jam."
As Biggles climbed out, an unshaven man in a faded, untidy uniform emerged in a desultory fashion from the mess building and came slowly towards the machine. Apart from him the aerodrome was deserted. The man looked mildly puzzled but not alarmed at seeing a strange face. "Senor, what do you mean, landing at this hour?" he grumbled in Spanish. "You are not expected until after four o'clock. Don't you know I always rest at this time?"
"No," replied Biggles in the same language. "It's my first time on this run, and I was anxious not to be late, so I left early - there was supposed to be a strong headwind today, but it didn't materialise. Where is everybody?"
"Resting," was the reply.
"Shall we leave unloading the machine until later? I wouldn't mind a drink now."
"Certainly, senor, I will join you in taking refreshment."
Concealed in the machine, Ginger watched Biggles and the Argentinian walk towards the mess building. A few minutes later, six men emerged, with their hands in the air. Biggles walked behind them, his automatic in his hand. The little group made their way towards the prison hut from which Biggles and Ginger had liberated Algy only the night before. They disappeared around the corner and shortly afterwards Biggles reappeared, alone. He walked back towards the Dragon Moth, and Ginger jumped down to join him.
"Everything go according to plan, chief?" he questioned.
"Piece of cake," Biggles replied briefly. "Now let's get cracking. We've got to get the machine out of sight."
Together, they pushed the Dragon Moth into the nearest hangar. Biggles found an oil stained pair of overalls in a corner and put them on. He also smeared some oil on his hands and face.
A little more than an hour later the drone of aircraft engines was heard approaching. A Dragon Moth appeared. It circled the airstrip and prepared to land.
"We'll follow the same drill," ordered Biggles. "Stay out of sight in the hangar unless it becomes necessary for you to take a hand."
The Dragon Moth landed and taxied up towards the hangars. A man in flying kit jumped down and stood by the nose of the machine. Biggles strolled nonchalantly toward him, and hailed him.
"Buenos dias, senor," he greeted, feeling in his pocket for his gun. As his fingers closed around the butt of the automatic, a voice spoke.
"Good afternoon, Major Bigglesworth. I thought I might meet you here," it said mockingly.
Biggles recognised the voice instantly. He spun round, to find himself staring into the blue muzzle of a Mauser revolver held, as he already knew, by Erich von Stalhein.
For several seconds he was speechless with shock. He had often been astonished, but never in all his experience had he been so violently shaken by an event for which he was not only unprepared but had not considered possible. It required an effort to steady his spinning facilities. He was really angry with himself for having stepped into the trap but all he said was, "Congratulations."
"On what?"
"On changing your nationality - again. A little while ago, you were sailing under a Scandinavian flag. And now you're flying under the Argentinian insignia. In the circumstances, I can only congratulate you. After her recent actions in Europe, Germany's name must stink to high heaven in the nostrils of civilised nations."
The thrust clearly went home. Von Stalhein turned red and then white, and for a moment Biggles thought he was going to strike him. Biggles stiffened. He had no intention of taking a blow from the German whatever the circumstances. Then, with an obvious effort, von Stalhein recovered his composure.
"I assume Lacey and Hebblethwaite are pursuing their meddlesome activities not far away," he commented. "Where are they?"
"I suppose there's no harm in your asking but I have a higher regard for your intelligence than to suppose that you expect a correct answer," answered Biggles. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, Biggles had the idea of delaying von Stalhein from searching the hangars for as long as possible, in order to give Ginger a chance to escape or hide. One of the German's few weaknesses was vanity, and Biggles determined to play upon it if he could.
"By the way, how did you know I would be here?" he continued.
"Knowing your nerve, I expected something of this kind," sneered von Stalhein. "Clever, but not clever enough. Oh, we'd better have that pistol of yours, if you don't mind."
Biggles had no alternative but to hand over the weapon. To attempt to use it at this juncture would have been suicidal, for half a dozen German troops had now climbed down from the Dragon Moth. His pockets were searched. Von Stalhein scowled malevolently at the sight of the skeleton keys but said nothing. Biggles' watch was removed, and handcuffs placed on his wrists. Von Stalhein then snapped an order to his men, and they moved off together to make a thorough search of the airfield. Only the pilot of the aircraft remained, and it seemed that von Stalhein was taking no chances because the man produced a pistol, which he kept trained on Biggles. He was young, in the early twenties, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and might have been called good-looking. But in the truculent bearing, the cold, humourless face and the hard, merciless mouth, Biggles recognised the typical Hitler fanatic. As he had on more than one occasion remarked to Ginger, they all appeared to have been cast in the same mould - as in fact, in a way, they were. The man stood watching Biggles with a sneer of contempt and the revolver consciously displayed in his hand.
With steel bracelets on his wrists Biggles was absolutely helpless, and he squatted dejectedly on an undercarriage wheel. It would not do to repeat the names he was calling himself, for he was furious with himself for having under-estimated the enemy.
He watched as O'Neilson's Dragon Moth was dragged out of the hangar in which it had been concealed and he listened for sounds of shouting, or of shots being fired, which would indicate that Ginger had been discovered. He heard nothing, and he began to hope that Ginger had escaped. His mind turned to his own position. He could not understand why he had not been shot out of hand. Biggles knew that he had slipped through von Stalhein's fingers too many times for the German to run one single risk of his escaping. There must be some explanation and he suspected that it was a sinister one.
Then an unpleasant thought struck him. Von Stalhein would undoubtedly make inquiries about the ownership of the machine in which Biggles had arrived at Puerto Guano. He must suspect that Biggles had received assistance from British people, or people sympathetic to British interests, living in the area. Biggles knew the German well enough to know that, actuated as he was by personal motives as well as those of patriotism, he would not rest until he had identified Biggles' friends. It could only be a question of time before the Dragon Moth was traced to the British pastoral interests at Vicuna. The fact that O'Neilson was a civilian would weigh little with a man as thorough and relentless as Erich von Stalhein, and Biggles was sick with self-recrimination at the thought of the trouble that he might bring on his old friend.
Presently von Stalhein stalked back to the machine at the head of his troops. Ginger was not with them. Von Stalhein spoke briefly to the pilot who had been left to guard Biggles, from which Biggles learned that von Stalhein intended to fly the machine back to the German base. The other man was to fly the Dragon Moth in which Biggles and Ginger had arrived.
Biggles was pushed unceremoniously into the cabin. The Germans followed and von Stalhein took his place at the controls. The engine roared. The machine swung round into the wind, bumped for a moment over the hard ground, and soared into the air.
Biggles had flown many aeroplanes in many lands, but the flight that now commenced provided a new sensation. For once he was flying as a passenger. Moreover, he was on a flight of unknown duration to a problematic destination. He did not even know with certainty the direction in which he was flying - although he suspected that it was west - for without a compass to guide him he could only gather a very broad idea of direction from the angle of the rays of the fading sun across the cabin. Seated as he was between two of his captors, he could only just see out of the cabin windows, and from this position he was, of course, unable to look down, so the only part of the landscape visible was the distant horizon.
Time passed. Biggles did not know how long for his watch had been taken from him. He only knew that it was beginning to get dark. He began to long for the break in the regular drone of the engine that would foretell the end of the journey. Still there was no indication that they were nearing their objective, and he resumed his cogitations wearily. The thing uppermost in his mind was Ginger's fate.
The monotonous purr of the engines died away suddenly and the nose of the machine dipped downward. Biggles was alert instantly, for it seemed that the end of the journey was at hand. Nor was he mistaken, and he leaned forward eagerly in the hope of catching a glimpse of the ground, only to be thrust back roughly by one of the soldiers who sat beside him. Worse was still to come, for there was a sharp word of command and before the machine touched the ground a bandage had been bound over his eyes, so that when the machine ran to a standstill he was even worse off than he had been in the air, for he could see nothing at all. He knew better than to protest against this indignity, knowing that argument was futile, and he submitted with the best grace he could muster.
In what followed he was guided entirely by sound and touch. He heard a babble of German voices, which he guessed was a ground party who had run out to meet the machine and guide it in. He was led for some distance across hard ground, and then von Stalhein spoke quietly in his ear. "Pick up your feet - there are three steps in front of you." From the sound and feel, he guessed them to be wooden steps. There was another word of command, a door opened, and he was pushed into a room. The bandage was removed from his eyes and for a second he stood blinking like an owl in the light. He found himself in what appeared to be a wooden hut, furnished as living quarters, and lit by a couple of electric bulbs dangling from the ceiling.
A middle-aged, heavily built man, with a broad flattish face in which were deeply set small calculating eyes, sprawled in an armchair with a glass in his hand. His pugnacious jaw, gimlet eyes and arrogant bearing bespoke an official of importance. His grey hair had been cropped so short that he appeared to be completely bald. He rose slowly from his chair and stood up, legs apart, to face Biggles squarely. In some strange way he reminded Biggles of a mangy bulldog.
Von Stalhein clicked to attention and saluted with military precision.
The other man's right hand flew up. "Heil Hitler!" he snapped. "Who is this?" he continued harshly, indicating Biggles with a gesture.
"Herr Commandant Schultz, this is the British agent Bigglesworth," replied von Stalhein in an expressionless voice. "Alive, as you ordered."
The man whom von Stalhein had addressed as Schultz regarded Biggles briefly with a mixture of contempt and hostility. Then he sank back into his chair and reached for a bottle that stood on a nearby table. Deliberately, he refilled his glass.
"So! This is the Englander who has caused you so much trouble, von Stalhein," he remarked scornfully. "He doesn't look like a super-man to me."
"Bigglesworth is a menace, sir, and it would be wise not to forget it," replied von Stalhein stiffly.
"What is all this fuss about one man, even if his name is Bigglesworth. Am I to think that you are afraid of him?" scoffed Schultz.
Von Stalhein ignored the jibe. "Remember, you haven't only Bigglesworth to deal with. There are three of them," he replied. "They make a formidable combination and if they were not under the protection of the devil himself they would all have been dead long ago."
Schultz yawned. "Ach, so. Then Bigglesworth shall tell me everything he knows," he said casually.
He drained his glass and addressed Biggles in fair English, although with a pronounced accent. "Where are your friends, Englander?"
"I have nothing to say," replied Biggles.
"So you don't feel inclined to talk, eh?" returned Schultz harshly. "You British have a reputation for being pig-headed but we of the Gestapo have methods of asking questions that would make the dumb speak. I'll give you a little while to think it over."
Turning to von Stalhein he went on, in German: "Have Bigglesworth put in with the other prisoner. I'll talk to him again later."
Von Stalhein hesitated. "It would be better not to delay the matter, sir," he replied in the same language.
Schultz frowned. "I said that I would deal with the prisoner later," he said curtly.
Still von Stalhein hesitated. "I know Bigglesworth; you don't. He's a dangerous man," he protested.
Schultz's face darkened with anger. "Schrecklichkeit!" he exploded. "You've allowed the fellow to give you an inferiority complex, von Stalhein. You heard what I said!" He reached for the bottle again.
There was a short silence and then von Stalhein, slightly pale from vexation, snapped an order. Two armed soldiers seized Biggles by the arms and marched him out of the room. Von Stalhein followed.