Chapter 12
Ginger goes alone
Ginger's state of mind as, peering out from the hangar, he saw the German troops emerge from the Dragon Moth and Biggles taken prisoner, can be more easily imagined than described. He was appalled by the cunning way in which von Stalhein had anticipated and countered their plan. Further, he could think of no reason why von Stalhein should not give himself the satisfaction of immediately standing Biggles up in front of a firing squad. Apart from the present situation, the German had old scores to settle, and he was not a man to waste time. If that had occurred, it seems likely that Ginger would have launched, from long range, a single-handed attack on the firing party, and lost his life for his pains.
He saw von Stalhein and his men move towards the buildings, and he realised that it was only a matter of moments before the hangar was searched. To leave by the door without being seen was obviously out of the question. Ginger looked about quickly for a place of concealment. There was none. The only possible hiding-place that he could imagine at that moment was the machine that he and Biggles had arrived in. He scrambled up into the cabin and in a panic looked about for a hiding place. The luggage compartment in the rear was clearly indicated, and into it he bundled just as the tramp of feet were heard entering the hangar. The blankets which he and Biggles had slept under had luckily had been left in the cabin, and they offered possibilities. Ginger crouched low and pulled the blankets over him.
Almost at once he heard a babble of excited conversation in German. The cabin door was opened, and he felt the fuselage of the machine move slightly as someone climbed in. There was a moment's silence, and then a few more words were exchanged in German. To Ginger's unspeakable relief the cabin door was closed again. Then to his surprise he felt the machine being dragged out onto the tarmac. For a moment he considered making a dash for the cockpit and taking off. He had an uneasy feeling that it might be his duty to do so, rather than stay where he was and risk almost certain discovery. But this would mean abandoning Biggles, and that he could not contemplate.
Ginger was not afraid for himself, that was an aspect that did not enter into his calculations. It was the thought of having to act alone, when possibly he might make a bad blunder with fatal results to the desperate business in which they were engaged, that tormented him. He missed Algy desperately.
It was hot and stuffy beneath the blankets. To make matters worse, Ginger's left arm started to ache abominably and he felt distinctly feverish. With his handkerchief he cautiously mopped the beads of perspiration that formed on his forehead. He began to feel an unreasoning anger towards Germans in general and towards von Stalhein in particular. He hated the war, and he hated the enemy for starting the war. If there was no war, they would all be comfortably at home in their Mount Street flat. And Jeanette would not be dead - but it was better not to think of Jeanette.
In these unpleasant circumstances the time passed slowly. Finally, the cabin door was opened and Ginger heard voices. "You are taking this machine, senor?" asked someone, respectfully, in Spanish.
"Yes," was the reply, in irritable tones. "My chief will fly our machine with the prisoner and our troops back to the camp on the Brizo Sur. After you blundering fools of Argentinians let that other fellow get away, we can't leave the prisoner here. I will follow in this machine."
"What could we do?" protested the first voice. "There were at least half a dozen men in the party that released him, all mad Englishmen. What are you going to do with this prisoner, anyway?"
"Commandant Schultz will know how to deal with him. When this affair is over there will be one damned Britisher the less, anyhow," was the reply. The speaker laughed unpleasantly.
Ginger's brain raced as he listened to this illuminating conversation. For a moment he wondered how the man referred to as Commandant Schultz fitted into the picture. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind. Of more importance was that an obvious solution to his problems had presented itself. He need only to wait until the machine was in the air, seize control of it from the unsuspecting German pilot, and follow von Stalhein to his destination. He did not think beyond that. But of one thing he was certain: either he would effect a rescue or die with Biggles. He promised himself grimly that if a hair on Biggles' head was hurt - well, it would be the worse for von Stalhein.
There was a brief silence as someone, presumably the man who was to fly the machine, climbed into the cabin and made his way to the cockpit. He called out, "There is no need to refuel; the tanks are nearly full."
Ginger could now hear the roar of aero engines being started. He knew them to be those of the other Dragon Moth. The roar receded, as if the machine was being taxied into position for take-off. Then the fuselage of Ginger's Dragon Moth quivered as its engines sprang to life. Their growl rose to a below. The machine began to move forward.
Ginger took a deep breath of relief. So far so good. For the time being he was content to sit still, to give the machine time to clear the airstrip and gain some altitude. Moreover, his arm was still aching and he felt slightly giddy. He wanted to compose himself to be calm and resolute for the next move. The tricky part of the business was yet to come.
He allowed rather more than half an hour to pass, then got up and looked out the window. The sky was red with the approach of sunset, and the mountains loomed in the distance. Dead ahead a volcano announced its presence in solemn but spectacular majesty. Every twenty seconds, with the punctuality of a chronometer it belched a plume of yellow sulphurous smoke towards the stratosphere, there to lose itself and disperse slowly in the direction of the unseen stars. This told him that the machine was travelling west. Far behind lay the sea, calm, colourless and deserted. Below he could see a river winding through the pampas, presumably the Brizo Sur. Altitude he reckoned to be about five thousand feet, with the machine no longer climbing.
He waited a little longer and then walked forward. He could see the German pilot's head and shoulders. He was well down in his seat, gazing ahead, his right hand resting lightly on the control column. Feeling in his pocket, Ginger took out his automatic. Then he hesitated. He perceived that although he held all the advantages of surprise attack - perhaps the most vital element in fighting of any sort - he was by no means master of the situation. It would have been a simple matter to use his gun, but even in his present mood he shrank from shooting an unarmed man at point-blank range.
Then a look of almost savage determination set his lips in a hard line. On his actions depended both Biggles' life and the success of their mission. The other man was an enemy soldier; a Nazi. From what he knew of Nazi methods, he reflected, a Nazi would not hesitate to shoot him in the back if their positions were reversed. As a compromise he resolved to hit the fellow on the back of the head and put him out of action with one blow. This was, after all, no time to be squeamish. He gripped his automatic by the muzzle and raised his arm to bring the butt down on the German's head. But he must have made some noise or the movement must have caught the corner of the German's eye, for he looked round sharply. For a brief moment their eyes met. Into the German's eyes dawned an understanding of the situation. Before Ginger could even begin to suspect his intention, he had kicked the rudder-bar and dragged the control column back into his stomach.
The aircraft responded in the manner for which it had been designed. With motors howling, its nose swung up and round in an almost vertical climbing turn. Indeed, it nearly went over on its back. To keep on his feet Ginger had to drop his gun and cling to the back of the pilot's seat with both hands; but even so, centrifugal force tore him clear so that he was flung sideways. The German, who had not troubled to strap himself in, was thrown half into the second pilot's seat and half on the floor; and there for a moment he was held, as was Ginger, by the tremendous pressure. Inherent stability was now bringing the Dragon out of its stall. The pressure was so great that Ginger thought they would both go through the bottom of the machine. The German was reaching for something in his pocket - presumably a gun - at the absurdly slow rate of a slow-motion film. Ginger, expecting the machine to hit the ground at any moment, got him by the body and hung on. Wrestling in a furious clinch, they got up together, only to fall backwards into the cabin. The machine wallowed like a wounded whale.
Locked in fierce embrace, they surged up and down the cabin. Still locked, they fell, and rolled towards the tail. Their weight caused the nose to rise, with the result that the machine stalled again, and then plunged earthwards like a stone. Torn apart by the rush through space, the two antagonists were flung against the bulkhead that divided the cabin from the cockpit. A yard away Ginger saw his automatic lying on the floor. He snatched it up. He saw the German on his knees, taking aim at him with a revolver. Ginger's pistol spat. The look of hate on the German's face turned to wonder and he pitched forward and lay still. Gasping, Ginger staggered to the window and looked out. The aircraft was gliding steeply towards the ground, covered in waving grass, less than a hundred feet below.
Ginger leapt to the cockpit. Reaching over, for there was no time to get into the seat, he pulled the stick back, and as the machine responded opened up the engines. And there for a few seconds he stood, wild-eyed and panting fro m shock and exhaustion, while the airscrews clawed their way to a safer altitude. A glance showed the German was still lying sprawled on the floor, so he got into the cockpit and, still breathing heavily, took the aircraft up to five thousand feet. His eyes searched the sky for the other Dragon Moth. He breathed a sigh of relief as he located it. His biggest fear was of losing it, or that someone on board might have noticed the peculiar behaviour of the machine following it. He put on a course to follow it, and as the machine was trimmed for level flight, he was able to leave the controls and return to the German pilot.
The man was dead. A tiny blue hole above the left eyebrow showed where life had fled, leaving a faint expression of surprise on the countenance, so suddenly had the end come. Ginger reflected grimly that it was for the best. One thing that he had not taken into account was how he would dispose of the man if he had succeeded in making him a prisoner.
Observing for the first time that the dead German wore a uniform of some kind under his flying kit, Ginger stripped him of his jacket and trousers. Hastily, he threw off his own clothes and put on those of the German. Then he opened the cabin door and pushed the body and his discarded clothes out. The business disgusted him, but it was necessary.
By now it was nearly dark. He could only just make out the dim shape of the other Dragon Moth. However, it had switched its navigation lights on, so there was no danger of losing sight of it. Suddenly, it dipped its nose down and began to descend. Below, landing lights sprang up along a landing strip and a floodlight flung a path of radiance across it. Ginger circled the aerodrome while the other Dragon Moth landed, then followed it down. He could see the Dragon Moth being pulled into one of a row of canvas hangars. He taxied up to the hangars, switched off and jumped down, trusting to the gathering darkness to conceal his identity. To his surprise and relief, the ground crew who came hurrying up to take charge of the Dragon Moth took little notice of him. It seemed that von Stalhein had already given them orders as to the disposal of the machine.
Ginger looked about him. Some distance away from the canvas hangars were a cluster of huts. Resisting the temptation to break into a run he began to walk towards them. Ten yards, fifteen yards, and still the challenge that he expected did not come. It struck him as quite incredible. All he could think was, the sheer brazen effrontery of what he was doing was seeing him through. And that was what Biggles, who favoured such methods, relied on.
The buildings appeared to be of the temporary sort, being built of rough timber apparently cut locally, and roofed with thatch or corrugated iron. One was long and low, and Ginger took to be the troops' bunkhouse and mess. There were also a number of smaller buildings. Yellow patches of light were starting to show from open doors or windows. A few people were moving about.
Ginger found it all very confusing. Where was Biggles? Somewhere about the camp, he had no doubt, presumably locked up in a prison hut. He began to look about, seeking a hut guarded by a sentry - for it seemed impossible that Biggles would not be under guard, if he was still alive - but in the absence of moonlight nothing could be made out distinctly. In the darkness, and in the absence of any knowledge of the layout of the camp it was a nerve-racking business. All the buildings seemed to look alike in the dim light. The situation had assumed a similarity to one of those frightful nightmares when one frantically goes on and on trying to do something, but all the time getting further and further away from success.
Ginger's head began to throb and he found it difficult to think at all. His brain seemed to have stopped working. He only knew that he was running out of time. The Germans would soon be gathering in their mess for their evening meal and the absence of the man he had shot would be noticed. There would be a search for the missing man.
He had almost given up to despair when he saw the silhouette of a familiar slim figure standing out black against the light flooding from an open doorway. Von Stalhein was leaning against the door of a hut, a spiral of smoke rising from the long cigarette holder which he held between his fingers. Wildly, Ginger contemplated the possibility of forcing the German, at the muzzle of his gun, to take him to the place where Biggles was held captive and there ordering the release of the prisoner. He had seen that sort of thing on the films, one man obediently obeying the orders of another who walks beside him with a revolver in his pocket, the muzzle prodding the victim's ribs. But he realised now that while this may look all very simple from the comfortable seat of a theatre, in actual fact the chances of success were remote. If he had been in a more rational state he would have immediately dismissed the idea from his mind as utterly impracticable. As it was, his hand was tightening around the butt of his automatic when to his dismay two armed soldiers suddenly appeared around the corner of the hut. Even in his present desperate mood, Ginger knew he could not take on three men, two armed with rifles. He was nearly overcome by a sense of his own helplessness.
The soldiers came to a halt in front of von Stalhein and saluted. Von Stalhein returned the salute and then addressed them in the harsh peremptory tones which German officers employ towards subordinates. Ginger's heart leapt, for although he would not have claimed to be able to speak German fluently, he understood enough to follow that von Stalhein had ordered the Englander, which in the circumstances Ginger took to refer to Biggles, to be brought to him. The soldiers saluted again, and then turned away. Von Stalhein went into the hut.
With renewed hope, Ginger crept towards the hut and a moment later he was crouching against its rough end wall. There was a single window in it. It was open. Inch by inch he edged along the wall until he came to the window. He held his breath as he peeped into the room, for there was no blind or other obstruction to interfere with his view. The hut was divided into two parts, one furnished in the manner of an office and the other as a bed-sitting room. Clearly, the building was von Stalhein's quarters. Ginger was looking into the bed-sitting room, but he could see the section used as an office through a half-open door which connected the two rooms. He caught a glimpse of von Stalhein, with his back turned to Ginger, apparently looking for something in a filing cabinet.
Ginger looked swiftly to left and right, and then swung his legs over the sill and darted towards the clear space behind the half-open connecting door.