Chapter 14

Biggles gets busy

Swiftly, but as silently as two ghosts, Biggles and Ginger made their way along the back of the canvas hangars, Ginger leading the way, until they reached the end of the row of hangars. Ginger touched Biggles on the arm and sank to the ground in a patch of deep shadow against the wall of the hangar. Biggles joined him. Ginger realised with surprise that it was a beautiful night, crisp but not cold, and windless. The rising moon was nearly full and made the scene a picture of pale blue light and hard black shadows. It was not yet light enough to read a newspaper, as the saying is, but it was possible to see clearly for a considerable distance. His head had cleared, and he felt much better. Some distance away, presumably from some pool or rivulet, there suddenly came the croaking of frogs, making an astonishing amount of noise for creatures so small.

Ginger spoke in a normal voice, so as to be heard above the noise of the frogs. "I think they put the Dragon into this one, at the end of the row."

"Are you sure?" replied Biggles.

Ginger hesitated. "No, I'm not sure," he confessed. "I didn't hang around in case one of the ground crew spotted me for a stranger."

Biggles frowned. "We've run into a knotty problem. The Boche are hardly likely to let us roam about at will looking for our machine, and there a deuce of a lot of these hangars. Jose told me there are half a dozen Messerschmitts based here - he didn't know what kind of machines they were, of course, but he described them to me. I'd say that the entire complement of machines at Puerto Guano was moved over here. Del Vargos must be in this racket up to his ears. No doubt he gets his cut of the money. There would be pickings in this little scheme for corrupt officials from one end of South America to the other."

"Why so many machines?"

"The diamond mine is safe from anything except air attack. And it's more vulnerable than you might suppose. If you knew that it was on the headwaters of the Brizo Sur it would be easy to find. Jose told me the Boche have dammed the river so they can get at the diamonds in the gravel from the bed of the river as well as the banks. One bomb in the right place would blow the dam away and cause the whole of the diggings to be washed out. Von Stalhein would know as well as you or I that a Beaufighter has got just enough range to get here and back from Port Stanley. He's taking no chances of that happening. Jose told me there are anti-aircraft guns here as well - also from Puerto Guano, I imagine. You saw the empty gun pits there."

"Are the pilots Argentinian or German?"

"German. The only Argentinians here are the labourers who actually dig up the stones."

Ginger returned to the problem with which they were faced.

"How about pinching a couple of Messerchmitts? They would suit us better than the Dragon. Even if we were to get away in the Dragon, we wouldn't get far with a pack of fighters after us. I've survived being shot down in an unarmed machine once already, and I don't fancy my luck with getting away with it a second time."

"You're forgetting that the Dragon belongs to O'Neilson's firm. How's he going to explain the loss of the machine to his directors? Worse, if it's left here von Stalhein will soon be hot on the trail of its owner. No, we've got to try to get the Dragon back to Vicuna if it's humanly possible."

"So, what now?"

"We shall have to find a way of getting into these hangars."

Biggles felt for his jack-knife, with the intention of using it to cut a slit in the canvas of the back wall of the hangar. Then he remembered that his pockets had been emptied at Puerto Guano of everything except his cigarette case and a box of matches.

"D'you happen to have a pocket knife with you?" he asked Ginger.

"A small one," replied Ginger. Guessing Biggles' intention, he added. "It won't cut through this kind of heavy canvas."

Biggles turned his attention to the ground. The canvas had been well fastened down, and the earth was as hard as rock. Without tools it was clearly impossible to dig a way under the canvas.

"Give me your knife, Ginger," ordered Biggles. "We shall have to give it a try."

It was heavy going with a small knife on which it was impossible to get any real purchase; and having to operate in the dark did not make things easier. By the time Biggles had made a small tear in the canvas his forefinger had a blister on it.

"Here, let me have a go," demanded Ginger.

Biggles passed the knife to Ginger and bound up his blistered finger, and his thumb, with a strip torn from his handkerchief. He gave Ginger a strip from the handkerchief as well, and advised him to do the same.

The frogs ceased their croaking, as suddenly and mysteriously as they had begun it. Through the sudden silence came the sound of measured footsteps slowly approaching. Biggles threw himself flat on the ground, dragging Ginger with him. The footsteps were almost upon them now, and to move would have been fatal; so, hardly daring to breathe, with their faces in their arms and their bodies pressed as close as possible to the earth, they lay still and waited. Ginger's nerves twitched as the footsteps stopped. There was the unmistakable thud of a rifle butt being grounded. Then came a sound so natural and human that Ginger nearly laughed aloud with relief - it was the sound of a man sneezing into a handkerchief. The footsteps resumed, and receded into the distance. Biggles sat up, cautiously.

Cupping his hands around Ginger's ear he whispered, "That sentry is a damnable nuisance. We were nearly caught napping then. It was a good thing for us those frogs decided to shut up when they did."

"I think the fellow's gone now," whispered Ginger in reply. He could see the man quite clearly in the moonlight. He was now quite some distance away. Another man, also armed with a rifle, appeared to be coming to meet him.

An awful thought struck Ginger. "Do you suppose this means von Stalhein knows that you've escaped?"

Biggles shook his head. "No. If he had, there'd be a rare old hue and cry. This is just a routine patrol. I'd say these two are doing a beat up and down both sides of the hangars. That's why we didn't see them when we got here; they were around the other side. Our man will come back this way again."

Biggles' prediction proved correct.

The sentry met his half-section, had a few words with him and then strolled back, passing within ten feet of where Biggles and Ginger lay. As soon as he was at a safe distance, work was resumed. They took it in turns, and slowly the canvas succumbed to their onslaught, but the sentry passed them twice more before they managed to cut a flap big enough to craw l through into the interior of the structure. It was in complete darkness.

Biggles struck a match. It flared up, dazzling them. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light they looked about eagerly and saw the dim shape of a fuselage looming in the darkness. The match burnt down and scorched Biggles' finger, and he dropped it with a mutter of annoyance.

"Strike another match," urged Ginger.

"Wait a minute. I'll tear a strip off my shirt. With any luck the stuff will burn," replied Biggles. There came a noise of tearing material, and another match blazed.

"That's better," Ginger declared, as the cloth flared up and Biggles held up the piece of burning stuff in order to throw the light as far as possible. As a means of illumination the strip of shirt left much to be desired, but in its smoky yellow glow they saw a Dragon Moth only a few paces away. Going closer, Biggles saw with satisfaction that its registration marks were AL-HRU.

Lighting another strip from Biggles' shirt, they made their way towards the front of the hangar, which consisted of flimsy folding doors constructed of canvas over light wooden framing. Surreptitiously, Biggles opened them a crack and peered out. As he did so, through the still night air there came the sound of a commotion. A voice, raised in harsh reproof, was speaking in German. The voice was unmistakable. It could belong to only one man. Ginger had heard it too often to have any doubt about it. It was that of von Stalhein, and that he was in a cold fury was clear from the bitter, biting quality of his tone.

Although there was no wind at ground level, scudding clouds at high altitude had temporarily covered the moon and it was pitch black. Then the clouds blew away and they could see a small hut some distance away along the landing strip. In the bright moonlight a soldier could be seen standing stiffly to attention in front of it, while von Stalhein lashed him with his tongue.

"What an infernal pest that fellow is," muttered Ginger savagely.

"He's making his evening rounds of the camp," murmured Biggles. "Any competent officer would do just that."

Ginger heard the word benzine repeated several times. "What's von Stalhein saying about petrol, Biggles, I can't speak German like you can," questioned Ginger.

"He's reprimanding that soldier for smoking while on guard duty at the petrol dump," replied Biggles, almost smiling. "Something has put Erich in a nasty mood. He's threatened the silly fool with detention, loss of pay and a flogging if he's caught at it again."

Von Stalhein concluded his invective, and turned on his heel. Biggles and Ginger watched as he walked back along the airstrip towards the hangars. Ginger's heart sank as he saw von Stalhein stop, only a few yards away from them and directly opposite the chink in the hangar doors. It was almost as if he sensed that something was amiss. He cast a penetrating look in their direction. Stone-cold with the nervous tension of the moment, Ginger brought his automatic out of his pocket, ready to shoot if necessary. He felt Biggles' hand close warningly around his wrist. Then there came shouts that rose to a clamour from the direction of the German camp. Von Stalhein listened for a moment and then broke into a run, heading in the direction of the camp.

"It sounds as if they\rquote ve discovered that their bird has flown," observed Biggles calmly.

Ginger moved impatiently. "Let's get going while the coast is clear."

"Not so fast. I'm going to set fire to the petrol dump."

Ginger stared aghast. "Are you crazy? That will really stir up a hornets' nest," he protested.

"That's the whole idea," replied Biggles. "The people here will be so busy making sure the fire doesn't spread to the hangars they'll have something else to think of besides chasing after us."

He continued. "This is the plan. I'll set the petrol dump alight. As soon as you see the flames, get the hangar doors open and taxi the Dragon out on to the landing strip. The engines won't be stone cold, so you can reckon on them starting easily. I'll run back and join you. Then we'll push off back to Vicuna."

"But ..."

Biggles ignored the interruption. "Give me your gun. Here are the matches, you'll need them."

Ginger knew better than to argue. He handed over the automatic. Biggles took it, and stepped out of the hangar. A veil of cloud had covered the moon again, so he ran blindly up the runway along the line of the hangars in the general direction of where he knew the hut to be. The figure of the sentry, armed with a rifle, bayonet fixed, loomed up in the darkness. "Wie gehts da?" rapped out a voice. A split second later, before Biggles could reply, there was a shout from behind. The moon chose that moment to come out from behind the cloud cover, flooding the world with its pale radiance. "Stop that man," roared a voice.

The sentry took a pace nearer. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, for he had, of course, heard the shout. At the same time he dropped the point of his bayonet, ready to thrust.

With a swift movement of his arm Biggles knocked the muzzle of the rifle aside. The cartridge exploded. The blaze nearly blinded him. Before he had fully recovered his sight the man jumped forward and knocked him over backwards. Biggles fired as he fell, and the man slipped forward like a swimmer diving into deep water. Picking himself up, Biggles looked around quickly and saw a couple of men racing towards him. They were still seventy or eighty yards away. Biggles paid no further attention to them, and ran into the hut. He saw with satisfaction that it was piled high with petrol drums. Stacked at the front of the hut, however, were a number of smaller petrol cans. It took him only a moment to remove the cap of one and splash the contents over the walls and floors of the hut. He backed to the door, laying a trail of spirit, and then held the muzzle of his gun close against the ground where the petrol had been spilled, at the same time leaping back, for he knew what was likely to happen. Accustomed as he was to handling aviation spirit, the result startled him. There was a terrific whoof as the petrol exploded. Some shots were fired. Where the bullets went Biggles did not know, nor did he care. He sprinted back along the airstrip towards the hangars.

Meanwhile, Ginger had not been idle. Entering the cockpit of the Dragon he made a quick survey of the instruments by the light of a struck match. As he feared, yet expected, for the machine had not been refuelled since it had landed, the tanks were nearly half empty. However, he knew this would give them sufficient petro l to reach Vicuna with some margin for safety. He then proceeded to put the machine in a condition for a quick start-up and take-off. This occupied him for some minutes. Then he made his way to the front of the hangar and prepared to follow Biggles' instructions. He heard shouting, and the sound of running feet. He heard the sound of the petrol exploding, and he saw the flames. The fire was of sufficient size to cast a lurid glow over everything, and he could feel the heat of it on his face even at that distance.

Ginger ran back to the Dragon and started its engines. He eased the throttle open and the aircraft began to move. As he taxied out of the hangar more men came running up from the direction of the German camp. Naturally, they swerved towards the Dragon. Ginger swung the tail of the machine around, throwing a blinding cloud of dust into their faces. He saw a figure, whom he now perceived to be Biggles, racing towards the nose of the machine. Remembering that the cabin door was closed, he jumped out of the cockpit and ran aft to open it. He stretched a hand out towards Biggles, to help him aboard. At that moment a rifle cracked, but he did not hear it. The world seemed to explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He fell backward and lay still.

When Ginger opened his eyes again he could see nothing but a large white object. Focusing his eyes with an effort he made out the white object to be the figure of a nurse. He discovered that he was lying down on a bed in a white-painted room, and that filtered sunlight was streaming in through frosted windows.

The nurse bent over him. "Where am I?" he breathed.

"You're in hospital - in the sick bay at Port Stanley," the nurse told. "Your friends are waiting to see you. I'll tell them they can come in."

She left the room, and a moment later Algy and Bertie came in. They pulled chairs up to Ginger's bedside and sat down.

Said Bertie in a voice full of concern: "I say, old lad, are you all right?"

"I've got a splitting skull ache, otherwise I seem to be okay," whispered Ginger.

"Take it easy. Don't try to talk yet," said Algy.

Some minutes passed. When Ginger spoke again his voice was stronger and more lucid. "How long have I been unconscious?" he inquired.

"Hours, by Jove, absolutely hours," replied Bertie. "It's after nine o'clock in the morning and you've been out like the proverbial light-bulb since last night."

"What happened?"

Algy spoke. "You were hit. By gosh, that was a close one. Another fraction of an inch and the bullet would have missed you altogether; a fraction the other way and it would have gone right through your head."

"Where's Biggles?"

"Gone to get something to eat, a wash and brush-up, and a general overhaul. He'll be here soon," said Algy.

"He told us how you got him away from that stinking polecat Schultz," murmured Bertie. "Good show, that, jolly good show."

There was a tap on the door, it opened, and Biggles walked in. He was wearing his R.A.F. uniform. He, too, dragged up a chair.

Ginger greeted Biggles with a weak grin. "So you pulled it off."

"Yes." Biggles' face cracked in an answering smile. "And singed my front hair off at the same time."

"You got the Dragon back to Vicuna?"

"It isn't much of a story. There was a bit of shooting but no serious damage to the machine. Just a couple of stray bullet holes. If von Stalhein sent up any Messerschmitts I didn't see them, and they obviously didn't see me. O'Neilson was waiting up for me and put out some flares. He was getting a bit anxious - he thought he'd never see his machine again. We put you into his car and drove down to the jetty. Algy and Bertie came over at dawn, as arranged, and here we are, nice and comfortable at Port Stanley."

"Not for long," put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass industriously. "We're going over to hit von what's-his-name a wallop."

Ginger struggled into a sitting position.

"What's cooking?" he asked suspiciously.

"Pipe down, and I'll tell you," replied Biggles. "Raymond has provided us with three Sea Hurricanes - Hurricanes fitted with catapult spools - off an armed merchantman, the Pauline. You haven't forgotten Dick Denver, have you? He's still in the Merchant Service. He's first officer of the Pauline these days, which normally does convoy duty with the ships taking foodstuffs, rubber and the like from South America to England. The Pauline was diverted down to Port Stanley to drop off the Sea Hurricanes. We're going over to wipe out the Messerschmitts, either on the ground or in the air."

Biggles lit a cigarette before continuing. "By destroying the Huns' petrol supply we've hit them hard but we haven't knocked 'em out by any means. I don't like to leave a job half-done. Never leave your enemy while he's feeling sore; either depart or finish him off, or he'll come back and get you. That's what my first C.O. taught me, and I've always found it to be good policy."

There were nods of general agreement.

"Even with the 44 gallon drop tanks Sea Hurricanes only have a range of around 950 miles, and while that's enough to get over to the diamond mine and do some damage it's not enough for the round trip back to Port Stanley. I discussed the problem with O'Neilson, and it has been agreed that we'll land at Vicuna and refuel there before pressing on to the diamond mine."

"Three Sea Hurricanes? There are four of us," broke in Ginger. "Who's going with you, Biggles?"

"You're in no condition to fly, Ginger. Algy and Bertie will come with me."

Biggles turned to the others, and continued, "War isn't a personal matter but that blue-nosed Messerschmitt is my meat. You two will do what you can to keep my tail clear while I deal with it."

"Three Hurricanes against six Messerschmitts. That's about the right odds for a decent scrum," nodded Bertie approvingly. "But what's the fascination with the blue painted bird, old boy?"

"That's von Stalhein's machine. He's the head lad of this diamond digging operation, and if I can push him into the ground it should cause the rest of the outfit to go to pieces."

"Is von Stalhein likely to come up himself?" queried Algy, with a trace of surprise. "I wouldn't think he was much of a pilot."

"Possibly not," replied Biggles. "He served in a cavalry regiment before he was seconded to the Wilhelmstrasse. However, he doesn't lack physical courage, and he's no fool either. If he comes up with his boys it will be because he thinks he has a fair chance at getting a crack at us. Anyway, I've always said it's better to be a rotten pilot and a good shot than the other way about. Don't forget, that's how Manfred von Richthofen piled up such a big score in the last war. He was a pretty ordinary pilot but a brilliant shot. I remember that back in the old days at Zabala von Stalhein had a reputation as an excellent shot."

"An excellent shot at what?" sneered Algy sarcastically. "Combat flying is a different thing to potting at pheasants."

Bertie protested at this. "I used to do quite a bit of grouse shooting in Scotland – that's where I learned to shoot," he said. He added, "I mean to say, if you can pull down an old cock grouse whistling over at seventy miles an hour, jinking as he goes, you should be able to hit a thing the size of an aircraft."

"That may be so, but a Hurricane sporting eight machine guns is a different proposition to an unarmed civil machine," replied Algy coldly.

"For heaven's sake quit arguing," broke in Biggles impatiently. "We've no time to waste. The plan is that I shall go for the blue-nosed machine if we see it. Your job will be to keep the others busy."

Rising to his feet, he concluded, "There is this about it. We shall soon find out if Hurricanes are the real Hun-getters that Wilks claims them to be."

"When do you start?" Ginger wanted to know.

"Right now," replied Biggles. "I was only hanging about for a few minutes in the hopes that you'd come round before we left. Come on, you chaps. Cheerio, laddie."

Then he smiled. "Don't look so miserable, Ginger. We know the location of the diamond mine now and I've sent the information back to Raymond, so our precious lives won't be of such vital importance if we do get into a jam."

"You speak for yourself," growled Algy.

The others laughed.

"What about me," inquired Ginger plaintively. "Don't I get a look in?"

Biggles hesitated. "All right. I'll tell you what you can do," he offered. "When the M.O. clears you to fly you can come over to Vicuna in the flying-boat. This looks like being a tough show, and if anyone cracks up and can make it back to Vicuna you can bring them home."