Chapter 16

Marooned

Biggles realised that during the dogfight the machines must have drifted with the prevailing wind well out to sea. His eyes turned again to the crippled Messerschmitt 110, and he saw that it was making for a small island. Catching his breath, and thinking a mental prayer of thankfulness, he began pulling desperately at his parachute shrouds in an effort to steer himself towards the same island.

He could see a rookery of seals, lying on some flat, wave-splashed rocks which fringed the shore, and soon it was apparent that he would fall into the water, which now appeared to be rushing up towards him, only a few yards from these rocks. He braced himself to slip the quick-release gear the instant his legs dragged in the water, and slipping off the harness, he struck out towards the nearest rock.

Some instinct made him turn his head and look over his shoulder as he clutched at the barnacle-encrusted surface of the rock and began pulling himself up. Cutting through the water behind him was a huge, black, triangular-shaped dorsal fin. With his toes curling with horror, Biggles went up the side of the rock in a manner that would have been impossible in cold blood, and he felt something tug at the heel of his boot as he dragged himself above the water line. He flung himself flat on the rock, panting for breath, as the shark swept past so close that he could see its white belly and its evil little eyes turned towards him. It was an enormous brute, not less than fifteen feet long.

For some minutes Biggles remained still while he recovered his strength, and then he started clambering over the rock - which turned out to be a large one - towards the beach. Seals, alarmed by his presence, uttered harsh barks of alarm and plunged into the sea as he approached, and gulls wheeled about uttering discordant cries of protest. Luckily, the rocks were jumbled together so closely that he was able to jump to the next one without great difficulty. However, there was a deep channel between this rock and the beach and he saw that he would be forced to enter the water again. He hesitated for a moment, but of the dreaded triangular fin he saw no sign, so he plunged in. He had to swim a few strokes but his objective was not far away, and almost before he was aware that he had reached it, he was dashing through a cloud of spray of his own making up the firm, sandy beach to the softer sand beyond. Then, and not before, did he stop to look behind him.

Panting, Biggles sank down on the dry sand. He took out his cigarette case automatically, but finding its contents wet, returned it to his pocket. His matches, he noted ruefully, were also soaked. He realised that he was stiff with cold, so with the objective of restoring his circulation by the only means possible, he got up and set off at a jog-trot along the high water mark. Reaching the end of the beach, he headed for a considerable chaos of rocks, which formed a little promontory, hoping to find shelter where he could take a breather. Finding no suitable crevice or cave amongst the rocks, he surmounted them, and the next stretch of coast was revealed. What he saw caused an involuntary exclamation of surprise to escape his lips.

Before him stretched a small cove. Pieces of aircraft were spread over the far end of the beach. The fuselage of the Messerschmitt 110 lay on the sand with its nose, cocked up at an odd angle, resting on some rocks. One wing appeared to have been torn off completely, and the other was crumpled. It was plain to see what had happened. The pilot of the Messerschmitt 110 that had collided with Biggles' Hurricane, and which Biggles had last seen gliding down towards the island, had attempted a landing on the beach. The wheel-tracks in the sand told the story. The pilot had tried to get the machine down onto a narrow strip of beach that was really too small for such a purpose. One of the wheels had gone into a slight dip, with the result that the machine had swung round. A wing had struck the sand, and it had cartwheeled. Only by some miracle had the wreckage not burst into flames.

Now that the battle was over Biggles put his profession as pilot before nationality - a not uncommon thing with airman - and the idea of leaving his enemies to perish in the wreckage filled him with a repugnance that was not to be tolerated. Strange though it may seem his concern as now for the crew of the Messerschmitt. How badly had they been hurt? Biggles was now desperately anxious to get to the crash as quickly as possible. The remains of a plane have been known to take fire long after it has crashed. When there is petrol about the slightest movement of the airframe, causing the magneto to click one final spark, can do it. Knowing this, Biggles made flat out for the crash. As he got closer he saw there was no sign of movement near the wreck except for a flock of sea birds that wheeled and swooped with a good deal of noise over something that lay on the beach. Biggles had a shrewd suspicion as to what the object was, and he slowed his pace as he approached it. It was the body of a man, a tall, fair-haired, well-built fellow in his twenties. He had obviously been thrown clear in the crash, but his head was twisted under him at a ghastly angle. Biggles saw at a glance that the German airman was beyond help, so he did not stop, but went straight on to the shattered fuselage of the Messerschmitt 110.

There seemed to be an unreal hush broken only by a soft drip-drip-drip, as liquid escaped from radiator, tank or a fractured petrol lead. The pilot's cockpit was empty but the gunner was still in his seat, in a crumpled position. The violence of the crash had torn his safety belt out by the roots, and he had obviously been struck severely on the head when the fuselage buckled. He was unconscious if not dead. Biggles tried to pull him out, only to discover - not for the first time - that to pick up an unconscious body is not the simple job some people may suppose. It is far more difficult than picking up a man who is only pretending to be unconscious. Luckily, the man, although apparently tall, was not heavily built. In sheer desperation Biggles seized him under the armpits and somehow - he had no clear recollection of how it was done - got him clear of the cockpit and dragged him to a spot some distance away, clear of fire should it break out.

For the first time Biggles had an opportunity to look at the face of the man he had rescued. It was the face of the last man he expected to see.

"Suffering crocodiles!" he breathed, sitting back on his heels. "Von Stalhein, of all people!"

The German seemed to be in a bad way. His face was grey under his tan, and there was a huge black bruise on his forehead, but no actual wound. The right shoulder of his tunic was torn, and from the way the arm dangled at an odd angle, Biggles suspected that the bone was broken. There was nothing that he could do about that. There was also an ugly wound in the upper part of von Stalhein's left leg, and he had clearly lost a good deal of blood. From the position of the bullet hole Biggles thought the leg wound was more serious than a mere flesh wound, so without messing about he ripped a sleeve out of his shirt to make a bandage, and made as good a job as was possible in the circumstances. The task finished, he felt for his cigarette case. The cigarettes were, of course, still soaking wet, so very carefully he laid them out on a rock to dry.

Biggles sat down to consider his next move. His eyes fell on the body of the enemy pilot and he saw with disgust that the sea birds had returned to it. They had settled on it and were tearing at it with their beaks. They were no ordinary gulls, but large buff-coloured birds with eagle-like beaks and black curved claws. He realised that they must be skuas, the so-called "vultures of the sea". Uneasily, he recalled an old sailor telling him of once seeing a flock of skuas attack a wounded seal, pulling great strips of blubber from its still-living body. He regarded the birds with brooding eyes for a moment. He could not bear to think of leaving the body of a fellow pilot lying there, a prey to the birds and any other vermin that might come along, but he had no implement with which to dig a grave. He could think of only one method of disposing of it. After all, many good airmen, including some of his best friends, had gone out that way, he reflected.

He stood up and walked over the body. At his approach the birds rose into the air but he saw with revulsion that they had been busy tearing at the face and eyes. He dragged the body across the trail unit of the Messerschmitt, and then he went through von Stalhein's pockets, looking for matches or a petrol lighter. He also took the precaution of removing a Mauser revolver from the holster which von Stalhein wore on his hip. All he found in von Stalhein's pockets was a scrap of paper which appeared to be an old bill from a tailor in Berlin, a gold cigarette case, a petrol lighter, and the long cigarette holder which von Stalhein customarily used - broken into two pieces. Using the petrol lighter, Biggles lit the scrap of paper and dropped it by a leaking petrol lead. Fire took hold, spreading rapidly. In a moment the remains of the aircraft were wrapped in leaping flames. He backed away quickly, for cartridges were exploding, flinging bullets in all directions.

Without a fire Biggles knew he was running the risk of getting double pneumonia by sitting in soaking wet clothes all night, so he collected an armful of dry grass from the dunes behind the beach and attempted to start a blaze with some driftwood, of which a plentiful supply lay scattered about. The driftwood was damp, and burnt only reluctantly, so even though Biggles crouched over the fire as near as he could get without actually burning himself his teeth still chattered with the cold. On the occasions when the sun broke through the clouds there seemed to be no strength in it and a chill wind had sprung up from the south which felt as if it had come straight off the Antarctic icecap. Biggles reflected gloomily that it probably had.

He was thirsty and he would have liked to go in search of fresh water, or at least a more sheltered spot away from the wind, but he noticed that the skuas - which had fled when the Messerschmitt burst into flames - had returned to the vicinity. They scarcely moved their wings as they hung effortlessly in the wind, frequently calling out to each other with harsh cries. They reminded him unpleasantly of the vultures that he had seen so often in Africa, perched in a tree waiting for a stricken beast to die. He could not leave a helpless man to the mercies of the birds, and it was out of the question to try to move von Stalhein. Quite apart from the obvious difficulties in lifting a heavy unconscious body, Biggles realised that the German might easily have internal injuries that would be aggravated by any attempt to move him. A couple of hours passed but to his annoyance Biggles' clothes still remained damp and worse, his cigarettes showed no signs of having dried out sufficiently for him to smoke them. Meanwhile, he kept a wary eye on von Stalhein.

On the cinema screen, from the way men recover from a blow on the head in a matter of seconds, and then resume a fight, or whatever they are doing, as if nothing had happened, it might be supposed that to be knocked unconscious is a trivial affair. In actual fact it is nothing of the sort. How long it takes a man to recover depends of course on the force of the blow, where it strikes, and any protection the person struck may have on his head at the time. Which explains why policeman were, and sometimes still are, issued with helmets. But as a general rule, if a person has really been knocked out by a hard crack on the skull it is some time before he fully recovers consciousness. Consequently, Biggles was not particularly surprised that the sun was well past its zenith before von Stalhein showed signs of returning consciousness. His eyelids fluttered. They did this several times. Then his eyes opened. For two or three minutes they stared vacantly at the sky. Then they seemed to clear. He raised himself up on his left elbow, looked about him and of course saw Biggles. A shadow of amazement swept across his face. Then he made as if to move his right hand towards his empty holster. He seemed astonished that his hand refused to obey his command, for he stared at it stupidly for a moment. Then, his face twisted with pain and surprise, he looked up at Biggles.

"Naughty," chided Biggles, holding up the gun he had taken from von Stalhein earlier.

"I should lie still for a bit if I were you, von Stalhein," Biggles continued dispassionately. "You've had a nasty crack on the head, and a bullet-hole in your leg has let a lot of the pink juice out. I fancy your arm is broken, too."

A few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, and then von Stalhein sat up - carefully - and propped himself against the rock on which Biggles had set out his cigarettes to dry. His blue eyes moved slowly from Biggles to the rough bandage that had been bound around his leg, to the burnt-out wreck of the Messerschmitt - from which wisps of smoke still coiled upward into the sky - then back to Biggles. A variety of expressions chased each other in turn across his usually immobile features: understanding, impotent fury, and finally, wonder.

"Where's Meyer?" he said abruptly.

"Meyer?" repeated Biggles, frowning. Then, understanding to whom von Stalhein was referring, he nodded towards the charred remains of the aircraft.

"Meyer didn't make it. Pity. He could really fly. But you knew that, that's why you chose him as your pilot."

"Obviously," replied von Stalhein, drily.

"Have you got any cigarettes on you?" asked Biggles. "I had to swim to this island; and mine are soaking wet."

Von Stalhein felt awkwardly in his pockets with his left hand, and produced his cigarette case. He struggled to open it with one hand, and then with a mutter of annoyance passed it to Biggles. Biggles opened it and saw there were three cigarettes in it. Biggles lit two and gave one to von Stalhein, remarking, "You've lost your cigarette holder."

A more fantastic tableau would be hard to imagine, and von Stalhein evidently realised it, for a peculiar smile crept over his face.

"What strange people you English are," he murmured.

He drew thoughtfully on the end of his cigarette, and continued, "What is going to be the end of this?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. The end of us, probably. We're miles from the mainland and no one knows we're here."

"Usually you have a card up your sleeve."

"On this occasion my cards are all on the table."

"You might make a raft out of some of this driftwood, I suppose."

"I might," agreed Biggles. "But have you ever tried to make a raft? I did once. I know it sounds easy in books, but don't you believe it. Anyway, quite apart from that, I don't fancy rafting about on a shark-infested sea. A liner wouldn't be too big for me after what I've seen today."

Silence fell. Biggles finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground. Von Stalhein leaned back against the rock watching him, as impassive as ever, although he must have been in a great deal of pain.

Biggles looked at the German curiously.

"Tell me this, von Stalhein," he requested. "You were once a soldier; an officer in the Imperial Army. How could a man of your taste and education bear to associate with an odious specimen like Schultz?"

Von Stalhein started. He glared at Biggles. A pale pink flush stained his colourless cheeks and his lips pressed themselves together in a straight line.

"Let's not get on to politics," he replied icily.

Biggles shrugged. "Okay, have it your own way. But if you go on flying with carrion crows you'll become one."

Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of an aero engine, a single engine, ever increasing in volume. For a moment Biggles' heart leaped with hope, but then he recognised the sound as the deep growl of a Daimler-Benz engine. A solitary Messerschmitt 109 appeared, picking its way through the cloud cover. It came low and circled over the beach, twice. Then the aircraft zoomed, turned, and stood away to the west, towards the coast. Biggles looked at von Stalhein with raised eyebrows.

"Perhaps my people will send a boat to pick us up," suggested von Stalhein.

"How fortunate for you if they do," replied Biggles drily.

Von Stalhein made no response. He lay back on the sand, and closed his eyes. Biggles threw another piece of driftwood on the fire and huddled closer to it, smoking the last of von Stalhein's cigarettes and wondering what had happened to Algy and Bertie. He bore von Stalhein no particular malice for his predicament. It had been a smart piece of work to bait a trap for Biggles with the blue-nosed Messerschmitt 109, and no more than Biggles would have done had the position been reversed. It was the weather conditions that really worried Biggles, for a dark indigo ridge was rising with incredible speed above the southern horizon, almost as if an unseen hand was drawing a giant curtain across the sky. The deep incessant boom of heavy waves pounding on the beach told its own story. The wind seemed, if it were possible, to be getting colder. The skuas had vanished. Away to the south, lightning was now starting to flash incessantly and the wind was coming in gusts of increasing force. Great masses of black cloud were racing overhead, completely blotting out the fading light of the setting sun. Biggles saw that it was imperative to find some shelter from the coming storm. He shook von Stalhein by the shoulder. The German did not respond.

"Come on, von Stalhein," he shouted. "We've got to get out of this."

Von Stalhein groaned but did not move, and Biggles saw that he had an unconscious man on his hands. In sheer desperation he seized him by the collar and started to drag him up the beach. In that instance the storm struck with incredible rapidity and severity. Biggles was nearly swept off his feet by a shrieking blast of wind that filled the air with salt spray. Then it started to rain, driving, slashing, icy rain mixed with hail that whipped like a thousand canes. Biggles had never experienced anything like it, even in the tropics. The rain blotted out everything. Visibility became a memory. It no longer existed. The blinding flashes of lightning did more harm than good. When they occurred they merely dazzled, leaving the darkness more intense than before. Thunder boomed, rolled and crashed. What with the thunder and the rain the noise was deafening.

The sea was a succession of giant combers, their tops torn into spray. The waves, rearing high into the air, flung themselves towards the place where Biggles stood. The whole beach seemed to shake under the impact of the rollers, and finding it difficult to remain on his feet, he dropped to his hands and knees and braced himself to prevent himself from being blown away. Then a mighty comber broke and raced up to the spot where he knelt, so that the foam surged right up the beach. The world had become a nightmare of water, a deluge of fresh water that descended in a never-ending stream from above, and a flood of salt water that swirled about him, and threatened to suck him down the beach into the raging sea.

It did not occur to Biggles to leave von Stalhein, so again he seized the German by the collar and began dragging him, blindly, away from the sea towards the higher ground. The waves followed. The beach had become a place of swirling foam as big seas crashed in and raced out again.

Somehow, Biggles found a shallow depression in the dunes, amongst some sea grass which had been blown completely flat by the wind. There he collapsed, next to von Stalhein's limp body. The hail ended like a tap turned off, although it continued to rain, freezing sheets of water that hit the ground in a torrential downpour. Biggles lost count of time. It seemed to have been raining for hours. His dominant feeling was one of unreality.

That night went on Biggles' mental calendar as one of those never to be forgotten. He had passed nights in greater danger but never in such acute physical discomfort. It was the cold, the cold and the inky blackness. In these circumstances the night seemed eternal. The only things that really mattered any more were warmth and daylight.

Towards dawn the rain ceased, and with almost the same remarkable suddenness with which it had blow up, the storm began to abate. The first grey promise of another day came, and Biggles fell into a brief exhausted doze. When he woke, the sun had climbed well above the eastern horizon. The wind had dropped, the clouds had cleared and the sun was shining, but with little warmth.

For a moment or two Biggles could not recall what had happened. Then he saw von Stalhein, lying motionless beside him, and remembered everything. Stiffly, he sat up, but without his watch - which had been taken from him at Puerto Guano - he could not be sure of the exact time. It was about nine o'clock as near as he could judge from the position of the sun. The tide had ebbed, and Biggles could see that while the open sea still tossed and foamed, inside the little cove the breakers died and ended on the beach as mere angry wavelets.

The burnt remains of the Messerschmitt 110 had been completely broken up, and fragments of wreckage were scattered the whole length of the beach. Biggles could also see a dark mass that had been cast ashore at the far end of the beach. It appeared to be a small whale or porpoise that had been washed up by the storm. The skuas - which had reappeared - had discovered it and, as the manner of sea birds, were making a lot of noise, fighting and squabbling, as they made a meal of it.