Chapter 17

A trip to remember

Biggles turned his attention to von Stalhein. The German's face was ghastly in the pale morning light and he thought he was dead, but dropping to his hands and knees beside him, was relieved to hear faint but regular breathing. Biggles laid a hand on his forehead. Despite the bitter cold, he was obviously running a high temperature, presumably due to inflammation of his wound. As Biggles watched, he began to twitch restlessly and murmur incoherently in his own language. There was nothing that Biggles could do for von Stalhein, so he began trying to generate some warmth in his chilled body. He was painfully conscious that he was stiff in every limb, his hands and feet were numb almost to insensibility, and he was desperately hungry. If there had been any means of lighting a fire he would not have hesitated to cut some flesh from the stranded whale and cook it. But, famished though he was, he drew the line at raw whale meat.

The day wore drearily on. Although the clouds had cleared away completely a cold breeze continued to blow from the south, and Biggles shivered in his sodden clothes. Von Stalhein remained semi-conscious, and Biggles almost envied him his oblivion to the miseries that Biggles was suffering. For once Biggles was utterly sick at heart. Never in all his adventures, he thought, had he been in such a plight. He was stranded on an unknown island, without food, without weapons - for he had lost von Stalhein's Mauser revolver in the chaos of the previous night - and with the added responsibility of an injured, probably dying, man, on his hands. He had no way of knowing whether Algy and Bertie were alive or dead. Even if they were alive they would never know what had become of him, he reflected miserably.

His melancholy reverie was interrupted by the faint drone of approaching aero-engines. Biggles leap to his feet and stood staring at the sky, wondering whether it was a formation of machines or a multi-engined machine. A single machine appeared, cruising in wide circles at about five thousand feet. It came lower, an object of intense interest to Biggles.

It was a twin-engined flying-boat.

"Ginger, by thunder!" he exclaimed. He began waving furiously.

The pilot of the flying-boat evidently recognised Biggles, for the machine made a quick turn, the engine was throttled back, and it began gliding down towards the water with the plain intention of landing. Biggles watched its floats cut twin streaks of white foam across the sullen green water. He was so intent on the flying-boat that he failed to notice another arrival on the scene until a voice spoke quietly behind him.

"You're wasting time, Bigglesworth," said von Stalhein softly.

Biggles turned to stare at him. As was to be expected, the German looked terribly ill. His eyes glittered feverishly in a face as pale and gaunt as death.

"Goodbye, Bigglesworth, and good luck. You'll need all of your usual infernal luck to get out of this," he observed dispassionately.

"What'd you mean?" Biggles asked.

Wordlessly, von Stalhein pointed to a vessel that was nosing its way into the cove. It was a submarine. There were several men on deck staring towards the shore. There was no need to question its nationality, for on the side of the conning tower was painted, in white, the single letter U. Below it was the number 317.

The pilot of the flying-boat had evidently seen the U-boat, too, for the machine surged towards the beach, its engines ticking over. Algy and Bertie appeared at the cabin door, beckoning furiously.

Biggles plunged into the water, and finding that he could stand on what seemed to be a hard, sandy bottom, made for the machine as fast as possible. The journey was mostly a blur of spray, but he had to swim the last little way. Willing hands dragged him in. Biggles fell flat and lay there with water pouring off him to make puddles on the floor. Coughing up salt water that he had swallowed in the last mad rush, Biggles heard the engines roar, and an instant later vibration told him they were moving. A machine gun chattered. Then a small calibre automatic cannon opened up. The aircraft was rocking through a hail of tracer shells and machine-gun bullets. Ginger was taking evading action, and taking it desperately, as far as it was possible with such a big machine, but it was hit, not once but several times. Biggles could hear metal ripping through wood and fabric. He clawed his way to the cockpit and collapsed into the co-pilot's seat next to Ginger. Still pursued by fire the aircraft was up to five hundred feet, racing eastward over the sea with the island slipping astern. The shooting died away as the flying-boat got out of range.

Biggles caught Ginger's eye. "I thought you were on the sick list," he murmured weakly.

"So I was, but I got well," grinned Ginger.

At this junction Algy burst into the cockpit. "Those pirates have hit us," he shouted. "The main tank has been holed. It's squirting like a soda-water syphon. Ginger, see if you can do anything about it."

"I'll take over," stated Biggles.

"No you won't," said Algy, crisply, taking the seat vacated by Ginger.

"This is pretty close to insubordination," challenged Biggles.

Algy shook his head. "Take a look at yourself," he advised. "You look like a slice of death warmed up."

Biggles looked at his hands. They were trembling, and blood from a cut on his forearm had mingled with the water still dripping from his hair and clothes so that it formed little pink rivulets running down the wrist. The arm was so numb that he felt no pain from the cut. In fact, he could hard ly feel any sensation in the arm at all.

"Have it your way," he conceded wearily. "Keep on for Port Stanley; we won't have a hope if that U-boat catches us on the water."

"You're all in, Biggles. What happened to you after you went chasing off after that blue-nosed Messerschmitt?" asked Algy.

"Everything that can happen to a fellow, apart from being attacked by vampire bats," replied Biggles, with a wan smile. He continued through chattering teeth. "I downed the Messerschmitt 109, but I got the worst of a spot of argument with a Messerschmitt 110 that I didn't see coming. Then I fell into the sea. I've been chased by a shark, and swamped by a hurricane. I've had nothing to eat, no sleep, and been constantly wet for what seems like weeks. Plus I've had a perfectly lovely time playing at Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday with Erich von Stalhein. He had the same idea that I did. He knew I'd go for his machine, so he set a nice little trap for me. We wound up sharing the same island."

"So that other fellow I saw was von Stalhein! I wondered what that U-boat was up to," exclaimed Algy. "Were you just going to leave him there?"

"Yes. We can hardly clutter ourselves up with prisoners."

"Nazi policy would have been to bump him off, and so remove all risk of his causing further mischief," murmured Algy reflectively.

"Are you suggesting that we arrange our code of behaviour by what a Nazi would do?" inquired Biggles coldly. "Anyway, von Stalhein won't be troubling us again; he's got broken bones and a nasty leg wound. If he survives, he'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life."

Algy started to say something scathing about wounded wild beasts being the most dangerous, but before he finished the sentence, Ginger returned to report that he had made a temporary repair to the leak in the petrol tank. The cabin still reeked of petrol, but any loose spirit had run out through the holes in the floor.

"Holes in the floor!" echoed Algy. "Biggles, you'd better go and have a look into that. Ginger, get Biggles a blanket from the locker, will you?"

Ginger fetched a blanket, which Biggles wrapped gratefully around himself. Then he proceeded with his inspection of the aircraft. He saw that it had suffered considerably. It was miraculous that no-one had been hurt, apart from minor bruises and scratches. There were five holes in the hull below the waterline, but Bertie and Ginger were fairly confident that they would be able to plug them. Splinters of wood and broken glass lay about. Both wings were lacerated. These things did not worry Biggles unduly, for the modern military aircraft is built to withstand punishment. The main thing was, the engines were still running, and while they continued to do so the machine would probably remain airborne. Nevertheless, he was aware that they were faced with a gruelling 500 mile flight back to Port Stanley, with the very real risk of engine failure and its inevitable consequences. There was no possibility of calling up assistance, for the radio was a shell-shattered wreck, damaged beyond repair.

At this point Algy shouted for Biggles from the cockpit. Biggles hurried to join him. Algy pointed to a splutter of oil spots on the windscreen, and then to the dials on the instrument panel. A falling oil pressure gauge and a certain roughness in one of the engines, slight as yet, told their own story. The starboard motor was not getting its proper lubricant and was beginning to complain. The oil tank that fed it must have been holed by a bullet or perhaps a shell splinter. At all events, it wasn't functioning. The other was all right.

The starboard engine began to vibrate, as a result of heating up, and Algy switched it off. He looked at Biggles. "We can call up the people at Port Stanley on the radio and tell them we're on the way," he said calmly.

Biggles shook his head. "No use. The transmitter looks like a cat's breakfast."

Algy frowned. "Well, there's nothing more we can do." He added, "You should get something to eat."

Ginger and Bertie appeared at this stage to report that the holes in the hull had been plugged as best as was possible in the circumstances, so Biggles went into the cabin with them to repeat his story for their benefit. He concluded by saying, "For the love of Mike, have you got any food? I need some nourishment. Biscuits will do."

Biscuits and bully beef were produced and Biggles made a satisfying, of not very palatable, long-delayed meal. As he ate, the flying-boat continued to roar on its eastward course across a sullen waste of water. Nothing was seen. Absolutely nothing. Not a ship, not even a solitary whale. Ginger, aware that they were still hundreds of miles from Port Stanley, regarded the featureless expanse below with rising apprehension. He was uncomfortably aware that they were flying on one engine, over some of the loneliest waters on the globe. From his manner Biggles might have been unaware of this."

"You seem to be taking all this pretty lightly," remarked Ginger, looking hard at Biggles.

Biggles shrugged. "Moaning won't get us anywhere, will it?" he pointed out, adding, "The machine isn't heavily loaded; we should be able to hold our height with one engine on full throttle."

"If we go down, we've still got the inflatable dinghy," put in Bertie cheerfully. "We can float about in that; three men in a boat and all that sort of thing."

Despite himself, Biggles smiled. "Have you had a look at the dinghy lately?" he asked.

"Oh, I say, it\rquote s got a beastly big hole in it,\rdblquote muttered Bertie, somewhat crestfallen. "How is that all my little schemes come unstick?" he added plaintively.

Biggles continued, "I'm still waiting to hear your end of the story."

Bertie told him what had happened. In the dog fight Algy had shot down one Messerschmitt in flames and driven another one into the ground. Bertie had destroyed at least one other - the one that he had shot off Biggles' tail. Then they had made the mistake of both attacking the same machine, which had been badly damaged and was last seen gliding down towards the Puerto Guano landing strip. This had enabled at least one of the enemy machines to make its escape.

In the course of the combat both their machines had been badly shot about but they had managed to get back to Vicuna. Bertie's undercarriage was jammed; he had made a successful pancake landing but his machine was unlikely to ever fly again. Algy's engine had burst into flames a few miles from Vicuna, and he had been forced to bail out. After walking, as Bertie described it, "for miles and miles and miles", Algy had been lucky enough to get a lift in donkey cart to his destination before the storm hit. Ginger had turned up mid-morning in the flying-boat, and the three of them had started a search for Biggles. Seeing fragments of a crashed aircraft on the island, they had come lower with the intention of landing to investigate. They had recognised Biggles and assumed that the wreckage was that of his Hurricane.

Biggles listened to this recital without speaking. When it was finished, all he said, "Good show. The enemy are down to one machine. We seem to have got through pretty well up to this point with no casualties. It's a pity we' ve lost all of our machines but we can't expect to have things all our own way."

His meal finished, Biggles returned to the cockpit. Algy looked up at him and smiled confidently. "We've got a tail wind behind us; we're all set for home and we ought to be there about four o'lock," he declared. "Try to get some rest."

"All right," agreed Biggles. "Wake me if anything exciting happens." He settled down next to Algy and in a minute he was asleep.

He hardly seemed to have closed his eyes when Ginger was gently shaking his shoulder. Rather awkwardly, he handed Biggles a folded piece of paper. "I'm sorry, Biggles; I forgot all about this. It's an urgent signal from Air Commodore Raymond. It came in just as I was leaving Port Stanley."

"Read it, Ginger," requested Biggles.

Ginger's eyes widened with surprise as he read:

U-317 sighted 270 nautical miles south-west of Rio Gallegos by H.M.S. Scud. Stop. Believed to be heading north to Puerto Guano to collect diamonds. Stop. U-317 responsible for sinking 11 British merchant ships and the liner Arthurnia in the South Pacific. Stop. Destruction of U-317 is a priority. Stop. Signed Raymond.

"Destruction of the U-317 is a priority, is it?" scoffed Algy. "How are we going to destroy that U-boat with this old tub? It jolly nearly destroyed us."

"I thought we had only one thing to do - smash up the diamond mine. Now there are two things. At the rate we're going there will soon be three," said Ginger bitterly.

"That's enough," cut in Biggles. "Raymond has given us an order. It's up to us to carry it out."

There was no further conversation. The others knew Biggles too well to comment further on the signal from Raymond at that moment. As for Biggles, he was puzzled and distressed. He could not understand it. He had never let the Air Commodore down. The Air Commodore had never let him down. So why had he given an order that he must have known was virtually impossible for Biggles to carry out? Raymond would surely know that it would take an amazing fluke of luck for a Sea Hurricane, capable of carrying only two 250 pound bombs, to destroy a U-boat. In any event, Biggles no longer had any Sea Hurricanes at his disposal. He bit his lip with vexation.

He hardly noticed the flying-boat continuing to roar its trackless way across the lonely sea. The Argentinian coast had long been left behind, and the rocky shores of the Falklands were still over fifty miles ahead. Then something alerted his pilot's instincts. The port engine was failing, very slowly, but definitely. Biggles' eyes flew the engine-revolution indicator, and he caught his breath when he saw its needle was starting to fall back. The machine started to lose altitude.

Biggles turned to Algy. "Okay, you can let me have her now," he ordered. "You go and have another look at those patches in the hull. See if there's anything more that you can do. Send Ginger up here to sit with me."

"Ginger, keep your eyes out for anything that looks like smoke," he requested when Ginger slipped into the seat beside him. "Your eyes are sharper than mine."

Biggles was now flying with one eye on the rev counter and the other on the eastern horizon - so to speak.

Ten minutes later a cry from Ginger caused Biggles to alter course towards a faint smudge of smoke. The machine was now down to three thousand feet, but a rakish craft could be seen hull down just over the horizon.

"That looks like a destroyer, dead ahead," Ginger asserted.

A strange smile crept over Biggles' face. "It's a destroyer all right. Thank God for the navy. The boys in blue are always there when you need them."

"She's seen us," exclaimed Ginger joyfully. "She's heading in our direction. We should just about reach her."

Ginger's prophecy was not far out. No sooner was the destroyer well in sight when the port motor choked and after a few backfires cut out dead. By that time Biggles had pushed the control column forward, putting the aircraft into a shallow glide towards the water. He landed a couple of miles short of the destroyer. It was an anxious moment, but nothing happened except water began trickling in through some of the patches in the hull. Ten minutes later the destroyer was bearing down on them at full speed, two ostrich-plumes of spray leaping up from the knife-like bow. While still a hundred yards away it swung hard over and then churned up a whirlpool of spray as it went hard aback. Almost before it had stopped a small boat had dropped from the davits and was skimming towards them under the swift strokes of half a dozen pairs of oars; an officer sat in the stern. In five minutes the airmen were aboard her, talking to her commander on the deck.

"My name's Bigglesworth," announced Biggles without preamble. "I'm a Squadron Leader in the R.A.F. These are three of my officers. We've just come across from Argentina."

"Captain Sullivan of HMS Scud," returned the naval officer. "I know who you are. Port Stanley told me there was a British aircraft in the area. I'll let them know that we picked you up, and I'll put you ashore there as soon as I can."

"This is the Scud?" queried Biggles. "I understand that you bumped into the U-317 recently."

"That's correct," nodded Sullivan. "We came across her running on the surface yesterday. We fired a couple of 'mouldies' but she submerged and got away in some rough weather that blew up."

"We bumped into her, too," replied Biggles, quietly. "She got the best of the encounter but I hope one day to meet her again and put a different expression on her skipper's face."

The naval officer became brisk. "What do you want me to do about your machine?" he asked."

"We can't salvage her so you had better sink her," replied Biggles.

Sullivan gave the necessary orders. The destroyer got underway, leaving the flying boat rocking in its wake. A gun crashed and a shell burst near the derelict fuselage of the machine, looking strangely pathetic as it drifted alone on the water. Then several shots struck it, smashing the hull and causing it to settle slowly in the water.

Two hours later, without misadventure, the Scud steamed slowly into Port Stanley. The airmen, washed, shaved, and refreshed, watched the landing-jetty creep nearer. Dusk was closing in but a number of figures could be seen standing on the end of the jetty and waving excitedly.

"Do you see what I see?" exclaimed Algy incredulously.

"I think so," replied Biggles, his face breaking into one of his rare grins of delight. "The rest of the squadron - Angus, Henry, Taffy, Ferocity, Tex and Tug. Raymond must have arranged to get them out here as soon as he received that signal that I asked you to send him, telling him that we'd found the diamond dump at Puerto Guano."

"The whole blessed gang, by Jove," murmured Bertie, polishing his eye-glass furiously. "Marvelous - absolutely marvelous."

As the destroyer was made fast they hurried briskly across the gangway and were welcomed by the other members of Number 666 (Fighter) Squadron with boisterous enthusiasm.

"Where's Henri Ducoste?" demanded Ginger, when the babble had abated.

"Losh, mon," said Angus, uneasily. "I dinna how to tell ye this, laddie."

"What Angus is trying to tell you, is that Henri's gone," said Henry quietly.

"Gone where - to another squadron?" inquired Ginger in puzzled tones.

Tug spoke. "Gone for a Burton," he said succinctly. "He went down in flames in a dog fight over Calais, last week." He added, viciously, "I got the Nazi swine who shot him down."

Tears that he could not keep back welled to Ginger's eyes. He sank down on a bollard and buried his face in his hands.

He heard Biggles asking Angus how the squadron had got to the Falklands. He heard Angus reply, "We flew out in five Beaufighters. We had some ferry pilots to help us; we've been in the air pretty well non-stop since we left England, taking turns at the stick."

"Beaufighters!" exclaimed Biggles. "They're just the ticket for this job!"

The voices receded as Biggles and Angus walked away, accompanied by the others.

Ginger looked up to find Algy's eyes fixed steadily on him. "Henri was Jeanette's brother. And he was my friend," he said simply.

Algy nodded understandingly. "This is war, not kindergarten," he said kindly. "A week ago it was Henri's bad luck. Tomorrow it may be me - or you. You know that. Henri knew what he was in for. At least he got a chance to hit back at the Nazis. He didn't bleat about it when his turn came. Neither, I hope, shall we."

He took Ginger's arm. "Come on, let's go up to the mess and have some dinner. By heavens, the fellows have arrived in the nick of time. Things are just starting to warm up."