Biggles Defies The Swastika Part 1

Biggles Defies The Swastika.

Captain W. E. Johns.

Chapter 1.

An Unpleasant Awakening Squadron-Leader James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., better known in flying circles as 'Biggles'

, was awakened by the early morning sun streaming through the open window of his room in the Hotel Kapital, in Oslo. As he stretched out his hand towards the bedside bell, to let the chambermaid know that he was ready for his coffee, he became vaguely aware that instead of the usual bustle in the street below there was a peculiar silence, as if it were Sunday. It struck him that he might be mistaken in the day, and that it was Sunday after all; but this thought was instantly dismissed by the absence of church-bell chimes.

He reached out for the morning paper, which the hall porter, without wakening him, had on previous days put on his bedside table, only to frown with surprise and disapproval when he found that it was not there.

Looking back, he could never understand why this sequence of events did not suggest the truth to him. Perhaps he was not fully awake; or it may have been that his mind was filled with other things. Be that as it may, no suspicion of the real state of affairs occurred to him. He was in no immediate hurry to get up, for he had nothing in particular to do, so he lay still, basking in the early spring suns.h.i.+ne, thinking over the peculiar nature of the mission that had brought him to Norway, and wondering if it was time for him to get into touch with Colonel Raymond, of the British Intelligence Service, with a view to asking if he could now return to France.

When, some two months earlier, Colonel Raymond had broached the project to him, Biggles had listened without enthusiasm, for he was quite content to be where he was. At that time he was in France, commanding a special squadron which included amongst its pilots his two best friends, Flight-Lieutenant the Hon. Algy Lacey and Flying-Officer '

Ginger' Hebblethwaite; and one of the reasons why he received Colonel Raymond's proposal with disfavour was that the acceptance of it meant leaving them, and going alone to Norway.

The mission which Colonel Raymond asked him to undertake was, on the face of it, neither difficult nor dangerous. Briefly, it was this. According to reports received from their secret agents, the British authorities were of the opinion that the n.a.z.i government contemplated an invasion of Scandinavia, and in the event of this taking place, British troops would at once be sent to the a.s.sistance of the country attacked. But this was only the major issue. If troops were sent, then they would have to be supported by aircraft, and Colonel Raymond's department was anxious to ascertain what air bases would be available. This did not mean established civil or military aerodromes, particulars of which were already known, but tracts of land which might, in emergency, be converted into aerodromes. Failing that, which lakes or fiords were the most suitable for marine aircraft? Such technical information as this could only be obtained by a practical pilot, and Biggles was asked to undertake the work. There were, however, minor difficulties, one of which was the political aspect. For example, if it became known that a British pilot was carrying out survey flights over Norway it might lead to unpleasant repercussions, and in order to avoid such a possibility a scheme had been evolved.

Biggies-a.s.suming that he accepted the task-would proceed to Norway as a Norwegian subject who had for many years resided in Canada. This would account for his being able to speak English fluently, and at the same time explain his imperfect Norwegian. As a matter of fact, Biggles knew no Norwegian at all, and his first job would be to pick up the language as quickly as possible. For the rest, he would be provided with papers p.r.o.nouncing him to be Sven Hendrik, born in Oslo. On arriving in Norway he would join a flying club and buy a light aeroplane in which he would make cross-country flights, ostensibly for sport, but in reality to collect the information required. Should the threatened invasion actually occur, all he would have to do would be to get into his machine and fly back to England forthwith.

It all sounded so very simple that it found no favour in Biggles's eyes, and he said as much, pointing out that it was a job any pilot could do. But Colonel Raymond, with shrewd foresight, did not agree. He admitted that while all went well the mission was unlikely to present any difficulty, but should unforeseen circ.u.mstances arise-well, it would save him a lot of anxiety if someone of ability and experience was on the job. It would not last very long-perhaps two to three months. If he, Biggles, would undertake it, Algy Lacey could command the squadron in France until he returned.

In the end Biggles had agreed to go, for as the matter was put to him he could not very well refuse, particularly as Colonel Raymond asked him to go as a personal favour. So he said good-bye to Algy and Ginger and in due course arrived in Norway. He would, of course, have taken his two comrades with him had this been possible, but Colonel Raymond vetoed it on the grounds that three strangers might attract suspicion where one would not.

For nearly two months he had been in Norway, making long survey flights in his little '

Moth' when the weather permitted, and swotting hard at the Norwegian language on every possible occasion. To live in a country is the best and quickest way of learning its language, and after seven weeks of concentrated effort Biggles was able to carry on a normal conversation in Norwegian. Also, by flying over it, he had got to know the country very well; indeed, there were few physical -features that he had not seen, including the rugged coast-line. He had sent his reports home with many photographs, so it was reasonable to suppose that he might be recalled at any moment. Indeed, it was in antic.i.p.ation of this that he had left his room at the flying club, which was a small private landing-ground near the village of Boda, to see the sights. Oslo was only thirty miles from Boda. He apprehended no danger in leaving his base, for nothing of note had happened the whole time he had been in Norway, and as far as he could see nothing was likely to happen. In fact, in his heart he was beginning to suspect that the British Intelligence Service had been mistaken in thinking that the Germans were contemplating an attack on Norway.

He looked at his watch. It was now nearly eight o'clock, and still his coffee had not arrived. This was curious, for the chambermaid was usually prompt, and he was in the act of reaching again for the bell when a sound reached his ears that brought a puzzled frown to his forehead. However, still without alarm, he flung off the bedclothes and was on his way to the window when the door of the room burst open and the chambermaid appeared. She seemed to be in a state of bordering on hysteria.

'What's the matter?' asked Biggles shortly.

The woman nearly choked in her excitement and dismay. With a quivering finger she pointed to the window. 'The Germans,' she gasped. 'The Germans are here!'

Biggles experienced an unpleasant shock, for he realized that the woman was speaking the truth. Two swift strides took him to the window. One glance was enough. A dcuble file of n.a.z.i troops were marching up the street. A few civilians stood on the pavement watching with expressions that revealed what they felt, but otherwise the street was comparatively deserted.

Biggles bustled the woman out of the room. He had often found it necessary to dress quickly, but never before had he got into his clothes with such speed as he did now. And all the time his brain was racing as he strove to form a plan, to make some provision for the alarming contingency that had arisen; in other words, to escape with all possible speed from the trap in which he found himself.

Where the n.a.z.i troops had come from so miraculously, and apparently without opposition, he could not imagine. At least, he a.s.sumed that there had been no opposition, or he could not have failed to hear the firing. The thing was inexplicable. The n.a.z.is, incon-testably, were in control of the city, and that was sufficient reason for him to evacuate it with all possible speed. Curiously enough he did not expect any great difficulty in achieving this, for was he not, to all intents and purposes, a harmless Norwegian citizen?

Even the n.a.z.is, he reasoned, would hardly ma.s.sacre the entire civil population in cold blood, nor would they prevent people from going about their normal business.

Before he had finished dressing Biggles had decided on his line of action. It was the obvious one. He would charter a taxi and drive straight to the aerodrome. Once there it would not take him long to get his machine out of its hangar and into the air; and once in the air, only engine failure would prevent him from reaching England. Fortunately, from sheer habit, he had seen his tanks filled before he left the aerodrome. So, broadly speaking, his flight-in both senses of the word-seemed a fairly simple matter. His luggage didn't matter; there was nothing incriminating in it, and nothing that was irreplaceable, so he was quite prepared to abandon it. His only thought was to get to the aerodrome.

He took a quick glance at himself in the full-length mirror and decided that there was no reason why anyone should suspect that he was anything but what he pretended to be-a Norwegian subject. His grey flannel suit he had actually bought in Oslo on his arrival in the country. His nationality papers were in order and he had plenty of ready money, so it seemed that he had little to worry about. Humming nonchalantly, he went down the stairs into the hall, and there he received his first shock. It was a rude one.

Four German troopers, under an unteroffizier, were there. They saw him at the same moment that he saw them, and as to retire would obviously invite suspicion he kept on his way. He was brought to a halt by the point of a bayonet. The unteroffizier addressed him harshly.

'Who are you?' he barked.

Biggles affected an expression of surprise. 'My name's Hendrik,' he answered at once. '

Why do you ask? What is happening here?'

'Norway is now under the control of the Third Reich,' answered the German. 'Return to your room and remain there until further notice.'

Biggles looked at the hotel manager. Slumped in his desk, he was as white as death. He seemed stunned. It is correct,' he said in a low voice.

Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'Very well.' he said, and walked back up the stairs.

But this state of affairs did not suit him. Far from it. The last thing he intended doing was to sit pa.s.sively in his room, so as soon as he was on the first floor he hurried to the end of the corridor and looked out of the window. It overlooked a courtyard-full of Germans.

Plainly, there was no escape that way. He tried the windows of several unoccupied rooms, and finally found one overlooking a narrow side street. The only people in it were a small group of women, talking excitedly. They were, of course, Norwegians, so having nothing to fear from them, he opened the window wide, climbed over the sill, and, after hanging to the full extent of his arms, dropped lightly to the pavement. Another moment and he was walking briskly down the street towards a garage which he had previously noted. But alas for his hopes! A squad of Germans had already taken possession of the building, so Biggles walked on without pausing.

He was now somewhat at a loss, for although he had been in Oslo twice before, he was by no means sure of his way. He reached the main street to find it full of marching Germans, with Norwegians standing about watching them helplessly. What upset him, however, was the complete absence of motor traffic, and he realized with something like dismay that the invaders must have at once put a ban on mechanical transport. This was disturbing to say the least of it, but it did not affect his determination to get to the aerodrome. Nevertheless, he knew it was no use thinking of walking; it would take too long. He perceived that if the Germans had stopped motor traffic they would also have stopped private flying-or they would as soon as they reached the aerodrome. Thus, his only chance in getting away lay in reaching the aerodrome before the German troops took it over-as they certainly would.

He was standing at the edge of the kerb wondering which way to go when an errand-boy dismounted from a bicycle not far away, and, leaving the machine leaning against a lamp-post, disappeared into a shop. Covertly watching the people around him to see if his movements were observed, Biggles walked quickly to the cycle. n.o.body took the slightest notice of him; they were all far too interested in the Germans. In a moment he had straddled the machine and was pedalling a somewhat erratic course down the street-erratic because it was many years since he had ridden a bicycle. Moreover, the only bicycles he had ridden were the rather heavy old-fas.h.i.+oned type which had upright frames, whereas his present mount was a light roadster with ram's-horn handlebars that swept nearly to the ground. He felt awkward on it, clumsy, and could only hope that he did not look as conspicuous as he felt.

Even so, it was entirely the German's fault that he collided with him. He- Biggles - was just turning into the broad highway which he knew ran past the aerodrome when the n.a.z.i, a corporal, stepped right in front of him. Biggles did his best to stop, but he couldn'

t find the brake, and the result was that the handlebars caught the German under the seat of his pants and knocked him flying into the gutter.

Biggles stopped at once, for he knew that to go on was to court disaster. The corporal, white with fury-for several of the spectators had laughed at his discomfiture-strode swiftly back to where Biggles was standing.

'Fool!' he snarled, kicking the bicycle out of the way and striking Biggles across the face with his open palm.

By what effort Biggles controlled himself he did not know. He clenched his fists and his jaws clamped together, but he stood still, suffering in impotent silence, for around him were a dozen or more fully armed soldiers. But even now the corporal was not satisfied.

He lifted his heavy field boot to kick. Biggles stiffened, and his eyes glinted dangerously, for to stand still and be kicked by a German corporal was more than he was prepared to endure. How the matter would have ended had there not been an interruption is a matter for conjecture, but at that moment a Storm-troop officer on a swastika-bedecked motorcycle pulled up alongside and spoke crisply to the corporal, demanding to know why he wasn't getting on with his job. Without waiting for the corporal to answer he fired out a string of orders.

The corporal saluted, mustered his men, and marched them behind the officer to the corner of the street, a distance of perhaps forty paces, where the officer proceeded to post the men as sentries.

Biggles looked at his bicycle. The front wheel was buckled and the tire was flat.

Obviously, it would take him no farther. There was not another vehicle in sight-except the n.a.z.i-flagged motor-cycle, resting on its stand as the officer had left it.

It did not take Biggles long to make up his mind what to do. He knew now that once the German net had closed around the city he would be caught in it, and would probably remain in it until the end of the war-if nothing worse happened to him. His only chance of escape lay in reaching the aerodrome immediately. In an hour, two hours at most, it would be too late. The motor-cycle offered a chance, a chance that might never present itself again. Biggles had spent most of his life taking chances, and he did not hesitate to take this one.

There was a gasp of horror from the spectators as he swung a leg over the saddle. His heel slammed down the self-starter. There was a yell from the Germans as the engine sprang to life, but he did not waste valuable time looking back. In a moment he was tearing down the street, crouching low over the handlebars to minimize the risk of being hit by the shots which he presumed would follow.

Chapter 2.

Alarming Developments Actually, only two or three shots were fired, and they whistled harmlessly past, before Biggles came to a side street into which he lost no time in turning. Then he steadied his pace, for he did not want another collision, nor did he wish to attract attention to himself by riding at a dangerous speed. A hundred yards farther on he took a turning which brought him back to the main road. Several parties of German troops were stationed at various turnings and cross-roads, and although they sometimes looked at him curiously as he swept past, they made no attempt to stop him. He realized that he, a civilian, must have cut a strange figure on a swastika-flagged motor-cycle, but the n.a.z.i emblem acted as a pa.s.sport, and he was content to let the flags remain.

In five minutes he was through the suburbs of the city and on the open road, doing sixty miles an hour, determined that no one should overtake him before he reached the aerodrome. If there was a pursuit, and he fully expected that there would be one, he saw no sign of it, and when, twenty-five minutes later, he swept into the straight piece of road that led to the aerodrome, he imagined that his escape was a.s.sured. He could have shouted with glee as he turned into the short drive that ended at the club-house. He did, in fact, purse his lips to whistle, but the sound died away before it was formed; for outside the club-house was a group of men. One or two were civilians; the rest were in uniform-the grey uniform of the German Air Force.

Shaken though he was by shock, Biggles realized what had happened, and a glance towards the hangars confirmed it. A dozen machines were parked in line-but they were not club aeroplanes. They were Messerschmitts, sleek monoplanes bearing the familiar Latin cross, and the swastika of the German Air Force.

The German pilots, laughing, suddenly spread across the road, raising their arms in salute; and, as Biggles jammed on his brakes and stopped, they crowded round him. One of them, a captain, stepped forward, and Biggles steeled himself for the worst. To his utter and complete amazement the German clapped him on the back with every sign of friendliness.

'Welcome!' he cried.

Biggles's brain seemed to go numb, for not by any stretch of the imagination could he make out what was happening. Far from treating him like an enemy, the Germans seemed pleased to see him. He couldn't understand it at all, and he began seriously to wonder if, after all, the whole thing was not an evil dream. Then, dimly, he began to see daylight-or he thought he did. It was the motor-cycle-or rather, the swastika flags on it. The Germans took him for one of themselves.

But the next remark made by the German captain dispelled this delusion. He took Biggles by the arm in the most friendly manner, although his friendliness had an oily quality which Biggles found it hard to stomach.

'Why didn't you tell us you were one of us?' he said slyly, nudging Biggles with roguish familiarity.

Something in the man's voice made Biggles look at him more closely; and then, for the first time, he recognized him. Doubtless it was the uniform that had so altered him that he had not recognized him at first. He was one of the members of the flying club.

Biggles's brain raced to keep pace with the situation. 'But wouldn't that have been risky?'

he said vaguely, in order to gain time. 'I thought you were a Norwegian.'

'So I am,' was the staggering reply, 'but I've always admired the n.a.z.is-and it was made worth my while to play on their side. There were three of us here in the swim, but none of us guessed that you were in it too.'

At last Biggles understood. Three of the members of the flying club were in German pay, and now that he had arrived on a n.a.z.i motor-cycle they a.s.sumed, not unnaturally, that he, too, was in n.a.z.i employ. The knowledge shook him to the very core. Spying was something he could understand; there had always been, and always would be, spies. It was one of the oldest professions in the world, and was, after all, a part of the unpleasant business of war. But what he could not understand, and what he could not forgive, was a man playing traitor to his own country. Yet there were three such men here, men who were far worse than spies; they were renegades, traitors in the most despicable sense.

Biggles swallowed something in his throat and forced a sickly smile. 'I wasn't taking any chances,' he said in German. 'As a matter of fact.' he continued, as he saw a new loophole of escape. 'I'm not officially in the German service-yet. I heard a whisper that some of you were, so I bided my time; but as soon as I saw the troops land this morning I borrowed this motor-bike and headed for the aerodroine in the hope of being able to do something.'

'You'll be able to do something,' the other a.s.sured him. 'We shall need all the pilots we can get, and having seen something of your flying I can recommend you. Ever flown a Messerschmitt?'

'No.'

'You will, and you'll like it. It's a lovely machine. The trouble will be finding somebody to fight.'

'You don't expect much opposition then?'

The other scoffed. 'None at all. The only military machines in the country are obsolete types.'

'But suppose the British send some machines out?' queried Biggles.

The other laughed scornfully. 'We'll deal with them when they come,' he boasted.

'By the way, is my machine still here?' asked Biggles in a voice which he strove to keep steady. He had no wish to find himself in the German Air Force.

'Yes, but you won't be allowed to fly it. All machines are grounded-the Commandant's orders.'

Biggles nodded. 'Of course-very wise,' he agreed. 'Well, here I am. What ought I to do next?'

'You'll have to wait here until the Commandant arrives, then I'll introduce you to him.

No doubt he'll be glad to have you in the service, particularly as you know the country.

Here he comes now.'

The man, whose name Biggles now remembered was Kristen, nodded towards a big car that came speeding up the road, a swastika flag fluttering on its bonnet.

Biggles's astute brain had now got the whole situation fairly well straightened out.

Kristen, and two other members of the club, had actually got the aerodrome ready for German occupation. A number of Messerschmitts, flown by regular German officers, had already landed. The new Commandant of the station was just arriving to take charge of operations. He, Biggles, was a.s.sumed to be of n.a.z.i persuasion, and might, if he played his cards properly, actually be admitted into the German Air Force as a renegade Norwegian. The prospect nauseated him, but he felt that if it offered a chance of escape he would be foolish not to take it. There might even be some satisfaction in beating the Germans at their own underhand game. In any case, he knew that if ever it was learned that he was British he was likely to have a bad time. Should the Germans learn his real name, and the n.a.z.i Intelligence Service hear of his capture, then things would look very black indeed, for they had his record and had good cause to hate him.

The a.s.sembled pilots clicked their heels as the Commandant's car came to a stop and he alighted.

Hauptmann Baron von Leffers,' whispered Kirsten.

There was some delay while the Commandant spoke to the officers, some of whom got into their machines and took off. Von Leffers watched them go and then beckoned to Kristen.

'Good,' he said, 'you have done well. Presently you will be given one of our machines, but before that I want to go over with you the list of all machines and accessories that you have here. You have it prepared?'

'Yes, Herr Kommandant.'

The Baron looked at Biggles. 'Who is this?'

'He is one of us, but as yet his appointment has not been confirmed.'

'So? How is that?'

Kristen explained that Biggles had not been very long in the country and had been flying his own machine. He was, he a.s.serted with more confidence than Biggles' statement warranted, entirely in sympathy with the n.a.z.is, and would like to fly for them.

'You have your own plane?' queried the Commandant.

Biggles bowed German fas.h.i.+on. ja, Herr Kommandant.'

The Baron smiled drily. You must have plenty of money?'

Biggles shrugged. 'I had some, but I have spent most of it. Flying is an expensive pastime.'

It won't cost you anything now,' returned the Baron. I'm afraid we shall have to take your machine. You will be paid for it, of course-after the war.'

'Quite so, Herr Kommandant.'

And you would like to fly one of our fighters?' 'Yes, Herr Kommandant.'

'Have you any experience of fighting machines?'