Sir Biggles, Order of the Camel: Chapter 10.

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

Algy and Bertie spent an uneventful morning being shown around the premises of the aero club by Rick. They were introduced to four other members of the club: a retired RAF officer, a hearty American in his early thirties, and two surly South American pilots who barely bothered to acknowledge the introductions.

Algy was puzzled but not particularly worried when lunchtime had come and gone without an appearance of Biggles’ Mosquito. As he said to Bertie over a quick meal, it was always possible that Biggles had landed to look at something of interest—indeed, Biggles himself must have had that possibility in mind when he had given his instructions that morning.

“Absolutely, old boy,” said Bertie. “They should be back by supper, what?”

“I hope so,” replied Algy, vaguely.

They spent the rest of the day pottering around the club, looking over maps of the area. Algy made a brief telephone report to Air Commodore Raymond, informing him of the position. Bertie discussed fox-hunting with the retired RAF officer.

When the sun had finally set and dark began to colour the skies, Algy knew for certain that something had happened. “Something’s wrong,” he announced to Bertie. The two of them were standing by the airstrip, hoping to hear the sound of aero engines. “He would never stay away this long if everything was all right.”

It was too late by now to conduct a search, so, reluctantly, they decided that they would have to set out first thing in the morning.

As it turned out, Rick could only find one single-seater for them. “There would have been another one, but one of the South American lads took it last night,” he said apologetically.

Algy was not best pleased by this state of affairs. He would have liked the two of them to go out together, but, as he said to Bertie, it could hardly be helped. They were lucky to have any planes at all.

They tossed for the single-seater and Algy won.

“I shouldn’t be away for more than three hours,” he said to Bertie, as he donned his flying jacket. “I’ll be following Wilks’ course to Dark Island. If I don’t find them there, I’ll probably come back and fly up and down the coast for a bit to see if they’ve ended up there. After that, I don’t know. You’d better come after me if I’m not back by lunch. If you can’t find us in either of those places, you’ll have to please yourself what you do.”

To all this, Bertie agreed.

Algy clambered into the pilot’s seat, gave a cheerful wave, and took off.

He took longer to fly to the Island than Biggles had done the day before, for he was closely scanning the ocean below for signs of wreckage or swimming figures. He was grateful that he found none; for he would not have been able to do anything if he had.

Reaching the island at last, he slowly circled, automatically noting possible landing grounds.

And then, just as he was passing over the far end of the island, his eye fell on what he sought: a blackened mass on the ocean’s surface, one that looked suspiciously like the wreckage of an aircraft. It was too far away for him to tell whether or not it was a Mosquito, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it would be too much of a coincidence for another plane to crash at the same spot that Biggles had been making for.

With his heart in his mouth, Algy came back, his eyes desperately seeking signs of life. He soon saw the remains of what appeared to be the tail end and part of an aircraft wing on the edge of the cliff just above the burnt wreckage. Clearly, the plane had crashed on the cliff, and most of it had fallen into the ocean and burnt out.

But what had happened to the occupants of the plane? Were they still alive? Had they made it out in time?

&&&

Biggles swung the plane around to head for home. He looked down to check the petrol gauge, more out of habit than due to any real concern. “We should just have enough to get back,” he announced to Ginger cheerfully. “With any luck, we should be in time for lunch.”

Scarcely had the words left his lips when the machine rocked violently from side to side.

“What the dickens—?” muttered Biggles, frowning as he eased the machine back to even keel.

“What happened?” gasped Ginger.

“I don’t—” Before he could finish the sentence, something zinged into the windshield and smashed it to pieces, scattering glass everywhere.

“That was a bullet!” cried Ginger.

“All right,” grated Biggles. “Don’t get all excited as if you’d never seen one before. Sit tight and see if you can spot him. What a nuisance we haven’t got any guns; there’s nothing I’d like more to give that fellow a taste of his own medicine.”

“There it is!” Ginger pointed a shaking finger, but Biggles had already seen the plane and was dodging the stream of machine-gun fire that streaked out.

“Have you got a pistol?” he called to Ginger, never taking his eyes off of the other plane.

“Yes.”

“You’d better see what you can do with it.”

Ginger wordlessly took out his gun, but he knew that it would stand a poor chance at best against a machine-gun.

A mirthless smile crossed Biggles’ lips as he continued a hopeless game of hunter and hunted with the other plane. Thus far, he had managed to dodge the worst of the attack, but he knew that this state of affairs could not last forever.

The end came quite suddenly.

The Mosquito rocked with the force of another impact, and with it, a strong distinctive smell filled the cabin. Biggles knew what it was at once. “He’s holed the tank!” he called to Ginger. “I’ve got to try and get down. Brace yourself, this is going to be a rough ride.”

Ginger, white to the lips with the strain, said nothing.

Biggles snatched a glance at the island below. He only had time for a snatched glance, for the other machine had followed them down, and was still shooting at them.

In all his long career, never had Biggles made a landing so desperate.

Even before his wheels had touched the ground, he realized that the space he had chosen as a landing strip would not be long enough. However, he had no choice, and with the other pilot close on his heels there certainly was no question of turning back to choose another place to land.

Biggles weaved from side to side as best as he could under the circumstances, hoping to spoil the other pilot’s aim. In this he was only partially successful; from time to time, a bullet would rock the machine, and Biggles winced, his nerves stretched to breaking point, for the possibility of fire was ever-constant in his mind.

Bullets licked the ground before and beside him, kicking up small pebbles and bits of dirt, making it even harder to judge distances and obstacles.

The machine skidded wildly out of control, and Biggles gritted his teeth. “We’re not going to make it,” he snarled to Ginger, knuckles white with the effort of holding the plane in. “It’ll be about three hundred yards too short.”

“Wha-what do we do?” panted Ginger.

“You’d better get ready to jump for it,” announced Biggles grimly. “Go on, get the door open. I’ll hold her as steady as I can.”

“Me?” queried Ginger. “What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” promised Biggles. “Now, on my count…Steady…Now!”

Ginger leapt out of the machine, landing painfully on the ground, skinning both palms badly in the process. He had a vague impression of Biggles throwing things out after him, but he had no time to look back, for the bullets licking at the ground next to him were getting uncomfortably close.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Ginger jumped, but then relaxed a moment later as Biggles’ voice roared in his ear, “Come on!”

Together, they dashed for the cover provided by a row of trees. Crouched in relative safety, Ginger finally dared a look back, and was just in time to see the Mosquito’s pilotless rush over the cliff. At the last instant, part of a wing caught on a boulder, but this was not enough to stop the machine’s progress, and Ginger fell back as the machine tore itself apart with an almighty crash. A thick column of smoke sprung up, and he could see flames licking greedily at the Mosquito as it teetered in mid-air, seconds before the inevitable fall to the ocean below.

Looking up, he could see the enemy plane turning away, evidently satisfied by its work. As the drone of its engines died away, Ginger heard the giant splash that told him that the Mosquito had hit the water.

And after that, there was silence.

Goto Chapter 11. 

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