Also, this thread is really picking up @saladin.
Good call to start it.
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Can’t remember if that gets used in later chapters, lol. I think someone “opines” though.
I think we all just needed some courage to post our stuff for others to see. If you’re not sure of your own stuff (I’m often not), it’s daunting to consider what others will think!
Oh, and (to all) I’m very happy for critiquing of anything I post. It’ll keep the thread moving if there’s no recent material to read, if nothing else, lol.
I’ve already slightly changed the ending for RiverRun, it felt somewhat clumsy in it’s first form on a reread. Which is interesting because I thought I had the opening/ closing duo locked down before I even started. But it hasn’t worked that way and it probably needs further refinement or even redoing. Then again, not surprising perhaps as I only wrote the thing a few days back largely to have something for this thread.
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Of course. How did I not see that one coming!?
Ha, cheers.
I’ll put up another chapter tonight for you when I get home.
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I think the thing I enjoyed most about my ‘novel’ was subverting song lyrics at the start of most chapters.
It was supposed to be a…well, the hint is in the title…a Bull Durham/Graduate/Lecter/coming of age erotic thriller.
lol. Yeah. But now, creepy and gross.
Edit: and apart from this i think I’ve already posted everything I’ve ever written. Which is a lot. So I’m not over keen to post them again.
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Some non-fiction.
I’m going to try to be as matter of fact as I can.
****** ********, age six, deceased.
His mother brought him in.
He looked pale. That’s all. I mean, very pale, but that’s not extraordinary.
His mother and I talked. He’d been nauseous for two or three days.
Maybe gastro then.
You know what my job is. I ask clerical questions. And I asked every last one. And that took some time.
Normally with kids, I talk to them. Ask them if they’re married. Ask them if this is their mum. Not for any reason other than I like playing with kids. But for some reason I didn’t this time.
His mother had brought some sort of tupperware bowl in case he was sick, and it was about now that she offered it to him. We’ve got bags for that sort of thing. Much better than a shallow bowl, so I got one, brought it back.
And for the first time I’ve tried to interact with ***. Offer him the bag.
‘Here you go, ***.’
And he doesn’t react at all. Looks right through me.
So, okay, some kids are shy, but I know it’s not that.
And I happen to see the nurse, she was getting medication for other patients at the time so it was just me until I chanced upon her, and said, ‘Young ***’s a bit crook.’
And later I curse my habit of understatement.
Not to write that off completely, because me making a diagnosis even as vague as that to a nurse is significant, so she stops what she’s doing, goes out into the public area, checks his heart, rips *** out of his mothers arms and carries him, sprinting to the Resus beds.
I hit the alarm. Everyone in Emergency stops what they’re doing and runs to the bed. That’s what happens when you hit the alarm.
And I couldn’t have known. I know that.
But it still took me such a long time to tell anyone. Such a very long time.
And it wouldn’t have made a difference.
People have assured me of that.
But, you know, absolutely no-one knows that for sure.
And that’s where my part in it ends, but it’s only the first ten minutes. Five minutes? Fifteen minutes?
I don’t know.
Anyway, point is there’s two hours to go.
There’s family.
All I’m going to say about that is his mother telling everyone it was his first day back at school, and she was going to have to tell the school why he wasn’t there the next day. And that he had a brother and sister.
Nearly done.
I don’t make friends easily. And the people I work with are not my friends.
But I like and respect them. And they seem to feel the same way about me.
Two hours they spent keeping him alive.
I tried to help them as best I could. I don’t mean help them with him, I mean help them with themselves.
They used the paddles…I don’t know how many times. More than twice. They’re horrible. They’re violent. Television makes you think you know what they’re like but they don’t give you any idea.
So one of the nurses broke down, during. Not for long. But there was a point where she just couldn’t anymore.
And I tried to get her to pull herself together. That was hard.
It’s harder knowing she thinks she failed that night.
And finally the doctor called it.
And, again, without wanting to be melodramatic…this is just what happened. This is just what I saw.
The nurse attending refused to stop CPR and had to be dragged out of the room screaming no all the way.
And that’s it, pretty much.
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Dude…
I don’t know how people in hospitals deal with that stuff. I really don’t, I know I couldn’t.
I had an ex who was an ED nurse. She kept it together surprisingly well, but when she had a bad day at work… It was a truly bad day.
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So sad, so chilling…so powerful in its understated style.
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I’ve given that a like. Which feels so weird, so wrong.
Just harrowing.
Heartbreaking.
You write well… in the moment. It’s rare.
It’s a damn good read, Sal.
The pacing is excellent.
Also, how good is the word ‘ensconced?’
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I’ve already given the first chapter a like, so…like.
Also, rude.
Let others join the conversation
This topic is clearly important to you – you’ve posted more than 25% of the replies here.
It could be even better if you got other people space to share their points of view, too. Can you invite them over?
Lol, what!?
Never seen that before!
I’m off to bed, but I’ll post chapter three tomorrow in its own post, just to help Wim with his alleged thread hogging problem!
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Chapter 3. Haystack.
The heat was intense, a blazing sun having had many hours of unimpeded travel, across a cloudless sky of burnished steel, in which to assault everything below. Occasional gusts of wind, across a flat and barren landscape broken only by sporadic scrub and spindly, brittle grasses, gave no respite. Instead, it served only to stir up little storms of dust and sand, adding a touch of animated drama to an already harsh scene. Bisecting this gruelling and depressing panorama was a wide expanse of concrete apron, running away to the north west as far as the eye could see, reflecting the Sun’s incessant anger by throwing up shimmering waves of rarefied air that twisted and distorted like a fairground mirror. Nearby, to the south and west, a small township sweltered through another African day, it’s existence apparently justified solely on the basis that the White Nile cut a sinuous green swathe - in stark contrast to the general desolation- half a mile to the east.
Only some faded fabric-covered hangers and a few forlorn looking buildings hinted at the nature of the immediate location, and it was from within the largest of these that a figure now emerged. Bearing the desert uniform of the RAF, complete with Flight Lieutenant insignia on the short sleeves, he shielded his eyes and peered into the tortuous haze to the north. The faint sound of an engine wafted in on the breeze, perhaps confirming the suspicion that had drawn him from the shelter of the building, and he barked some orders that soon had a handful of lounging bodies up and scurrying.
Ignoring the three Flying Officers who had followed him from the “Mess” and formed up in a mini parade, he scrutinised the horizon from which the sounds of aero engines now grew. Presently he picked out a small silhouette that emerged from the superheated atmosphere, and his eyebrows rose in surprised reaction when he recognised the aircraft as a Wellington. The lumbering Bomber came straight in for a neat landing and, under the waving guidance of the ground crew, taxied up to the hangers in a billowing cloud of dust and debris before switching off its engines. The welcoming party moved up to meet it, but the Flight Lieutenant cut short his salute mid-swing as two occupants disembarked, dressed in civilian outfits.
“Err, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth?” he enquired of the leading newcomer.
“I’m Bigglesworth, yes” replied Biggles with a smile. “But don’t worry too much about the rank, Flight, you won’t catch me in uniform these days”.
“Yes ,Sir. I’m Flight Lieutenant Hancock, Number Eight Squadron.” He caught Biggles looking around at the surroundings with some distaste and broke into a grin. “Welcome to RAF Staging Post 29.” He waved towards the distant township. “Otherwise known as Juba, the hellhole of Africa”.
Biggles smiled again. “It certainly makes Khartoum look luxurious, doesn’t it? This is Bertie Lissie”, introducing his companion with a nod.
“It’s no bally place for a holiday, no by Jove”, agreed Bertie. “Beastly hot, damn unpleasant already actually” as he wiped some invisible dust off a monocle.
Hancock looked at Bertie with a quizzical expression, before turning his gaze back to Biggles. “I missed serving in the war, Sir, by a couple of years but I know of you by name. Both of you.” His eyes drifted wonderingly back to Bertie momentarily. “That’s why, when word came through that we were to act as possible assistance, I volunteered my flight to come over”.
“Ahh, so this isn’t your usual posting?”
“Thankfully not, no Sir. This is only a transit post these days. Just a skeleton crew with pretty basic facilities. As you can see “, he added with a nod towards the ground crew, who were refuelling the Wellington via hand-pumps and drums of petrol. “We’re based at RAF Khormaskar. That’s Aden, sir, in case you didn’t know. The AOC gave us orders to ramp up the supplies here for a while and offer any requested help that you may need.”
“Good stuff. We brought some things with us too. And I’m expecting another two lads along shortly, in a Proctor”.
“A Proctor!?” Hancock could barely contain his astonishment.
Biggles smiled faintly. “Yes, a Proctor. It suits our needs. Hopefully, anyway. I assume you are the ranking officer here?” Receiving a nod in the affirmative, he continued. “Right, as far as I’m concerned this is your base. You run it militarily. My gazetting is entirely temporary, simply to allow me to go to the AOC and request whatever I need, but I’m actually here in the role of policeman so unless I need something, I won’t interfere with how you go about things. Out of interest, what aircraft do you have here?”
“Vampires, Sir. Mark 9 ground attacks. Two of them. Also, we have a pair of Valetta’s on the transport run. One should be here by sunset”.
“Are the Vampires armed?” Receiving a startled nod, he simply added succinctly and firmly “Good”.
Hancock’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Are you, umm, expecting to need them, Sir?”
“I hope not” answered Biggles grimly. “Now let’s get inside out of this heat and I’ll fill you in on why we’re here. I want to get airborne as soon as the Proctor arrives. Every minute could be crucial.”
-____________________________________________________________
A little more than two hours later saw the big Wellington airborne again, this time boring its way towards the ever retreating eastern horizon. Algy and Ginger Hebblethwaite had touched down in the Proctor, and after some rudimentary refreshments and a briefing of Hancock on the situation, all four had taken their places in the bomber. Biggles was keen to press on for, as he said, there was nothing at all to be gained by delaying the arrival over the area of interest, and quite possibly much to be lost.
Biggles and Algy sat in the cockpit, flying a compass course somewhat north of due east. Bertie manned the radio compartment behind them, in regular contact with Hancock’s operator at Juba. This left Ginger to his own devices and he opted to sit in the forward gun-turret, from where he could view the passing landscape with morbid detachment. His mind wandered back over the previous three days, which had been marked by feverish activity as preparations were made for a rapid departure. Davidson’s records had been looked over, largely to build a picture of the man they were attempting to find. Perhaps the most pertinent information found, given the current circumstances, was that in addition to a distinguished Service Record behind enemy lines in Western Europe, Davidson had also spent 9 months serving with Bagnolds’ Long Range Desert Group in North Africa. As Algy pointed out, if anyone could evade pursuers and also navigate large amounts of ground in a hostile environment, it was surely such a man.
All four Special Air Police members had temporarily had their Service rankings reinstated. It was decided to take the Wellington, loaded with small arms and any supplies deemed useful. Biggles arranged for the collection of an RAF Proctor from Cairo, rather than flying their own out, thinking that they would need something small that could be put down anywhere if the mission went well. Unfortunately, the BOAC aircrew were en-route to Australia, but contact had been made and details sought of the SOS location. Their arrival in Egypt was met by a signal from Charles, informing them that further discrete enquiries had been made with Ethiopian authorities but produced nothing more than an unofficial admission that the far south-western region of the country was currently subject to little control from Addis Ababa. Biggles’ request for military involvement, if needed, had obviously led to the dispatch of Hancock to Juba. The nature of this support, as he said to the others as the Wellington lifted off the sun-baked runway for the crucial final leg of the journey, should give them a further clue as to just how seriously the Government were treating the whole matter.
For more than two hours the aircraft ploughed on, the terrain switching between open, parched savannah and tangled, equatorial vegetation that, Ginger knew, would be far harder going than one might suspect from the air. The trees below started to throw lengthening shadows to the east as the Sun finally began to relent in its eternal torment of all below. Several large herds of gazelle roamed the landscape, and as they pressed further eastwards Ginger spotted a few small conclaves of Elephant, mere hints of the large population encountered by Karamojo Bell just 50 years earlier. The occasional tiny native village, apparently eeking out a precarious existence in their vast surrounds, merely added to the sense of remoteness that Ginger had always associated with the continent.
The ground had started to rise steeply in undulating hills, and away to the north east jagged peaks could be seen, signalling the highlands of the Ethiopian Plateau beyond. Ginger suspected that they must now be over the border, though there was nothing to indicate any official boundary and in this surmise he was soon proven correct. The bomber banked gently to the right and Biggles’ voice cut through on the intercom tube.
“We should be more or less on the BOAC flight-path, but hopefully north of the SOS point. Keep your eyes open.”
“Got it, Chief”, and he drew a pair of binoculars from a storage pocket in readiness. A photo, that of the original SOS scene, was already pinned to the empty gun mount. For perhaps 15 minutes he scanned to either side as the panorama passed beneath, rising hills and valleys covered in dense forest flowing away to the south east. Far away, out on the horizon, a silvery speck emerged that he supposed to be the northern shore of Lake Turkana. And then he saw it, a blackened, ragged scar drawn crudely across the backdrop of green and brown vegetation. Even as the warning cry escaped his lips, the nose of the Wellington edged to the left, bringing it into line with the target, Biggles or Algy evidently having seen the same.
“Is that it, Ginger?” Biggles’ voice came tersely through the Comms tube.
“I’m not certain, hang on. “Glasses raised, he peered down and confirmed that the scar most certainly was the remains of a fire, blackened stumps and shrubbery clearly visible. There was no suggestion of any letters being legible, but they hadn’t expected any.
“I think it’s our mark”, he reported. “We’re not as high as the airliner was, but there are some tree formations below the fire line that look similar to the photo and the background looks right. That high ridge to the south looks correct”.
“Algy thinks we’re within 20 miles of the reported site by the BOAC crew. That must be it. Hang on whilst I drop some height. Everyone keep their eyes peeled, look for any movement”.
By now the patch in question was directly below and the Wellington was throttled back and put into a slow, turning descent whilst four pairs of eyes scrutinised the area closely. At a height of three thousand feet Biggles levelled out and banked the machine over to give everyone a clear view. The flank of rising ground wasn’t as steep as the photo had suggested, but was still rising sharply towards the south. The burnt-out area was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide, and nearly twice that height, presumably halted only by the summit of a ridge at the top end. Nothing moved.
“I don’t suppose this could have been a lightning strike?” It was Algy who posed the question.
Biggles paused before replying. “I don’t think so. This doesn’t look like a single point of origin, it looks like multiple ignition points at the bottom and then it has run uphill. I think we’ve got the right spot. But who started it, and where they are now, remains to be seen. Anything in the glasses, Ginger?”
“No, it looks quiet,” came back along the intercom.
“Now what?” asked Algy. “We have a big problem, there’s nowhere to get the Proctor down, let alone this kite”.
“Yes, I was just thinking that. These valleys are too congested and the peaks are too steep to even think about trying to get down. Also, is there even any point trying? That was always an issue we were going to have, of course. The nub of it is, how do we work out if anyone is here?”
Bertie came through to the cockpit. “If the poor blighter is down there somewhere, he won’t be nearby. No-one would spend 14 days up on that hillside without water, no by Jove. If it was me, old boy, I’d be down in one of those valleys where there might be a stream and something to sink the teeth into, if you get my meaning.”
“Yes, “replied Biggles thoughtfully. “I get your meaning, alright. On the other hand, you wouldn’t expect him – Davidson or not – to wander too far from the distress signal. That would defeat the whole purpose”.
“Unless he had no choice”, added Algy with meaning. “We know he was pursued at least early on, and maybe still is”.
He had barely uttered the words when Ginger cut through on the intercom, a brittle terseness to his tone. “Biggles, there’s someone down there! Several, actually!”
“Algy, take over! Hold her in this pattern”, Biggles rapped out, and dropped through the hatch to go forward to Ginger. “What can you see?”
Ginger handed him the field glasses. “On the eastern edge of the burnt-out zone, beneath the treeline near that outcrop. I can only see them because we’re low and west”.
Biggles peered through the binoculars at the area indicated and drew in his breath sharply. Turning to Ginger, there was grimness to his tone. “What do you make of it?”
Ginger answered with considered clarity. “Troops.” He paused, and then went on. “They look like uniformed troops to me. I saw one walk forward, presumably to get a better view of us, and it was that movement that attracted me. They look well camouflaged otherwise”.
“That’s what I think too. I fancy there’s a few down there, I could see movement behind and what I suspect is a tent or shelter. Well, well, well, that’s certainly a poser isn’t it? I think we can guess with some certainty why they’re here.”
“It probably suggests that they haven’t caught their prey as yet”, pointed out Ginger.
“True enough, so where…” he was interrupted as the intercom erupted again.
“North west, Biggles! 3 miles”, and the plane banked steeply into a climb.
Gazing towards the north, Ginger stiffened as his eyes settled on an unmistakable column of smoke that was lazily emerging from the treetops deep in a valley floor. “There”, and he pointed with outstretched finger.
“I see it! Keep your glasses on that valley. Algy, get us over that smoke”.
Two minutes later the Wellington was again in a circular holding pattern, this time over a densely forested valley stretching away to the North West. The canopy was impenetrable to sight, only the narrow smoke pillar serving as notice that something of interest may lurk below. “Someone’s down there at any rate, “opined Biggles. “That’s a signal if ever we’ve seen one. But what the deuce can we do about it?” Further north, in a few sporadic patches, the vegetation thinned out but nowhere was there even a hint of open ground suitable for landing. A mile to either side, the valley rose sharply in steep inclines to rugged ridges before plunging into shadow again on the far sides.
He looked at Ginger helplessly. “If this is Davidson, and I’m inclined to think it must be, we need to get him somewhere more useful. I doubt if a helicopter could get down around here even if we had one, and we can’t get one this far out anyway.” He thought for a moment, then spoke into the Comms tube. “Algy, take us up again and head north. We need to have a look around. Bertie, get on the radio and let Juba know the state of affairs." Then to Ginger as the engine note picked up, “Stand fast, and keep your eyes peeled”.
Climbing through the hatch into the cockpit, he surveyed the panorama exposed by the additional altitude. The valley ran in a more or less straight line towards the North-western horizon, its floor dropping in elevation and the sides gradually dwindling until lost in the general plains beyond. Crucially, the tree coverage petered out as the terrain opened and flattened into expansive grasslands, interspersed by what looked like giant Anthills.
“How far are we from the smoke?” asked Biggles.
Algy surveyed the airspeed and clock momentarily, before answering. “Roughly ten miles, maybe fifteen, at a guess”. He looked at Biggles carefully before posing the question. “You thinking of putting this kite down and walking back in?”
Biggles shook his head. “No, not this one. Too risky with all the ground cover about. The Proctor is the go for that, I can see several places where we could find the room to put it down. But look at those shadows, there’s no way we get back here today with the other machine. We’re staring at a night landing at Juba already”. He was quiet for several moments, then made a decision. “Get us back to that smoke for another look before we run out of light”.
Whatever the origin of the smoke column, it appeared to have burnt itself out, or perhaps had been extinguished, for only a thin miasma drifted languidly on the breeze. As before, nothing could be seen to offer an explanation for its existence.
Bertie appeared from the radio compartment again. “Juba are up to date, old boy. But I say, we’re in a bit of a bind because we don’t really know what’s going on, and if we come back tomorrow we’re no better off, what.” Biggles’ admitted the truth of this. “So why don’t we do something to find out?”
Biggles looked at him narrowly. “What exactly are you thinking? You don’t want me to land this bus out here do you!?”
Bertie polished his monocle furiously. “No fear, old boy, no bally fear. That would be crazy. I thought I could go down alone on a brolly and see what’s what, if you see what I mean”.
Biggles looked aghast. “Are you off your rocker!? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with…”
“Absolutely, by Jove. Absolutely. That’s my point, old boy. Let me go down and gather the gen. I can take the portable radio and then we’ll know tonight how the land looks.”
Biggles looked pensive. “I don’t like it. What if this isn’t actually what we’re looking for?”
“What of it? Whether it’s our lad or not, we’ll need to hoof it 15 miles to a landing ground anyway and someone will have to find Davidson and tell him the plan. I don’t mind going for a stroll with a rifle and knapsack at any rate, I might even bag myself a Lion!”
“Don’t talk rot, Bertie. This won’t be a walk in the park, as you well know. Lions are the least of your problems. There are troops about, don’t forget”. The thought seemed to strike him even as he uttered the words. “Suffering Icarus, that’s a thought. Those lads up in the hills probably saw the smoke column too, and if they’re looking for what we think they must be………”
Algy already had the Wellington pointed to the south east again, instinctively on the same wavelength. “Ginger, I need to know the movement of those troops!”
“Aye aye, skipper”, came the reply down the intercom. A tense few moments passed, the scar on the hillside clearly in view again, before Ginger’s voice floated through. “They’re on the move, Biggles! I count 11 in single column moving down that escarpment, heading north”.
“That’s torn it! Ok. I still don’t like this, but Bertie, get cracking! It’s nearly dark, so hopefully that uniformed gang don’t make much progress. If Davidson is there, all well and good. Start padding the hoof first thing in the morning. Don’t wait around or you’ll have that mob on your doorstep. Make for the North West, I’ll get the Proctor down as close as possible.”
Bertie -kitted out with a first aid pack, rifle, rations and radio set -donned a parachute whilst the Wellington returned to the location of interest, Biggles searching for a likely drop point. Eventually, he settled on a small clearing half a mile north of the smoke column and adopted a stable flight path somewhat upwind of the desired landing zone.
“You get on that thing as soon as your feet hit the deck”, commanded Biggles with a nod at the Radio on Bertie’s back. “And for god’s sake, laddie, take care of yourself”.
“Shall do, old man, shall do. Don’t worry on my account! Let’s have a look at the haystack” and with a cheerful wave of the hand Bertie stepped to the side door. A low westerly sun throwing him into stark silhouette against the opening, he paused briefly. “Tally ho! Cheerio lads” he cried.
With that, he stepped out into the void. And was gone.
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Chapter 4. New Arrivals.
Ginger watched Bertie’s departure with unusual trepidation, holding his breath as the small figure tumbled through space. Bertie, he knew from experience, would always make light of his own undertakings but equally he would have known full well the risks attendant with his proposal and anything else was just a cover of false nonchalance.
Ginger exhaled in relief, therefore, as the parachute mushroomed into view, like a giant dirty snowflake against the darkening background. At least the first risky stage had been safely negotiated, he thought, but that’s all it was. Just the first of several stages. They had all made jumps before of course, but not often in such improvised conditions and seldom into the vague unknown now being encountered.
“Chute open”, he called out as the engines opened with a roar again. For what reason he could not afterwards say, it may simply have been long habit when over what he subconsciously considered “enemy territory”, but in any event he then subjected the eastern terrain and sky to a searching gaze. The ground remained shrouded in its green cloak of secrecy, but higher up a momentary flash of brightness somewhat below their own altitude and far out in the distance caught the attention. His wartime experience left him in no doubt what it was. Squinting into the evening light, he could just make out a tiny black speck against some distant clouds.
“Biggles! There’s a ‘plane coming in from the east! Below us and a few miles out”. There was a frantic tinge to his warning. Biggles didn’t wait for more details, simply going to full throttle and climbing for height before trying to view the unknown newcomer.
“Algy, get some weapons out! I’m not taking any chances. Ginger, how close is Bertie to the deck?”
“I can’t see from here. Wait, there he is! Probably another minute or so!”
Algy returned from the lockers with a pair of Thompson machine guns. “This is about the most useful we have”.
“Fine. Pick a gun turret each. That plane is painted in camo, has no markings, and I haven’t forgotten what Kemboi said. Bertie is a sitting duck, so if that aircraft shows any interest in him, hit them hard. Get moving.” There was a steeliness in Biggles voice that brooked no argument.
He had placed the Wellington as best he could in the eye of the rapidly sinking sun, and indeed he hoped that the glare might afford Bertie some protection if in fact the new plane was connected to their business. He had a premonition that the new arrival heralded bad news and was hoping that at worst Bertie could get safely on the ground before events need unfold. At first it looked likely, but Biggles lips set in grim lines when he saw a definite change in direction that put the unknown visitor directly on the track of the helpless parachutist. In an instant, having height as his sole advantage in such a big machine, he flung the stick over and gathered speed in a dive calculated to intercept the smaller monoplane before it reached Bertie.
The silken canopy was still some 200 feet from the ground when the incoming aircraft turned broadside-on and a sliding door opened. Watching like a hawk, Biggles saw a muzzle appear and his yell of warning into the intercom was simultaneous with the chatter of a Tommy gun from the front turret. “The murderous swine,” he grated through clenched teeth, incensed with fury and wishing for a set of triggers of his own.
He saw several muzzle flashes from Bertie’s assailant before the pilot must have realised his danger. The aircraft twisted violently like a startled snipe and Biggles smiled mirthlessly as a figure nearly fell through the door before clambering back into the cabin. Biggles noted a weapon tumbling through the air as if in slow motion before plunging into the trees below. The range was close now and again a machine gun clattered from up front, punching rows of neat holes in the opposition fuselage, evidently made of light-weight metal rather than fabric. With perfect timing, Biggles pulled the big machine out of the dive, exposing the enemy to a second field of fire from his lower gun turret as he swept over the top.
Faintly, he heard the second Thompson open up from somewhere below him and then Algy’s voice came through. “Bank right, bank right…that’s it” and again he heard heavy gunfire crackling away. Desperate to regain some height, he used the speed of the dive to zoom up in a steep turning climb before frantically trying to find his opponent in order to bring at least one of his gunners into play again. Gingers’ voice was booming in his ears, verging on hysteria. “He’s gone, he’s gone! He’s on fire!” and standing the Wellington on a wingtip Biggles was just in time to glimpse a plume of flames – crimson and vivid against a now-twilight canvas -scorch through the treetops. A cloud of splinters erupted as if a nest of fireflies had been disturbed, cascading like a glowing willow tree. And then it was swallowed up by the forest and encroaching darkness, only the vivid imprint on the onlooker’s vision to hint that it had ever existed at all. Hastily bringing the bomber to even keel, Biggles scanned the scene below with a practiced eye, but of Bertie and his parachute there was also no sign.
Ginger appeared, white as a sheet and trembling with rage. “Did you see those blighters!? Did you see that? They were going to machine gun Bertie!! Who does that!?”
“I know, I saw it. Skunks do that, that’s who. What happened to that plane and did they have another go at Bertie?”
“I was up front, and when I saw what they were going to do I didn’t waste any time, let me tell you. I let them have it. I’m pretty sure I hit them, but I think the pilot panicked. I was shooting at the gunner in the cabin, not the cockpit. They went into an almost vertical climb as we passed over and I actually thought we were going to wear it. Algy hit them hard on the way through, and then fairly plastered them when I think they stalled just off our port wing. That’s when he asked you to bank right, to keep his field open. The nose whipped over and it went down like a brick. Someone, maybe the gunner, jumped out. It was pretty ghastly stuff, actually. But I’m fairly sure they never fired on Bertie after the initial few rounds.”
“I saw the end of it, don’t shed any tears on those murderous fellows account. They got what was coming to them, plain and simple. Even in the war we didn’t shoot at parachutes, as you well know. I suspect we weren’t dealing with war pilots though. If you see a parachutist surely you’re scanning for the aeroplane they came from. They just swanned in and were about to kill Bertie in cold blood. Not to mention panicking under fire and giving Algy a fish-in-a-barrel opportunity, which would never happen from an old hand.”
Algy came forward at that moment, looking strained and haggard, loading another magazine into the Thompson. A cold, dangerous glint in his eye contrasted savagely with the jovial banter in his voice. “Seeing as we’ve been gazetted back into the RAF, do I get that kill on my tally?” he enquired. “And what nationality do I list it as? I couldn’t see any identification at all, though the square design looked Eastern Bloc.”
“I don’t know, but given what they were trying to do and who they were trying to do it to, I doubt if you’ve ever made a more justified kill”, countered Biggles. “There’s no doubt at all that your shooting may have saved at least one life. Speaking of which, did anyone see what happened to Bertie?”
“No. I had the impression he was really close to touching down when I nailed that plane but by the time I could scan the ground he’d vanished. Its pitch black in that valley now anyway, I couldn’t even pinpoint where he bailed out if truth be told.”
Biggles bit his lip in frustration. “Ginger, man the radio and see if you can raise him. I told him to call us as soon as he was down. I’m worried, and I don’t mind admitting it. That mob got at least one burst at him and sometimes that’s all it takes.”
For fifteen minutes they flew a holding pattern up and down the valley while night set in. Ginger tried in vain to get a response from the ground on the radio, picking up nothing but static. Biggles grew more anxious about both Bertie, and their fuel situation. He made a brief sortie towards the charred SOS site, hoping to gain an indication of whether the squad of uniformed men were still on the march. As he said to Algy, he couldn’t imagine anyone trying to make their way through such terrain at night without decent lighting, and the absence of any torchlight or lanterns gave him hope that whatever had eventuated with Bertie, he wasn’t about to have to cope with armed adversaries in the immediate future.
Returning to the drop zone, they surveyed the inky depths with morose resignation. Biggles could barely contain his agitation. “I’ll promise you this, Algy. If Bertie has gone west, I’m going to find Davidson come hell or high water and I shall then make it whatever remains of my life’s’ purpose to hunt down every single individual involved in this affair”. Algy merely nodded and said nothing, having seen Biggles in this mood several times before and wisely knowing he could add little but agreement. But he suddenly seized Biggles’ forearm in a grip of iron. “Look!”, he exclaimed. “A light! No, it’s gone. Wait, there it is again”. His voice cracked in excitement.
Biggles leaned forward. “Great Scott, you’re right! What the devil is it? Is it a torch? Hang on, I think it’s Morse! Quick, take it down” as the tiny pinpoint of light winked on and off.
Algy grabbed a pencil and started scribbling on a map. “Is………… Okay ……….D ………….He …………Is ………Okay …………D ………… He….” He turned a pair of incredulous eyes to Biggles as he read out what he was writing. “D? Can that be Davidson!?”
“Of course its Davidson”, snapped Biggles. “Who in the blazes else can it be!? Don’t ask me to believe it’s all a coincidence.” And then he smiled in relief as the full import struck him. “More importantly, the subject can only be Bertie, I’d imagine, though goodness knows what’s happened.” He blipped the engines three times in acknowledgement of message received and turned the Wellington’s nose to the west.
“Ginger! Get on the waves to Juba. Warn Hancock that we’re on our way and to prepare for a night landing. We’ll just about be running on vapours if there’s any sort of headwind. And ask him to have a crew laid on for a pre-dawn departure. I want to be back here at first light. We might want a Vampire on standby as well. With any luck we might be able to wrap this up tomorrow.”
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Biggles is a bit more bad-■■■ than I remember him.
And this isn’t a criticism, just an observation, pretty handy timing on the enemy plane to establish moral superiority.
Really enjoying this.
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The series has a few variations on Biggles - not surprising perhaps for a career that spanned two world wars, 100 titles and 30+ years of writing. Some of the novels are quite gritty and grim - especially the WW1 stories based on Johns’ own combat pilot service. Some are quite juvenile with more of a “it’s just not cricket, stiff upper lip” sense of fair play.
There is a problem emerging, lol. I’ve only a few more chapters written and iirc the final couple are unedited. I better tidy them up.
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