The Match

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.

Warning: Non canon type fan fiction works may contain severe time mix-ups and character deviations. 

Captain Algy Lacey leaned back in his chair and surveyed Colonel Raymond with a faintly puzzled expression on his youthful features. "So what exactly is it that you're trying to say?" he demanded.

Beside Algy, Major James Bigglesworth, better known to most pilots in the RAF as simply "Biggles", helped himself to a cigarette from the open case lying on the Colonel's desk. "I should say it's fairly obvious," he observed drily. "They want you to play a tennis match."

"Exhibition match," corrected the fourth occupant of Colonel Raymond's office, a small man who had been introduced to Biggles and Algy as Major McBadden. "It's not a real match, so to speak."

"You're right," murmured Algy frankly. "It's not a real match in any sense of the word."

"You have to understand, Lacey," broke in the Colonel, "that things are naturally a little frosty between us and Germany at the moment, despite the fact that we've just signed the Armistice. It wouldn't do to win a victory on the tennis field when your audience happens to be several hundred German pilots."

"So what you want me to do," stated Algy, a hint of indignance creeping into his voice, "is fly over to this place-"

"Aerodrome Sixty-one."

"—Aerodrome Sixty-one, play a tennis match, and lose it?" finished Algy incredulously.

"Yes," said the Colonel. "That is precisely what we'd like you to do. Bigglesworth, of course, will be accompanying you as your doubles partner. He'll also be in a position to watch your back if the Germans try anything."

"I must confess I fail to see the significance of this tennis match," put in Biggles, casually tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray on the Colonel's desk. "Besides which, we're pilots, not tennis players."

"We realize that," replied Major McBadden quickly. "But it is of some importance that any players we send to this match have to be able to fly themselves out of trouble if the need should arise. This match is supposed to be a gesture of goodwill, but there's no telling what could happen. You two have had some experience at this sort of work, I believe?"

"They have," confirmed the Colonel, before either of the two pilots could speak.

"Well, that's not the point!" said Algy. "I'm perfectly happy to play a game of tennis against anyone. The thing is, I'm not perfectly happy to know beforehand that I've got to lose the game."

"If you win this match," replied Major McBadden, pacing over to the window, "you'll be shipped back to England in a coffin. Possibly in separate pieces."

&&&

"Well," observed Algy dubiously. "Here we are."

"Quite right," acknowledged Biggles, climbing out of the big car that had driven them to Aerodrome Sixty-one. "Many thanks, Tommy," he told the driver. "Cheerio, then. See you in a bit."

The driver nodded, waved, and drove off.

"Odd sort of place to be playing tennis," remarked Algy, glancing at the row of hangers a few feet away. A Fokker stood in front of one of the hangers, its left wing dragging somewhat forlornly on the ground. "Look at that! You think anyone would mind if I took a quick dekko at it—?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," said Biggles quietly.

Algy looked disappointed. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment a young, fair-haired German came hurrying up to meet them.

"Major Bigglesworth and Captain Lacey?" he inquired, in heavily accented English. "Velcome! I am...Van Grott. I vill be…" he trailed off, making a swinging motion with his arm.

"You'll be playing against us?" supplied Biggles, in German.

Van Grott's face cleared as he replied in the same language. "Yes, that is correct. The match is scheduled for four o’clock, so if you will follow me, we can have some lunch."

"Lead on," invited Biggles.

&&&

The two British pilots made an interesting contrast as they stepped onto the court. Biggles, tall and slim, standing as straight as a lance, with hands as small and delicate as a girl's gripping the handle of his tennis racquet. Algy, though of similar height, was slightly more muscular, his athletic legs showcased to great advantage by his white tennis shorts.

Algy eyed the opposite side of the net thoughtfully, shading his eyes against the rays of the afternoon sun. His face bore its usual expression of amused surprise as he turned to Biggles. "What do you think?"

Biggles scanned the rows of Germans seated around the court. "There certainly are a lot of them," was his only comment.

Algy swung his tennis racquet experimentally, gesturing toward the row of hangers beyond the rear end of the opposite court. "There's a Fokker just over there," he remarked.

"All right, old boy," said Biggles quietly, purposefully averting his eyes from the German plane. "I've seen it. If worst comes to worst, we’ll make for the plane and go home. If I drop out for any reason, don't wait for me, understand?"

"If you seriously think I would leave you behind in this—" began Algy indignantly.

“Never mind that now,” hissed Biggles. “Here they come.” On the opposite court, two white-clad figures were strolling unhurriedly toward them. Van Grott was one of them, and he waved cheerfully as he spotted Biggles and Algy. The other was an older man with grim unyielding features. He did not smile as he looked at the two British airmen. "Remember what Raymond said. Take it slowly."

Algy snorted softly. "I'm not going to lose this game just because it's the polite thing to do, whatever anyone says."

"Don't be a fool," snapped Biggles. "It's the two of us against the whole lot of them. D'you think you could stand a chance?"

"Chance or no chance—" Algy broke off as the two Germans paused at the edge of the net.

"Shall ve start?" inquired Van Grott, shouting over the net.

"We're ready if you are," offered Biggles.

They tossed for sides and Algy won. The umpire, a small German dressed in a striped shirt, handed Algy a tennis ball and then retired to the side of the court.

Algy tossed the ball into the air a few times to get the feel of it, then grinned briefly at Biggles as he readied himself to serve. "Ready?" he called to Van Grott, who was standing in a half-crouch on the other side of the net.

"Ja."

Algy threw the ball high and lobbed it into the opposite side of the net with a violent swing that was breath-taking to watch. Biggles had to force himself not to wince at the clean thawp the racquet made as it met the ball.

Van Grott flinched as the ball came toward him, then tried but failed to return the ball with a wild backhand stroke.

"Fiftin-loove," announced the umpire, in heavily accented English as the ball dribbled uselessly off the court.

Van Grott said something apologetic to his partner. Algy whistled cheerfully to himself as he again stepped into place for the serve.

"Go easy," muttered Biggles. "We're not trying to win here."

"It's not my fault the poor boob can't even return a simple serve," protested Algy, out of the side of his mouth, as he served the ball to Van Grott once more.

The German was prepared this time, and he returned the serve.

The ball sailed back and forth, with the Germans playing harder and longer shots, forcing Biggles and Algy to step further down their end of the court. Biggles could hear himself breathing heavily as he returned ball after ball. Sweat dripped down his face, but he had no time to wipe it away. "This is a fool's game," he panted to himself. He was standing near the end of his court, preparing to return the next ball, when the older German, whether by accident or by design, sent the ball skimming toward the net.

It cleared the net—barely.

Biggles saw the ball fall into their court, bouncing once on the ground before rising once more into the air. Biggles' lips parted in his famous fighting smile as he raced, racquet out, towards the ball, desperate to hit it before it reached the ground...

The side of his racquet met the ball squarely in the middle. It was a clumsy hit, but it accomplished its purpose, sending the ball floating across the net with hardly an inch to spare, finally falling to the ground just under Van Grott’s nose. “Take that, you hound,” snarled Biggles, as the young German swiped hopelessly at the ball. “Let’s see how you like it.”

“Thurty-loove.”

“Now who’s trying not to win?” sneered Algy, as he picked up the ball.

“It really is very difficult not to get caught up in it all,” confessed Biggles, feeling his temper cooling as he remembered their purpose for being there. “Confound it. I really must try to miss or something.”

He reminded himself not to catch the ball as it came sailing back over to him from the Germans’ side of the net. To keep up appearances, he made a half-hearted rush toward the ball, but did not attempt to hit the ball as it fell to the ground.

“Out!” announced the umpire. “Furty-loove.”

“Confound the luck!’ snapped Biggles. “Even when I’m trying not to win, I win anyway. Make a bad serve or something, Algy. We’re going to win at this rate if we don’t watch out.”

“I just did make a bad serve!”

“Well, for goodness’ sakes make another one, and make it a really bad serve.”

“I don’t do bad serves!”

The older German caught Algy’s next serve and had no trouble returning fire. The ball skimmed over the net, and Algy hurried to catch it.

“Algy!” hissed Biggles. “Don’t—”

Algy’s racquet met the ball at a perfect angle; it flew over the net and landed on the line marking the edge of the court. Algy swore. “That was supposed to be out!”

“Well, it’s too late now,” said Biggles, as the umpire announced their victory.

&&&

“Four games to three!” exclaimed Algy in despair. “How did we even win that last one?”

“No idea, laddie,” confessed Biggles ruefully, tapping his racquet against the hard tennis court.

Their older German opponent had skinned his knee and elbow on the ground in the process of catching a particularly low ball, and a break had been called so that the medics could see to the wounds.

“Don’t do that,” said Algy, taking the racquet out of Biggles’ hands. “You’ll hurt it.”

“What’s it matter, anyway?” asked Biggles, savagely. “I’ll smash it against the poles holding up the net if it would help us to lose.”

“You can’t do that!” replied Algy, horrified. “It’s one of the best racquets from—”

“All right, laddie, I’ll take your word for it,” interrupted Biggles hastily. “You know these racquets are all the same to me. It’s not as if we’re talking about Camels and SEs. It’s just a racquet, after all.”

“Just a racquet?” Algy looked aghast. “Biggles—”

“Shut up; here comes Van Grott. I wonder what he wants.”

The young German waved in greeting as he approached.

“How is your partner?” Biggles asked him, in German.

“Good,” replied Van Grott, in the same language. “He is good. But he needs a few more minutes. He is just getting some water.”

“Okay,” said Biggles cheerfully. “We’ll wait for him, then.”

Van Grott wandered off and Biggles turned back to Algy to continue their conversation, but he found his partner staring with horror at something on the side of the court.

“What’s the matter?” asked Biggles sharply.

“Look,” hissed Algy, clutching Biggles’ arm. “No, don’t be so obvious. Look, over there, where Van Grott’s racquet holder is. See that bulge? Does it look like a gun to you?”

“A gun!” cried Biggles, turning to see for himself. Algy was right. There was a conspicuous bulge in the holder that looked very much like the outline of a gun. “Perhaps it’s a Very pistol,” he suggested.

“What if it isn’t?” demanded Algy, in an agitated whisper.

Biggles considered. “Well, even if it isn’t, laddie, there isn’t much we can do about it. Have you got a gun?”

“No. You?”

“I thought about it when we were packing,” said Biggles. “But I was afraid that we might be searched when we arrived. Confound it; we really must lose this next game somehow. How ironic it would be to survive the war and die in a friendly tennis match.”

“Never mind the irony,” said Algy impatiently. “What are we going to do?”

“Do?” said Biggles. “We’re going to lose the match, that’s what we’re going to do.”

&&&

They played the game to deuce, Algy accidentally catching some shots that he shouldn’t have, even in the normal course of things, been able to catch. Biggles then purposely missed two easy shots, allowing the Germans to win the game on aces.

“You know,” remarked Algy, as they stood on the side of the court waiting for the next game to begin, “for a friendly exhibition match, it isn’t very friendly. There are some chaps in the third row over there looking distinctly murderous.”

“Keep your head, laddie,” replied Biggles. “Consider yourself lucky that looking murderous is all they’re doing.”

“Here they come,” said Algy, moving forward to prepare for his serve.

“Contact,” murmured Biggles, the faintest of smiles gracing his lips as he moved forward next to his partner.

&&&

Van Grott caught Algy’s first serve, but knocked the ball into the net, making the score fifteen-love within a matter of seconds.

Algy gave Biggles an expression of anguish. “What’s the matter with them?” he hissed. “They’re playing like ten year olds!”

“Bad day, I suppose,” Biggles muttered back.

Algy’s next serve soared over the heads of the two Germans and landed just outside the line.

“Good shot,” said Biggles approvingly. “Fifteen all.”

“Thirtee-loove,” declared the umpire.

“Thir—but that was out!” protested Algy. “Out!”

“I see it vas in,” remarked their older German opponent impassively.

“No, no, no!” cried Algy, waving his arms above his head as if he were being attacked by wild birds. “It was out! It landed here!” He used the tip of his racquet to tap a spot just outside the lines of his side of the court for emphasis. “OUT!”

“No,” argued the German player. “It hit here, no?” He stepped on the line, tapping his foot once or twice to make his point. “It vas in.”

“No,” said Algy in despair. “It was out!”

“Thirtee-loove,” repeated the umpire firmly. “Back to game, please.”

“But—”

Biggles dragged the still-protesting Algy away from the umpire. “All right; let it go,” he said softly. “I don’t know what game they’re playing here, but I have a feeling that we’re getting sucked into it.”

“Are they mad?” whispered back Algy. “Whoever heard of an umpire who’s biased against his own team?”

“Never mind that now. It’s your turn to serve again. Do buck up and make some real mistakes.”

“I didn’t fly the whole way here to have the Huns lie down and lose,” growled Algy. “You ask me, they’re forcing us to play badly so they can look good when they win.”

“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” said Biggles. “Either they’re playing like amateurs because they really are that bad, or they’re doing it on purpose. What’s it matter, anyway? We’ve got to lose in any case.”

“That’s starting to look jolly impossible,” muttered Algy, serving the ball.

Biggles saw the ball curve toward the net in what was clearly a bad serve, and he assumed that it would hit the net. Evidently the Germans thought so too, for neither Van Grott nor his partner moved to catch the ball.

Unfortunately, the ball just managed the clear the net. It dribbled languidly over the top of the net with barely a half-inch to spare, dropping to the ground right in front of Van Grott’s shoe.

“Foorty-loove.”

Algy threw up his hands. “I give up,” he declared.

Biggles grinned. “We should have brought The Professor with us,” he said, “to calculate the odds of that ball going over.”

“And which angles and triangles to hit at,” agreed Algy, grinning at the thought. “Bother these Huns. Can’t shoot, can’t fly, and now we know they can’t play tennis either.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Algy served again and this time, thankfully, Van Grott caught the ball and lobbed it back, only the shot was too far to the right, and the ball flew out of the court before the two airmen could even attempt to make a bad catch.

Algy dropped his racquet and buried his head in his hands. “We just won another game,” he grated. “Dash it, it was a complete walkover!”

Biggles grimaced. “I know.”

&&&

Van Grott served. The ball soared drunkenly into the top of the net, bounced once, and then flew into the German’s side of the court.

“Dash it all, can’t he play a decent game of tennis for once?” muttered Algy, as Biggles stepped forward to stop the ball from rolling into the stands.

Van Grott served again.

Algy stepped casually forward and made as if to catch the ball, but as he swung his racquet, a sharp whanging sound rang out, and something cold and hard brushed by his cheek.

&&&

Algy missed the ball.

He missed the ball because he was too busy staring down at the blood that was trickling down from his cheek to his open palm.

“What the—?” he began, turning to ascertain the source of the assault.

Twenty or so Germans were pushing their way down from the stands, with much shouting, gesticulating, and waving of guns. Algy stared dumbly at them for a moment, and then he was aware of Biggles dragging him back by the arm.

“Come on,” said Biggles grimly, as Algy found his legs and started running to keep pace. “We’ve got to get to that plane.”

Another shot rang out, slamming forcefully into the one of the poles that held up the net.

“Keep your head down,” snapped Biggles.

The two of them vaulted over the net at the same time, keeping as low as they could. Biggles changed direction rapidly as he ran, zigzagging to spoil the gunmen’s aim.

Van Grott, looking puzzled, was standing on his side of the court, racquet down, staring at all the chaos. “Vhat is happening?” he began, as Biggles dodged past him.

The other German, their older tennis opponent, was nowhere in sight. Biggles chanced a wild look around, and found the man kneeling down by the sidelines, fumbling for something among the discarded equipment.

His hand came up sharply, and Biggles saw, with horror, that the man was holding a pistol, and he was aiming it straight at Algy.

Algy may or may not have seen the German’s gun. In any case, he could not have done much to avoid running into the line of fire, short of turning around and making a target of himself for the Germans that were chasing after them.

Biggles was too far away to really feel the impact of the bullet as it struck, but the shock of seeing Algy’s blood spurt into the air like a fountain was something that would keep him awake for weeks afterward.

&&&

Algy pitched forward onto the ground.

Biggles, his heart in his mouth, raced towards his fallen friend, reaching into his pocket for a gun that wasn’t there. “Confound it,” he grated to himself. In that moment, he would have given anything for a Camel and a pair of Vickers guns.

The older German tennis player moved toward Biggles, his gun ready to fire, but Biggles flung his tennis racquet at the man, and the German tripped, the gun flying forward to land at Biggles’ feet.

Biggles’ knuckles were white as his fingers closed over the pistol. He crouched, turning to face the dozen or so Germans that were rushing towards him. A cold wave of irrational fury swept over him, and his lips parted in a mirthless smile as he aimed at the German in the lead.

The pistol spat, and the German fell to the ground, shouting hoarsely in German as he collapsed.

“Come on,” said a familiar voice by his elbow, and he looked down to see Algy sitting up next to him.

Algy’s shirt was stained with blood, and his face was pale, even though he was still managing to smile.

“Are you all right?” asked Biggles crisply, keeping his eyes on the approaching Germans.

“Yes; it’s only my shoulder.”

“Then let’s get out of this.”

&&&

Sometime during the match the Fokker they had seen earlier had been moved. It was no longer there. Biggles felt a surge of despair in the pit of his stomach, and then Algy was running into one of the hangers, a hand clutched to his bleeding shoulder as he unceremoniously dragged the chocks out from another plane.

Close at hand, a shot whanged, missing Biggles’ ear with mere inches to spare.

A pilot, or perhaps it was a mechanic, was shouting at Algy, trying to pull him away from the machine. Without hesitation, Algy rammed the man in the chest, using his good shoulder to apply the blow. The German staggered back a few paces, then sat heavily down on the ground, looking faintly surprised.

Biggles snapped out a shot at the oncoming Germans, then rushed to the plane. “In you go,” he ordered, in a tone that did not invite argument. “Start her up; I’ll give you a hand.” A German neared the plane and attempted to swing himself inside, but with a snarl, Biggles caught the man’s collar and dragged him aside.

He was tense now, trying to keep track of five directions at once, firing a quick shot which he hoped would keep their pursuers at bay. It only took one shot to hit him, Algy, or a vital part of the plane, and their chance of escape would be gone. Biggles sagged in relief as the engine coughed and spluttered into life. He dove recklessly into the observer’s seat as Algy began taxying the plane forward at a breakneck pace.

Neither Biggles or Algy ever forgot that take-off. A wall was in front of them, just a short distance away, but there was no room to turn, and Biggles flinched instinctively as it loomed up, so sure was he that they were going to hit it.

They made it—almost. Biggles winced as the plane shuddered with the force of an impact, and he knew that part of their undercarriage must have hit the wall. For a minute he did not even dare to breathe, thinking that they were going to crash. But somehow the plane held on, its engine whining in protest over the scream of the wind in their ears.

“Watch out!” shouted Biggles, as small dots, fast closing in, appeared behind them. The German pilots had taken up the chase more rapidly than he had expected.

Algy, wincing, snatched a glance back at the planes on his tail and nodded once to Biggles. “Have you got a gun?” he bellowed, over the wind. 

Biggles searched his surroundings, hoping to find a weapon, but there was nothing, not even a Very pistol. “No.”

Algy nodded again and concentrated on flying.

Something slammed into the left side of the aircraft with violent force and the plane rocked unsteadily, threatening to go into a spin. Algy, his face grim, wrestled with the controls as best as he could.

Without warning, the windshield flew to pieces, and Algy cried out in shock as he was splattered by bits of shattered glass. He was flying low now, weaving from side to side, ruining the gunners’ aim. The German planes dared not follow him too closely for fear of running themselves into the ground.

Algy hedgehopped over what a week ago had been no man’s land, and he seemed to relax slightly as he passed the line and caught sight of Mossyface Wood.

But the Germans were still on their tail.

“Dash this for a fool’s game,” growled Algy, abruptly sending the plane into a wild zoom that left them facing the German planes.

“What are you doing?” yelled Biggles.

Algy did not reply. His lips were set in a grim line as he eyed the approaching planes. “Here they come,” he murmured.

The lead plane was heading straight for them, but Algy refused to turn as he guided his own plane forward to meet it. Biggles braced himself for the impact of the inevitable collusion, but it never came.

They were only inches away from each other when Algy gathered a fistful of the broken glass scattered around him and threw it right into the other plane’s windshield.

It was not an impressive attack. In fact, it was doubtful whether any of the glass would have actually hit the other plane. But the other pilot did not wait around to find out. He swung his plane sideways, crashing headlong into one of the other planes. In seconds, the entire formation dissolved into chaos as the pilots fought for control.

Algy swung the plane round, leaving the tangle of Huns to sort themselves out.

&&&

They landed at 287 Squadron.

Or, at least, they attempted to.

Algy forgot about the broken undercarriage when he came in to land, and even if he had remembered it, there was little he could have done to stop the mad skid into the CO’s office, which eventually ended when they rammed against the wooden door.

Wilks was the first on the scene. “What happened to you?” he inquired humorously, as Biggles climbed stiffly down from his seat. “Taken up ballet or something, Biggles?”

“Ballet, my foot,” growled Biggles. “Special mission for Raymond. Is your MO still here? Algy’s been shot.”

But the Medical Officer was already there, along with two other pilots who were carefully helping Algy out of the plane.

“The CO isn’t going to be pleased you wrecked his office,” observed Wilks, as a handful of NCOs arrived to clear away the damage. “Good thing he’s away today; you might have killed him. Got time for a drink? The mess is still open, you can tell me all about it.”

“You know,” shouted Algy to Biggles, as he was being carted away on a stretcher. “We could have won that match.”

“Do you want me to take you back there so you can see if you can?” asked Biggles sarcastically.

“No.”

“I thought not,” grinned Biggles.

THE END