Biggles Returns--What Should Have Happened To Biggles

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. 

It was Thursday afternoon, just after lunch, and Squadron Leader James “Biggles” Bigglesworth and his second-in-command, Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacey, were seated inside the squadron office, going through reports and discussing recent events in the squadron, when the phone on Biggles’ desk rang.

Algy focused his attentions on the stack of reports in front of him as Biggles answered, not paying too much attention to the call. In any case, he would not have learned much even if he had been listening, as Biggles appeared to be listening more than talking, only murmuring monosyllabic sounds of acknowledgement at various intervals.

The call did not last long. Perhaps a couple of minutes passed before Biggles hung up the instrument and reached for his coat. “Air Ministry wants me,” he said briefly, as he stood. “Take care of things till I get back.”

Algy nodded without interest. Summons from the Air Ministry were by now so commonplace that he no longer considered them anything out of the ordinary. “Okay,” he said. “When d’you think you’ll be back?”

Biggles shrugged. “Hard to tell. A couple of hours perhaps. Cheerio, laddie.”

&&&

However, dark had long fallen and supper was well over when Biggles walked back into the squadron office and sank wearily into his chair.

“You’ve been gone long,” observed Algy, still seated at the desk opposite his, still going through the thick stack of reports. “What was the meeting about?”

“What?” asked Biggles vaguely, looking distracted. “Oh, yes. Well, you know—brass hats.”

“You’ve missed supper.”

Biggles shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not particularly hungry. A cup of tea will do me, if there’s some about.”

Algy rose and busied himself with the tea while Biggles sat at his desk and stared into space with an unusual amount of concentration. He barely seemed to notice when Algy placed a cup of tea in front of him and then went back to pour himself another.

“Is everything all right?” inquired Algy casually, as he made his way back to his desk.

Biggles glanced up absently. “Of course—why not?” he said, taking out his cigarette case and lighting a cigarette.

“Really?” said Algy. He said it sarcastically, so sarcastically that Biggles was finally roused from his reverie.

“What?” he asked, in answer to his second-in-command’s accusing glare.

“What’s going on?” demanded Algy. “You’ve been unusually pensive since you’ve walked into this office, so I’m guessing that something happened at that meeting you just went to, something that requires detailed planning.”

Biggles smiled faintly as he blew a smoke ring. “Full marks,” he said, approvingly. “Unfortunately, I’m not supposed to tell you or anyone else anything about it.”

Algy’s glare increased in intensity. “You’d better tell me.”

“That sentence borders dangerously on insubordination,” observed Biggles mildly.

“So it does,” agreed Algy cheerfully, helping himself to a cigarette from Biggles’ discarded cigarette case and lighting it. “Now, out with it.”

Biggles sighed. It was, he realized, inevitable that Algy would know what he was up to. He’d known at the back of his mind that he was going to tell him the moment he had left the meeting. After all, who could he trust, if he couldn’t trust his best friend? “I’ve got to go to Monaco,” he admitted. “To rescue some Italian princes—what are you grinning at?”

“Sorry,” said Algy, attempting, but failing miserably, to subdue his amusement. “I never pegged you for the white knight and shining armor stuff.”

“Neither did I, for that matter,” returned Biggles. “But it appears that her highness is the daughter of one of Mussolini’s enemies. Or rather, was the daughter of, as her father was murdered not long ago in an alleged accident. Intelligence are keen to get her here as soon as possible—she has a price on her head and she knows some people who might be able to help us—so they brought me in to consult me on the possibility of an air rescue.”

Algy raised his eyebrows sardonically. “And let me guess who volunteered to go over and pick her up.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” protested Biggles. “It seems easy enough, anyway. One of the lads in the Fighting French has offered to fly me over and drop me off by brolly. All I have to do is go to Monaco, to the house where the princess is hiding, escort her to the landing ground that we’ve arranged, and bring her home.”

“Is that all?” sneered Algy. “Things are never that simple, and you know it.”

“Well, you don’t know until you’ve tried.”

“That’s true,” agreed Algy. “So when are we going over on this rescue, anyway?”

Biggles raised his eyebrows. “We?” he echoed. “I don’t remember inviting you on this excursion.”

“I invited myself,” retorted Algy. “And if you think I’m letting you go off on a mission like this on your own, you can think again. I’m coming, that’s final. If you try to leave me behind, I’ll pinch a plane and come after you.”

Biggles knew Algy well enough to know that any argument at this point was futile, but he tried anyway. “You’re not even supposed to know about this,” he protested weakly. “Besides, if the two of us try to go off somewhere without Ginger, he’ll smell a rat, and if he comes along the whole squadron will want to come, and we can’t have that.”

Algy grinned. “Tell him we’re going to a wedding,” he suggested jokingly. “He’ll be so horrified he won’t say another word about it.”

Biggles was unable to suppress a smile at the thought of how Ginger would react. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s the one thing that would make him stay behind and no mistake.”

“Of course I’m right,” said Algy, carelessly confident. “Now, what’s the plan?”

&&&

Biggles and Algy spent the majority of the next day making preparations for going away, mostly tidying up their desks ready for Angus to take over. They were not planning to be gone long—perhaps two or three days.

Air Commodore Raymond had sent over a package containing falsified documents he had obtained for Biggles. Algy, of course, would not have any papers, but he considered this a minor detail. They were not going to be in Monaco long enough for anyone to stop them and ask for his papers anyway, he asserted to Biggles.

Having got their things in order they were waiting for the car that they were to drive to the arranged rendezvous with their pilot when Biggles saw Bertie and Ginger preparing to go out on their patrol of the day.

Overcome by some emotion that he could not describe, he walked over to them.

Bertie, adjusting his monocle, was the first to see him. “What ho, old warrior!” he greeted, as he climbed into his Spitfire.

Ginger, pulling on his flying jacket, looked surprised to see Biggles, as well he might. “Hullo, chief!” he called. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Biggles quickly, “nothing’s wrong. I just thought I’d see you off today, that’s all. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to watch your take-off.” He grinned briefly. “You’ve come a long way since you passed your flying test.”

Ginger, never one to be modest, grinned in reply. “Sure I have, chief!”

Biggles turned a reproving eye on him. “Tex is becoming a bad influence on you,” he observed. “I thought I’d cured you of that American gangster nonsense.” Ginger’s face fell slightly, and he went on, “Anyway, you’d better be off before the Huns all go home to roost. I just came over to tell you that Algy and I are going to be away for the weekend, so you’ll have to watch out for yourself for a change. Can you do that?”

“Sure thing, baby—I mean, yes, righto, of course I can. Where are you and Algy going?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” said Biggles, deliberately vague. “Just taking some time off. There,” he added hastily, seeing that Ginger was about to object, “Bertie’s ready to go; you’d better get in your Spit. Cheerio.”

He stood back and watched as Ginger followed Bertie into the air. It was true what he had just said; the lad had come a long way since he and Algy had met him at the age of sixteen. Sometimes it was hard for him to realize that Ginger was now a grown man capable of taking care of himself and no longer an unruly teenager he had to look out for.

“Ready to go?” Algy had silently come to stand by Biggles’ elbow several minutes ago, but perhaps understanding what his partner was thinking, had wisely stood by and said nothing as their protégé had taken off on patrol. “He’ll be all right,” he said reassuringly, as Biggles turned away from the two specks in the sky.

Biggles sighed as he walked towards the waiting car. “I know he will,” he said. “Lad’s got a good head on his shoulders. We’ve taught him well.”

&&&

Dark was just falling as Biggles introduced Algy to their pilot, a slim, dark-haired officer who could not have been older than nineteen or twenty. His name was Henri Ducoste, and he was, as he proudly informed Algy within twenty seconds of their meeting, a Monegasque.

If he was surprised at having to take an extra passenger, Henri did not show it. He struck Algy as a cheerful lad who tended to take things in stride rather than worry himself unduly over what he did not understand.

The princess they were to rescue was hiding in Monaco, in the house of a wealthy Italian banker, but as there were no suitable landing grounds near at hand it had been decided that Biggles and Algy would parachute into the country at an area close to the villa where the princess was waiting, and then escort her to the closest landing ground, a beach about twenty miles from Monaco, just west of Nice. Henri, flying a Berline Breguet, a machine which he was well used to handling, would fly past the landing ground twenty-four hours after he had dropped his passengers off, with a view to picking them up. If they were there, they could signal to him that it was safe to land, and he would, of course, do so. However, if for some reason they were delayed, he was to come over every night for a week until he saw a signal.

“If we aren’t there inside a week we’ll have to find our own way back,” Biggles told Algy. “We can’t expect Henri to keep coming back indefinitely. People would be bound to get suspicious if he did it too often.”

“Fair enough,” agreed Algy. He and Biggles had already donned the boiler suits they had decided to wear over their uniforms. These made them look like workmen and would, they hoped, help them to blend in with the locals.

“Any questions?” inquired Biggles, glancing from Algy to Henri. Both shook their heads. “Good, then let’s be off.”

&&&

It was perhaps half an hour shy of midnight when Henri nudged Biggles, who was seated beside him in the Breguet. “Voila! Monaco,” he said, pointing.

Biggles looked. The moon was bright enough that night that he could see the Ligurian Alps, cutting a jagged line in front of them before they cleared its peaks. To the south lay the Mediterranean, and as the plane began to lose height he recognized Cap Martin from his map.

He waited until Henri’s signal before he launched himself into the void. The sinking sensation in his stomach was a familiar, but not necessarily pleasant one. “The number of times I’ve said I wouldn’t volunteer for these jobs,” he mused to himself wryly. “And yet here I am again.”

He fell when he hit the ground, but he was prepared for this and therefore suffered no damage. Overhead, he could hear the plane departing as he rolled his parachute into a ball and hid it inside a convenient clump of bushes.

Somewhere in the dark came a soft whistle, and Biggles answered in kind. Footsteps followed almost immediately, and a minute or so later he could see Algy coming towards him, still carrying his balled-up parachute.

Having deposed of the second parachute in a manner similar to the first, the two airmen stood and grinned at each other briefly before considering their next move.

“Which way?” asked Algy.

Biggles consulted his map. “There,” he said, and without a word the two of them set off down the path he had indicated, side by side in a comfortable silence.

&&&

It took them the best part of two hours to reach their destination. They were unaccosted, possibly due to the lateness of the hour.

The Villa Valdora, unsurprisingly, was dark as they approached.

The airmen stood outside the gates and exchanged glances. “What now?” whispered Algy. “I don’t think they’ll be too pleased if we bang on the door and draw unnecessary attention to ourselves by waking everyone within miles.”

“No,” agreed Biggles thoughtfully. “On the other hand it’s risky to hang about here until daylight. Someone might see us and wonder what we’re doing.”

As he was speaking, he caught sight of a flutter of movement within the bushes bordering the gates of the villa. He glanced quickly at Algy. One look at his face was enough to show him that Algy too had realized something was amiss.

Algy started forward, but Biggles held him back with a warning hand. “Wait,” he hissed, and in that one instant the bushes seemed to come to life as someone burst out of them, attempting to run.

Biggles jumped like a cat. The figure was fast, but he was faster, landing squarely on top of it. The figure struggled, but he held it down firmly. “Hold still,” he snarled, in French.

Algy shone a light on their captive to reveal that it was a man with a dark, weather-beaten face and dark hair. He growled incoherently as the two airmen stared at him, and when Biggles asked him his name, he merely spat upon the ground.

Biggles glanced up at Algy in resignation. “Looks like we’ve got a surprise visitor on our hands,” he observed drily.

“Probably someone sent to kill the princess,” agreed Algy, glaring down at the dark man with distaste.

This brief conversation had been carried on in English, but evidently the man understood enough of it to respond. “Keell le princess?” he exclaimed, in English, before lapsing into French. “No, I do not kill the princess. I am her loyal servant. I will do anything for her. But she is gone!” Again, he spat on the ground.

“What?” demanded Biggles, staggered by this turn of events. “The princess has gone? Gone where? How do you know this?”

“Zabani!” snarled the man, giving the name the emphasis of a curse. “He is a fascist! A traitor! There is a reward for the princess, and so he betrays her, and she is taken away!”

“All right, all right,” murmured Biggles, for the man’s agitation was by now growing a bit too loud for comfort. “There’s no need to shout about it. Who are you, anyway?”

“Who am I?” retorted the man. “Who are you? What are you doing here? You are spies, yes? You have—”

“We’re British agents sent to rescue the princess,” Biggles explained quickly, to slow the torrent of words that he could see was coming.

The man’s face cleared. “Ah!” he said. “Of course! Then we are friends, working for the same side.”

“I should certainly hope so,” muttered Algy fervently, as Biggles eased his weight off of the man and allowed him to sit up.

In a few words, the man explained the situation. He was, he said, a waiter named Mario who worked at the Chez Rossi, a bar-restaurant. When the princess had come to Monaco, some powerful friends of hers had contacted him, and he had helped the princess reach the Villa Valdora to await rescue; she had told him that the owner of the villa was a businessman, a friend of hers, and he had not thought to question this. However, the businessman, an Italian by the name of Gaspard Zabini, turned out to be anything but a friend. He had given up the princess at the first opportunity, and she had been taken away.

“Taken away where?” queried Biggles.

“To the police station,” said Mario. “And tomorrow they come to take her back to Italy, where she will be executed.”

Biggles glanced at Algy. “Tomorrow,” he said, thoughtfully. “That gives us some time. Where is this police station, Mario?”

The waiter stared. “Surely you are not planning to rescue the princess?” he cried.

“Well, what else can we do?” asked Biggles, reasonably. “As long as she’s still in Monaco, we’ve still got a chance. Come on. Let’s find somewhere to talk the position over. We’ve got a few hours before daylight.”

&&&

In the morning, having had a square meal at the Chez Rossi and a few snatched hours of sleep, Biggles and Algy made their way wearily to the police station where the princess was held.

Understanding the possibility of failure and knowing the importance of leaving clues for Air Commodore Raymond’s agents to find in case he managed to pick up useful information, Biggles had arranged beforehand to leave messages at two spots—Jock’s Bar in Nice and the harbor wall at Quai de Plaisance in Monaco—in blue pencil with a triangle as his signature if he discovered anything of interest. Although he had nothing to report at the moment Biggles realized that there was a good chance that something might go wrong with his plans for the rescuing the princess, and in view of this he had asked Mario to slip down to Jock’s bar to leave a brief message for anyone who might come after should he and Algy fail in their mission.

To this, Mario had readily agreed, and, taking the blue pencil Biggles had given him, had departed on his errand, although not before Biggles had scribbled a quick message on the back of a Pernod advertisement card in the Chez Rossi as an added precaution.

“Well,” observed Algy, staring at the police station directly in front of them. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” said Biggles slowly. “Here we are.”

The police station looked disappointingly secure, with its stone walls and barred windows, and although the policemen they could see seated at their desks through the front door displayed a hopefully lax attitude—most playing cards and one or two actually asleep—there were too many of them to think of taking on.

Biggles’ mind raced as he tried to work out some way to turn the situation to their advantage. “As far as I can see,” he said to Algy, “there are two things we have to do: find out where the princess is, and find some way of getting her out. The first should be easy enough. The second will be the hard part.”

“The police don’t seem to be taking their job too seriously,” remarked Algy. “All the better for us, of course. One thing though: if we want to make a quick escape we’d better make some plans for getting a car. We wouldn’t get too far on foot, and in any case, I’ve had enough of this walking lark. Give me a plane and some open skies any day.”

“I agree with you there, laddie,” said Biggles emphatically. “I—What’s this coming up?”

As they had been talking, a police van had drawn up in front of the station. Three men got out. One was a policeman, and the other two, from their uniforms, appeared to be Italian soldiers.

Biggles felt the blood drain from his face at this unexpected circumstance. Clearly, these men had come to escort the princess back to Italy. From the grim expression on Algy’s face he could see that he, too, had worked it out. “There’s no time to lose!” he snapped. “Once they get the princess in that van she’s as good as gone. We’ll have to do something—and fast!”

&&&

“What’s the plan?” asked Algy.

Biggles drew his gun. “I’m going to go inside the police station and see about getting the princess,” he decided. “They’ll be bringing her out in a few minutes to pass her over to the Italian soldiers, I expect, so finding her shouldn’t be too much of a problem. You’ll have to do something to distract the others—pretend to be drunk and kick up a ruckus or something—to give me the advantage of surprise.”

“Okay,” agreed Algy. “But what about after you get the princess?”

“Unless you can manage to get any transport on short notice, we’ll have to run,” said Biggles grimly. “I haven’t thought that far yet; one thing at a time. I’m going in. If I’m not back here within ten minutes you’ll know something’s come unstuck and you can please yourself what you do.”

“Righto,” said Algy. “Watch your step.”

&&&

Biggles drew his weapon and made his way to the police station. Once there, he loitered by the side of the building, waiting anxiously for Algy’s distraction.

From his position he saw several of the card-playing policemen come forward to meet the three new arrivals. A brief conversation ensued, and then one of the sleeping policemen was awakened and grumpily made his way towards some stairs to the right of the building, jangling a bunch of keys in his hand as he went.

Biggles could guess where he was going—to fetch the princess. He could feel the tension of his strained nerves as he stood, waiting. Where was Algy? Why was there still no sign of him, or of the disturbance he should be providing? Any minute the princess would emerge and be handed over to her new escort, at which point any attempt at rescue would be futile.

He was just about to turn back when a sudden whoomph of sound froze him in his tracks, and he stood, staring, as columns of black smoke billowed skyward. “Fire!” roared a familiar voice, somewhere near at hand, and the cry was soon taken up by others.

Biggles breathed a sigh of relief. Algy.

The policemen and the Italian soldiers stood frozen in place for perhaps half a minute before they rushed towards the scene. In less than a minute, the station was empty.

Biggles darted inside with the agility of a cat. His heart was racing and his blood was pounding in his ears but his mind was curiously calm. He made for the stairs, just in time to intercept a slight, female figure and her armed guard.

The policeman was not expecting his appearance and Biggles held the advantage. “Drop your gun,” he ordered curtly, casting a swift eye over the female prisoner as the policeman did as he was told. “Princess?” he inquired.

The girl regarded him with steady eyes. “I am the Principessa Marietta Loretto de Palma,” she acknowledged, in the tones of one born to command.

“Splendid,” said Biggles. “No time to explain, we have to go.” The policeman made a faint sound of protest and started forward, but Biggles dealt him a swift blow to the face and he dropped limply to the ground, unconscious. “Come on,” said Biggles tersely, offering a hand to the princess, snatching up the policeman’s discarded weapon as he did so.

The princess kept pace with him and they dashed out of the police station side by side. Outside, a crowd had gathered, staring open-mouthed at the policemen’s efforts to subdue the flames that threatened to consume a neighboring building.

But Biggles was not concerned with that; he was glancing wildly around for Algy. To his horror, his partner was nowhere to be seen, and Biggles was already assuming the worst, when, to his utter surprise, the door of the police van parked in front of the station swung open and a familiar voice spoke.

“Well, come on. We don’t have all day.”

For a second Biggles stood, staring, for seated in the driver’s seat of the van was Algy, looking faintly amused. However, it was the work of an instant to overcome his surprise and help the princess into the van.

But their escape had been observed, and even as Biggles flung himself into the van and slammed the door shut behind him, he felt a white hot burst of pain in his shoulder.

&&&

Algy’s driving skills would not have won any prizes for safety, but they might have taken one or two for speed.

Only one or two bullets were fired at them as they drove off, but Biggles knew that they would not be the last. News of their escape would no doubt spread quickly. He eyed the sky anxiously. How long would it be before dark fell? Would they be able to get to their arranged landing ground in time to signal Henri?

“Are you all right?” Algy’s voice broke into his thoughts. Biggles started and glanced up to see Algy’s anxious eyes on him.

“Of course,” he replied. “Right as rain—why?”

“There’s blood on your sleeve.”

Biggles looked down at himself with some surprise and found that this was the truth. Gingerly, he peeled back his shirt and examined the wound. It was not a serious one; the bullet had merely grazed him in passing. With the help of the princess he folded his handkerchief into a wad and used Algy’s handkerchief to tie onto his arm. “I’ll be all right,” he assured Algy, who was by now driving at a near-suicidal speed. “Just a scratch.”

They were racing along the Grande Corniche now, a dizzyingly magnificent highway with mountains on one side and a sheer drop towards the sea on the other. But Biggles was not concerned with the view. His only thought was of getting to the beach in time.

&&&

They were almost at the prearranged landing ground, perhaps half an hour or so away, and Biggles had even dared to hope that they might make it to their destination without incident, when their pursuers appeared.

The first they knew of it was a bullet that shattered the back windshield.

“Get down!” snapped Biggles, following his own advice. Peering over the edge of the back seat, he could see three or four cars behind them. Algy, keeping low, was attempting evasive action; he knew as well as Biggles that their guns would have little effect against the firepower behind them.

Heavily pursued, they continued on for Nice. How Algy managed to stay one step ahead all the way Biggles never knew; he could hardly believe it when the beach came into view. “We’re here,” he gasped.

“And not a second too soon,” said Algy meaningfully, with a glance at the sky.

The hum of an approaching engine filled Biggles’ ears and without looking up he knew that it was a Breguet. Henri. Biggles fumbled a torch from his pocket and through the window of the van began beaming the signal to land. It would be close, he knew, but it was better than being left to the mercy of their pursuers.

The hum of the plane’s engine changed and Biggles knew instinctively that it was coming in to land. Algy, charging along like a wild animal, swerved the wheel, changing course to meet the plane.

Bullets were flying as the van came to a halt, several yards away from the taxying plane. Algy drew his gun. “Take the princess and run!” he shouted as Biggles flung open the door of the van. “I’ll cover you both!”

There was no time to argue. Shielding the princess as best as he could with his own body, Biggles made for the Breguet. Shots rang out behind him, but he dared not stop. It seemed to take an age to reach the plane, but once there, it was the work of a moment to bundle the slim girl into the plane. “Stay there,” he ordered, momentarily forgetting who he was speaking to.

The princess stared at him as if mesmerized, her mouth half-open in an expression of terror.

Some sudden instinct made Biggles turn, and he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. Before there was time to react, he saw the man’s face muscles tense as his fingers tightened on the trigger and squeezed.

&&&

Algy flung open the driver’s door and took cover as he fired shot after shot into the fray. A snatched glance behind him showed him Biggles helping the princess into the waiting Breguet, a sight which gave him no small satisfaction.

Redoubling his efforts, he began backing up towards the plane. He had no intention of being left behind—not that Biggles would ever contemplate doing such a thing.

For no reason at all he felt a cold shudder run down his spine. Turning, he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. A policeman was standing a few yards in front of Biggles, a gun pointed straight at his face.

Algy did not stop to think. He flung himself forward, praying that he would be in time. He hit Biggles and heard his friend grunt in surprise as they both tumbled over into the ground.

And then a burning hot pain hit him in the side and everything went blank.

&&&

There was no time to move, no time to think. Even if there had been, there was nothing Biggles could have done. The princess was standing right behind him, and if he had moved, she would have been directly in harm’s way.  

As he was staring death in the face a sudden blur barreled out from nowhere and hit him in the chest. He barely had time to register that it was Algy before the two of them went tumbling onto the ground.

Gasping for air, he got to his feet and turned back to the plane. The policemen were close now, so close that to stay any longer would be suicide. Henri, perhaps realizing this, was already beginning to taxi slowly forward in preparation for take-off. Shouting to Algy, Biggles made a rush for the plane. Halfway there, he made the horrifying discovery that Algy was not, as he had thought, hard on his heels. There was no one behind him.

Biggles threw a glance over his shoulder.

There was a limp figure lying on the ground.

It was Algy. And there was an ugly red stain spreading across the back of the blue boiler suit he wore.

&&&

For an instant, Biggles could do nothing but stand there and stare, his mind a complete blank, and then he was running flat out for the fallen figure as though his life depended upon it. Somewhere close at hand, he was dimly aware of a female voice shouting, screaming for him to come back, that there was nothing he could do, that the plane was about to take off, but he was not listening, not really. Let the plane leave without him, was the savage thought that raced through his mind. He would rather be shot to death as a spy than leave his best friend, dead or alive, in the hands of the enemy.

Policemen were moving towards the fallen figure. Biggles’ gun spat, spat again, and then he was on his knees next to Algy, his fingers closing roughly on Algy’s collar.

Although they were almost of equal height, Algy was built on stockier lines, and the best Biggles could do for him was drag his flying partner bodily towards the now rapidly taxying Breguet, ducking the bullets that came flying to the left and right of him. Had the position been reversed, he reflected bitterly, Algy could have carried him easily.

His arms and legs were screaming in agony at the strain as he raced for the plane. It was going to leave them behind, he could see that now. He could not find it in his heart to blame Henri. After all, the mission was to bring the princess back, and she was safely inside. Henri, as the pilot, had a responsibility to her and to his machine. There was no point in all of them dying together.

Then someone jumped out of the Breguet and ran towards him. The figure raised a gun and shot at Biggles’ pursuers, and then rushed forward to meet him.

Without a word, the princess slung Algy’s lifeless arm around her shoulders. Together, she and Biggles raced for the plane.

They made it—barely. The princess clambered in first, half-dragging Algy with her, and then gave Biggles a hand up. He was halfway inside the Breguet when the wheels lifted, and as he fell into the cabin in a tangle of arms and legs he felt the machine become fully airborne.

&&&

It took a little time for him to catch his breath and get over the shock of the past few minutes before he could turn his attention back to Algy. Although there seemed to be a lot of blood, the damage did not appear to be too serious. A bullet had hit Algy’s side and glanced off of a rib. The princess helped Biggles to bandage up the wound, remarking that it was probably the shock of the impact rather than anything else that had caused Algy to become unconscious.

In this she was most likely correct, for a short time later Algy regained consciousness and was able to drink a little water. “What happened?” he croaked, wincing at a failed attempt to sit up.

“You were shot,” replied Biggles. “Her highness helped me drag you to the plane. It was touch and go, but we made it, thank goodness for that.” He took a drink of water himself and longed for something stronger. His hands were still shaking and he could not seem to stop them.

Algy smiled wanly as his eyes began to flutter closed, threatening sleep. “Thanks,” he murmured, and then, faintly, “Sorry about this. You should have left me beh—”

“Shut up,” said Biggles, jangled nerves making his tone harsh. In that awful moment where he had looked back and seen Algy lying on the ground, he had genuinely thought that his best friend had been killed. It was a sight that he would haunt him for many a day. “It’s all right, old son,” he added, in a softer tone, as Algy drifted off to sleep. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”

&&&

Air Commodore Raymond was there to meet them when they landed. If he was surprised to see Algy he did not show it, merely rapping out curt orders for an ambulance to be sent as the princess was escorted away by Intelligence agents.

“Don’t look so worried, old man,” said the MO to Biggles cheerfully, as Algy was loaded into the back of the ambulance. “It’s only a flesh wound. He’ll be up and walking within a day or two, I’d warrant.”

This prediction turned out to be correct, for by the time Biggles returned to the squadron early Tuesday morning, Algy was already well enough to accompany him back.

Ginger eyed the pair suspiciously as they entered the squadron office and hung up their coats. “Where have you two been?” he demanded. “And what’s happened to you?” he added, as Algy winced slightly before lowering himself into his chair.

“Wedding,” replied Algy laconically. “Boisterous stag do. Never seen anything like it.”

“Quit fooling,” Biggles told him, lighting a cigarette. To Ginger, he added, “Put the kettle on, lad. I could do with a cup of tea.”

THE END