Biggles and Son: Chapter 30.

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.

Biggles could see the small black car down below, crawling forward with ant-like speed. It was Brechovich’s car, and Biggles’ lips thinned in concentration as he kept his eyes fixed on his target.

For once he was not in the pilot’s seat. Bertie was flying, and Ginger was back at headquarters. As a matter of detail it was to have been Ginger and Bertie who followed Brechovich in the plane, but Biggles had flatly refused to be left behind. His recent injuries had made flying difficult, and so, with some annoyance, he had reluctantly taken up the post of observer.

To tell the truth, it was a tedious job, as at the speed at which the machine was travelling there was no fear of losing the tiny black car below, so he scarcely needed to keep his eyes on the ground. Not to mention the fact that Gaskin and his men had done a fine job of finding and following Brechovich themselves; Biggles easily recognized the police cars hard on Brechovich’s heels.

The radio crackled briefly and he glanced at it with interest, but when no further sound came through he decided that it must have been static and resumed his former task.

The radio crackled again and Ginger’s voice came through. “I’ve just got a message from Marcel,” he said. “He sounds quite agitated. Says he’s shot down the Piper near the French coastline.”

Biggles sat up in his chair. “What? Say that again.”

“You heard me. He said he’s shot down the Piper.”

“Anyone in it?”

“The coastguard says there was one person in it—a man.”

“Are you sure?” Biggles’ voice was tense and strained. “Just one person? Who was it?”

“Marcel doesn’t know. The man was unconscious when they got him out so they sent him to hospital. Marcel is on his way there now. The coastguards will get the Piper out of the drink in case we want to see it.”

Biggles was not concerned with the remains of the plane. He was more interested in the occupant. “Tell Gaskin we’re going to France,” he said. “There’s no point in us keeping watch; they couldn’t lose Brechovich now if they tried.”

“Okay,” agreed Ginger. “I’ll tell Marcel you’re on your way. Should I go as well?”

“No,” said Biggles. “You stay in London and keep an eye on things at this end. You can ring the hospital or Marcel if anything important happens. And keep an eye on Sebastian.”

“Righto.”

&&&

When Biggles walked into the hospital, the first thing that he saw was the sight of Marcel shouting at a group of hospital staff, all wearing expressions ranging from abashment to resignation.

“Here,” cried Biggles, understandably startled. “What’s happened?”

Marcel rounded on him. “Happened?” he shouted. “I find this little plane. I shoot it down. It contains one gun smuggler—”

Biggles refrained from commenting that the gun smuggler was most likely simply Algy.

“—he is brought here, to the hospital, and put in a room and they leave him, and when they come back—Voila! The gun smuggler, he is gone! Bah! What is this? It is a hotel you are running!” This last was delivered in withering tones to the assembled hospital staff.

“Gone?” echoed Biggles blankly. “The man in the plane?”

“Yes, he walks out. And no one sees him. Like a magician, this one.”

“All right,” said Biggles, holding out his hands in a pacifying manner. “All right. He’s gone, more’s the pity. But there’s no point in getting all hot under the collar about it. We’ll find him again, don’t worry. Come on, you look as though you need a drink and something to eat.”

To this Marcel assented, and, after a brief word with Bertie, Biggles took Marcel to a nearby restaurant.

But they had scarcely ordered before Bertie came hurrying in. “Gaskin called, old boy,” were his opening words. “He says he’s found Jane.”

All other thoughts that resided in Biggles’ brain vanished. He stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over. “Jane?” he said, wonderingly, like a man in a dream. “Where?”

&&&

Algy woke.

It was cold. And dark. Neither of which was a good start to regaining consciousness.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him he realized that he was lying down in a bed in a darkened room. Apart from himself the room appeared to be deserted.

The door to the room was not fully closed, and through the small crack he could see figures in white dashing to and fro outside.

“Hospital,” he thought to himself. “I’m a hospital.”

But why? He struggled to remember and drew a complete blank. Sitting up slowly, he carefully felt himself all over for signs of injury. A sore patch at the back of his head made him wince but other than that he seemed to be perfectly all right.

Swinging his legs out of the blanket he attempted to stand and was cheered when he found that he could do so without dizziness or discomfort.

Standing in the dark he again tried to recall the events leading up to his current position, but again drew a blank. However, this time an image crept into his mind. A plane…he had been in a plane.

A…Camel?

Yes, that was it. He had been in a Camel, a Sopwith Camel. He had been flying it, and he had been shot down and brought to the hospital. He had a vague recollection of falling into water and being unable to swim, and of men pulling him out and shouting orders in French around him.

“The Huns,” he mused to himself. “I was shot down by a Hun.”

Something like panic seized him for an instant as he glanced down at his wrist and discovered that his watch was missing. How long had he been unconscious? He had to get back to the squadron and tell his commanding officer….his flight commander.

But who was his flight commander?

A face rose in his memory, a young-ish man with deep set hazel eyes and fair hair, small lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. Careworn lines of worry, of eyes that had seen too much.

Algy fought for a name but could not find one.

For that matter, he couldn’t seem to remember what his own name was either.

But his squadron, he was confident that he knew where that was. “Maranique,” he said aloud, pleased with himself at the memory. “I’ve got to get back to Maranique.”

Go to Chapter 31.

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