Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 11. Escape

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.

It was thanks to a combination of Dusty’s instincts and Algy’s reflexes that Algy lived to tell the tale. The moment Von Stalhein—for of course it was he—had finished talking, Dusty had whipped up Algy’s automatic and started firing. Algy, without even thinking, jumped out of the way with the agility of a cat, landing in a crouch next to Barnes.

“Come on!” he hissed to the surprised Barnes, dragging him behind a flimsy wooden table to take cover, for by now Von Stalhein had obviously started shooting as well.

Dusty was backing towards the table as he fired, snapping off shots at regular intervals. Algy, his sightline somewhat obstructed by the edge of the table, did his best to cover Dusty, firing in the general direction of Von Stalhein with the automatic Bertie had given him.

He did not see what happened next, but he heard the German emit a cry of pain, followed by a dull thud, and then silence.

“Is he hit?” Algy yelled to Dusty, who by now had reached the table, but was not bothering to take cover.

“Yes. He’s been shot in the leg, and I think he hit his head when he collapsed. At any rate, he’s dropped his gun. I think it’s all right to come out now.”

Algy and Barnes emerged tentatively from behind the table, which bore the marks of battle and showed signs of falling apart. “Phew,” breathed Algy. “I wasn’t expecting him to show up. He’s just like a cat.”

“Friend of yours?” inquired Dusty.

“Depends on what you mean by friend,” replied Algy grimly, as he cautiously approached the prone figure lying in front of them. “I wouldn’t put it past him to bluff unconsciousness,” he muttered to himself, holding his automatic firmly as he bent down to check the German’s condition. “No. He really is unconscious. And what do we have here? Keys.” He untangled the bunch of keys that had fallen from Von Stalhein’s pocket and tossed them to Barnes. “Get busy. I’ll see to his leg.”

“Why on earth d’you want to see to his leg for?” demanded Dusty, in a whisper, as Barnes rushed off down the corridor to try the keys.

“I don’t want him to bleed to death, do I?” said Algy shortly. “Never mind; it’s just a flesh wound, anyway. Doesn’t look too serious. He’ll live, more’s the pity. Come on, let’s get to the others.”

But there was no need to get to the others, for Biggles and Ginger, closely followed by Barnes and a group of other prisoners, were making their way towards them.

“Good work,” said Biggles briefly, as Algy got to his feet. “What’s the plan?”

“Get out of the main entrance and make for the right side of the enclosure. You should see a Lanc just beyond a row of single-seaters. Bertie’s in it.”

Biggles blinked. “Bertie! Is he here as well?”

“Never mind that now,” said Algy. “Buck up. We’ve kept him waiting long enough as it is. I hope to goodness nothing’s happened to him.”

&&&

They were out of the gray prison building and making for the Lancaster when a shot rang out, somewhere close at hand. Biggles grimaced. “Give me a gun,” he said briefly, and without a word Algy pressed his automatic into the outstretched hand.

“I hope he’s all right,” said Ginger nervously.

“He’d better be,” returned Biggles, with grim humor. “Or heads are going to roll, and they won’t be mine, I can promise you.”

They proceeded in a cautious manner towards the Lanc; they could hear shouting now, and more shots. Men in uniform were running to and fro around the machine like ants on a hot stove.

“What’s going on?” muttered Dusty in confusion.

“Bertie’s in trouble,” replied Algy.

“Or not,” said Ginger, pointing. “Look. They’re running away!”

Algy looked. It was true. Even though there was a continuous wave of soldiers running and shooting at the Lancaster, more of them seemed to be running away than getting closer. “Better give him a shout,” he advised Biggles, who was in the lead.

Biggles, following the advice, let out a hail, which was immediately answered. Bertie’s face appeared briefly in the doorway of the Lanky, his monocle firmly in place, blinking as it reflected the light from outside. “Ah!” they heard his voice, tinged with obvious relief. “Thought you chaps were never coming, what?”

Biggles waved to the others to run for the plane while he covered them with short bursts from the automatic. He was the last to run for the bomber, dodging and ducking to avoid shots, gasping for breath as he all but threw himself into the machine. He was conscious of seeing Algy in the pilot’s seat, Ginger closing the door behind him, the bomber rushing forward at incredible speed, and the moment of overwhelming relief when he felt the plane leave the ground.

It took some time before he could sit up, and when he did, he found himself next to Bertie. “Good work,” he said, managing a smile. “What happened back there?”

Bertie gave him a reproachful look through the monocle. “The blighters outside started getting jolly impatient, you see, because I was in the beastly plane, and they wanted it back.”

“Yes,” agreed Biggles. “I think I got the gist of that part.”

“I had to start chucking things inside the plane at them, what? It was their own fault for being so bally steep, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” said Biggles, hiding a smile with an effort. “Just as a matter of interest, what types of things did you chuck at them?”

Bertie shrugged, taking out the monocle and beginning to polish it vigorously on his sleeve. “All sorts of things, old boy. Cigarette cases, wads of newspaper, tinned food, oh, and yes—a couple of jolly grenades, don’t you know.”

&&&

Having recovered somewhat from the breathtaking sequence of events of the past few minutes, Biggles joined Algy at the front of the plane. “How are things looking?”

“Not bad,” was the reply. “We should be crossing the Curtain in another minute or two.”

“How much juice do we have?”

Algy checked. “Not enough to make it to England. We can probably get to France without any trouble.”

“That’s good,” declared Biggles. “I’ve had just about all I can take of this place, I can tell you. I shan’t burst into tears if I never come back here again.”

“Nor I,” agreed Algy. “And I’ll tell you another thing, too. The next time I get called out on a coastal rescue, I’m jolly well bringing everything but the kitchen sink. You never know what could happen.”

In front of them, stars twinkled brightly in the night sky as the Lancaster drifted over the Iron Curtain, heading towards France.

&&&

It was almost two days later that a plane landed at air police headquarters and six passengers got out.

“What will you do now?” asked Algy, as he shook hands with Barnes and Dusty.

“Go back to the office and wait for our next assignment,” replied Dusty promptly. “Our job isn’t that different from yours, you know. We get sent where we’re told.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” said Barnes.

“Hopefully in less desperate circumstances,” agreed Algy, with a grin. “Cheerio.”

After that, there is really little more to tell. In due course, a car was sent to Dusty’s aunt’s faithful old gardener, to replace the one he had given to Algy and the others.

Reading the papers several months later, Biggles learnt of a series of revolutions that had taken place in Latvia, and subsequently he heard rumors that made him suspect that those behind the revolts were the same men who had been taken prisoner at the safe house at the same time as he and Ginger had. There were rumors, too, that Ivan, the injured man Dusty had delivered the message to, was playing a very significant role in the revolutions.

But these were all rumors and Biggles had no way of verifying them. Indeed, he had no interest in doing so, even if he had had the means. As he said to Algy, some things were better left alone unless one really had to interfere.

THE END

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