Christmas Spirit

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.

“Bah!” said Lieutenant Algy Lacey, in tones of disgust. “An afternoon patrol on Christmas Eve? Whose idea was it to start this perishing war, anyway? And why can’t the Huns stay home by the mess fire on Christmas Eve like good little boys?”

Captain James “Biggles” Bigglesworth, Algy’s friend and flight commander, looked up from his chair by the mess fire and said, “Well, you know it’s got to be done, and we might as well be the ones to do it.”

“Why us?”

Biggles grinned. “D’you see anyone else volunteering?”

“You’re in a remarkably cheerful mood,” growled Algy.

“Of course; we’re having turkey for Christmas dinner. And I’m off dawn patrols for a week. If that can’t cheer me up, nothing will.”

Algy muttered something under his breath. “All right, come on. We might as well go and get it over with,” he said at last. “But just look at that weather! Only a lunatic would be out flying on a day like this.”

“Righto. You go and get the Camels out. I’ll just have a word with Mullen. Shan’t be a minute.”

&&&

Ten minutes later, they were both in their Camels, heading for the line. Algy huddled deeper into his flying jacket and glared balefully at the ground below. There had been fog earlier in the day, and although it had somewhat cleared, the visibility still left much to be desired.

“And we’re still on our own sides of the lines, too,” he growled to himself. “What on earth are we going to see on the other side in this weather?”

He scanned the sky for signs of Huns but saw none.

“They’re probably all warming themselves at their mess fires laughing at the two boobs out for a patrol. Even the Huns have enough sense to stay home on a dud day. Not to mention it’s Christmas,” he muttered. “Oh, dash this wind!”

They were over on the German side of the lines by now. Algy looked helplessly over at Biggles. Biggles shrugged in reply and held up five fingers, meaning that they would patrol for five more minutes, and then head for home.

“That’s sense, anyway,” agreed Algy approvingly, starting to feel more cheerful.

Of course, it was right at that moment that his engine coughed, spluttered, and died.

&&&

Algy made frantic hand signals to show Biggles that he was going down. He saw Biggles’ face twisting with worry and concern. Biggles looked at the ground below and pointed to an open clearing. Algy nodded, guiding the Camel to it as best as he could under the circumstances.

He looked up at Biggles and saw that his flight commander appeared to be making preparations to land as well. “The fool, what is he at, thinking of landing in enemy territory?” snapped Algy to himself. He pointed towards the British side of the lines, telling Biggles to go home, but the other pilot shook his head adamantly.

Algy snatched a glance at the ground, saw that he would easily make the clearing, and glanced back up to see what Biggles was doing. His heart almost stopped in his chest as he saw, just behind the other Camel, three black specks, fast approaching.

“Huns!”

He waved his arms wildly, and finally, Biggles glanced back. Algy saw his face pale. The Camel swung around on its own length, so fast that it seemed like magic. Tracer spurted. Algy winced as he saw bullets hitting Biggles’ machine. He felt a sense of helplessness at his own inability to do anything. “You hounds,” he grated.

He was on the ground now, his wheels slowly coming to a halt. He had to turn his attention back to his own machine for a moment, for fear of running into the trees in front of him.

When he looked up again the sky was empty.

&&&

Algy bit his lip as the Camel ground to a halt underneath him. “Where’s he gone?” he muttered, still gazing hopefully up at the sky overhead, expecting at least one of the planes to reappear, but to his surprise a minute ticked by, and then another, and the sky continued to remain clear.

“Dash it all, they haven’t shot him down, have they?” he muttered to himself, clambering awkwardly down from the cockpit. “And what’s the matter with you?” he added, glaring at the Camel which had let him down at such a crucial moment.

He walked around the machine, examining it from every angle, but could see no sign of damage whatsoever. “Maybe the engine’s overheated,” he concluded, at length. “Better give it a few minutes to cool down; perhaps it’ll be all right by then.” His thoughts turned once more to Biggles and he eyed the sky again anxiously. “Where are you, Biggles?”

With nothing very much to do, and feeling his nerves teetering on the brink of snapping, he reached into his pocket and took a cigarette out of his cigarette case. “Might as well have a smoke.” He lit the cigarette and paced once more around the Camel as he smoked, searching again for signs of damage that could have caused the engine trouble, but once again he found none.

Algy had just ground the cigarette out under his heel when he felt a prickling down the back of his neck. Slowly, trying to convince himself that he was just being silly, he turned.

Not five yards in front of him crouched a German soldier, his gun pointed unwaveringly at Algy.

&&&

Algy froze. He slowly groped for his own gun, and then remembered, with a sinking feeling, that it was in the cockpit of his Camel, where it was useless to him. He took a small step backwards, with the intention of running away as fast as possible, and at the same time also took a closer look at the man in front of him.

This closer inspection revealed that the soldier was not, in fact, crouching in the ground, as Algy had initially thought. Rather, he was seated on the ground, his left leg stuck out in front of him at an awkward angle. Dark red stains on his clothes told their own story. Algy’s eyes went to the German’s hands, which were shaking slightly, and then up to the German’s face, which was pale and terrified behind the barrel of the gun.

“I say,” said Algy. “Are you all right?”

There was no reaction from the German except a slightly quizzical expression and increased shaking of the hands that clutched at the gun. The finger on the trigger tightened, and Algy flinched, expecting a bullet to hit him at any second. However, the only thing that happened was a rather anti-climactic click from the gun.

At that, the German on the ground let out a whimper that was half fear and half despair, dropping the weapon, eyes growing ever wider as Algy cautiously took a step closer to him. He was a youngish lad, possibly not older than eighteen, with close-cropped fair hair and curiously blue eyes.

Algy repeated his question, this time in French, and the German responded, fearfully and haltingly, in the same language, that he had broken his leg.

“I can see that,” said Algy, looking critically at the leg in question as he approached the German. He also looked critically at the German’s face and saw that he was shivering with cold. “Here.” Without a moment’s thought he stripped off his flying jacket and scarf. The jacket he threw over the German; the scarf he used to bind up the leg as best as he could under the circumstances. Whilst he worked, a conversation of sorts took place in a mixture of French, German, and English, in which Algy learned that the German’s name was Karl, that his leg had been broken in a raid that had taken place that morning, and that the rest of his troop had long since retreated back to their base and had no doubt presumed him dead.

Having made Karl comfortable, Algy took out his cigarette case and offered a cigarette to the German, an invitation that was readily accepted. In turn, Karl produced a somewhat squished bar of chocolate from his pocket and handed it to Algy, who promptly broke it in half and passed half back. “It’ll help to take your mind off of your leg.”

The cigarette case had given Algy an idea. If he could get a general idea of where the German’s fellow soldiers were, he could drop a message to them telling them where their comrade was, and they would no doubt send someone out to find him. “It’ll be dark in an hour, and he won’t last through the night, not with his leg like that,” was the unspoken thought that passed through his mind.

It took some time to communicate his plan to the German, but Algy finally got Karl to write a brief note on a sheet of notepaper detailing his position and condition, which Algy carefully folded and placed inside his cigarette case, which he had already emptied of cigarettes. A second piece of notepaper was employed in sketching a crude map of the German base’s location.

“Good,” declared Algy, putting his cigarette case back into his pocket and getting to his feet. “If my Camel’ll start, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

He was just starting to walk away when Karl asked, in very broken English, “Vhy you do this?”

Algy turned and grinned briefly. “Well,” he said. “You did give me half of your chocolate after all, didn’t you?”

&&&

Algy hurried to where he had left the Camel, half expecting to find it gone, but to his infinite relief, it was exactly where he had left it.

The engine spluttered and coughed ominously on the first try, and his heart almost stopped with disappointment. The splutter seemed to have cleared somewhat on the second try, and on the third try, he was delighted to hear the familiar purr of a working Camel.

“Come on, old girl, let’s get this done,” he murmured, patting his breast pocket to make sure that his cigarette case, with its vital message, was still there. He glanced over to the left and saw Karl watching him. Algy raised his hand in a half-wave, which was returned by the figure on the ground.

He gave the Camel a longer run than usual; uncertainty over the condition of his engine made him cautious. He gasped with relief and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders as the wheels left the ground. “Good girl,” he said aloud. “Now, where’s this base of theirs?” He consulted the crudely drawn map in his hand and adjusted his course slightly. “It doesn’t look too far,” he mused to himself. “Should be able to get there in ten minutes or so, and then I can go straight home.”

He sat shivering in his cockpit for the next few minutes, half regretting that he had given his flying jacket and scarf to the wounded German. “Oh, well. He did need them more than I did, and with any luck I’ll be home in a few minutes anyway. Dash this wind! Ah! There it is.”

The firing started even before he had come within effective range. The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun set Algy’s already stretched nerves to breaking point. He could see ant-like figures running to and fro below him. Something burst under the right wing of his Camel, and he could not help wincing as the machine rocked violently underneath him.

“And Merry Christmas to you too, you hounds,” he grated through set teeth. He groped the cigarette case out of his pocket, and, keeping a wary eye on the anti-aircraft gunners, opened his fingers and allowed the case to drop to the ground below.

He was close enough to the ground now to see a man in uniform hurry forward to the cigarette case, regard it with curious caution for a few seconds, and then pick it up, open it, and extract the message inside.

It was all Algy needed to know. Raising his nose for more height, he was turning for home when he was suddenly aware that the bombardment around him appeared to have ceased. Looking down, he saw the uniformed soldier who had picked up the message solemnly saluting him.

Amused, Algy returned the gesture before making for home with all due speed. “By gosh!” he chuckled to himself. “I hope they don’t think I’m a Hun flying a British machine. It’ll be fun to explain that to the Air Board!”

&&&

Crossing the line at ten thousand feet, Algy was mildly surprised to see another Camel coming to meet him. He recognized the machine by its steamers—it was Mahoney’s—but the face that peered out from behind the windshield was undoubtedly Biggles’.

Algy waved and saw the other pilot grin his relief.

Side by side, the two machines made for home.

Algy landed first, and clambered awkwardly out of the Camel to wait for Biggles. “Where did you go after those Huns came up?”

“One of ‘em almost shot my wing off. I barely made it to 287. What happened to your Camel?”

Algy shrugged. “Overheated, I expect. It was all right after a bit.”

Biggles peeled off his gloves and began leading the way towards the mess. “See anything on your way?” he asked, carelessly.

Algy grinned. “A glimpse of Christmas spirit, that’s all. Come on. I can smell the turkey cooking.”

THE END