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"What the dickens are you doing with all that?" Algy demanded, looking out of the Otter's cabin to where Bertie had built himself an impromptu field kitchen on the shore. "How many tins of bully is this going to use?"
"Never you mind, old bean," Bertie retorted. "I've got it all in hand. The skipper will be back soon. Has Ginger finished with the table?"
"Ginger's been finished with the table this past half hour," Algy said. "He's decided to decorate it now."
The table was a dubious construction of old planks from a wreck, with large rocks as chairs, but it had a complicated twisting braid of greenery down the middle, and as Algy and Bertie watched, Ginger returned with an armload of red and yellow flowers which he placed in the greenery, occasionally sneezing or shaking away insects. The overall effect was festive, apart from the millipedes.
"No need to sit there like a lump," Bertie said. "See if you can find anything else we can use for a plate, I want to serve this up properly on one of the real plates and I've already used all the saucepan lids." Bertie spoke with uncharacteristic snappishness, hunching forwards over his work again, so Algy didn't argue.
"Plates," he said to Ginger. "Any ideas?"
"Big leaves?" Ginger suggested.
"What if they're poisonous?"
"I saw some big shells further along on the beach," Ginger offered. "Some of them were flattish. Didn't you take me to some fancy restaurant where they served food on a seashell?"
"I'm sure whatever Bertie's cooking will be the match of it," Algy said, and sauntered along to the shoreline. As promised, there were some shells which if not quite plate-sized, would do so long as the user was willing to take second and maybe also third helpings. He picked up several of them just to be on the safe side, washed them off in the sea and carried them to the table, where two actual plates were laid, with a flat saucepan lid in the third place, and a mismatched array of tin field cutlery. Algy put the biggest seashell at the fourth seat and took the other two back to Bertie.
"Behold, plates!"
Bertie just gave a nod and Algy left the shells on the upturned crate where various improvised dishes were covered with handkerchiefs to keep insects at bay. Algy sat in the Otter's rear hatch again and watched the festivities. Ginger was now placing complicated constructions of old newspaper at each place; squinting, Algy realised they were meant to be crackers. Bertie finally stood up.
"All right, that blighter's as good as he's going to get. Now where's the skipper got to? Don't want any of this to go cold."
"Not much danger of that in this heat," Algy remarked.
"He won't be much longer," Ginger said. "D'you think this looks like mistletoe?"
He held up a green sprig. "A bit. But it's probably poisonous," Algy said.
"So's mistletoe," Bertie put in. "Unless you're a mistle thrush."
"Put it in the cockpit," Algy said. "The Otter's our sweetheart this year."
"And what a sweetheart she is," Bertie said with a grin, patting the side of the aeroplane. "She'll go anywhere with you with no complaints. Long life to her, I say! Is that the skipper I spy? Let's get to the table, chaps."
Considering that they were on a tropical coastline miles from any kind of settlement, it was not a bad Christmas spread, Algy thought as he claimed one of the rocks at the table. Ginger had plucked more flowers than he knew what to do with, so the Otter's wings were decorated too, complete with ersatz mistletoe in the cockpit. The table stood in a shady patch under some palm trees, Bertie's field kitchen a few yards away for convenience. As well as the assorted improvised crockery, there were four tin mugs and a jug of something Bertie had described as punch, and Ginger began to ferry most of the covered dishes to the table. Bertie had spent some time in the stores at the last RAF base they'd passed through, and Algy wasn't sure precisely what he'd obtained, but the cooking smells weren't bad at all.
He could hear Biggles pushing through the undergrowth towards them, and grinning at Ginger and Bertie he began to sing.
"...good tidings we bring, to you and your kin, we wish you a merry--what the blazes!"
Biggles had arrived. Algy sprang to his feet.
"Afternoon, chaps," Biggles announced a little breathlessly. "Hope you've got room at the table for a guest?"
'Guest' didn't seem like quite the right word. Marching alongside Biggles, with a thunderous expression and dishevelled clothes and his hands fastened behind his back, was Erich von Stalhein.
"We had a little difference of opinion. I didn't want him rushing off to give the alarm and spoiling your fun, so I brought him back to join us."
"And you thought that wouldn't spoil our fun," Algy said blandly, recovering himself.
"Best find another chair, I mean rock," Bertie said. "And more plates, and--oh dear." He stood up suddenly and bolted back to his kitchen. Ginger and Algy grinned at each other.
"I would not care to trouble you," von Stalhein said grimly.
"Yes, go find another rock," Biggles said, ignoring this. "And don't be absurd, von Stalhein, we can't have our Christmas dinner with you tied up in a corner."
"Of course we could," Algy muttered.
"So give me your parole and take a seat. It's hardly the first time there's been a Christmas truce."
"Not much of a truce if you tie me up again afterwards."
"Afterwards," Biggles said, "we'll be on our way, so you can go with our good will. By the time you get back to your friends, we'll be long gone. Take a seat. Bertie's been scheming about this for weeks."
"I was hoping we'd be home for Christmas," Ginger said, "but Bertie said it would take longer and he was right."
"We no longer celebrate Christmas," von Stalhein said stiffly.
"The Soviets might not," Biggles said, "but you do, don't you? I remember it well. Come on, sit down and make yourself at home." He gave von Stalhein a small push towards one of the rocks around the table.
With an ill grace, von Stalhein sat down.
Biggles smiled. "There. Now you're a guest at my table, or Bertie's table at least, so for the duration you'll be treated accordingly." He began to unfasten von Stalhein's hands. Algy tensed a little, but von Stalhein only rolled his shoulders and sat a little straighter. Ginger located a fifth large rock and rolled it up to the table, and Biggles took a seat as well.
"Better get that other shell," Algy said, sitting down again facing von Stalhein. Biggles was looking far too smug about the whole situation. "When I said that you were going to end up inviting him to dinner, this isn't quite what I meant."
Von Stalhein shot him a suspicious look, and Ginger returned with a seashell plate, a spoon and the mug that had lost its handle. Biggles promptly swapped that for his, and gave his intact mug to von Stalhein.
"I don't suppose there's a fifth cracker, is there?"
"Not to worry," Bertie pronounced. "There were a couple that weren't quite up to spec, but it'll do, hang on a sec and I'll fetch it." He went back inside the cabin and came out a minute later with a slightly lopsided newspaper cracker and set it down in front of von Stalhein. Von Stalhein glared at it, and Algy bristled. Bad enough that Biggles had dragged him along without him turning up his Prussian nose at their makeshift festivities.
"All right, here goes," Biggles said, picking up his cracker, and they all took hold of the ends.
"Might want to be a little careful, chaps," Bertie said suddenly just as they were all starting to pull. Algy braced, and a series of deafening explosions went off around the table. Everyone except Bertie leapt to his feet in alarm. There were sparks and small pieces of burning paper flying in all directions, and Ginger had to make a hasty dive to avoid having a large flaming piece of newspaper land on his head.
Biggles stomped out a piece of newspaper beside him and said mildly, "You made those yourself, Bertie? What did you use for the snaps?"
"Oh, well, it's not a proper cracker unless it goes off with a bang, is it?" Bertie protested. "We've got lots of things in the ammo locker that make a very jolly bang."
"I see all I need to do is leave you to your own devices for a time," von Stalhein said, brushing newspaper ash off his sleeve, "and you'll blow yourselves up of your own accord."
Biggles laughed. "It's a real possibility. Oh, I see you've made crowns too." He shook out a newspaper crown, blew out a smouldering part of it, and placed it on his head.
"Let's have this food before we all starve or get blown up," Algy said, locating another newspaper crown on his boot. He offered it across the table to von Stalhein. "I think this is yours."
There was a very long pause before von Stalhein, with a glance at Biggles, accepted the crown and put it on. With heroic efforts, Algy managed not to laugh; then Ginger passed him a crown too and it turned out that Algy's had an enormous colour advertisement for laundry soap right in the centre of it.
"I'll laundry soap you," he said to Bertie, "you'll be scrubbed cleaner than--"
"Never mind that, prepare to be astounded," Bertie said hastily, and headed back to the kitchen. He returned a moment later carrying a plate with an oddly familiar shape on the top of it. Four pairs of eyes stared at it.
"What is that?" Biggles asked at last.
"It's a turkey! I know you passed your eyesight test this year, can't you tell?"
"Whatever it is," Biggles retorted, "it is definitely not a turkey."
Algy studied the creation. It was approximately turkey-shaped, with drumsticks and even a parson's nose, but it was--mercifully--only the size of a pheasant, and it was an all-too-familiar mottled brown colour. The only thing that stopped him saying anything was watching von Stalhein's face as he too examined the dish.
"You... sculpted this? Out of, er, preserved meat of some kind?" von Stalhein said. Algy knew he would remember the expression and tone of voice for many happy years to come as von Stalhein's company manners and his very real gastronomic horror struggled for superiority.
"Bully beef," Ginger explained.
"There's stuffing too," Bertie added. "The quartermaster had some... well, you'll see. Doesn't he look jolly?"
"Good work, Bertie," said Biggles a little too heartily. "A leg for me, I think."
A large knife, more usually used for hacking bushes, lay on the table. Bertie took this and began with great ceremony to carve his creation. There was indeed stuffing inside it, though Algy couldn't tell what it was made of other than possibly crumbled army biscuit and something that might have been dried fruit, and a strange combined smell of sage and ginger.
Curiously, Algy uncovered the other dishes on the table, revealing tinned peas and rehydrated mashed potato. There was also a jar of some kind of chutney with the label faded with age, but it had a pungently spicy smell that Algy hoped would improve the other parts of the meal.
Von Stalhein, presented with a seashell plate, said, "Truly the most remarkable Christmas dinner I have seen."
"You should have seen what Biggles cooked one time, before the war," Ginger offered cheerfully. "Roasted crocodile, wasn't it?"
"You were lucky to get roasted anything," Biggles said. "And who was it who made a trifle with crushed biscuits, jam and condensed milk?"
"And tinned mandarins!" Algy added. "I still have nightmares about that trifle."
Once everyone was served and the dubious chutney passed around, Algy tasted his slice of ersatz turkey and mystery stuffing. It was not as bad as he'd feared, and the fiercely hot chutney definitely helped.
"Punch?" Biggles said, pouring everyone a cup. It was not particularly strong, which Algy supposed was just as well if they were planning to fly immediately after the meal. He suspected blackcurrant squash was a significant component.
"So the Soviets don't have Christmas dinner? What a shame for you to miss out on the party. I suppose too much frivolity doesn't suit those severe types, d'you remember when old Pinky went well and truly Red and refused to salute?" Bertie said.
"There are other parties," von Stalhein said austerely.
"May Day parades, I suppose," Ginger tried.
"Keep you from gatherin' nuts in May, don't it," Bertie said. "Cheers, all!" He raised his glass of punch and clanked it noisily against the others'. Von Stalhein hesitated, then joined in.
"This is better than crocodile," Algy said. "Just. Can we know what's in the stuffing?"
"They had a little jar of mincemeat," Bertie explained. "I mixed in some biscuit and herbs."
"Mincemeat," Algy muttered. It explained the sweet fruity taste, and the hint of cloves. "Only you, Bertie."
"It is very, ah, inventive," von Stalhein said. "I see your talent for improvising with unpromising supplies extends to the culinary arts."
"Oh, that's Bertie," said Biggles. "I would never have thought of this. But Bertie has ambitions when it comes to field cookery."
"I have had far worse from our goulash cannons," von Stalhein said. "And never with such an elegant dish."
"Help yourself," Biggles said earnestly. "More, ah, turkey?"
To Algy's considerable surprise, von Stalhein accepted. Either he had very odd tastes, or the Soviets really were living on turnips. Algy took a second helping too, since there was no sense letting good food, or even Bertie's food, go to waste, and finished his punch. Biggles was looking at von Stalhein with far too much affection in his face, as if at a disobedient pet that was temporarily behaving well.
Once the dinner was gone, Bertie summoned a detachment of aid to clearing up. "No puds until we've washed up the crockery, y'know," he explained cheerfully. Biggles gestured to von Stalhein to remain, and much to Algy's disgust the two of them stayed sitting at the table while he and Ginger and Bertie carried off the miscellaneous crockery to the sea to be washed.
"Can't believe it, von Stalhein for Christmas dinner," he said.
"Lucky there was enough to go round," said Bertie cheerfully. "The skipper's perked right up, you notice."
"Biggles always likes fighting von Stalhein," said Ginger. "It stands to reason he'd like him showing up for Christmas dinner too. They're probably having their usual argument around about now."
All three of them glanced back up at the table, where Biggles was indeed gesticulating earnestly while von Stalhein frowned at him. Algy thought von Stalhein's glare was somewhat less vicious than normal. Then again, it was hard to look properly austere and sour with a paper crown on your head. He suspected von Stalhein had forgotten it; Biggles had undoubtedly forgotten his own.
"Perhaps Biggles will persuade him this time," Bertie said. "Nothing like sitting down for a good meal for settling differences. That would be a bit of a change, wouldn't it, dear old Erich our friend instead of enemy? Life might be a mite safer."
"Knowing von Stalhein," Algy pointed out, rinsing off the last shell, "he'd find a way to get us all killed as a friend instead. Any more of these need doing?"
"I think that's it," Ginger said.
"If you've made trifle again--" Algy began, gathering up the dishes and shaking the last few drops of seawater off them.
"Only the best for our brave lads," Bertie intoned. "You'll see in a minute."
They took the clean dishes back to the table. Whatever discussion Biggles and von Stalhein had been having, they were silent when the others returned, both finishing cigarettes.
"Ready to sing for your supper?" Bertie asked. "Now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some figgy pudding--"
The others all joined in and Bertie walked back over to his kitchen. An unfamiliar voice joined in the song and Algy turned surprised eyes on von Stalhein, but he seemed to know the words as well as any Englishman. Biggles was smiling in an extremely annoying way.
A moment later Bertie returned, carrying what really did look like a Christmas pudding. After the turkey, Algy peered suspiciously at it.
"Is that real?" he interrupted the song to ask.
"--and a happy New Year," everyone else carolled.
"Real as the nose on your face, Algy my lad."
Von Stalhein looked at it, then said, "Allow me to contribute something to the celebrations." He reached for his pocket.
Algy froze, and across the table, Ginger began to stand up. With a sardonic smile von Stalhein pulled out a neat silver hip-flask and uncorked it. He poured a splash of the contents over the Christmas pudding and then produced his lighter.
The spirits ignited with a satisfying blue flame flickering around the plate and a sudden smell of burning sugar. Bertie grinned and set the plate down in front of Biggles. "The perfect touch, by Jove, but don't set the rest of it on fire, there's coffee brewing and it'll be just the ticket."
"Where did you find a Christmas pudding?" Algy asked as Bertie opened a small tin of condensed milk in place of cream.
"You don't want to know," Ginger said. "How long had it been sitting in the back of Stores back in Kuala Lumpur? Ten years? Twenty? The quartermaster practically burst into song when you took it off his hands at last."
"It's well matured," Bertie pronounced. "People pay good money for this in London."
Algy took a bite of his slice, with condensed milk. It was better than he'd feared. The rest of the party were tucking in with equal enthusiasm, and Bertie set down a thermos of coffee, being the only vessel they had large enough to hold five cups of coffee. For a few minutes an appreciative silence reigned, and von Stalhein passed his hip-flask around the table with all the ceremony of the port being sent round at the Aero Club. Then after he set down his fork, Biggles rapped his coffee cup on the table and stood up. Von Stalhein eyed him with deep misgiving.
"On these occasions it is customary that I make a speech in honour of the feast, and--"
"--tell us a bedtime story to lull us all to sleep," Algy heckled.
"...and since we are fortunate enough to have a guest amongst our number who is not familiar with these traditions--"
"The first time I've been jealous of von Stalhein!" Ginger threw in.
"...who must now be thinking that none of you are fit to sit in an officers' mess--"
"On the contrary, I recall many a dinner like this--when I was in the cadets," von Stalhein said, raising his coffee cup in toast. There was a sudden silence.
Biggles gave the table a stern glare, and took relentless advantage of the surprise of the others. "As I was saying, we are fortunate to have a guest at the table, in accordance with the tradition that someone outside the family, if I can be permitted so to refer to you all, can prevent life from being too stale and predictable, and stave off quarrels and petty disagreements." He batted away the scrap of singed newspaper that Ginger had folded into a paper aeroplane and thrown. "And nobody can deny that our guest has regularly performed this service for us all, and so I invite you all to raise your glasses to Erich von Stalhein, who has done more than anyone else to keep our lives full of interest and liveliness."
He threw the paper aeroplane back at Algy when Algy did not immediately raise his coffee cup, and Algy joined in the toast with a wry smile. Then he banged his now-empty cup on the table.
"Speech!" he said. "Come on, you have to respond now."
Von Stalhein glared at him, but Biggles sat down and made an encouraging gesture, and von Stalhein rose to his feet. "I cannot deny that I was reluctant to join you all for these festivities," he said.
"Reluctant! You fought me every step of the way," Biggles said.
Von Stalhein clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. "Reluctant," he repeated, "but nonetheless, I must express my appreciation for the efforts that have gone into the festive occasion. I will remember this meal for a long time. And should I happen to be in your vicinity some Christmas yet to come, I will do my utmost to provide you with a more suitable fowl to grace your table." He paused for long enough that Algy thought perhaps he was finished, but then he added, "And as for the compliment you have paid me, I must return it. You all have gone to great lengths to provide me with employment and occupation, and for that above all I must thank your gallant leader: to James Bigglesworth."
"Biggles!" Algy echoed, and Bertie and Ginger had no hesitation in joining in. Biggles was looking really quite excessively pleased at this speech, and Algy threw one of the red flowers from the centrepiece at him. It lodged in the paper hat on his head. Ginger gave a yell of outrage at the damage to his floral decoration and flicked a spoonful of pudding at Algy, and with that the party broke up.
"It's a good hour's walk back to where you were patrolling, before," Biggles said to von Stalhein. "By the time you return there, we will be packed up and on our way."
"Especially now that you're full of bully beef and pudding," Bertie added cheerfully. "Makes a chap a mite disinclined for sprinting in the hot sun."
"Even your dinner is a weapon?" von Stalhein said wryly. "I can well believe it." He removed the flower lodged in Biggles's paper hat and put it in his buttonhole instead. "That is more suited to an officer," he said. "I thank you all, and I will take my leave."
Algy went to stand beside Biggles as von Stalhein began to walk along the shore in the direction he had come in. After a while he said, "I wonder what his friends will make of the paper hat."
Biggles was gazing after von Stalhein a trifle wistfully. "I'm sure it will occur to him to remove it before long. Now let's get all this cleared up, we need to be off, just in case he does have something up his sleeve."
***
The next Christmas they were in England with all the comforts of home, but the following year they were lying low in a chilly swamp, not daring to make any sound or light a fire lest they attract the wrong sort of attention, and anticipating a depressing Christmas. But when Biggles went out of the machine on the morning of Christmas Eve and looked around, he found a brace of plump ducks hooked over the machine's nose. He stared at them for a while, then said, "No need to stay quiet any more, lads, we've been found. We'd best clear out of here now, but at least we'll have a good Christmas dinner."