Chapter Text
“Has anyone seen Biggles?” inquired Algy Lacey, as he put his head around thee door of the officers’ mess in Squadron No. 266, R.F.C.
“I don’t know,” came the reply from the fireside. “Have any of you seen me?” There was a general chuckle as the speaker turned round to look at Algy. “What is it?’
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You remember that chap Carstairs, who force-landed here the other day?”
“Yes. Squadron No. 86, wasn’t he?” answered Biggles.
“That’s right. Well, I just bumped into him in Amiens, and apparently it’s their guest night tonight; he told me to remind you you’re invited. Come about seven, he said.”
“Right you are,” Biggles agreed. “You’re coming too, I suppose?” Algy nodded. “How are we going to get there?”
“Can’t we take a tender? It’ll be too dark to fly, anyway.”
“Fine.” Biggles stretched his feet closer to the fire, settling back into his chair. “I’ll let you sort it out.”
A tender accordingly pulled up outside the headquarters of Squadron No. 86 that evening, discharging two officers before it drove off again. Biggles and Algy strolled in the direction of the mess, being enthusiastically greeted by Carstairs as they walked in.
“Hello, chaps; you made it! D’you want a drink?” He lifted his own glass questioningly.
“I wouldn’t mind, thanks,” agreed Biggles. “What about you, Algy?”
“Yes, please.”
“Come on, then; you’ll have to try our special.” Their host led them to a table, where he filled two beer glasses with a murky-looking drink.
“What is it?” Algy queried, eyeing his glass. Biggles tasted his, and spluttered.
“A mixture between dope and paint stripper,” he gasped. “Where did you get this poisonous brew?”
Carstairs looked hurt. “It’s our very own; made lovingly by hand on this very aerodrome,” he said reproachfully. “We think it’s rather good, once you’re used to it.”
Algy took a cautious sip, and pulled a face. “It must take a bit of getting used to.”
Their host chuckled ruefully. “It does; but I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got. Some damned Hun shot up our drinks store this afternoon.”
“That’s rotten luck,” replied Biggles. He tried his drink again, intending to be charitable in the face of this misfortune; but 86 Squadron’s ‘special’ defeated him. “I expect your Hun knew this would be more help to his side than ours,” he complained.
Algy turned away, his lips twitching as he saw the expression on Biggles’s face; Carstairs broke into frank laughter.
“I’m sorry; we did have some decent stuff when I invited you, honestly. But it grows on you, really. If you can get it down in one, it tastes fine.” Biggles and Algy exchanged skeptical glances.
“I will if you will,” invited Biggles. Carstairs lifted his glass without a murmur, draining the contents with an ease born of long practice.
“He’s still upright,” Algy remarked.
“What did you expect? I told you; it’s fine. Perhaps not what you delicate souls at 266 are used to…”
“Is that right?” Biggles picked up his own drink, anxious to dispute the slight to their squadron; a small crowd of interested spectators gathered as he attempted to emulate Carstairs. His first impression was that he had swallowed neat poison, so great was the burning sensation; then, regaining his breath, he turned to their host and choked, “Not bad at all, actually.”
Carstairs grinned. “Told you so! Aren’t you going to try, Lacey?”
Algy looked at Biggles, then back at their host. “I’d rather savour it,” he answered casually. Biggles gave him a reproachful look, still blinking the tears from his eyes.
Carstairs appeared not to notice. “All right. Dinner’s about ready anyway, I should think; why don’t you come through? Like a refill, Bigglesworth?”
Biggles found himself with a full glass in his hand before he could answer; telling himself that protest would be useless, he dragged Algy alongside and joined the throng of pilots heading for the dining room.