W.E. Johns - The Cruise of the Condor

"THE trouble about civil life is that nothing ever seems to happen. What interest people got out of it before the war I can't imagine; it must have been deadly dull. Even peacetime flying is so tame that I can't get a kick out of it. No ack-ack, no nothing, just fly from here to there, and there you are. This peace seems a grim business to me; what do you think about it?"

The speaker paused and glanced moodily at his companion, as if seeking confirmation of these unusual sentiments. Slim, clean shaven, and as straight as a lance, his carriage suggested military training that was half denied by the odd, wistful look on his pale, rather boyish face; tiny lines graven around the corners of his mouth and steady grey eyes gave him an expression of self confidence and assurance beyond his years. His voice was crisp and decisive, and carried a hidden note of authority, as in one accustomed to making decisions and being obeyed.

His companion was about the same age, perhaps a trifle younger, but rather stocky in build. His round, freckled face, surmounted by an untidy crop of fair hair, carried eyes that twinkled humorously at the slightest pretext.

There was little about either of them to show that they had been two of the most brilliant air fighters in the war, who were known on the British side as nearly invincible, and on the German side as a combination to be avoided.

The speaker was, in fact, Major James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., M.C., popularly known as Biggles, who had commanded an R.A.F. squadron. Victor of thirty five confirmed combats and many others unclaimed, he was known, at least by reputation, from Belgium to the Swiss frontier.

The other was his close friend and comrade-at-arms, Captain Algernon Lacey, more often simply known as Algy, who had finished the war as a flight commander in the same squadron, with twenty victories signed up in his log book.

agree," he replied morosely, in answer to Biggles'

complaint; "but what can we do about it? Nothing! I expect we shall get used to it in time."

"I shall pass out with boredom in the meantime," replied Biggles with conviction. "That's why I suggested coming down here to see Dickpa. He should be able to shoot us a good yarn or two,"

"Why on earth do you call your uncle Dickpa?"

Biggles laughed. "I don't know," "he replied." I used to call my guvnor 'Pa' when I was a toddler, and when his brother Dick came down to see him I just naturally called him Dickpa.

I've never called him anything else. I haven't seen him for years, because, as I told you, he's an explorer and is very seldom in this country. Hearing he was back on one of his rare visits, I thought I'd slip along and see the old chap while I had the chance, and I thought you'd like to come along too.

He's got an interesting collection of stuff from all sorts of out-of-the-world places. There's the house now, straight ahead."

They walked slowly on down the leafy drive toward an old, red bricked Elizabethan house, which they could now see through the trees, in silence, for it was midsummer and the sun was hot.

"Well, there are times when I positively ache to hear a gun go off," went on Biggles presently. "Sheer habit, of course

"Stick 'em up!"

Biggles stopped dead and stared, in wide eyed amazement, in the direction from which the words had come.

Algy also stopped, blinked, and shook his head like a prizefighter who had just intercepted a straight left to the point of the jaw.

"Looks as if my dreams are coming true," muttered Biggles softly. "Can you see what I see, Algy, or shall I wake up in a minute?"

"Quit squarkin' and do as you're told," growled a coarse nasal voice with a pungent American accent. The speaker, a tall, sunburned man with a squint and a skin that had some time been ravaged by small pox, took a pace forward to emphasize his words. In his hand, held low on his hip, was a squat, wicked looking automatic. "You heard me," he went on, scowling evil y.

"Yes, I heard you," replied Biggles evenly, eyeing the speaker with interest, "but aren't you making a mistake?

This is England, my friend, not America, and we have our own way of dealing with gun thugs, as you'll presently learn, I hope. If it's money you want, you've made a boob, because I haven't any."

"Say, are you telling me?" snarled the man. "Step back the way you came, pronto; you're not wanted here."

Biggles looked at the American coldly and sat down on the stone wall that bordered the drive. "Let's discuss this sensibly," he said gently; and Algy, who had heard that tone of voice before, quivered instinctively in anticipation of the action he knew was coming.

"Talk nothing. On your feet, baby, and step out?"

Biggles sighed wearily. "Well, you seem to havewhat do you call it? the low down on us," he muttered. "Come on, Algy, let's go. There's a present for you," he added as an afterthought to their aggressor, and with his left hand flicked a pebble high into the air above the man's head.

It was an old, old trick, but, like many old tricks, it came off.

The man's eyes instinctively lifted to watch the flight of the pebble, and he sidestepped to let it fall. But, even as his eyes lifted, Biggles' right hand

shot out and hurled a large, jagged piece of stone that he had taken from the wall straight at the man's head. It was a good shot, and took him fairly and squarely between the eyes. Biggles, his fists clenched, seemed to follow the stone in its flight across the drive, but he pulled up dead, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, for the man, moaning feebly, lay in a semiconscious heap at his feet. The automatic had fallen from his nerveless fingers, and Biggles, with a quick movement, picked it up and dropped it in his own pocket.

"Great jumping cats, I hope you haven't killed him!" gasped Algy, hurrying across and looking aghast at the trickle of blood that was flowing from a jagged wound in the man's forehead.

"Killed nothing!" sneered Biggles impatiently, white with anger. "What of it, anyway. Do you think that, after being shot at abroad for years, I'm going to have people making a dartboard of me in my own country? Not on your life. If, after spending my precious youth fighting the King's enemies, I can't fight one of my own, it's a pity. I don't understand what it's all about though; there's something wrong here. I hope Dickpa is all right; come on, let's get along." And without another glance at their fallen foe, he strode off quickly up the drive.

With Algy at his heels, he reached the front door and jangled the great old fashioned bell noisily. There was no reply.

Again he pulled the chain. "Anyone at home here?" he shouted in a loud voice.

The squeaking of a lattice window above them made them glance upwards, and the sight that met their eyes brought another shout from Biggles. Pointing down at them were the twin muzzles of a 12 bore sporting gun. Behind them, half hidden in shadow, they could just discern a face, the lower half of which was buried in a grey beard.

"Hi! Don't shoot! It's me, Dickpa!" yelled Biggles, ducking.

"Throw yourself flat; you're liable to be shot!" cried Dickpa quickly. "I'm coming down." The window slammed shut as Biggles flung himself at full length on the gravel path, with Algy beside him.