Biggles Does Some Homework Read online

“I’ve already taken it upon myself to do that,” returned the Air Commodore with a hint of apology in his voice. “The final decision would of course be left to you,” he added quickly.

  Biggles smiled bleakly. “You haven’t wasted any time. May I ask what you’ve done so far?”

  “A week or two ago I happened to be dining with the Chief of the Air Staff and took the opportunity of asking him if` he could find us a pilot most suited to our requirements; a candidate who might fancy becoming an air policeman. Of course, I could hardly expect him to release a serving officer, who in any case would no doubt wish to complete his time for pension. What I had in mind was an officer on a short service commission soon to be leaving on the expiration of his time. He did that. From the appropriate department he obtained, and sent to me, the names of a few pilots with exemplary records, soon to retire at the end of their contracts.”

  “That was a good idea,” Biggles said. “We don’t want to start off by teaching someone how to fly an aeroplane. Nor do we want a type who isn’t amenable to discipline — my type of discipline, even though it may be a bit old-fashioned.”

  The Air Commodore smiled. “I know what you mean. Well, the Air Ministry has sent me the names of some junior officers due for retirement with copies of their Confidential Reports.* (*Every year what is called a Confidential Report is made out in respect of every officer. This is submitted to the Higher Authority. It covers everything, his general conduct and whether or not he is recommended for promotion. The officer concerned knows all about this.)

  I have been through these carefully and picked out one or two who struck me as being suitable. I didn’t want to bring them all here in a bunch for interview. I thought you’d prefer to see them one at a time in your office and make your own decision.”

  “Thank you, sir. When can I expect the first candidate to come along?”

  “I thought it would be a good thing to make a start on this particular exercise while you were not busy so I have one here now.”

  The Air Commodore glanced at the clock. “Or he should be here. I told him ten o’ clock. It has turned that now, but as he has to come up from Wiltshire he may be a bit late.”

  “If he is he starts off with a black mark,” Biggles said. “There’s no excuse for unpunctuality. He should know how long it takes to get to London from wherever he starts.”

  “I’ll find out if he’s arrived.” The Air Commodore reached for the house telephone and put the question. “He’s here now, in the waiting room,” he reported, as he hung up.

  “When shall I have him sent up to your office?”

  “You’d better give me a minute or two to go through his documents and warn my lads about what goes on. I’ll go back to my room and give you a ring when I’m ready.”

  “As you wish. Take his file with you.” The Air Commodore handed over a manila filing jacket with a wad of paper pinned in it. Biggles glanced at the name on the cover of the jacket. “Alexander Gordon Mackay,” he read aloud, his face creasing in a smile. “Sounds as if he might be a dyed in the wool Scot.”

  “He is. From Inverness. As a matter of detail he’s a son of General Alexander Mackay V.C. , one time commanding officer of the Royal Scots.”

  “Good. A man from a soldiering family can usually be relied on to start off on the right foot.” Biggles got up. “I’ll let you know as soon A as I’m ready, sir. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.”

  He left the room.

  Chapter Two – Alexander Gordon Mackay

  It did not take Biggles long to pass on to his staff pilots the gist of the conversation that had just taken place in the Air Commodore’s office. Algy and Ginger listened in astonished silence. Bertie looked shocked, and in his indignation allowed his monocle to fall. However, he caught it expertly.

  “Here, I say, chaps, they can’t do that to you,” he exploded wrathfully. “What a bally nerve after all you’ve done. It’s an outrage, nothing less. If I knew the little inky-fingered pen-pusher who thought that up I’d knock his blithering block off.”

  “Whether they can do it or not they’re doing it, so there’s no point in getting steamed up about it,” Biggles stated without emotion.

  “We don’t need extra hands,” averred Ginger. “What’s wrong with us? Aren’t we good enough?”

  “That isn’t in question,” Biggles answered. “It’s simply that the Top Brass thinks there should be more of us. Let’s face it, there’s something in what they say. As things are, if for any reason one of us fell by the wayside we’d be short handed. Let’s look on the bright side. With an extra body on the job we’d be able to take a spot of leave more often.”

  “After working our fingers to the bone for ‘em I call it an insult,” declared Bertie. “Mark my words, now we’ve got the show organised this is the thin end of the wedge to get rid of us, the ungrateful scallywags.”

  “If you’ve worked your fingers to the bone it was doing what you liked doing, so that’s no argument,” reminded Biggles.

  “I vote we all go on strike. How about it? In this perishing country it’s the only way to get things done — if you see what I mean.” Bertie looked round for approval.

  “You try that line of backchat, chum, and you’re liable to find yourself struck off the payroll for good,” remarked Biggles. “I must admit that when the chief sent for me this morning I wasn’t expecting anything quite like this, so it kind of caught me on one foot. But you know the old saying: Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and — ”

  “Kick the bucket,” snorted Ginger.

  Biggles shrugged. “You can kick what you like, but let’s not waste time kicking against the pricks, bricks, or whatever it was someone in the Bible tried kicking when he was dished out with something that didn’t go down too well. It was soon evident to me that when the chief brought up the subject this morning the exercise had been cooking for some time. He’d been working on it, with the result that the first recruit is downstairs now, waiting for us to give him the once-over. It shouldn’t take long to work out how well he’s likely to fit into the party so let’s get on with it. Leave the talking to me. All you have to do is tighten your safety belts should we look like getting out of control.”

  “What’s the name of this bright lad who fancies his chance with a pair of handcuffs in his pocket?” inquired Bertie, breathing on his eyeglass and polishing it briskly.

  “Alexander Gordon Mackay, Flying Officer R.A.F., shortly to swap his cap and goggles for a bowler hat,” informed Biggles.

  “Ha! A braw wee laddie from the bonny banks and braes, and what have you.”

  “He may be braw but I wouldn’t bet on the wee,” Biggles said. “A Scot I once knew, an Air Vice-Marshall, stood well over six feet in his socks. Not only had he the traditional red hair, but red whiskers sprouted out of his nose and ears. When he gave an order you jumped to it. The irks called him the devil on wheels.”

  “Why on wheels, old boy? I mean to say, what sort of wheels?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was never told. Maybe undercarriage wheels, car wheels — take your choice.”

  “Well let’s hope he has a sprig of white heather tucked in his bonnet. He’ll need it if he mucks in with us — if you get my meaning.”

  “I’m more interested in what he’s got under his bonnet,” returned Biggles. “One never knows. The world is full of surprises. Before we do any more wild guessing let’s have a look at him. Pull out a chair, Ginger, in case he swoons when he sees the flying coppers in full force.” So saying he reached for the intercom telephone and informed the Air Commodore that he was ready to receive the applicant for the new post.”

  There was a moment or two of silence, then broken by the sound of footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. The door was thrust open and a duty officer announced: “Flying Officer Mackay, sir.” He spoke in a curious voice and withdrew.

  Alexander Gordon Mackay advanced into the office and saluted.

  He was in R.A.F.
uniform with pilot’s wings on his breast. Under them was the red and white ribbon of the Air Force Cross.

  A hush fell. No one spoke. Everyone was staring. Biggles had been prophetic when he remarked the world was full of surprises, for the man now standing before them bore no resemblance to the type that had been expected.

  He was small and slight in stature. His features were finely cut, as if they had been intended for the opposite sex. His eyes were dark under black brows. His hair, as could be seen when he took off his cap, was straight, brushed well back and as black as the plumage of a crow. But what had probably taken everyone aback was the colour of his skin. It was the pale brown tint of heather honey.

  The owner of this description was the first to speak. “Is something wrong?” he asked, looking around with a sudden expression of concern. Only by a slight intonation did he reveal that he had been brought up north of the Border. It was not the crisp manner of speech of Glasgow but the softer accent of the Highlands, where the general quiet makes it unnecessary to raise the voice in order to be heard.

  “No, nothing,” answered Biggles quickly. “We were expecting you. Take a pew. My name’s Bigglesworth. I’m in charge here. These others are my staff pilots. I’ll introduce them when the time comes. Don’t think us rude, but to be honest and quite frank, in view of your name you don’t exactly line up with what we had reason to expect.”

  Mackay sat down. “There’s no need to apologise. I can imagine why. But if it’s my complexion that worries you don’t blame me. I have to thank my great-great-grandfather for that.”

  “Indeed! And how did that happen?” inquired Biggles, either for something to say or to ease the slight embarrassment in the atmosphere. “I thought you might have done a spell in the tropics and went out without a hat.”

  Mackay shook his head, perhaps a little sadly. “That isn’t the answer,” he said. “My colour goes deeper than sunburn. In fact, it’s under the skin, in the blood. You see, one of my ancestors was a squaw man.”

  “A what!”

  “You must know what that means. He married a Red Indian girl.”

  “I see,” Biggles said slowly. “How interesting. No doubt he had a reason.”

  “He had. A good one. Of course, it happened a long time ago.”

  “Just to satisfy my curiosity why did he do that? Weren’t there any white girls about?”

  “Probably not. If there were apparently he preferred a red one. But that wasn’t the only reason. My noble ancestor was a soldier. To be specific he commanded a Scottish regiment under General Wolfe in his war in Canada. He was wounded. A local lass, daughter of an Indian chief, nursed him back to health. So he married her. It was as simple as that.”

  “Jolly good,” murmured Bertie, softly.

  Mackay ignored the interruption. “When the war was over he stayed on in Canada; but when his elder brother died, as he was sole heir to the family estates he came home to claim his inheritance. Naturally, he brought his wife and children with him. He must have thought a lot of her because he incorporated a tomahawk in the family crest. That’s the tale I was told as a kid, anyway. I suppose I had to be told to account for my unusual appearance. The Indian blood must be pretty strong for it to have persisted for so long. From time to time since that first generation it has cropped up. My father is white with red hair. My brothers and sisters are blondes. I happened to be one of the unlucky ones.”

  “Why unlucky?” questioned Biggles. “I call that a fascinating story. It delights me to know there’s still some romance in a world that’s quickly going bonkers. I’d have thought you’d something to be proud of I’d be only too happy to have a Red Indian on my coat of aims — if I had a coat of arms.”

  “It’s no joke having to go through life explaining how I got my coloured hide, particularly in these days of race and prejudice.”

  “In my young days it would have meant something. You should have been in the Escadrille Lafayette and sported an Indian’s head, complete with eagle’s feathers, on your fuselage.”

  “What was that?”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  (Escadrille Lafayette was one of the most celebrated squadrons in France during the First World War. When the war broke out seven wealthy young Americans were in Paris having a good time. They offered to fight under the Flag of France, but the offer was declined for political reasons, America then being neutral. They found a way round this by joining the Foreign Legion. Then one of them, Norman Prince, conceived the idea of an American flying unit. This they were able to do by buying their own planes and equipment. Germany objected to American civilians fighting against them, whereupon to give the squadron a French flavour it took the name Escadrille Lafayette. Its insignia, painted on the side of the fuselage, was the head of a Red Indian in war paint and feathered head dress. Prince was killed in 1916, and by March 1917 only one of the original seven was still alive. But the fallen were replaced by fresh young men from America seeking adventure and the squadron remained on the warpath.

  Biggles went on. “I suppose in your squadron they called you Jock.”

  “No. Why should they?”

  “Because it seems to be traditional in the British Armed Forces to call anyone named Mackay, Jock. In the same way a Murphy automatically becomes ‘Spud’ and a Miller, ‘Dusty’. If they didn’t call you Jock, since it’s customary to give everyone a nickname, what did they call you?”

  “Minnie.”

  “Why Minnie? Ah! I get it. Because you’re a bit on the small side. This is the age of the mini — mini cars, miniskirts, mini everything.”

  Again the visitor shook his head sadly. “No, that wasn’t it. When I was pushed to Flying Training School some silly ass shouted ‘Here comes Minnehaha.’ You’ll have read Longfellow’s poem, The Song of Hiawatha, so I needn’t explain.”

  “As a schoolboy I read it as a holiday task but that was a long time ago,” answered Biggles. “As far as I remember Hiawatha was a legendary chief of the Iroquois Indians.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then what has Minnehaha to do with it? I was under the impression that it had to do with water, a waterfall or something.”

  “It does. Laughing water. That’s where the fool showed his ignorance. Apparently he thought Minnehaha was another Indian, or possibly Hiawatha’s girlfriend. If so I thought it was in pretty poor taste. But it raised a laugh so he got away with his little joke. Unfortunately the name stuck, as nicknames will, and I became Minnehaha there and then; Minnie for short, and I had to suffer it. Now I’m used to it, it no longer annoys me.”

  “The only sensible way to look at it,” declared Biggles. “But never mind what they call you, let’s get down to more serious matters. I take it you know why you were asked to come here?”

  “I was asked by my C.O. if I’d care to join the Air Police and I said yes; anything for a quiet life and a joystick in my hand.”

  “You may not find it as quiet as all that,” Biggles said dryly.

  “Where are the Air Police?”

  “Here. We’re it.”

  “All of it?” Mackay looked surprised.

  “The entire caboodle. What we lack in numbers we try to make up for in efficiency. Actually, we operate under the command of an Air Commodore who occupies the big chair downstairs. Having seen us do you still want to join the Air Police?”

  “I see no reason to change my mind.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “I’ll do my best to answer them,” Mackay said. “I assume there would be some aviating to be done from time to time?”

  “Probably quite a lot.”

  “Jolly good. That’s what I’m looking for. Do you carry guns?”

  “What sort of guns?”

  “Machine guns.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To shoot down crooks.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re s
imply flying detectives. Which means we’re able to move quickly to investigate anything unlawful in which aircraft may have been used. Our machines, mostly light planes, are not equipped with armament of any sort. On occasion, when there’s dangerous work to be done, we may carry pistols in our pockets for use only in self-defence. This covers a pretty wide field and can take us all over the world. What would we do with machine guns? We could hardly dash around shooting down machines, possibly unarmed, even if we had reason to suspect something fishy. Don’t worry. lf it’s danger you want we get plenty.”

  “Pity.”

  “What’s a pity?”

  “No shooting. I was hoping for a spot of air combat. I’ve had plenty of practice but never the real thing.”

  “I can’t promise to provide you with anything like that” Biggles grinned. “You’ll have to leave your scalping knife at home. Navigation is more likely to be of use to you than a tomahawk.”

  “And no jets, then?”

  “No. And we don’t want them. Quite often we have to make landings where there are no servicing facilities within hundreds of miles. We can’t carry concrete runways around with us. We’re equipped to do our own running repairs. If you fly with us you’ll learn something about do-it-yourself aviation.”

  Mackay was looking a little disappointed.

  Biggles went on. “If it’s blood you’re after one day you may see some of your own. Have you ever been shot at?”

  “Too true — and hit.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Grouse shooting. A careless idiot fired straight down the line of guns. I collected two pellets, one in the ear and the other in the thigh. An old gamekeeper dug them out with his pocket knife. Thought it was a joke. Said I’d been blooded.”

  “Well, if you ever stop a heavy bullet you won’t think it’s a joke and you won’t try to dig it out with your penknife,” stated Biggles. “But this is no laughing matter,” he went on seriously. “What types have you been flying?”

  “All types. Service types, of course. I’ve spent the last year at a communication squadron.”