Chapter Three
666 On the Move
From the advantage of altitude, Biggles gazed down on the tropical island that would be 666 Squadron's home for the coming months. He had seen similar sights too often to be particularly moved by its beauty. To the west, the tropical sun was beginning its descent towards the sea. In another two hours night would reign. As he gazed northwards he could see the southern coastline of New Guinea looming across the horizon – green and brooding under a canopy of low cloud. On the other side of that mountainous peninsula was a relentlessly advancing enemy army whose goal lay spread out behind Biggles – the vast, sparsely populated continent of Australia; a country about to face its darkest and most desperate time since European settlement. The idyllic peacefulness of the scene gave lie to the harsh reality of the battles that would soon rupture the region.
The past few days had been busy for the British squadron. Biggles and Algy had been extensively briefed by Mortensen during the next day and time was fully occupied discussing the finer details of the planned operation. Mortensen had laid his plans carefully, the RAF Squadron Leader noted with approval. Their operational base would be from a small island, one of nearly 300 in the Torres Strait Island group, stretching south to north from the tip of Cape York almost to the shores of New Guinea and extending from east to west a distance of up to 300kms.1 Their destination, named Foote Island by an early sea captain, was known locally as Handy Cay. Biggles glanced over to the Spitfire flying off his right-hand wing where Algy was also gazing around. His mouth was moving and Biggles presumed his cousin was singing. To his left, Ginger too, was gazing into the distance with seemingly bored indifference. Behind him were the rest of his officers in a mixture of Spitfires and Beaufighters. At the tail of the formation, the reason for their slower than usual progress, was a Douglas DC2 being used to ferry the last of the ground crew and support staff to the new base.
Their RAAF hosts had taken it upon themselves to take Biggles and his men into Brisbane two nights running where they had enjoyed the local entertainment. On Friday morning they had headed for Townsville, 800 miles to the north. Next morning they had departed for Handy Cay. Biggles was pleased with the preparations and felt his own people had acquitted themselves well during their brief stopover. He hummed tunelessly as he led the descent to their new home.
An RAAF Flight Sergeant greeted Biggles as his Spitfire rolled to a gentle stop near some palm trees. He had overseen the outfitting of the base and was ready to hand over to Flight Sergeant Smyth. The man was easy, but courteous, as he welcomed the 666 Squadron commander. They stood together as one by one the aircraft roared overhead and landed and Biggles released a small sigh of relief when the DC2 trundled to a stop.
The base, thanks to the mission which had been based there for some years, was well provided with accommodation and even had a small corrugated iron-roofed hangar nestled amongst a group of coconut palms. Several wooden buildings with long low verandahs covered by overhanging rooflines stood off to one side of the well-tended landing strip. Biggles had been pleasantly surprised to learn that the island had its own generator plant which could supply a limited amount of electricity, certainly enough for the Squadron's basic needs. A generous supply of hurricane lanterns would provide an adequate supply of light for the long tropical evenings. Although located well within Australian sovereign waters, Biggles intended taking no chances and had requested some form of blackout curtains cover the windows of all buildings.
Algy joined Biggles and the Australian NCO and watched as Smyth and Sergeant Ted Edgars walked smartly towards them from the DC2. The two had struck up a warm friendship, to Biggles' private amusement. Edgars was still something of an enigma, given his family background and connections. Good-humoured, with a dry wit, he kept the RAF men greatly amused with his seemingly inexhaustible tales of his years travelling throughout North Queensland installing and maintaining telephone exchanges and connecting phone lines. When anyone tried to draw him on the subject of his Army service and refusal to accept a commission he would merely smile, shrug and change the subject. He had returned to the RAAF Base the afternoon following the hailstorm and had joined both his uncle and his friend in their conference with Biggles and Algy.
"Thanks for ringing the M-G," had been his greeting to Jack Somers. "He was quite docile, all things considered."
"Docile!" Ken Mortensen had snorted. "Ted Edgars, I can think of many names to describe your esteemed father, but 'docile' would never be one of them!"
"Well, measured against his usual performance, I'd still say he was," grinned Edgars. "Mum sends her love, by the way. Wants to know when you're planning on dining with them, next."
"She would," the Air Vice Marshall shook his head. "Probably got some poor unattached female ready to introduce, if I know anything."
His nephew and Somers exchanged glances and both laughed.
"You two might think it's funny." Their mirth had increased. "I'll have you both up on insubordination if you don't shut up," he growled. "Don't know what our guests'll be thinking about service discipline out here with the way you two carry on!"
"Sorry, sir," Edgars schooled his features into a mask of respect, while Somers gazed out the window as he regained his own composure.
"Hmmm. Sometimes I think there's wisdom in keeping family members separated. This damned family of ours is altogether too connected," muttered Mortensen glaring sternly at Somers and Edgars. But the faint twitching of his lips belied his warning.
"I apologise, too, sir," offered Somers soberly. "It's just…"
"Yes, I know," interrupted Mortensen testily. "Just wait till you marry young Cecily, Jack. My sister'll keep you on your toes then! Anyway, that's not what we're here for. Biggles and Algy will think we've taken collective leave of our senses, carrying on like this!"
After that, the meeting had focused on the forthcoming mission and Edgars had been an absolute model of decorum, which seemed to draw uneasy glances from his most senior superior officer.
"How much leave have you wangled from the Post Office, Ted?" he had asked at one stage.
"Well, they owe me a month's holiday leave. I haven't taken any since the war broke out. And there's also the agreement about releasing me as required for special assignments," he responded somewhat obscurely.
'Hmm. Well that month will be spent with 666 up on Handy Cay. We need to nail these U-boat reports and you'll work under Bigglesworth's command. I'll clear it with your boss in Cairns this week."
1 For further information on the Torres Strait Islands see wiki/Torres_Strait_Islands#Inner_islands
