Rite of Passage

As they lingered on the steps leading to the flat she shared with her mother, Jeanette leaned her head against Ginger's shoulder, lovingly brushing away some sand that still clung to his tunic. A passer-by would have seen nothing out of the ordinary in the sight of a slim young pilot with a pretty, dark-haired girl in his arms. It was a common enough scene, one played out many times in many different places in that war-torn land, as spouses and sweethearts took their leave of each other, uncertain of their next meeting, making the most of their brief time together. The sunshine, warm on his back, gave them more encouragement to dally. He kissed her tenderly and promised he would be back the following day.

"I'm sure Biggles won't object," he assured her. "We can be married tomorrow afternoon with a special license."

She clung to him, pressing her body urgently against his. "I don't want you to go," she breathed in his ear. "Please, Ginger, don't leave me!"

He sighed, sorely tempted to stay. "I must, darling," he said resignedly. "If I don't ask Biggles' permission, I can't get a license. No license, no marriage. It won't be long before I'm back," he reassured her, returning her embrace and smiling into her eyes.

She looked back at him, a faint glisten of tears in her dark eyes. "I'm so afraid I shan't see you again, chéri," she said with a tremor in her voice.

"I won't desert you, Jeanette," he promised her earnestly. "You trust me, don't you?" he said, a little puzzled at her fears.

She nodded. "I just have a feeling, a dread, I don't know …"

Ginger felt himself go red. "I wouldn't just go off and leave you," he said guiltily. "Especially not now. I'm not flying tonight. Nothing will happen to me." He kissed her again to assuage her fears and put his finger on her lips as she was about to speak. "Don't worry! Just count the hours until we can be together again!" He looked up and saw her mother come out of the flat. "Here's maman," he said, wiping the trace of a tear from Jeanette's cheek, "shall I tell her or will you?"

Jeanette hugged him closer. "I shall tell her," she said, blushing slightly and becomingly as her mother smiled fondly at the couple. Ginger touched his cap in salute to his prospective mother-in-law, gave Jeanette another kiss and told her not to worry, he would see her as soon as possible the next day.

With that reassurance, he ran lightly down the steps, laughingly blowing her another kiss, and got in the car he had borrowed from the transport section so that he could take Jeanette to the beach that afternoon. His heart was singing as he engaged first gear and pulled away, but looking back, he could see her standing there, her mother beside her, watching the vehicle until it was out of sight. Despite his elation, he began to wonder if she was having second thoughts, whether perhaps she did not feel quite the same way as he did about their liaison. In that case, why had she behaved as she did on the beach? Could it be she was regretting the new stage their relationship had entered?

Ginger ran his mind back over the events of the afternoon and the pleasurable memories broadened the smile on his lips. He felt a twinge of remorse as he remembered that she had cried, but brightened at the thought that to his anxious query, fearful that his inexperience had been to blame, she had replied that she just did not want to lose him. She had reassured him despite her tears that she was happy with her decision and had no regrets. Why then was she so reluctant to let him leave? pondered Ginger. Did she have a presentiment that he was not coming back? He dismissed the idea as a foolish fancy and concluded that Jeanette was nervous about his commitment to her, but as far as he was concerned he wanted to spend the rest of his life with only one girl and that was her. What had happened on the beach that afternoon under the gloriously warm summer sun had merely set the seal on his devotion.

He drove automatically, scarcely noticing the bomb damaged ruins he passed on his way out of the capital, his mind only superficially on what he was doing as he contemplated the step he was taking. Mentally, he rehearsed what he was to say to Biggles who, as both his Commanding Officer and Guardian, had to give his permission for him to marry. He anticipated no difficulties. After all, Biggles was well aware that he had been seeing a lot of Jeanette and that he was very fond of her. If he was completely frank with Biggles, he thought smiling, his CO would not put any obstacles in the way, for Jeanette's sake if not his.

When he reached the airfield and had returned his transport to the pool, he headed straight for the Mess, intending to get the formalities over as quickly as possible. In this, however, he was to be disappointed for, on entering the anteroom and inquiring for Biggles, Algy, who was lingering over a cup of tea in conversation with Bertie, told him Biggles had gone to London.

"Do you know what time he'll be back?" asked Ginger impatiently.

"He didn't say, old boy," replied Bertie. "He's gone to see the Air Commodore. That could mean anything."

Ginger sighed. "I think I'll just go to my quarters and wait, then," he muttered. "Can't be helped. Thanks."

He went out, thinking he could usefully pass the time by taking a bath to get rid of the sand which seemed to have worked its way into his clothing. The others watched him as he strode jauntily down the path towards the Officers' Quarters.

"What do you make of that?" asked Algy, mystified. "He looked like the cat who'd got the cream until I told him Biggles wasn't here." He looked at Bertie wonderingly. "You don't think," he said slowly, "that he's been less than gentlemanly with Jeanette, do you?" He regarded Ginger's departing figure speculatively.

"I'll tell you what I think, old boy," observed Bertie shrewdly. "Someone or something has been biting him on the neck, and I don't think it was a vampire bat!"

They exchanged knowing glances. Algy grinned broadly and Bertie sniggered like a schoolboy.

Biggles arrived back just before dinner. He looked haggard and drawn, not at all his usual self. Algy, who had just come into the Mess himself looked at him with astonishment.

"Where's Ginger?" was the first thing Biggles said.

"That's funny," remarked Algy, "he was looking for you earlier on. He said he was going to his quarters."

"Resting from his exertions," Bertie, who was at Algy's side, muttered under his breath.

"Go and fetch him, Algy. I need to talk to him. I'll be in my office." Biggles turned abruptly on his heel and strode off.

Algy looked at Bertie with a puzzled expression clouding his eyes. "What is going on," he wanted to know. "Ginger's on top of the world and Biggles is as miserable as sin. They both want to talk to each other. That should be interesting."

"I rather think," returned Bertie with a smile, "that Ginger is the one who has been doing the sinning and he looked anything but miserable!"

Algy grinned broadly and departed on his errand.

"Well, well, well," murmured Bertie to himself. "Little Ginger, who would have thought it?" He smiled inwardly. "He'll never be the same again!" he thought, little realising how accurate this prophecy was to prove.

Algy returned with Ginger who rapped briskly on the door of Biggles' office and went in.

Biggles looked up as the young man came in. He stood up and cut off Ginger's opening sentence in mid flow.

"Sit down, Ginger," he said grimly. "I have something to tell you."

The smile died on Ginger's lips as he looked at Biggles' face. "What is it?" he asked, brought to a standstill by what he saw.

Biggles hesitated, not knowing quite how to continue now that the moment had arrived.

"I've been up to London," he told him.

Ginger frowned. "I know," he said impatiently, wondering when Biggles would get to the point so that he could make his request. "Algy told me. You've been to see the Air Commodore. What of it?"

"While I was there, there was a raid."

Ginger suddenly felt cold. Presentiment made him tremble. He couldn't bring himself to ask what he feared to know. Biggles saw the blood drain from the lad's face and realised he was going into shock. He took his arm and tried to get him to sit down on a chair, but it seemed as though Ginger was rooted to the spot.

Not wishing to be brutal, but unable to find a way to soften the blow, Biggles said: "I'm sorry, Ginger, there was a direct hit on their flat. It was completely demolished. Jeanette and her mother were both killed instantly."

Biggles thought Ginger would faint. The youngster staggered as though Biggles had hit him. If possible, he grew even paler. "No!" he cried desperately, "it's not true! There must be some mistake!" He clutched at Biggles' arm like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. "I was only with her this afternoon!" Conflicting emotions made the blood rush to his face then drain again. He was shivering uncontrollably.

Biggles drew in a deep breath and shook his head sadly. "No," he said gently, "I'm afraid not. I saw the bodies brought out myself." He tightened his grip on Ginger's arm as the lad's knees buckled. Biggles managed to break his fall as he collapsed.

Almost as pale as Ginger, Biggles laid him on the floor in the recovery position. He knelt down, felt the lad's pulse and touched his cheek. The fluttery beat and clammy skin told their own story of severe shock.

Biggles stood up and went across to the door. As he opened it, he spotted Toddy, the Station Adjutant, going past and motioned him over.

"Don't make a song and dance about it, Toddy," said Biggles tersely, "but fetch me a couple of blankets and a glass of brandy." Toddy gaped at him. "Quickly!" Biggles urged him and retreated into his office.

It seemed like an age but could only have been a matter of minutes before a light tap on the door announced Toddy's return with the desired articles. Biggles opened the door and almost dragged him inside.

Toddy was about to ask what was going on when he saw Ginger lying on the floor. "Good grief!" he ejaculated, "what's happened?" He went across and knelt by the youngster. One touch of Ginger's cheek and he got up quickly.

"Where are you going?" asked Biggles as Toddy made for the door.

"To get the MO, of course," returned the Adjutant. "I saw 'Doc' in the bar just now."

"Stay where you are," ordered Biggles crisply. "He'll be alright. He's in shock, that's all. I've had to give him some bad news. His girlfriend was killed in a raid tonight. They were very close. Help me put these blankets round him."

Together they wrapped Ginger in the blankets. Toddy was clearly shaken.

"Jeanette?" he asked hoarsely as he took Ginger's pulse, remembering the pair laughing happily together.

Biggles nodded brusquely. "Pull yourself together," he snapped irritably. "You look nearly as bad as he does."

"We should raise his legs," suggested Toddy, remembering his first aid, "loosen his clothing, keep him warm and give him some hot, sweet tea."

"Not while he's unconscious," Biggles reminded him. "Let's bring him round first."

They manhandled Ginger onto his back and Toddy loosened his collar and tie. If he noticed the mark on the lad's neck, he made no comment, but Biggles saw it and his lips compressed. Toddy folded one of the blankets and placed it under Ginger's legs, supplementing it with one of the cushions from the chair. He slapped Ginger's cheeks while Biggles chaffed his hand, trying to restore some circulation. Eventually their efforts were rewarded as the young man showed some signs of coming round.

Toddy lifted him up and coaxed a little brandy between his lips. Ginger nearly choked and had a coughing fit.

"Go easy! Don't drown him, Toddy!" rapped Biggles sharply. Despite his abruptness, he looked concerned. Toddy suspected the shortness was a mask to conceal his true feelings.

"Let's get him up and put him in a chair," suggested Biggles as Ginger tried to sit up, still spluttering.

Between them they pulled the young man to his feet and half carried him over to the arm chair by the desk where Ginger slumped down, his head in his hands. Biggles draped one blanket around the lad's shoulders and the other over his knees.

Toddy regarded Ginger anxiously. "I still think we ought to send for the MO," he opined, but Ginger, in a voice that shook unsteadily, insisted he was feeling better and did not need to see a doctor.

"Thanks, Toddy," said Biggles meaningfully. "I'll take it from here. We need to have a talk." He regarded Ginger sympathetically. "Do you feel up to it?"

Ginger nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Biggles saw Toddy to the door, cautioning him quietly not to let on about what had happened. "Spare Ginger's feelings for a while," he asked. "It will soon be common knowledge. He needs the chance to grow a thick skin before he has to deal with everybody knowing what's happened."

When Toddy had left, and the door had been locked to prevent interruption, Biggles came back and sat down at his desk, facing the youngster. Ginger had regained some of his colour but still looked deathly pale.

There was silence for a while. Then Ginger drew in a juddering breath. "We wanted to get married," he stated, his voice shaking. "I was going to ask your permission tonight." He looked at Biggles with eyes that seemed sunk in their sockets. "We could have been married tomorrow with a special license." His shoulders shook and he bit his lip. Biggles waited for him to go on, knowing that it was better he talked it through than bottled it up.

With an almighty effort, Ginger pulled himself together. "You know," he continued bitterly, "it's almost as though Jeanette knew."

"What do you mean?" asked Biggles, his curiosity aroused.

"When we got back to her flat, she didn't want me to go, and this afternoon, on the beach, she said 'tomorrow never comes' ," he choked back a sob. "She was right. It never will now."

Biggles continued to regard him sympathetically, not saying anything, wondering vaguely why he had chosen this moment to decide that the time was right to enter into matrimony.

Ginger hesitated. Part of him wanted to tell Biggles everything, part of him wanted to lock his experiences of that afternoon away and never give them an airing ever again. Biggles watched silently as Ginger struggled to come to a decision. Evidently, he opted for opening his heart because he took another deep breath before he spoke.

"I …" he stammered, "she … I mean, we …" he blushed scarlet and Biggles regarded him in amazement as he realised what Ginger was trying to say.

"Are you telling me you made love to her?" he voiced the thought incredulously, thinking Ginger had answered his unspoken question.

Numbly Ginger nodded, his cheeks crimson.

It was Biggles' turn to feel a sense of shock. "Ginger, how could you?" he demanded in a voice that cracked with disbelief.

"It just sort of - happened," said Ginger lamely.

"You should have had more self-control!" Biggles told him roughly, the words blurted out instinctively as he remembered the temptation he had experienced with Marie all those years ago. Almost against his will, his mind flashed back to the last time he had seen her and briefly he allowed himself to conjecture, if things had been different, whether he would have done the same as Ginger. He remembered the agony he had felt when he thought that Marie was trapped inside the burning farmhouse, and the thought struck him that even now she might be lying dead in a bombed out building somewhere in Germany. He regretted his harsh admonition to Ginger before he brutally suppressed the thought of Marie once more as he had so many times in the intervening years.

Ginger thought of his struggle with his conscience as Jeanette had run her hands over his body and her voice whispered encouragement to him and thought Biggles could never have been put in a similar position or he would know the futility of that statement. Despite all his honourable intentions Ginger's resolve had proved unequal to the task of resisting such arousal.

"It wasn't like that," Ginger tried to explain, his cheeks burning with embarrassment but now that he had embarked on his confession, he could not stop. "I told you, it was as though Jeanette knew something would happen to part us," he continued compulsively. "She wanted us to be …" he hesitated, not knowing quite how to put it, "one," he finally said quaintly and rather biblically. "She said she was glad it had happened. She enjoyed it," he added naively almost as if it were something of a surprise.

Biggles sighed, illogically exasperated by Ginger's innocence. He looked at the blushing youngster and blamed himself. He should have taken more time to explain things other than the bare biological facts of life when Ginger's voice had broken, he thought.

He took a moment to wonder why he had felt so shocked to find out what Ginger had been up to. After all, he had to grow up sometime. It was not as though the young man was promiscuous. As far as he, Biggles, was aware, Ginger had had no other close relationships with girls, unless one counted Full Moon and Biggles was sure there had been no impropriety there, for all the South Sea Islanders' traditional friendliness and Ginger's obvious distress at parting. Clearly, from what he had said, he wanted to regularise his relationship with Jeanette and put it on a permanent footing. Why, then, had Ginger's confession come as such a shock? He could only conclude that, despite his initial reaction, it was not so much the morality of it, but more because he should no longer regard him as a boy. By this rite of passage, Ginger had crossed the boundary and become a man. Biggles would have to make a mental adjustment and that, he reflected, was always hard, like seeing a son grow up.

The silence that hung between them after this pronouncement was broken by a tap on the door, followed by the rattling of the handle as someone tried to get in.

"Hi, Biggles, what's going on? What are you doing in there? Why is the door locked?" asked Algy's voice. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, just a moment, I'm coming," he told his cousin. He rose, crossed swiftly to the door and let Algy in.

Algy glanced at Ginger, looked away and then quickly looked back at him when he saw how haggard he looked "Are you alright?" he asked concerned, "you look like death!"

Ginger choked back a sob and Algy frowned, mystified.

"You do have a way with words," Biggles told his cousin sarcastically.

"What's going on?" demanded Algy a second time. "This afternoon Ginger looked as though he'd got his heart's desire and now the sky's fallen in!"

"You couldn't have put it more succinctly if you had already heard the news," observed Biggles dryly and filled him in with the bare facts of the raid and its consequences.

Algy was shocked. Impulsively he went over to Ginger and put his arm round the lad's shoulders. "I am so sorry, Ginger," he said compassionately. "What awful luck." For the first time since he had heard the dreadful news, Ginger broke down. Algy's obvious sympathy opened the floodgates where Biggles' reserve had kept them tightly shut. He flung his arms round Algy's neck, buried his head in his shoulder and sobbed as if his heart would break. Algy looked at Biggles bewildered, not knowing quite what to do in the face of such grief. Tentatively he patted Ginger soothingly on the back, feeling totally helpless and nonplussed. For the first time Biggles wondered if he had done the right thing in not involving the MO but the paroxysm passed and Ginger let go, looking rather sheepish.

"I'm alright now," he said, gulping air convulsively into his lungs.

"Here, wipe your face," said Biggles matter-of-factly, handing him his handkerchief.

Ginger complied, his hands still shaking from the fierceness of his emotion. He felt drained. Everything had assumed the proportions of a nightmare. He felt he must soon wake up and life would be back to normal.

Biggles sent for some food and made Ginger eat when he found out that he had not even had tea since returning from seeing Jeanette for the last time. In an atmosphere of gloom Ginger went through the motions of eating but left untouched most of the food he had only pushed around his plate. Algy and Biggles exchanged concerned glances.

"You had better try to get some rest," suggested Biggles. "I'll stand you down for a few days to get over it."

"No!" Ginger's objection was sharp. "I don't want to be stood down. That's the last thing I want. I want to be doing something useful. I want to make them pay for what they've done!" He looked haunted. Biggles regarded him with misgivings but Ginger pleaded that he would not be able to bear the inactivity. "I don't want to be alone to think," he told his CO, desperately. "I'd go crazy." Suddenly he roused himself and stared at Biggles with horror. "Henri!" he exclaimed. "Does he know yet?" He stood up unsteadily. "I shall have to tell him."

Biggles curtly told him to sit down again. "I telephoned and asked the Padre to break it to Henri," he told Ginger. "He probably knew as soon as you did, as I was delayed on my way back." Biggles looked at his watch. "It's late. You should try to get some sleep." He looked keenly at the youngster who had flopped back into the chair at Biggles' order as though his legs would no longer support him. "Against my better judgement, I'm going to take you on patrol with me tomorrow morning. Make sure you're at dispersal at daybreak. Algy, see he goes to his quarters and goes to bed." With that he went across and opened the door, signalling the interview was at an end.

In gloomy silence Ginger accompanied Algy across to the Officers Quarters and went into his room. He undressed and washed, noticing the bite on his neck for the first time as he stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror. Fleetingly he wondered if it had shown above his collar and then dismissed the thought. What did it matter now? Nothing mattered any more. He lay on his bed but could not sleep. The memories of that afternoon kept replaying before his feverish eyes like an endless loop of tape as he tossed and turned. He dozed and woke with a start, thinking Jeanette was lying beside him. His body ached. His usually optimistic nature turned to despair. A grey light was filtering through the curtains as he rose and performed his ablutions before donning his flying kit and making his way to dispersal.

Biggles had already breakfasted and was waiting. The other members of the patrol greeted him with muted sympathy in their voices. Ginger felt close to tears but kept a rigid hold on his emotions. Biggles had obviously had a quiet word with the rest of the squadron so that no one would put their foot in it by an inappropriate remark. Consequently everyone treated him with kid gloves and the resultant atmosphere was funereal and strained.

Once in the air, Ginger concentrated on the job in hand, finding and killing as many Huns as he could. The ruthlessness of his search and the clinical manner in which he despatched his first victim when they found over Dungeness, gave him some sort of respite from the numbness that was gradually taking over. As he watched the Messerschmitt spiral down in flames to splash into the sea off the coast, he smiled grimly, no humour in his eyes.

"That one's for you, my love," he whispered softly. "The first of many, I promise."

There was no time to reflect on the victory as holes appeared in his port wing. Instinctively he took evasive action. With no regard for his safety or the structural integrity of his machine, he threw it around the sky, intent only on getting his sights on the enemy machine. As he outmanoeuvred the German he felt a savage satisfaction. The distance between the two machines closed. Ginger held his fire. He remembered Tony Luke and his search to be reunited with his love. For a brief moment he was tempted to ram the other aircraft and take the Hun to Purgatory with him, but the madness passed. There were lots more Nazi swine to consign to perdition. It was his duty to stay alive and get as many as he could. Deliberately, Ginger pressed the tit, his heart beating rapidly, his breathing harsh. The Messerschmitt disintegrated, hit by a lethal burst at optimum range as his machinegun fire converged on the German fighter. Oil sprayed on his windscreen. Pieces of wreckage struck his Spitfire and he flinched instinctively, shrinking into his seat.

Ginger side-slipped, trying to see. He slid the canopy back and was grateful for the blast of fresh air as well as the improved vision. Looking round, he found himself alone in the sky. It never ceased to amaze him that one minute the air could be full of machines and the next they could all vanish. He looked down and recognised his position. It was not far to base. Due to the wind at that altitude, they had been steadily drifting inland. He headed home, feeling that he had made a start on evening the score.

As the base came into his restricted view a vibration began to shake the aircraft. His eyes instinctively found the engine temperature and oil pressure gauges. He had been steadily losing coolant and oil. Not all the obscuring film on the Perspex was due to the Messerschmitt, it appeared. Ginger throttled back, nursing the craft, and floated in for a very creditable landing in the circumstances, as the engine cut dead just as he committed to his final approach. He drew in a deep breath as his wheels kissed the earth and the Spitfire rumbled to a halt, its propeller stationary. The ground crew rushed over. "Are you alright, sir?" asked Flight Sergeant Smyth when Ginger did not get out.

"What? Oh, yes, Flight, thank you," he replied, feeling weak and drained after the battle. He heaved himself onto the wing and jumped down awkwardly. The Flight Sergeant put out a hand to steady him. Ginger felt shaky and walked away intending to go to the Mess for some coffee.

"Blimey, 'e must 'ave a deaf wish," remarked one of the fitters, looking at Ginger's machine. His mate cautioned him to silence. Ginger turned round with the intention of admonishing the airman, but he stopped when he saw the state of his machine. The fabric was in tatters and oil streaked the side of the engine as well as the Perspex canopy. There were bullet holes everywhere except around the cockpit. A jagged piece of grey painted metal was sticking out of the underside of the engine cowling, one of the bits of debris that had hit him, he supposed. He recalled his moment of despair at the height of battle and acknowledged that perhaps the airman had been right. At all events, he was entitled to his opinion.

In a pensive mood Ginger made his way to the Mess, trembling from reaction. He collapsed into a chair and beckoned a waiter. "I'd like a whisky," he told him in a voice that was not quite steady.

The man looked at Ginger, noting the signs of strain in his pale face and shaking hands, the slight tremor in his voice. "Yes, sir," he said and went to fetch the drink. Ginger signed the chit and took a gulp. He pulled a face, unused to the raw spirit, but felt better. The effects of the alcohol on top of an empty stomach, however, soon made him regret the gesture. He felt light-headed and sick. Moreover he felt guilty; he knew Biggles would not approve.

Biggles, who had been informed about the drinking session and who had witnessed Ginger's performance in the air at first hand, worried about his chances of survival. For the next few days he watched uneasily as Ginger went around like a zombie, acting like an automaton. Although Ginger continued to go through the motions, even flying, it was as though he was numb. Everything, even the satisfaction he got from downing enemy planes, seemed unreal. Biggles, anxiously observing his behaviour in the Mess and in the air, could not decide if it was nature's healing process or the result of indulging in an excess of whisky.

As the day of the funeral approached, Biggles became more and more concerned about the young man's wellbeing, but even that melancholy event failed to shake Ginger out of the trance into which he seemed to have sunk. After the requiem mass, which had been attended by the whole squadron, including Toddy, Ginger dropped a handful of earth onto Jeanette's coffin without any visible display of emotion, even though Henri was weeping openly. At this expression of sorrow, Ginger had placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed it sympathetically, his own face pale and expressionless.

"It's ironic," he remarked bitterly to the man who was his friend and would have been his brother-in-law as they stood at the graveside. "We go to all that trouble to get everybody out of Monaco and safely here, only for this to happen. It doesn't make sense."

Henri shrugged, wiping his eyes. "Moi aussi," he replied, his voice thick. "Je n'en comprends rien." He shook his head sadly.

Tug Carrington, whose family had been killed in the East End bombing, came up to Ginger as he stood gazing stonily down into the grave and said he knew how he felt.

Ginger's eyes glittered. "I'll make the Nazi swines pay for this," he grated in a low voice, "if it's the last thing I do."

Tug nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit, Ginger," he applauded, pounding his fist into his palm. "We've both got scores to settle now."

Biggles regarded the pair with worried eyes. Although he was too far away to make out the words, the import of the conversation was quite clear from their body language and did nothing to soothe his fears for his protégé, who, he felt, needed no encouragement to pursue his self-destructive one-man war. As well as knowing that Ginger was not eating properly, Biggles had been informed, as CO, that the young man was now drinking regularly, and that was also definitely out of character, as in all the years he had known him, Ginger had rarely touched spirits, did not even like them. Biggles wondered about tackling him over this disconcerting turn of events, but decided to bide his time until the occasion presented itself naturally, trusting in Ginger's innate good sense to prevent a tragedy and remembering his own experiences in a previous war.

In the air, Ginger continued to take risks in his furious search for revenge, and more than once he had returned to the airfield with his machine so full of holes it had to be taken out of commission for a complete rebuild. Yet Ginger himself seemed to bear a charmed life. He never had so much as a scratch despite the heavy damage to his aircraft. His recklessness seemed to be its own talisman. Covertly, Biggles fretted and worried that the lad's luck would run out, doing his best to provide what protection he could for his body, although he knew it was futile to try to protect Ginger from what was tormenting his soul. That was something only Ginger could work out for himself.

It was at this juncture, that the three of them, together with Bertie, later followed by the rest of the squadron, received the call to go to the Argentine in search of Nazi diamond mines. Biggles hoped that the quest would give Ginger the opportunity to slay his own personal demons as well as more of the Nazis he so patently hated.*

*The reference is to the W.E. Johns pastiche, "Biggles in the Argentine", by Biggles Mad. u/1097961/Biggles-Mad