by Spyke
Paraphrasing their first meeting.
--
If he really was your brother this could be a serious problem.
--
It didn't occur to you there would be more than one reason to be morose when you received the telegram. Mulhoney snorted. "Algernon Lacey? What kind of godforsaken name is that?"
You stared at the telegram again, wishing it would burst into flames. "Don't ask me, some distant aunt dredged up a connection and asked me to keep a look out for him."
"Keep a look out? What does she think this is, Eton? Or a war?" Then he snorted. "Of course, if she knew what the old school was really like,"
"Shut up."
He didn't. "What's he like?"
You remembered easily enough. "I only met him once and that was years ago. He wore black velvet and had a head like Little Lord Fauntleroy." On Mulhoney's gape, "Blonde hair. Long. Blonde hair." Then you turned to look over your shoulder just in case it wasn't you he was staring at.
He wasn't.
"... is that him?" Mulhoney's voice was that of one who sees radiant visions. Visions of you being the butt of the officer's mess for weeks - at least they might have to stand you drinks.
"Blimey. Maybe they are raiding Eton to fill the ranks."
"Go stick your face in a propeller," you invited coolly, "or come help me show the lad around."
"No fear," Mulhoney shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I'm lunching with the Bristol squadron today."
And so were you. "Here, hold on!" you said and Mulhoney shook his head.
"Family reunion. Get to it, man."
Visions of the last bottle of genuine Scotch this side of the line filled your mind as you watched Mulhoney stride away. In the visions those bottles were all empty. Blast.
You were making after the old sot when a hand entered your line of sight.
"You must be Bigglesworth. James, right? I'm Algernon, maybe you don't remember me?"
Bright gold curls, sunflower yellow; a face scrubbed clean and faintly innocent of beard. He waggled his fingers and suddenly you remembered the one, fatal holiday in Kent when you had spent your time chasing chubby legs through overgrown fields, vowing to kill those fingers wiggling in cheeky triumph essential feet ahead of you. Surely it had been...
"...SO good for the boys to get to know each other," you remembered your aunt beaming and your father nodding, already half asleep. And you had just panted, waiting for the breath to eat cream cake while chubby Lord Fauntleroy smeared cream all over his shirt and smiled angelically as he demolished what should have been your tea.
"James?"
His voice recalls you to the present with a start and you remember that even family obeys the rules of war. NOT the other way around.
"My rank is Captain and you can call me sir. Mr. Lacey."
You weren't any cooler than you would have been to any upstart youngun but for a moment you thought you saw his hand tremble before it slid to his side. You looked up just in time to catch the imperceptible switch to formality, the straightening shoulders and slightly tilted chin.
"... yes sir," he said, and yet for some reason you weren't entirely relieved.
You cleared your throat and got on with the briefing. "So. You've been assigned to 266."
"Yes sir."
"Tell me, laddie, how much flight time have you seen?"
His eyes brightened. "Twelve hours sir, logged, and of course there were the exams - "
You blink. "I must have misheard you, you said what?"
"Twelve hours, sir."
"Twelve. Hours."
"Yes sir."
...
"Sir?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Except twelve hours is barely enough to learn how to sit without getting blisters on your backside. It used to be eighteen hours at one time except...
Except there are fewer aircraft in the sky now and England needs all the men she can get, as soon as possible. All the boys. She can get.
Twelve hours. You hear the roar of Mulhoney's plane as it takes off towards the nearest squadron. You and the boy look up in time to see Mulhoney wag his wings in appreciative irony.
You think of the whisky and bite down hard until the blood tints your breath and grants you solidity.
The lad's eyes are shining after witnessing that bit of stunt aeronautics. You narrow your gaze, letting him know you aren't entirely pleased. He stiffens and stares back at you.
"Alright, so this'll be your first show today. It's a routine sweep, nothing more than that. I want you to just keep on my tail, you hear me? Keep on my tail, we make a quick round and head home, no fancy tricks, be careful of any lonely planes that seem easy meat, there's a new circus in town and they like to go for the careless ones."
"Yes sir."
Look after him, your aunt said. After that summer in Kent you'd said, 'no fear, never again', yet here you are playing nursemaid again.
And again. And again.
It's been a long war. Too long. Too many gone. You speak suddenly.
"This isn't flight school anymore, lad. Fancy tricks and aerobatics are no use to us here." You do not think he is convinced. You tell him again, "I just want you to follow me and do as I do. No lone heroics, I've seen more than one youngun shot to blazes in their first hour aloft."
"No sir."
"Twelve hours. Twelve hours in the air and they sent you here."
"Yes sir.
"I'll see you in Flight Shed 4. in twenty minutes time."
"Yes sir."
Forty minutes later, airborne, just the two of you, a familiar cluster of dots zoom down from the sun. You try to turn back but there's no way you can make it over the lines in time.
Algernon Lacey is gamely on your tail, having followed your aborted loop-the-loop effort to get home and is waiting for instructions. You would give him the thumbs-up except you need a trigger finger steady. Two against five.
Twelve hours. The odds are lower than zero.
Your one consolation is that you will not have to send the telegram to his mother.
--
Your one consolation is that you are going to skin the brat alive and then whip him to shredded beef.
"Where IS he?!"
A nervous member of the ground staff points to a bullet-ridden heap that is taxiing in slowly. Lacey's wings are nearly rags. His propellers are bust. As for his nose...
You shudder as Flight-Sergeant Smyth peers at your craft, clucking sadly. "Ooh, nasty one in the wing there, sir." He pokes his finger in and waggles it around. "A close shave I'd say."
"Close shave! I'll give him close shave. COME HERE YOU - You!" Too late you remember to moderate your tone.
The blighter removes his goggles and gets out of the craft coolly. "Yes sir?"
Yes sir. You'll yes sir him - you grab his arm and take him to a quiet corner of the hangar. Ground staff disappear almost instantly, leaving you in perfect privacy to complete the job the Germans nearly started.
When you grab his shoulders, the hole in the loose flap of his flying coat catches on your fingers and you leap back as if stung.
"You idiot! You utter blithering nincompoop! What the hell were you trying to do, ram that fellow? He nearly got me! Hell, he nearly got you."
"I know sir, that's why I was hitting him sir."
"Hitting him sir - what the devil do you mean hitting him sir? You don't use airplanes to go wrestling in! Why the hell didn't you use your guns?!" You stab your right hand down, fingers splayed. "Press! Release! TRIGGER!! GUN!!!"
You're almost shaking. The color is high in Lacey's cheeks too and suddenly you think how incongruous it is, sunflower gold above tomato red.
Lacey almost stutters his explanation. "I couldn't, sir. They were stuck, sir."
It takes a moment for this to penetrate.
...
"Stuck?"
"Jammed, sir." His voice isn't quite high, but close enough. You force your own tone down to a level of sobriety you do not feel.
"Your guns were jammed."
"Yes sir." He seems to be calming down. Good. Because you -
You're not certain what you are. But certainly not calm.
"You came back. Into that hell of a dogfight. With jammed guns."
"Well sir, you did say to stay right behind you."
...
As if your silence has released a torrent, Lacey bursts out, "I'm sorry sir, but I had to wait till the Hun had you in his sights before I was certain I could come up behind and ram him without him noticing- "
You grip his hand a second then release it. "That'll do laddie. That'll do."
"Yes sir." He relaxes only marginally, and you can almost see the white-hot nerves of tension stringing him taut.
"Twelve hours. Hitting him."
"Sir?"
Apparently you said that aloud. You just smile and hold out your hand. Say, "Do me a favor. Just call me Biggles."
His fervent grip lasted too long and it was too short. You restrain the urge to blow on your fingers and tell yourself that one good deed deserves another.
"Let's go have a drink. On me."
"I don't drink, sir. My mother doesn't like me to. Sir."
"Biggles," you correct, thinking of a half-full bottle in your quarters and realizing regretfully that good manners entail you join him in his ginger ale or whatever it is he drinks.
"No milk?" he asks plaintively at the pub. But he settles for ginger ale alright. Thank God. You ignore the stares and turn to young Lacey.
Two days later, the bottle in your quarters is still half-full. A week later you stare at it for three hours before walking next door and giving the bottle to Mulhoney. He takes it with an incredulous smile. You growl and move away before he can thank or tease you.
But, "Ginger ale diet suiting you?" the big sot yells back.
"Go stick your head under a tap," you tell him coldly. His laughter follows you into the sunshine.
It's a hot, clear day perfect for flying.
"Mr. Lacey's aircraft? Yes, its in the hangar sir," Smyth tells you. "Shall I power up yours sir?"
You shake your head automatically, then clear your throat. "Seen Mr. Lacey anywhere? I want a word with him," you add, then feel foolish.
Smyth saves you with a wordless finger pointed towards the mess. You nod thanks and move off, realizing the afternoon is perfect for lunching.
Even for ginger ale.
Except Algy isn't in the mess.
--
Hot, clear day and the lad has his shirt off, digging manfully into the hard rock behind the mess hut. You snort a little to let him know you're coming.
"Laddie, most men don't waste what little off-duty time they have digging their own graves."
He looks up and smiles at you. "I'm making a garden." Wipes his forehead with his hand, redistributing rivulets of sweat over browned skin. Clasps his hands around the handle of the spade - strong, firm, long brown fingers. You clear your throat and look away, remembering chubby fingers with a pang of -
It couldn't be regret.
You're speaking and you don't even know when you started. "There already is a kitchen garden. Thataway. Take a dekko. You may have missed it, it being your first week here and all."
Algy smiles pityingly at you. "This is a flower garden, Biggles."
"You're planting what?"
"Sunflowers. Jolly old sunflowers." His fingers waggle in the familiar gesture. "I thought they'd brighten the place up a bit."
Poor fool. "Algy. In case you haven't noticed, this is a war we're fighting."
"So we can all do with some cheering up, don't you think?" His smile brightens and his hands tighten around the spade.
You try to sneer.
"There's an extra spade if you want to make yourself useful." Algy speaks without looking up. This time you do manage a sneer. Too bad he isn't looking at you.
...Sunflowers. He must be mad.
Mad. Stark raving hatters.
Something penetrates your rather dim consciousness.
If he's mad, why do I have a spade in my hand?...
Algy turns around to look at you."Did you say something?"
"Nothing." You shove the tool at him and clamber out of his pit. Stand on the edge heaving, breathing hard through your nose, hoping he can't hear. "Here's your spade. I'm going to get some sleep." But you don't move.
And Algy just. Smiles.
If he really was your brother you'd be in very deep trouble. Very, very deep trouble. As if you weren't in enough already.
----
finiFeedback would be so neat.