Chapter 3

The Air Commodore Explains

Ginger glanced at his watch as the Bentley ate up the miles. Biggles and Algy must be nearly in Austria, he thought. His mind went back to the briefing in the Air Commodore's office – was it only a few days ago? he mused. It seemed like a lifetime since he had taken his seat behind Biggles, listening as the Air Commodore had offered cigarettes and cleared his throat before asking for their help. Ginger recalled reading warnings about the dangers of Appeasement in magazines like Popular Flying and had been vaguely aware of what had been happening in Germany, but until the Air Commodore spoke, he had had no idea of the unrest that was building up on its border.

The Air Commodore's announcement of the annexation of Austria – he had called it the Anschluss – and the riots in Linz had taken him by surprise. While he was digesting this unpalatable information, the Air Commodore came to the purpose of the meeting.

"Our Embassy in Vienna has received a request from Professor Meier," the Air Commodore informed them. Ginger had been about to ask who he was, but Raymond had forestalled him. "His is not a name you are likely to be familiar with, but suffice it to say he is a very important scientist and a top man in his field."

"Which is?" Biggles enquired, tapping the ash from his cigarette.

"Aero engines," replied the Air Commodore. "His expertise could be of great value to Germany, but as the Professor is a Jew, he is unwilling to give them any help. In fact, he contacted us to get him and his family away to England. He is desperately afraid for his wife and child. He thinks he himself might be safe as long as he was prepared to work for the Reich, despite the current political climate, but anything might happen to his family. He is particularly concerned that they might be used as hostages to force him to develop new engines for Germany. He is absolutely convinced that the Chancellor, Herr Hitler, is intent on going to war."

"He's not the only one," Ginger heard Algy mutter under his breath and smiled faintly.

"What do you want us to do about it?" inquired Biggles quizzically. "Snatch him from under their noses?"

"I knew you would understand," averred the Air Commodore smoothly. "The Air Ministry will provide you with an aircraft and the Department of Trade will furnish you with a cover story. You will be members of a trade delegation sent to Linz with a view to buying new heavy plant machinery. There is a trade fair due to start on the 17th."

"Stone the crows!" ejaculated Biggles. "You don't want much, do you? I suppose," he continued cynically, "that if all this blows up in our faces the Government will deny all knowledge of us."

The Air Commodore shifted uncomfortably. "I thought so," muttered Biggles.

"It is vitally important," emphasised the Air Commodore. "Our Embassy in Berlin has got wind of new legislation about to be enacted in Vienna. The Jewish Laws, as they are called, will be in place within a couple of days and will severely restrict the rights of Jews. That will make your task of getting the Professor and his family to England much more difficult."

Biggles drew thoughtfully on his cigarette, but said nothing. Ginger had watched him closely, knowing that his mentor would not refuse and experiencing a frisson of anticipation at the dangerous mission.

"If Germany gets hold of the Professor's plans and develops them and there is a war, as is looking increasingly likely, I need hardly tell you that the consequences for this country could be very grave indeed," elaborated the Air Commodore earnestly. "Thousands of lives could be lost. A bomber that could go faster than our latest fighters would be impossible to stop; cities could be reduced to rubble and the nation's morale completely destroyed. Fighters that can outstrip our best machines would be able to shoot down our pilots like sitting ducks."

"There's no need to get so worked up," Biggles reassured him finally. "You know I couldn't refuse." He glanced at Algy. "What about you, laddie?"

"Hitler is a bully," observed Algy. "Someone needs to give him his comeuppance."

Biggles nodded. Ginger had met his eyes as Biggles turned towards him. "This won't be a picnic, Ginger," Biggles had told him, "do you want to come with us?"

For a moment, Ginger had felt hurt that Biggles had doubted his courage and resolve, but then he realised that what lay behind the question was nothing of the sort. Biggles felt responsible for him and did not want to put him in danger. "Do I?" he had responded with enthusiasm. "Just try and leave me behind!"

The irony of his reply was not lost on Ginger as he put his foot on the accelerator speeding towards a confrontation with his past. In the event, circumstances, not Biggles, had dictated that he would be left behind.

The days following the meeting had passed quickly in a flurry of preparation. The Air Commodore had been as good as his word; a new aircraft, the Cormorant, had been delivered to Croydon immediately and put at their disposal. Biggles had inspected it carefully and declared himself satisfied.

"It looks up to the job," Algy had concurred after a test flight with Ginger in the co-pilot's seat. "Good range, good cruising speed, wide undercarriage and a delight to fly. Raymond certainly seems to have come up with the goods for us."

Biggles nodded, making notes on a pad. Their mechanic, Smyth, had taken charge and had the machine moved into a hangar for a thorough overhaul before their departure. The machine was standard, except for a few modifications Biggles had requested, chief among them being a secret compartment near the tail so that they could store weapons and ammunition without risk of discovery should the machine be searched on arrival.

Smyth reported to Biggles that he was satisfied the compartment was undetectable.

"Good work," acknowledged Biggles. "Have the stores arrived yet?"

Smyth nodded. "There's a primus and crates of bully beef, biscuits, tea, coffee, tinned milk and jam. Oh, and some bars of chocolate as well," he added, with a sidelong look at Ginger. He paused and dropped his voice. "I've put the revolvers and ammunition in the compartment ready," he continued. "Best not to let anyone see them lying around."

"Isn't it going to look a bit odd taking all that stuff on a trade delegation?" queried Algy. "I mean, we're going to be booking into a hotel when we get there, aren't we?"

"If anyone questions it, we'll just have to convince them we're eccentric Englishmen," murmured Biggles. "You shouldn't find it too hard," he added with a grin.

Ginger laughed, but Algy refused to be drawn. "We'll blame it on Ginger's appetite," he responded smoothly. "Where you put it all, Ginger, I can't imagine," he continued, looking at the lad's slim figure.

Ginger grinned as Biggles reminded them, "that's enough fooling. We could be glad of having plenty of provisions if things turn out badly. There have been riots in the streets. Who knows what state the hotels will be in or whether there will be any cafés or restaurants open. At least with this lot in the Cormorant, we'll be independent. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always sleep in the aircraft as well, even if it means a tight squeeze."

And so the stores had been stowed, reflected Ginger as he headed for Darlington, and the telegram had arrived that set off the train of events which had led to his journey north.

He needed to concentrate more now. Scotch Corner was behind him and the nearer he got to his old home, the more the memories kept crowding in. Concentrating on the road helped him keep them at bay.

Negotiating Darlington with relatively little difficulty, he pointed the long nose of Biggles' Bentley towards Durham and his next stop, Newcastle.

Listening to the beat of the steadily purring engine Ginger could not help reliving his meeting with Biggles and acknowledging the impact that had had on his life. Without irony, he recognised that Biggles had been more of a father to him than the man he was speeding north to bury. His mind strayed to the present. A glance at his watch told him that Biggles, Algy and Smyth should be almost at their destination. He sighed inaudibly, realising he had at least 30 miles to cover before he reached home.

'Home'. The unexpectedness of the word caught him by surprise. It had been some time since he had considered the two-up, two-down back-to-back where he had been brought up 'home'. Mount Street had been his home in every sense for the last four years. Ginger tried to analyse his feelings, but gave up. He knew he would have to confront his past soon enough.

He was feeling tired now. The emotion and the strain of driving north to face the coming ordeal were beginning to tell. On a whim, passing Cramlington, he pulled into the airfield. There was a small café by the clubhouse. Half expecting to see Algy materialise out of the past, he walked across the grass and entered, seeing himself once more a small, fifteen year old boy who had had the temerity to send a telegram to a perfect stranger.

"Do you serve non-members?" he asked the waitress, a small, dark-haired girl with a pale face and a sulky pout.

"Whey aye, canny lad," the woman behind the counter assured him as the waitress stared at him and did not respond, "set yoursel' doon and Mavis'll tek your order."

Ginger chose a seat near the window. He could see the light planes doing circuits and bumps. When the waitress came to him, he ordered a pot of coffee for one, thinking it would help to keep him awake.

Mavis, as Ginger supposed her to be, flounced off. He could hear cups rattling in the kitchen behind the counter. When she reappeared, Ginger was amused to see that she had pinched her cheeks and bitten her lips to encourage some colour.

"You're not from roon' here, then?" she queried as she placed the cup in front of him.

"What makes you say that?" parried Ginger, reaching for the coffee pot. He had forgotten how friendly and naturally inquisitive his fellow Geordies were.

"You divven't soon' like us," she observed astutely. "From doon sooth, are you?"

Ginger nodded. "I live in London," he admitted, salving his conscience that it was no less than the truth now.

"London!" the girl exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "I've allus dreamt of gannin' to London! Is it like you see in the fillums; you kna', the Pathe newsreels an' all? Have you seen the King?" She looked at him as if he had just stepped out of a Gaumont film.

Ginger smiled at her enthusiasm and was disarmed by her eager questioning, which struck a chord with his own youthful infatuation with the cinema. "No, it isn't all ceremonies and good times," he tried to disabuse her star-struck notions, "but yes, I have seen the King and he looks just like he does in the newsreel."

Mavis gaped at him open mouthed and it took several sharp repeats of her name by the woman behind the counter to drag her attention away. As she turned reluctantly back to her duties, Ginger called out to her.

"If you really want to go to London, Mavis," he advised. "You should do it. Don't let anything stand in your way. Lyons Coffee Houses will always take on a good waitress."

The woman behind the counter hustled the waitress into the kitchen. Ginger heard her say, "filling your head with them fancy ideas …" as the door swung shut behind them.

He finished his coffee in silence, thinking of his own determination to get to London to join the Air Force or just watch the aeroplanes landing and taking off on their international journeys. They, too, had been 'fancy ideas', but he had never regretted acting on them. He wondered if Mavis would take his advice and secretly hoped that she would.

As he searched in his pocket for change to pay his bill, he came across an old receipt from a Lyons Coffee House near the Strand where he and Algy had had tea a few days previously while Biggles was busy at the Air Ministry. He looked to see if the address was on the receipt and found that it was: 121 Kingsway. On a sudden impulse he took a pound note from his wallet, wrapped the receipt around it, wrote "Mavis" on the outside and slipped the tip under his saucer with the coins for his drink.

He gathered his belongings and left. As he went past the window on his way to Biggles' Bentley, he saw Mavis clearing his table. When he drew away from the clubhouse, he thought he caught a glimpse of her in the doorway, staring after the departing car, and smiled to himself. He may not have been able to do as much for her as Biggles had for him, but at least he had given her an opportunity for a new life, he reflected. The rest was up to her.