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He was dreaming.
The Migs were gaining on them. Biggles piloted the Otter for Japan, knowing that they would be overtaken by the enemy fighters, and hoping Algy's radio signal to Colonel Bradfield would have the Americans scramble their own jets in time. He flew as low as the turbulent sea would allow, racing for the faint smudge on the southern horizon. Even knowing it was a dream didn't help the worry that he wouldn't be fast enough, that they would be shot down. He willed the machine to go faster.
"They're in range," Ginger said somberly. Biggles had known it would happen with the aircraft of superior speed; he was ready. The Sea Otter wasn't known for manoeuvrability and the entire craft seemed to careen as he threw it to the side in a zigzag pattern, intending to avoid getting hit. The fire from one of the Migs scattered through the cold waves where the Otter had been moments before.
He saw three small black dots appear on the horizon ahead and knew they would be Bradfield's jets, coming to intercept the three enemy fighters. Not a moment too soon they entered Japan's territorial waters, even as the next shell from one of the Migs above them exploded in proximity to the left wing and seemed to shatter something in the back of the plane. There were scattered gasps from the passengers, but when Biggles threw a momentary glance back into the cabin, all he saw was a broken window and no fire. He refocused on racing ahead, his eyes hard.
Behind him there was a commotion, many voices speaking at once.
Biggles knew it only took one good shot to put the machine out of action and anxiously called out, "What's hit?"
Dread clawed at his insides, but he didn't dare turn around and check. Had it happened this way? He couldn't remember. He didn't dare hesitate; it all felt too real. He flew a random pattern, throwing the aircraft into zig-zags next to the dark ocean waves that reached for their plane like grasping hands. The left wing held. He glanced at the fuel gauge but couldn't read it, no matter how much he strained his eyes. He decided they were flying smoothly and must still have plenty of fuel — at least it wasn't a hit to the fuel tanks. Mouth in a tight line, Biggles focused on racing away, knowing they could just about make it if he didn't waste a second; it was up to him to get everyone to safety.
The Sabre jets from the opposite direction were now close enough for the Migs to see them. As Biggles expected, the Soviet planes immediately turned around, unwilling to continue their pursuit. The Sabres did not go after them, instead buzzing the Otter as they flashed past, and leading the way to the base. Biggles thought they were past the danger and throttled back to cruising speed. He finally turned back around to see what damage had been done by the Migs' fire.
Besides the blown out window, he saw several scattered holes in the side of no particular significance. This familiar evaluation took less than an instant to his well-trained eye, but something in the pit of his stomach told him all was not right. He looked again. Found Algy's position, leaned over to press a towel to von Stalhein's chest.
The cotton white towel was smudged a deep, dark red.
Biggles felt frozen. He had been afraid of something like this happening.
"Von Stalhein was hit," Bertie informed him tersely, along with a swooping feeling in Biggles' stomach that had nothing to do with the flying aircraft. "Shrapnel."
Erich's face was pale, his expression screwed up slightly in obvious pain. Hunched over, he drew in air with shallow gasps. Fritz was hovering at his uncle's side, his wish to help as obvious as his inability to think of a way he could do so. His eyes sought Biggles out desperately, as if willing him to provide an instant miracle.
"Ginger, take over," Biggles snapped out. By now they were cruising over land and it would be a simple matter to set the machine down.
"Right on." Ginger took over flying as Biggles rushed over to where Algy was helping von Stalhein to stem the flow of blood.
"Is it deep?" Biggles asked, crouching nearby in the aisle between the seats in front of von Stalhein, one hand on the back of his seat for balance.
Erich shook his head. "I don't think so," he said with some difficulty. His colour was bad, but that could just be shock. It was hard to say how much of his paleness was due to the bleeding and how much the sheer exhaustion of his ordeal in prison and subsequent exertions during the rescue. Since the staggering sight of him in Onor, whenever Biggles looked at him, he seemed to find some new evidence of his mistreatment. The broken skin on his fingers from overwork, bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep, a bruise on his neck as if from rope burn that made Biggles ill to contemplate. Underneath the grime and injury, Erich was still a handsome man, but he no longer carried himself that way. His shoulders were hunched, and the bluey-grey eyes, so proud and impertinent when they first met in Palestine, were now filled with heavy doubts and crushing losses.
They met his own worried eyes now and seemed to seek something inside Biggles for a moment. What it was, he couldn't say. Biggles tore himself from their locked gaze and peered at Erich's injuries. His own back went damp with sweat. The towel held by Algy to von Stalhein's left shoulder and upper chest was already soaked with blood. The shrapnel had gone directly over the heart and lungs. Von Stalhein had closed his eyes.
"One of the shells exploded next to the window and the steel bits went everywhere," Algy explained quietly. Biggles looked at him so he wouldn't have to look at all the blood. He was trying to focus, seeking that cold that came over him in a crisis, but it was slipping away. He noticed Algy had a very minor scratch on his chin, presumably from the same explosion. Algy was saying, "Von Stalhein was closest, so the shrapnel hit him in the chest. We removed the two visible pieces." He jerked his chin to the floor where Biggles could see an inch-long chunk of flat steel covered in blood. "I don't think he'll make it—" Algy shrugged, turning his gaze to where he held the towel to Erich's chest to stem the flow of blood. "It happens all the time."
Cold with horror, Biggles wracked his mind. "We're minutes from the base. Ginger, radio the good Colonel and let him know we have wounded on board. Have them ready their medic."
Ginger obeyed Biggles' snapped out order, even as Bertie began to take the plane in for an easy landing.
The radio returned only static. They were in the middle of the ocean, and there was no base waiting for them; it was still hours away. Von Stalhein would bleed to death before his eyes. All Biggles could do was uselessly press on the towel even though he knew no matter what he did, it would not be enough. It was Algy staunching the bleeding. No, it was him—.
"I can keep it in place myself," von Stalhein murmured and set his hands to hold the towel. Algy reluctantly let go, and stood somberly watching Biggles. "It's alright," von Stalhein said, looking directly at Biggles with a thousand-yard dead stare. Biggles suddenly saw there was blood on von Stalhein's mouth, marring it red. Those thin lips twisted with a sort of grim humour. A fading whisper, "Don't get yourself dirty."
Biggles ground his teeth; he watched those familiar eyes turn flat and wanted to scream.
"Biggles!" Algy's voice filtered through as Biggles shook von Stalhein, even knowing there was nothing he could do. Algy shook his shoulder. "Biggles, wake up!"
Biggles came awake with a gasp.
"Wake up," Algy was saying firmly, peering down at him from where he bent down to grip Biggles' shoulder lightly. "You were dreaming." He frowned. "The same dream again?"
Biggles covered his face with his palms.
He was on a cot at the US Base in Japan. They'd made it off Sakhalin in time. Some yards away down the hallway, von Stalhein was sleeping in his own room, the one he shared with Fritz. Biggles knew this. It was just that with the vivid memory of the dream playing before his eyes, it was hard to remember what was real.
He realised he was shivering. There was no question of going back to sleep.
"You want to talk about it?" Algy offered, sitting back on his own cot, opposite the one Biggles slept in, a yard away. They'd been on the base for two days since the return from Sakhalin, and were planning to head out on the journey home the next morning, if the fine weather held.
Giving Algy a rueful smile and shaking his head, mostly at himself, Biggles rolled out of bed and went to where a decanter of water stood on a small writing desk up against the wall; poured himself half a glass. He knocked the edge against his teeth at first, hands painfully unsteady.
Algy was right when he guessed it was the same dream again. The nightmares had started immediately the first night they were out of danger. The release of immense tension had sent his mind into a tailspin. The bad dreams differed in content: sometimes von Stalhein died from a gunshot in the back as he tried to escape the prison camp on his own while Biggles was forced to watch from cover and do nothing; sometimes the guards found them as they waited for the boat to come back so they could paddle out to the Otter and shot both of them. In that one, von Stalhein had gripped his hand as they lay bleeding out on the fresh white snow covering the ground. The end result was always the same— And Biggles woke up with a gnawing pit of dread in his stomach. He hadn't managed a stretch of more than a few hours strung together without waking up in cold sweat.
Biggles slapped his hand against the pockets of his jacket that hung over the back of the chair until he found his smokes. Lighting one cigarette, he drew a long, calming breath. He'd had this reaction before to a particularly stressful mission. Eventually, the rawness would fade and his nerves would settle.
"It's the second one tonight," Algy said. "You won't be fit to fly us tomorrow if this keeps up."
"I'm good for it," Biggles returned coldly. His hands steadied as he smoked, staring into the distance.
Algy wouldn't be put off. "It's got to do with him, doesn't it? Otherwise you'd have already said."
Sometimes, it was a pain in the neck that his friend knew him so well. Biggles drew once more on the cigarette and smiled faintly. "You have the right of it." Another steadying breath. "As it's only a dream, there's nothing to be done about it anyway, so you're quite safe from having to listen to what you find so abhorrent."
"I'll bear the hardship somehow if it'll stop this place feeling like a funeral home. Anyway, I'm not getting any sleep with you tossing and turning."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, come off it. You might get it off your chest."
It was tempting. Too tempting, when Biggles already knew his mind would be full of the images from the dream until morning. The sight of von Stalhein's bloodied lips rose before his eyes again and he stubbed out the cigarette.
"I keep dreaming that I was too late. Erich dies." Biggles ran a hand through his damp with sweat hair, smoothing it out from sleep. "That's all there is to it; it's a variation on the theme. I really don't know what I can do about it."
Algy regarded him silently for a moment. "I can't believe I'm suggesting it, but maybe seeing that he's safe and sound might help. We haven't seen a hair of von Stalhein since the nurse ushered him off for a medical checkup."
"I know he's fine because Fritz said he's been mostly resting and reading the papers in their room," Biggles said carefully, surprised at the sudden clamour within him at the thought.
The idea of going over to see Erich, middle of the night and all, unfurled in his mind. He had been keeping away to give von Stalhein space, but it was true — he hadn't seen the man since they landed. The last image Biggles had of him — Von Stalhein, pale and too thin, his shoulders hunched down even in safety — was so at contrast with everything Biggles was used to from him, with his rigid military upbringing, that it still shook him to think about. A day of rest wouldn't have wholly fixed it, but Biggles grasped at once that Algy was right: seeing von Stalhein with his own eyes would put a lot of his anxiety to bed.
"Knowing something and seeing it for yourself makes for a world of difference." Algy's words only added to the urge rising within him.
"In any case, I shall see him come morning since we're setting off for England," Biggles stated, clamping down on the compulsion. There could be no question of knocking on von Stalhein's door in the middle of the night for such a trivial reason. It would be insupportable. "I might take a walk outside on the aerodrome; clear my head."
"Do you want company?" Algy said and immediately ruined the offer by stifling an involuntary yawn.
"You'd best get your rest," Biggles told him, looking at the clock which showed it was three in the morning. "After all, as you said, you might have to fly the first leg."
Changing into his regular clothes that had been washed and pressed for them on the base, Biggles threw on his coat jacket and went out. He didn't pass many people on his way through the complex, which was just as well, as he wasn't interested in fielding curious stares. Biggles headed in the direction of the airstrip, somehow feeling that if he could exist in a space that felt familiar no matter which country they were in, he could find his balance.
He briefly considered going to the Otter, but it was stowed in one of the hangars, along with the other machines. Opening up the hangars at night was a bad idea. Biggles didn't want to give some superstitious mechanic any cause to wonder if tomorrow one of the American machines failed from a completely coincidental reason and it was known Biggles hung around them in the middle of the night like a spectre. But his nerves still twanged anxiously as he strolled out into the night, nodding at the American guards outside the personnel complex as he made for the open airstrip.
The air outside was crisp. There were no night flights, but some workers were still about even at this witching hour, loading a truck with large boxes from a metal container that had been flown in the evening before on one of the freighters. A single search light mounted on a tower a few stories high lazily policed the cloudless night air. The moon hung low, its yellow circle touching the sparse black tree branches on the horizon. Despite the other lights, his eyes soon adjusted, and he began to notice the smattering of stars across the heavy blue above his head.
Breathing deeply and watching the sky, Biggles felt an unaccountable loneliness sweep through him.
He almost wished someone would give him another mission, something to do. Anything was better than this nameless feeling of something missing. At home, another battle awaited him with the bureaucracy and red tape, which promised no refuge from the thoughts currently assaulting him. His thoughts were taking on a morose turn when he decisively whipped around and, head down, strode back towards the building he left earlier. He half hoped to find someone in the mess hall — even workers busy with their task of setting up for the breakfast meal would suit him.
He was fiddling with his pack of smokes as he walked, and so only looked up when he was in sight of the entry door. His breath caught. Like an apparition directly from his dreams, von Stalhein stood leaning against the wall outside. He was dressed in a sleeved white shirt and light camo khakis that had been allotted to him on base. They hung low on his hips; he had lost weight. Von Stalhein's hand had frozen with a cigarette next to his lips as he, too, became aware of Biggles and stared.
For a moment, they silently regarded one another.
In the dim light of the moon, Biggles couldn't see von Stalhein's face very clearly and wondered how he so easily recognised him from a combination of little tells of his posture and the elegant way he held the cigarette. The gesture felt familiar, even missing his customary holder. The shadows covered any sign of abuse that would be visible on his body in daylight, and for a moment Biggles felt as if transported back onto the arid sands of Palestine, when they had first crossed paths at night.
Something tight inside him suddenly let go and he could breathe more easily.
"Bigglesworth," von Stalhein said slowly, being the first to recover his composure, "I didn't expect to see you here... at least not at this hour." He tilted his head in consideration and said with a note of cynical amusement in his voice. "It's as if you were put on this earth to constantly surprise me."
"I didn't count on seeing you either," Biggles said, smiling faintly. I hoped I would, he couldn't say. He realised it was true. Some part of him had been determined to wander about like a mournful ghost until he ran into von Stalhein one way or another by morning.
He expected a quick rejoinder, but Von Stalhein was silent, the thread of their typical banter dropped.
The silence suddenly brought home to Biggles that things would never be the same between them. No matter what happened, whether Erich came with him to England or chose to go his separate way, they had crossed some Rubicon where it was possible to play games. His chest felt hollow.
As if in answer to his thoughts, von Stalhein suddenly said, "They wouldn't let us out at night, in Onor. I think I wanted to prove to myself I'm really out." He glanced behind him, where a few yards away a security guard assigned to him for the duration of his stay on the American base was stationed at a respectful distance. Von Stalhein nodded at him. The young soldier glanced between him and Biggles, gave a nod in return and retreated a few paces away, out of hearing range, leaving them alone.
Biggles' dream from earlier came back to him with a viciousness that made him clench his fist at his side. His eyes strained to see von Stalhein's face, to check it for signs of blood, but it was too dark to see very well.
"I couldn't sleep," Biggles admitted. Why had he said it?
"I am sorry to hear that," von Stalhein answered. He went on thoughtfully, seeming to study Biggles in turn, "What you did leaves its mark even on you."
"What I did?" Biggles asked curiously. His mouth was dry. "Getting everyone to safety is the job description." He lit another one of his cigarettes to give his hands something to do.
Von Stalhein huffed a short, incredulous laugh. "You took my place in the prisoner camp, with the clear risk of getting shot — or worse. And now, danger is a thing of the past and here you are, wandering about while your nerves settle. Am I wrong?" he asked quietly.
"I can't say you aren't onto something there," Biggles said slowly. "But we survived, that's what matters."
"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger?" von Stalhein offered with just a dash of disbelief in his voice.
"More like where there's life there's hope," Biggles answered. "Do you want to take a walk with me?"
Surprised, Von Stalhein scrutinised him for a moment, then nodded. He looked back towards his guard with hooded eyes, projecting his discomfort over being accompanied by a stranger.
"Wait a moment," Biggles said, and walked over to the young soldier, explaining that they would be meandering about and he could wait here if he wished; Biggles would watch von Stalhein. Of course, that wouldn't do: orders were orders. Still, the soldier followed at a considerable distance to give them the desired privacy. "It's the best I could do," Biggles explained to von Stalhein apologetically, "we're their guests after all." Inwardly, he didn't fully believe it. The only reason they needed an escort on the base was some bureaucratic nonsense.
Von Stalhein nodded without a comment and they set off, side by side. Biggles noticed von Stalhein's slower gait instantly. He would have finally had a chance to truly rest after a long while, which tended to make everything hurt more in the short term. Biggles matched his stride to Erich's.
"Fritz told me about your travels to get here," von Stalhein said, just before the silence could get awkward. "He has never been outside East Germany, you see. Everything is new to him."
"I remember that feeling," Biggles said with a slanted smile. The years weighed on him. Looking ahead at the yellow circle of the moon that was sinking behind the horizon, he wondered what it would be like to see the world outside England for the first time again. The memory of that first wonder was faint. Anyway, his own first trip had been to see France, but it was hardly a holiday. "We spent our lives rushing back and forth, bogged down in the bureaucracy and other people's politics and forget to smell the roses, so to speak."
"A week ago I thought my life was finished," von Stalhein answered mildly. "Now I have a new license to it. I feel like a fresh babe."
Biggles stopped. They were in the middle of an empty airfield. He stared somewhere into the distant dark sky. "You're right. I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me."
Von Stalhein's shoulders hunched. He looked as if he was bracing himself against a strong wind, although there wasn't much of a breeze. Biggles couldn't understand it. It would have been one thing if they'd argued, but to see von Stalhein draw in on himself when Biggles agreed with him was disconcerting because Biggles couldn't find an explanation for it. He only knew he wanted to help Erich be himself again. His eyes landed on the figure of the American soldier following them at some distance and he frowned.
"Do you know, we might be the most interesting thing that has happened in that young man's life in a while," Biggles murmured. Von Stalhein turned to watch the soldier as well. The man had paused and was speaking to some of his fellow countrymen who were unloading large boxes from what was now a row of delivery trucks. They were young; laughter echoed all the way to where Biggles and von Stalhein were standing, like two weathered scarecrows in a wheat field. "What interest he could get from all this waiting around, I can't imagine," Biggles wondered.
"They have a name for it now, a cold war," von Stalhein said in a voice that conveyed his low opinion of it.
"Those who named it that haven't felt blood run down their own hands. It's always hot." Again, he felt the touch of his earlier nightmares. He sensed von Stalhein's eyes on him, studying, and forced himself to continue to watch the group of Americans. They both needed something to do, he thought. "I'm tired of being chaperoned. Aren't you?"
"You cannot imagine," von Stalhein said curtly.
"Walk with me," Biggles said, and they strolled with studied slowness out of the open, towards the line of delivery trucks. Once they were only about a yard away from the front bumper of the leading car in the convoy, Biggles stopped and stubbed out his cigarette in the dust, glancing back to where their young guard was still involved in conversation.
"Can you run?" Biggles said in sotto voce.
Von Stalhein glanced at him with a tilt to his head that spoke of his surprise. After a short moment, he nodded curtly.
"On my signal," Biggles said, watching the young soldier. In the moment when their guard looked down at his feet, Biggles made his move.
Touching Erich on the wrist in signal, Biggles took a dashing step to their right, until he was behind the truck. He felt von Stalhein following him, and soon the man was sliding into a position by his left arm, also behind cover. The entire thing took a moment. Biggles motioned for von Stalhein to follow along. Knowing the darkness would keep them invisible from the other side, they crept quietly along the side of the truck, passing the group of loaders who took no heed of them, and heading behind the main building at a brisk pace. They calmly walked the length of the perimeter of the coarse wall and slipped out of sight.
Once behind the corner, Biggles leaned back against the wall, laughing quietly under his breath at the ridiculous picture they presented. If only Algy could see them now, hiding like criminals and sneaking about a foreign base. Away from the glare of the aerodrome lights, the night made them simple silhouettes in the darkness. Once more, the memory of Palestine and trying to unmask the mysterious Arab came to him. The thrill of excitement that sung in his blood now was tempered by experience, but in the essentials it all felt the same as when he had been eighteen. He knew Erich felt it, too. He knew it from the way Erich had straightened, alert as he looked about, checking for any danger.
Biggles thought, with a sudden fierceness: this was how it would be, and nobody could stop them.
"Come on," he whispered to von Stalhein, who had been generally left staring at him, but followed his command one more time. Even with his limp he moved silently, like a shade. They walked through the yard unhurriedly, both knowing well enough to look like they belonged so they wouldn't be stopped. It worked like a charm.
"That's better," Biggles said in a satisfied manner once they strode across to the far end of the square building surrounding the yard on three sides, and added, sensing a little hesitation from the other man, "Don't worry, I'll take the flack in the morning and apologise to that young man for making his life exciting."
"I have a preference for not ending up in the American brig after all," von Stalhein said mildly, but a barely noticeable undercurrent of amusement rang in his words.
"I give my word you won't end up anywhere like it," Biggles assured him heartily. "This was my idea, and I'll see it through." And bear any consequences, he added silently.
"You have a plan for where we're headed, then? We can't leave the base."
"That would be folly indeed," Biggles agreed. "But while we're here, I think you'll find we have reasonably free rein." He paused. There was no question of going back to sleep; he was wide awake. "What would you like to do?"
Von Stalhein stayed silent for a brief moment. "I am perfectly content to watch you run circles around the Americans, for once. It doesn't matter where."
Biggles smiled a little. "All right then. We can do that in the mess for a while, if you don't mind. I think we could both use a drink."
"Do they serve tea at this hour?"
Biggles turned to him curiously. The bluey-grey eyes that regarded him struck him as unexpectedly warm, fond even. And so alive.
Von Stalhein continued with a mild touch of humour ringing in his baritone, "I seem to recall your offer to show me that tea tastes better on your side of the fence."
"And I will," Biggles promised, his heart fluttering. The stark images in his head had been replaced with fresh ones of the two of them sitting across from one another, having tea, conversing on all manner of subjects. Somehow, he knew Erich would be an excellent dinner companion. "We're going home, Erich. The nightmare is over."