
If it wasn't for Jerry the day would have been a perfect flying day. The sun shone from a bright blue sky, light, fluffy clouds adding their little touch to what would, in peacetime, have been a pleasant pastoral scene. Even the flowers which some of the officers had planted under the windows of the Mess were obligingly bright and beautiful.
But Jerry was about and 666 has been sent up to see them off. They had succeeded, and were now coming in, one by one, some seemingly unscathed, others with distinct battle scars. Biggles, first down, taxied across the tarmac to leave room for the others. His eyes cast around for Algy and it was with relief he watched his second-in-command land with no apparent problems. Bertie, with a busted undercarriage, was last and Biggles held his breath as the Flight Commander came in to land.
Somehow, Bertie managed to get his Spitfire down without breaking up into small pieces. The ambulance came roaring up along with the fire truck. Biggles hid a small smile as Bertie leapt from the cockpit and landed a full six feet away from his craft before sprinting even further .
They all looked tired and weary, Biggles thought. They needed a rest, or failing that, something to take their minds off the War for a while. He'd give it some thought, or maybe something would crop up to divert their attention away from their perilous daily existence.