Night Air
based on Capt. W. E. Johns’ Biggles series

It was a quiet evening at Maranique, after a dull, foggy day; and most of the pilots had gone into Amiens in the tender with plans to have themselves a gay old time.  In Biggles’ opinion, they deserved it, for the past few days’ fighting had been hot and heavy.  He should have been with them … would have been with them, if Major Mullen had not been called to Wing for a briefing, or some such … but someone had to hold the fort and Biggles was duty officer.  Still, it was easy duty tonight.

He sat back in the wooden deck chair, looking over the airfield. The mechanics—who did not have the night off—were busy repairing and preparing the planes for tomorrow’s dawn patrol, weather permitting.  From the Officers’ Mess behind him he could hear the piano in the anteroom.  It was not the usual jangle, accompanied by the bawling of rude lyrics (and Biggles could bawl the rudest with the worst of them); instead, it was the rare civilized tunefulness of Schubert.

He got up and went slowly inside, quietly, so as not to disturb the other pilot.  There was no music on the stand:  Lissy had to be playing from memory; and, as Biggles stood listening, the music continued at considerable length, meaning he pretty well had to have the piece down cold.  Others in the squadron could play, of course—indeed, Algy could be downright tuneful at times—but only Lissy could turn the usual tinkle into a veritable concert.

The end of the piece came with a flourish.  “That was good,” Biggles said.

Lissy started in surprise, looked wildly round, and found his flight leader leaning on the corner of the piano.

Biggles laughed.  “You’d better pay more attention than that in the air, laddie, or the Hun will have you on toast for tea.”  He straightened, and came round to tap a couple of keys.  They plinked unmelodiously.  “Sometimes I wish I could play,” he admitted.  “Never learned, though.  I have a vague memory of my mother playing piano, but that was long ago.”  He grinned.  “Can’t sing, either,” he pointed out in his pleasant baritone.  “God, when one of the others is bashing away at the ivories, you’ve heard what I sound like!  Couldn’t hold a tune to save my life.”

“No worse than most,” said Lissy.  “I was a choir boy before my voice broke; but it’s nothing special now.”

“Well, we sang the usual hymns at school in chapel, of course,” said Biggles.  “For what that’s worth.”  He shrugged.  “What can I say?  They taught me to fly.  You can’t reasonably also expect me to sing.”

“We play a different tune up there,” said Lissy quietly.