stille nacht

Biggles worked feverishly. To get downed behind enemy lines, with engine trouble of all things – and it would have to be in the depths of December, when his fingers were almost numbed with cold –

“Drehen Sie sich herum.”

Biggles turned.

The silhouette – all Biggles could make out in the moonlight – was of a tall, slender man. A flash of reflection could have been spectacles, although Biggles would have sworn it was a monocle, if the idea hadn’t been so incongruous in this hell of frozen mud. A moment of stillness.

Then, impossibly, the man lowered his gun.

“Froliche Weihnachten.”