The Vandal circled gracefully and dropped lightly on to the smooth waters of the Holtenau Seaplane Station, at Kiel, the German naval base of wartime memory,1 and taxied slowly past several machines that rode at moorings, towards the Custom House.
‘Well, we’re over the ditch, anyway,’ observed Biggles to Algy, who sat beside him.
Eight days had elapsed since their decision to explore the Baltic coast had been made, eight days of exasperating delays, while their papers were being prepared. The party had now increased to four, for Biggles would not risk travelling so far afield without Smyth, their efficient mechanic, who now shared the cabin with Ginger.
‘The thing I don’t like about this show is that we’ve got to travel under our proper names,’ muttered Algy, as they made fast to the sl
