Biggles

by John Pearson

  Biggles was both. After a week or so of dual flying, his instructor — a shell-shocked veteran called Captain Nerkison — decided that the time had come for him to solo, which he did, miraculously without mishap.

  ‘When I think back to it,’ laughed Biggles, ‘I get the cold shudders. I wasn’t really fit to drive a farm cart, let alone a plane as tricky as a Farman. But at that age, nothing seems impossible, and apart from a very bumpy landing, I survived.’

  Here one must make allowance for his modesty, for it is clear that from the start Biggles was that rarest of all beings, a natural pilot. Even the erratic Captain Nerkison must have realised as much, for with less than two hours’ solo flying in his log-book, Biggles was sent on to the second stage of training — to the grandly titled No. 4 School of Fighting at Frensham on the coast of Lincolnshire.

  The training here was still quite elementary — ‘in at the deep end — sink or swim’ — as Biggles put it, but he was taught the rudiments of combat flying, and for the first time had a chance to fly some of the newest aircraft which were coming into service with the R.F.C., planes like the legendary Sopwith Pup with its powerful rotary engine, and the two-seater F.E.2. He was taught basic navigation, lectured on ‘flying tactics’, and given his chance of target practice, against several ancient aircraft on the beach. And that, for all practical purposes, was that. At a time when the average combat pilot’s life in France was something like three weeks, there was no chance of much finesse. Pilots were needed in the squadrons at the Front and it seemed to Biggles that he had barely arrived at Frensham before he received his movement order out to France. He had to collect it from the Adjutant at the Fighting School, and as he stanped his log-book, the Adjutant said casually, ‘Oh, by the way, you can put up your “wings”. You’ve passed. Well done!’ Not yet eighteen and with less than fifteen hours flying to his credit, 2nd Lieut James Bigglesworth had suddenly become a fully-fledged pilot in the Royal Flying Corps.

  When he reached France his first posting was to 169 Squadron stationed near St Omer in the north of France. He had been hoping for a scout squadron, flying the latest Sopwith Pups, and he was somewhat disappointed to discover that in 169 they were still equipped with the lumbering two-seater F.E.2 pusher biplanes. They were reliable enough and easy to fly, but they were underpowered. Their top speed was a laboured eighty miles an hour, and already the German Albatrosses had the edge on them. Indeed, that autumn was a testing time for the Allied air forces. The Germans had a new device allowing their machine-guns to fire forward through the propeller, and at a time when the German ground forces were bogged down in the trenches of the Somme, their airmen were hard on the offensive, particularly in the small area from St Omer up to the Belgian coast where Biggles found himself. As early as that July, ten German bombers had attacked the British Lines at Festubert in broad daylight. Boulogne was raided, and just a few days before Biggles reached his Squadron, 8,000 tons of ammunition were destroyed in a daring midnight raid on the British base at Audruicq.

  Squadron No. 169 was in the thick of things. Losses had been heavy and beneath the atmosphere of forced cheerfulness which seemed to be the order of the day, morale was bad. Conditions at St Omer were grim — so grim in fact that Biggles himself was almost killed within minutes of arrival. He had reported to the Adjutant — who was distinctly off-hand with him — and was strolling over to the Mess, when he heard an aeroplane approaching. He took no notice, thinking that it was one of the Squadron coming in to land, but he heard a sudden whistling noise and a moment later was thrown to the ground by a violent explosion. This must have saved his life, for the aircraft was in fact a German scout plane, making a sortie from its base across the Lines, and having dropped its bomb, it then went on to rake the airfield with machine-gun fire.

  Biggles was indignant, and rather shaken, but the members of the Squadron treated this mishap to the new boy as an enormous joke.

  ‘Jerry must have heard that you were coming, old boy!’ remarked the Adjutant drily. ‘Obviously popped over to give you an official welcome from the Kaiser. Probably as well he didn’t get you though. We’re getting rather low on pilots.’

  This was all too true, for later that same afternoon 169 lost its Commanding Officer. The poor man died of wounds after bringing back his badly shot-up F.E.2, and it was the new CO., a difficult, bad-tempered man called Major Paynter, who officially welcomed Biggles to the Mess of 169 that night. It was an uncomfortable occasion, which Paynter’s words did little to relieve, and afterwards there was a lot of horseplay and heavy drinking — the inevitable reaction to the losses and the strain the Squadron had to bear, and Biggles heard somebody remark, ‘Good God, they’re sending us schoolboys now!’

  Someone else suggested taking Biggles’ trousers off (the traditional method in some regiments in those days of putting young subalterns in their place). But this was firmly stopped by the Second-in-Command, a major by the name of Roberts. ‘No time for that sort of tommy-rot,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve too much work to do tomorrow, and Bigglesworth here is due to fly with Way as his observer. Time you got off to bed, my lad.’ As Biggles followed his advice, Roberts said tactfully, ‘Don’t take too much notice of what’s happened here tonight. Everyone’s a bit strung up. You’ll be all right, and Way will keep an eye on you. Do’as he says, and you won’t go far wrong.’

  Hardly surprisingly, Biggles had little sleep that night, and all next morning as he stayed on standby for his first operational flight, he suffered badly from an attack of nerves — one of the few occasions that he ever did. But luckily Lieutenant Way realised how he was feeling and did his best to put him at his ease. Way was a down-to-earth New Zealander, and although barely twenty-one himself was already one of the most experienced observers with the R.F.C. His pilot had been killed two days earlier, but he was admirably calm as he explained the drill for the patrol — the way the flight would keep together, how he would operate the two machine-guns in the aircraft’s nose, and the necessity to keep as high as possible above the enemy. ‘Just keep the old bus in the air, and stay glued to the Flight Commander’s tail,’ said Way. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

  It sounded easy, but as the hours ticked by Biggles’ nervousness grew worse. He tried to think about the General and his brother, Charles, but even that was not much help. But he couldn’t help remembering the remark about schoolboys — it made him angry and his anger kept him going. He ate no lunch, and then, just after two o’clock, the order came — take-off in ten minutes’ time. His debut as a combat pilot had begun.

  He still had his outsize flying coat, and all but tripped over it as he swung himself aboard the plane, but once inside the cockpit all his worries left him. Way gave him the thumbs up from the forward cockpit, a mechanic swung the big propeller, and as the Beardmore engine thundered into life, something in Biggles came alive as well. He was no longer worried or concerned with death, and suddenly he felt at one with the machine. As he opened up the throttle and the aircraft started to roll across the field, he was caught up in a sense of real exhilaration. It was a grey, wet afternoon, with low cloud shrouding the horizon, but as the tail lifted and the biplane rose above the poplars at the far end of the field, Biggles felt his spirits lift with it.

  After his doubts and fears it seemed extraordinarily easy. The Flight Commander’s plane was there ahead of him to follow, the F.E.2 was flying beautifully, and for some twenty minutes they were circling above the airfield as they climbed to 7,000 feet. Then the Commander dipped his wings and Biggles saw him turn towards the east. His first sortie over enemy territory had started.

  As the three planes sailed on in perfect formation, Biggles could soon see the long brown scar of the Front Line trenches in the neat countryside below. That was where men were fighting in the mud and misery of Northern France, but on that perfect autumn afternoon it was impossible to grasp — even when he saw a group of round black blobs suddenly appear a few hundred yards ahead. He counted them — five, six — and su
ddenly there was a flash quite close to the left wing-tip followed by a dull explosion and a rush of air which made the biplane buck. He almost panicked as he thought that he would lose control, but he soon pulled the aircraft back on course, and as he did so Way turned round, grinned at him and shouted something.

  Biggles could not hear him but he knew what he was saying: ‘Archie’ — enemy anti-aircraft fire. A full-scale barrage, and by the look of it, too close for comfort. But there was nothing to be done except ignore it. The Flight Commander was still holding his position, and, a little nervously by now, Biggles did the same.

  Then he saw that Way was standing up. The anti-aircraft fire had ceased, and his observer had his Lewis gun in readiness over the side of the cockpit. He fired a short burst — probably to warm the gun and stop it freezing up, thought Biggles, who could only see the other aircraft of the flight and the empty sky above. Then Way fired again, a longer burst this time, and Conway, the observer in the nearest F.E.2, was also firing.

  This had Biggles puzzled. He could still see nothing but clear sky ahead, but Conway was signalling, waving and pointing downwards. Way waved back, then leant out of the cockpit to aim the Lewis gun straight down. Biggles craned his neck to see what he was firing at, and with shocked amazement saw a green aircraft with swept-back wings immediately below them. But what held his attention were the two black Maltese crosses glaring at him.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. The German plane — an elderly two-seater Taube used for reconnaissance — tried to bank away, followed by another burst of fire from the Lewis gun, and Biggles saw the figure in the rear cockpit stand up and collapse as the bullets hit him. The plane slipped sideways and its left wing crumpled like tissue paper. As it spun towards the countryside below, one of the crew fell out. Biggles watched him turn and turn, then disappear.

  That brought Biggles back to his senses very swiftly. The Flight Commander turned his plane abruptly, making Biggles bank the F.E.2 so sharply that he almost went into a spin himself. Luckily he still had sufficient height to put the plane into a dive and then pull out, as he chased back towards the Allied Lines, following his leader.

  It was then that the real sense of exultation caught him. The wind was streaming past his face, the engine roaring, and he had just experienced his first ‘kill’ in the air. He felt no pity or remorse for the figure he had seen spin down to earth — it was too unreal for that. This battle in the air was an exciting game — and he had felt himself invincible.

  He saw a green Very light fired by the Flight Commander, signalling the end of the patrol, and then the airfield was below them. Biggles made a perfect landing, and when the plane had rolled to a halt he shouted his congratulations to his observer.

  ‘Good shooting! You got that Taube beautifully. I didn’t realise that it was there until you’d hit it.’

  Lieutenant Way took his goggles off, and gave Biggles a thin smile.

  ‘I didn’t really get the Taube. That was Conway’s. I got the other one.’

  ‘What other one?’ said Biggles warily.

  ‘The blue and yellow Fokker that was after us,’ Way said in his soft New Zealand accent. ‘Didn’t you see the blighter? He almost got us. He was with another Fokker, black one. Conway got him as well. I’ll have to buy the man a drink.’

  Biggles was feeling slightly dazed by now — no longer the daredevil combat ace that he had felt himself to be whilst coming in to land.

  ‘How many were there, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Heavens, man! Didn’t you see them? There were seven all told — a whole Hun patrol. We sailed through the middle of them. Why else d’you think the Flight Commander turned our noses back so fast?’

  He laughed and Biggles felt extremely foolish, but Lieutenant Way was a kindly man at heart and, slapping Biggles on the back, he said, ‘Don’t worry, youngster. You flew damned well, and you’ll soon get the hang of things. Huns take a lot of spotting till you get the knack. Now come and have a spot of tea. I think we’ve earned it.”

  And so it was that over tea and army biscuits Biggles celebrated his first ‘kill’ in the air — of an aircraft he had never even seen.

  Biggles could not afford to be an innocent for long. He was learning in a school where few who made mistakes survived, and he was constantly spurred on by the feeling that the other members of the Mess were laughing-at him — they had christened him ‘the schoolboy wonder’.

  The German Air Force was maintaining its superiority, and Biggles was soon flying across the Lines three and four times a day. To survive one had to know one’s job, and at a time when the average life of a British pilot was three weeks, Biggles was managing it very well. He insisted that he had a lot of luck, and ‘the schoolboy wonder’s luck’ became a byword in the Squadron. Once he returned with a German bullet-hole in the flap of his leather flying helmet; another time a German Halberstadt had Biggles at its mercy, and then its guns jammed (Biggles insisted he could still remember the look of fury and disgust on the German pilot’s face as he went diving past). But luck apart, Biggles was a born combat pilot, and within three weeks of his arrival at 169 he was earning the grudging admiration of his brother officers.

  Despite this, Biggles continued to feel out of things — just as he had at Malton Hall. This was partly age — he was still only seventeen and a half at the beginning of 1917, and all the other members of the Squadron seemed considerably older. As at school, he made efforts to conform. He started smoking, attempted unsuccessfully to grow a small moustache, and would join in with any high-jinks that were going in the Mess. Yet, however hard he tried, Biggles was all too aware that he was a loner still.

  In some ways this was an advantage. Pilots are individualists at heart and Biggles always felt that in the last resort he had no one to rely on but himself. On the other hand, it was now, in his most impressionable period of all, that Biggles consciously adopted the slang and manner of his older brother officers. It was a persona that he never lost — indeed, as the years went by, he would become something of a caricature of an old style pilot from the R.F.C. But in that hard-pressed winter that he spent at St Omer, Biggles still appeared a rather earnest, overgrown schoolboy with a cheerful word for almost everyone and a fanatical love of flying.

  This passion never left him. Most of the older pilots in the Squadron ultimately tired of flying. If they were lucky and survived their first few months with an active-service squadron, their nerve would usually begin to go, and generally only the toughest or the maddest fliers went on to become the famous aces of the war.

  Biggles was different. Partly through temperament — and partly too because of the extraordinary series of adventures that soon diverted him from Front-Line flying — Biggles never did become a famous ace. He was not a natural killer, and he flew for the simplest of reasons — because he loved it and believed that the happiest place on earth was the cockpit of an aeroplane.

  Towards the end of 1916, the British forces in the north of France were finally bogged down. The weather was as bad an enemy as the German army, as fog and ice were added to the hazards of a combat pilot’s life.

  Allied Headquarters had been hearing rumours that the enemy was massing to attack along the narrow segment from the Belgian border, but clear-cut information was urgently required — information which only aerial reconnaissance could provide.

  Even in decent weather this sort of reconnaissance was hazardous. The German base at Vanfleur was forty miles behind their Lines, and although the F.E.2s were ideal for this sort of operation, as their low speed and stability made them the perfect spotter planes, they were also hideously vulnerable. The generals were demanding detailed information — numbers of rail trucks in the sidings, news about arms dumps and troop formations, all of which meant that the aircraft would have to spend several minutes flying dangerously low across the town.

  When the request came through from High Command, one of the most experienced pilots in the Squadron, a Captain L
ittleton, was given the job. He failed to return. So did Lieutenant Blake, another veteran of 169. But although two planes were lost, there was no question of abandoning the task; it was now the turn of Biggles’ flight.

  Mapleton, the Flight Commander, refused point blank to ask for volunteers. ‘I’m not letting anyone commit suicide just because he considers it the right thing to do,’ were the words he used. Instead he suggested that all three pilots tossed for it, the odd man out to go. Inevitably, the odd man out was Biggles. Way appeared understandably concerned. Mapleton’s talk of suicide was not exactly calculated to give much encouragement to the chosen victims, but Biggles seemed delighted, for he had reached that dangerous point of all young fliers where confidence had started to outrun experience. He seemed to have a charmed life in the air and felt no fear. Flying was still a game, and even the warnings and the grim briefing from the CO., Major Paynter, failed to dampen his spirits.

  Paynter suggested that they flew at dawn next morning, but Biggles showed his contempt for Paynter’s advice by insisting on that very afternoon.

  ‘Jerry is always waiting for a dawn patrol,’ he said. ‘Less opposition in the afternoon.’

  The C.O. agreed but warned them to watch out. ‘Reports from Intelligence suggest that Richthofen and his merry men have moved up to the airfield at Douai, and there are already more Boche combat planes there than anywhere else on the Western Front.’ He smiled quizzically. ‘I tell you this to cheer you on your way.’

  ‘Well, if we’ve got to go, we might as well get it over with as soon as possible,’ Way remarked to Biggles-when they were safely out of earshot.