by John Pearson
Biggles required no second bidding, for by now the first of the German horsemen were barely forty yards away, whilst bullets from their carbines buzzed like angry wasps around the cockpit. There was nothing for it but to fly straight at them, hoping they would have the sense to scatter — which to Biggles’ satisfaction was exactly what occurred.
‘The Boche cavalry’s no match for an F.E.2,’ he chuckled to himself as he soared above the milling horsemen, waved debonairly at them with a well-gloved hand, banked the plane and headed off for home and the three-course breakfast that he knew was waiting for him in the Mess.
‘If Way has finished off the Cooper’s marmalade,’ he told himself, ‘I’ll kill the wretched fellow.’
Once back at Base — after Biggles had performed his customary immaculate three-pointer — the little Frenchman gave a courtly bow and said, ‘My thanks, jeune homme. You saved my life and taught those filthy German cavalry a lesson they won’t forget. I trust we’ll meet again.’
‘Delighted to have been of some assistance,’ Biggles modestly replied, and watched as the little man went trotting off towards a waiting Staff car. Suddenly he almost envied him, Frenchman and civilian though he was, for he was certainly extremely ‘game’ — even old Captain Lovell would have admitted that — and in the middle of this massive European war, he was managing to live a life of high adventure. During that night’s brief contact with him, Biggles had experienced excitement such as he had never before known. Compared with him the fellows in the Mess appeared extremely dull, and even though the Cooper’s marmalade had not been finished, Biggles felt restless and dissatisfied. He had a brief word of congratulation from Major Raymond, but that was all, and though he knew that thanks in part to him the bridge across the Aisne was totally destroyed, Biggles feared that this would be the last he would ever see of the world of sabotage and Air Intelligence.
During the weeks that followed, Biggles’ relations with the remainder of the Squadron — particularly with Major Paynter — deteriorated rapidly, although Lieutenant Way did his best to intercede for him.
‘The boy’s all right,’ he’d say to Paynter. ‘He’s just a bit too eager and reckless, but the fact remains that he’s the best damned flier we’ve got.’
But Paynter now referred to him quite openly as ‘the schoolboy wonder’, and pointedly refused to recommend him for the M.C. which Biggles had obviously earned. ‘He just thinks this war is a confounded game,’ Paynter would grumble. ‘He needs to be taught a lesson.’ Others would say he was a lunatic, a gloryseeker, an adventurer, and though Way attempted to get through to Biggles — ‘Calm down,’ he’d say, ‘just take it easy, and for God’s sake be a little tactful with the others,’ — Biggles refused to listen. The truth was that sensitivity and tact were not in his vocabulary.
In his attempt to ‘teach the boy a lesson’, Paynter now put him on the most routine of tasks — ‘art obs’ — artillery observation, shuttling back and forth across the Lines and radioing targets for the guns. It was hazardous — the F.E.2s were sitting ducks for the German Jagdstaffeln in the neighbourhood — and it was also deadly boring, particularly for anyone of Biggles’ temperament. After three weeks of this he lost his temper. It had been a particularly frustrating day, with Biggles giving ‘fixes’ on a German battery, which the English Artillery continually missed. Any other pilot would have shrugged his shoulders, cursed the gunners and retired to the Mess for a Scotch and soda. But not Biggles.
No sooner had he landed back at Base, than he shouted at Lieutenant Way, ‘I’m sick to death of this. We’re going to deal with that battery ourselves.’
Way urged caution, which was understandable as he had to sit in the front cockpit whatever the escapade Biggles embarked on, but Biggles was emphatic.
‘Refuel the old bus, and stick a pair of 112-pounder bombs on the racks. And make it snappy!’ shouted Biggles to the Flight Sergeant. While this was going on, he got on the Mess telephone to the Artillery. ‘I’m sick and tired of giving you ham-fisted idiots instructions all afternoon and then watching you bungle them,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to deal with that blasted battery myself.’
(It was only later that he realised he was talking to the Colonel — not that it would have made a scrap of difference in the state he was in.)
It was a crazy venture from the start, for by this time the enemy was thoroughly alerted, and had ringed the battery with antiaircraft guns and filled the sky with fighters. But nothing would stop Biggles now. Way saw his set, white face, and decided not to argue — even though the sky seemed to be one vast inferno.
Biggles attempted no finesse this time, but flew straight at his target, ignoring everything — the shrapnel that came zinging through the wings, the rifle fire directed from below, the threat of German Albatrosses in the sky above. After three weeks of ‘art obs’ he knew this section of the Front like his own back yard, and long before he reached the German battery he had put the F.E.2 into a straight dive from 6,000 feet.
It was a moment of supreme excitement, the sort of moment Biggles had begun to live for, with the wind tearing past his goggles and screaming in the guy-wires of the plane. The antiaircraft fire was all around them, and Way was returning fire with his Lewis gun, scattering the German gunners from the gun-pits. Once again, time stood still and every detail etched itself on Biggles’ memory. Down, down he went, the Beardmore engine thundering and the ground hurtling towards him. Way had long given up all hope of getting out alive, when Biggles eased back the joystick, jerked at the toggle to release the bombs, and felt the exhilarating lift from the impact just below as the German guns exploded. Honour was saved, and three weeks’ boredom was atoned for. Now let the Germans do their worst!
In fact it was not the Germans that Biggles had to fear. Apart from a close shave with a formation of twenty Albatrosses, the journey back to Base was uneventful. But once he landed the real trouble started. The Artillery Colonel had already been in touch with Major Paynter to complain about the brash young officer who had called him a ham-fisted idiot. (The fact that the same young officer had saved innumerable lives by silencing the German battery scarcely came into it.) The Artillery had been insulted, and Major Paynter was already waiting on the tarmac — fuming.
‘Recklessness,’ ‘overstepping orders,’ ‘endangering an aircraft and the life of a brother officer’ — these were the spluttered words that Major Paynter used to describe Biggles’ exploit. And, having reprimanded him, he added just one further touch of senior officer’s pettiness.
‘You will return this afternoon to the scene of this unfortunate affair, taking a camera with you. I shall require a photograph of the battery you bombed upon my desk by one hour after sunset. Is that clear?’
Biggles saluted, and held his tongue, knowing that there was little point arguing against a martinet like Paynter. But Biggles had never grown used to reprimands from anyone, and that day was probably the nearest he ever came to mutiny. Just the same, the Major had his photographs before sunset.
This exploit rather brought things to a head in the uneasy relationship between Biggles and the rest of 169, for by now there were two clear parties in the Mess. The larger, led by Major Paynter, was opposed to Biggles and its main aim was to ‘cut him down to size’, as one of them expressed it. And the smaller party, led by Lieutenant Way, while admitting most of Biggles’ faults, insisted that his skill and courage more than made up for them.
‘Of course the boy’s a lunatic,’ said Way in a discussion in the bar that night, ‘but he flies like an angel and he kills Germans. You can’t condemn him just because he doesn’t drink and hasn’t got a sense of humour.’
For several days the arguments went on, and then, in that dreadful early summertime of 1917, all argument became superfluous as every man in 169 suddenly found himself with more important things to think about. The British High Command had launched the great, ill-fated ‘push’ that ended in the slaughter of Paschendaele, and 169 was thrown in
as well, providing non-stop ground support for the advancing British troops.
This was the grimmest fighting 169 had ever seen — for Biggles, it would always be the low point of his life. For days on end the Squadron kept up unremitting pressure on the enemy, bombing and strafing troops, artillery and anything that moved in German territory. Single planes were flying nine and ten sorties daily, and the wear and tear on men and on machines was frightful. It was as if the war in the air had suddenly come down to earth, and no one could escape the noise and stink of battle. Losses were heavy — four of the Squadron’s aircraft failed to return in the first three days of the fighting — and even Biggles’ iron nerve began to waver with the strain. In his sleep he seemed to hear the rattle of his Lewis guns and see the nightmare faces of the troops he killed. He knew for certain that it would only be a few days before he joined them.
He had one slight consolation. Owing to the damage to machines, he had been given a new Bristol Fighter as replacement for his battle-scarred old F.E.2. It was a faster aircraft — and more of a match for the German Halberstadts and Albatrosses — and flying it revived his earliest ambitions to join a first-rate combat squadron in place of all this uninspiring work supporting the Artillery and Infantry. So Biggles began to make inquiries about a transfer. But before they came to anyhting the inevitable occurred — on one of his sorties from St Omer, the Bristol was hit by anti-aircraft fire, the engine badly damaged, and Biggles and Lieutenant Way were forced to hike across the mud of no-man’s-land before returning to their Squadron two days later.
It was the loss of the Bristol Fighter which really spelt the end of Biggles’ time with 169. He was without an aircraft, much of the Squadron was in hospital — or dead — and he was barely on speaking terms by now with Paynter. So when he was suddenly presented with the offer of a posting to a brand new squadron, No. 266, at Maranique, he jumped at it, even though it meant foregoing two weeks’ leave in ‘Blighty’ to which he was now entitled.
When he told Way of his decision his old observer laughed. ‘I always said that you were mad. This proves it.’
‘Why?’ said Biggles, who was genuinely surprised at his reaction. ‘Who on earth would lose the chance of flying Sopwith Pups just for a fortnight’s lousy leave in England?’
‘I would, for one,’ laughed Way, ‘but off you go and try not to be too daft. You won’t have me to keep an eye on you.’
Biggles was instantly at home in 266, which had a very different atmosphere from the squadron he was leaving. Instead of the irascible Major Paynter, there was an easy-going Dubliner called Major Mullen as Commanding Officer, and from the very start he seemed to sum Biggles up.
‘I’ve heard a bit about you, James my lad,’ he said. (In all the months that Biggles was with 169, Paynter had never once addressed him by his Christian name.) ‘And on the whole I think that I approve of what I hear. But all the same you need to learn the difference between foolhardiness and courage. Also I insist that all my pilots are fully trained to fly their aircraft before I let them loose upon the enemy. This is a squadron of professionals. Remember that. Now come and have a drink!’
During the next ten days Biggles spent all his time getting acquainted with his new aeroplane, the single-seater Sopwith Pup. This was the aircraft which seasoned pilots called ‘near perfect’ and ‘impeccable’, and Biggles soon agreed with them. After the heavy old F.E.2, the Pup was light, fast and wonderfully manoeuvrable, and with its forward firing Vickers gun the pilot could take on the German Albatrosses on equal terms. Everything depended on the pilot’s skill, and a few days’ flying the Sopwith was all that Biggles needed to recover from the gruelling weeks in 169. Here in his brand-new cockpit he felt renewed and ready for whatever fate still had in store for him.
Major Mullen personally checked Biggles out before allowing him to fly in action — and even then the mission that he gave him was a relatively painless one, flying cross-country back to his old base at St Omer to make arrangements with the Aircraft Repair Section for returning a reconditioned fighter plane. No trouble was expected, but as a matter of routine the Vickers gun was loaded and the plane given its full load of fuel — which in the circumstances was just as well. Shortly after take-off, Biggles spotted Allied anti-aircraft fire above the Lines — sure sign of a German aircraft in the vicinity. The shells were bursting high, at something like 15,000 feet, and they were considerably off his course. But although Biggles had no orders to engage in combat, it was not in his nature to miss a chance of ‘bagging’ a German combat plane, particularly when he was flying a brand new Sopwith Pup which he had never before tried against the enemy.
He instantly changed course — forgetting all his orders about reaching St Omer — and, aiming for the German section of the Lines, soon had 10,000 feet upon his altimeter, from which height he could now make out the German aircraft clearly. It was a Rumpler two-seater — something of a rarity which the Germans used for high altitude reconaissance — and Biggles had no hope of catching it. For several minutes the two planes were flying parallel, with the Rumpler having the advantage of 2,000 feet in height, and showing not the slightest sign of yielding it to the solitary Sopwith Pup. But then the temptation to attack must have beome too much for the German pilot, for suddenly Biggles saw the Rumpler bank, then dive towards him, firing a long and ineffectual burst. This was a great mistake, for the Rumpler lost its tactical advantage, and the Pup was more manoeuvrable than the big two-seater. The German pilot must have seen this, for he rapidly veered off and made for home — but not before Biggles had the chance of one long decisive burst of machine-gun fire in return.
It was really a forlorn hope, for the Rumpler was theoretically well out of range, but Biggles’ luck was in. One of his bullets hit the observer in the rear cockpit, and another must have struck the engine, for he saw the Rumpler’s propeller stop, and as he swung the Pup into a dive to deliver the coup de grâce, the German pilot raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
This was an unheard-of thing to do. ‘Rather death than dishonour’ was supposed to be the motto of the German pilots, and Biggles could not help despising such cowardly behaviour. On the other hand, it gave him the chance of capturing a German aircraft single-handed. He signalled to the German pilot, pointed to the Allied Lines, and, just to show that he meant business, fired a short burst above the Rumpler — which instantly obeyed his orders. For the next ten minutes, as the Rumpler glided down, Biggles kept buzzing round its tail just to make sure there were no tricks. It made a perfect landing in a field — with Biggles in his Sopwith Pup close alongside — and, thanks to some British troops who were there to greet the German, he was prevented from damaging the plane.
This was accounted an impressive coup for Biggles, since intelligence had been hoping for a captured Rumpler for some time. The field where they had landed was not far from base at Maranique, and whilst Biggles was waiting for the ambulance to arrive for the injured German observer, the CO., Major Mullen, drove up in a staff car with, of all people, Major Raymond in the seat beside him.
Mullen was effusive in his Irish way, heartily congratulating Biggles on his capture, but Major Raymond was inscrutable as ever.
‘Ah, young Bigglesworth,’ he remarked, peering at him through his monocle. ‘Still doing the unexpected, I perceive. You’d better watch out, or you’ll soon be working for Intelligence yourself.’
He smiled knowingly — and Biggles wondered what this strange man really meant. Not that he had much time for speculation as the very next day he found himself fighting for his life in combat with some of the greatest German aces of the war. He admitted later that as a newcomer to this sort of fighting, he was lucky to have escaped alive.
It all started unexcitingly enough, when Biggles found himself detailed to take part in a routine dawn patrol. There were five Sopwith Pups, led by one of the most experienced pilots in the R.F.C., a beetle-browed Ulstcrman called Mahoney. The first hour of the patrol was uneventful. It was a
lovely late-summer morning, and with the aircraft flying perfectly, an azure sky above and nothing but the distant rumble of the guns below, the war seemed very far away. Then Mahoney saw a British spotter plane on the far side of the Lines engaged in combat with three German Albatrosses, and suddenly the hunt was on.
This was the most exciting moment of an engagement — when the Flight Commander dips his wings, and all five aircraft, engines screaming, swoop down in perfect formation onto an enemy below them. Biggles was in his element, although it was soon quite clear that the pursuers were just too late. The British spotter plane had plummeted to earth, a blazing wreck, and the three Albatrosses were already streaking off to Base — with several miles’ headstart on the Pups.
Biggles was in the rear-left position of the formation, and as he started easing his aircraft out of its dive, something made him glance behind. Just why he did this he would never know. Perhaps it was some instinct that he learned in the jungle as a boy. Certainly it saved his life, and the lives of the remainder of the flight. Diving down behind him out of the glare of the morning sun, was a German high patrol of twenty Fokker triplanes.
Again he relied on instinct now. None of the other British planes had seen the Germans and Biggles had no way of warning them. There was no time for second thoughts as Biggles kicked the rudder bar, and trusting that his Pup would stand the strain. swung the sturdy little aircraft round on its axis. It was a move of total desperation for he was now flying straight through the middle of the packed formation of the enemy, but as sometimes happens in emergencies, his desperation worked. For several seconds Biggles thought that he must surely crash head-on with the leading triplane, and for that moment, faced with what seemed certain death, his mind was as clear and sharp as it had been when he faced his tiger in Garhwal. He had no sense of fear and held his plane unwaveringly on course with his machine-gun chattering away before him.
