by John Pearson
Of course, they were used to such behaviour from the past. ‘Gratitude is not exactly Raymond’s middle name,’ said Biggles ruefully, but what had riled them all had been the way that Raymond had subsequently disowned them — or so it seemed. It was the period of the so-called ‘Phoney War’ when nothing much was happening, but the Air Commodore had totally refused to get involved in Biggles’ efforts to avoid his posting to his training school. He even refused to see him, and when Biggles fired off an indignant letter on the subject, it was returned with an icy comment from some Whitehall whipper-snapper. Biggles had been beside himself with fury and even the pacific Ginger was indignant. But there was nothing anyone could so, and the dreams the chums had had of fighting the war together faded.
So it was that the historic year of 1940 began with Biggles safely tucked away in the obscurity of his training school in Berkshire. Truth to tell, he rather liked the work and got on well with the eighteen-year-old trainee pilots it was his job to teach. It was the first contact he had had with the new generation of wartime fliers and there was much about them to appeal to him. Indeed, they took him back to his own youth when he had learned his trade as a combat flier on the Western Front, almost a quarter of a century before. The planes had changed but not the pilots, and he recognised much of the Biggles spirit in these new warriors of the air — the same longing for adventure, the same desire to prove themselves against the enemy, and the same scorn for the rigmarole and red-tape of service discipline.
They, in their turn, respected him and soon regarded him not only as a first-rate instructor — which he was — but also as a ‘character’. The Commanding Officer — a peacetime regular called Wing Commander Boakes — treated him with caution, and most evenings in the Mess would end with Biggles chatting informally to an admiring circle of young trainee pilots who plainly relished all his stories of the past. The Adjutant, a stickler for protocol, disliked the way they called him ‘Biggles’ to his face, but his objections went unheeded.
‘As long as they learn their job, they can call me what they like,’ said Biggles breezily, when he misguidedly raised the subject. ‘Besides, I’ve always answered to the name of Biggles, so I don’t see why I have to change because I’m back in uniform.’ The Adjutant muttered about ‘due respect for rank’. Biggles countered with something that sounded dangerously like ‘Poppycock!’ And that was that.
Although Biggles liked his job, and even quite enjoyed piloting the yellow-painted Master trainers which he flew, he still secretly resented being what he called ‘nothing more than a confounded school-master’ as the war proceeded — and the news that he received from his old chums nourished his discontent. Ginger, now a Pilot Officer, wrote enthusiastically about the Spitfire. ‘A real thoroughbred’ he called it, adding that he’d never known the real joy of flying before. Biggles had also met Algy on several occasions back in London, but these meetings weren’t a great success, for Algy too was thoroughly enjoying life with his night-fighter squadron, and although he tried to be as tactful as possible, nothing could save Biggles from the feeling that in contrast with his cousin he was missing out.
‘Rubbish, my dear old chap!’ expostulated Algy after one of Biggles’ periodic moans about being relegated to the scrap-heap. ‘Once things start hotting-up, you’ll get your chance. Just mark my words, they’ll soon be knocking on your door.’
‘With all these bright young men about?’ replied Biggles wryly, nodding towards the group of young R.A.F. men drinking at the bar of the little club in Curzon Street that they frequented. ‘They’re the ones they need now. Not old crocks like me.’
But Algy spoke truer than he realised.
It was a few weeks after Biggles’ meeting with Algy, and spring had almost come to Berkshire. Biggles was busy with his latest intake of trainees, and mildly irritated to receive a summons to report to the C.O.
‘Confound the man!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Another of his niggling complaints. I expect the Adjutant’s moaning on again that I’m improperly dressed.’ (There had been quite a tussle just a few weeks earlier when it was discovered Biggles wasn’t wearing the medal ribbons he was entitled to.) But, when Biggles entered the Wing Commander’s office, he was surprised to find the C.O. in an effusive, not to say respectful, mood.
‘Bigglesworth, my dear chap, what have you been up to?’ he asked affably.
‘Up to, sir?’ replied Biggles guardedly. ‘Nothing very much, worse luck.’
‘Oh, come now,’ said the Wing Commander. ‘I’ve just had the Air Ministry on the line about you. Top priority. They want you there at once.’
‘But why?’ asked Biggles.
‘Didn’t say. Terribly hush-hush and all that sort of thing. You’d better take your kit and go immediately.’
‘You mean I’m leaving the training school, sir?’ replied Biggles.
‘Sounds like it I’m afraid, old boy. We’ll be sad to see you go. I’ve arranged transport for you in twenty minutes’ time.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Bigglesworth. Good luck, and thanks for all you’ve done.’
Biggles was always mystified by the workings of the official mind, and felt rather like an erring schoolboy summoned by the head as he entered the gloomy portals of Whitehall. He was evidently expected. The Flight Sergeant at the reception desk looked up quickly as he gave his name, and without more ado conducted him along a corridor and up some stairs, then halted by an impressive office door and knocked. Someone shouted ‘Enter!’ from within, and as Biggles strode into the office he was greeted by a figure from the past. There behind the desk, with the same old steely presence, despite the resplendent trappings of Air Commodore, sat the man whom Biggles had previously known as ‘Colonel’ Raymond. And from the beginning of the interview, it was the same old story. Biggles began by doing his best to show resentment at the way Raymond had exploited then neglected him, and gave a distinctly curt reply to the Air Commodore’s over-hearty greeting.
Raymond asked him how he was.
‘As well as can be expected, sir, all thing considered,’ answered Biggles coldly.
There was a pregnant pause as the Air Commodore sized up the jaunty figure in the somewhat battered uniform who stood before him.
‘I was wondering,’ he said finally, ‘if you felt up to a particularly demanding job of work.’
Biggles attempted to look nonchalant, but there was an excited gleam in his eyes that could not be suppressed.
‘I like to feel I’ll always do my duty, sir,’ said Biggles stiffly.
‘Good man, James,’ said Raymond quickly. ‘I knew we could count on you. The point is that over the last few months there’s been a lot of argey-bargey here about the way to tackle the sort of unconventional assignments we’ve done together in the past. I won’t go into all the arguments, but as you can imagine there’ve been an awful lot of them. If hot air could win the war we’d be in Berlin by now. But the truth is, we’ve had some frightful cock-ups since your little mission to the Baltic, and the other morning at the meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, your name came up.’
‘My name?’ asked Biggles unbelievingly.
‘Now don’t get swollen-headed, James, but I should tell you that it was Churchill himself who mentioned you. There’s not a great deal that escapes the old man, I can tell you, and when they were all discussing how to avoid such washouts in the future, the great man said, “What about that fellow Bigglesworth? Did a dashed fine job in the Baltic. Why not put him in charge?”’
‘He said that?’ said Biggles, feeling as if he’d suddenly been told he’d won the Irish Sweep Stake. Raymond nodded.
‘His very words. And I need hardly add that when a man like Churchill says that sort of thing, it’s tantamount to an order. So, James my lad, congratulations! It looks as if you’ve earned yourself a Squadron of your own.’
It was an historic moment, and Biggles found it hard to credit that everything he’d dreamed of had suddenly come true — the promise of adventure, hi
s own command at last, and the chance to fight the common foe. But, thrilled as he was, he wisely kept his head, and made the most of his advantage.
‘What about aircraft, sir?’ he asked at once.
‘Well, James, we’ll have to see,’ the Air Commodore replied, scratching his head a trifle furtively. ‘It naturally depends on what’s available.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Biggles firmly. ‘If the Squadron’s important enough for Churchill to take an interest in it, it can have nothing but the best. Spitfires or nothing, sir.’
The Air Commodore made a note on his jotting pad and nodded somewhat wearily.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. Personnel.’
Raymond gave his toothy smile.
‘I rather thought we’d come to that,’ he said. ‘I suppose you want the same old gang. Biggles and Co. rides again, eh what? Very well, James. I’ll see what I can do. Lacey and Hebblethwaite should certainly present no problem, but what the remainder of the Squadron?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Biggles, ‘you know I’m not a snob, but in a show like this everything depends on having the right sort of chap. One bad hat can dish the whole caboosh. It’s rather like a family.’
Raymond nodded.
‘I take your point, James. Very well, you’ll have the final say on who’s selected. It’ll be up to you. But just one word of warning, James. From now on you’re in the limelight, and a good deal of my personal reputation will depend on you. Don’t let me down.’
‘Have I ever, sir?’ said Biggles in reply.
The next few days must count among the busiest in Biggles’ life — interviews with senior officers, rows with supplies departments, letters to be sent to ordnance depots, and invoices dictated by the dozen. The rigmarole of building up a first-rank squadron in a hurry was enough to frighten off the most methodical of men — and Biggles was not particularly methodical. Indeed, administration — or ‘admin’ as he disparagingly referred to it — had never been his strongest suit.
‘Confounded bumph!’ he used to rage when faced with the mountain of pro-formas that his job entailed. Luckily, he soon had Ginger Hebblethwaite to help him. Biggles secured his promotion from Pilot Officer to Flight Lieutenant, and his sturdy Yorkshire common sense did much to guarantee the orderly procedure of the Squadron, leaving Biggles to get on with what he was best at — finding the men he needed and inspiring them with that indefinable esprit de corps which is the hallmark of a first-rate squadron.
It was here that his time with No. 18 Flying School stood him in good stead, and he had the pick of several of the star pupils he had taught — young fellows like the inimitable ‘Tug’ Carrington, Henry Harcourt and the appropriately nicknamed ‘Ferocity’ Ferris, the former scrum-half of the London-Welsh.
Algy was soon seconded to assist him — and automatically put in charge of the all important ‘A’ Flight of the Special Duty Squadron. It was Algy who suggested several candidates of his own — Flying Officer ‘Taffy’ Hughes, the dour but dependable Flight Lieutenant Angus Mackail who was given ‘C’ Flight, and the rumbustious American, ‘Tex’ O’Hara, once the star of an American flying circus and now a volunteer with the R.A.F. But there still remained one vital post to fill — a flight lieutenant to take charge of’B’ Flight. Several names came up — and all were summarily rejected. Biggles turned one man down because he wore a ‘Windsor knot’ to his tie — ‘always the sign of a bounder!’ was his only comment, and Algy reluctantly agreed. Another highly recommended chap said ‘Pardon’ twice, and referred to his wife as ‘the little woman’.
‘Out of the question, I’m afraid,’ said Biggles.
‘Quite,’ agreed Algy.
‘But who the devil can we find? It shouldn’t be too difficult. You’d think that somewhere in the R.A.F. we could discover a flight lieutenant who was our sort of chap?’ lamented Biggles.
‘Well,’ replied Algy cautiously, ‘actually there is a fellow that I’ve had in mind. Codger by the name of Lissie, Bertie Lissie — rather a mate of mine.’
‘Lissie?’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘That rather rings a bell. Didn’t he drive a Riley down at Brooklands in the good old days?’
‘Right first time, old fruit. Only one snag about him, I’m afraid. He’s a member of the House of Lords.’
‘Is he?’ said Biggles. ‘I never realised. Well, we can’t hold that against him, can we? After all, old thing, once your old man croaks, you’ll be there yourself. We’d better have a look at him.’
At first sight Biggles didn’t take to Bertie Lissie — and nor, to tell the truth, did Bertie take to Biggles. Algy had introduced them at a little place he used in Maddox Street, the Whizz-Bang Club, and Biggles was distinctly stuffy from the start. The Whizz-Bang wasn’t Biggles’ sort of place. ‘Too many fast young men and loose young women!’ was his verdict on it later, and he bridled visibly when an abundant blonde called Myra addressed him as ‘my hero’, and asked him for a drink.
‘Later my dear!’ said Algy, doing his best to pour the proverbial oil on troubled waters. ‘We’re looking for his Lordship. Any sign of him? He said he’d meet us here.’
‘D’you mean old Burlington Bertie?’ she replied, giggling, so she thought, seductively. ‘I think he’s in the bar as usual. Why don’t you have a look?’
Algy thanked her and led Biggles to the room beyond where, stretched out in a battered old arm-chair, lay a recumbent figure in the uniform of an R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant, apparently asleep. Algy shook the figure by its shoulder.
‘Wakey, wakey, Bertie!’ he exclaimed — at which the figure stretched a pair of extraordinarily long legs, yawned, screwed a monocle in place, and gazed at the world with evident disfavour.
‘For Cripe’s sake, Algy, can’t you let a fellow be? I’ve not had breakfast.’
‘Can’t help that,’ said Algy heartily. ‘There’s someone here to meet you. My old chum, Biggles.’
Bertie stretched out a languid palm which Biggles shook with obvious reserve and refused the offer of a drink. To start with, all the conversation, what there was of it, was made by Algy. Biggles made disapproving noises as his cousin rambled on about various characters he’d never met. Finally, Biggles felt he’d had enough and mentioned combat flying. At this, a transformation seemed to come over the recumbent peer.
‘Best plane in the world, the Spitfire,’ he announced quietly.
‘You’ve flown one then?’ asked Biggles with an air of disbelief.
Lissie nodded. ‘Actually I test-flew the prototype last year, and I’ve been flying ‘em ever since. Haven’t had much chance as yet to try it out against a German Messerschmitt, but had a crack at one in France a few weeks back.’
‘What happened?’ Biggles asked, all prejudice forgotten now.
‘Out-manoeuvred the blighter every time, but he got away, drat him. I had a spot of engine trouble, but I’ve been working on it and it won’t happen next time.’
For the remainder of the afternoon, Biggles, Algy and Bertie Lissie talked about the Spitfire — its range, its fire-power, its strengths and weaknesses. There seemed nothing about the aircraft Bertie Lissie didn’t know, and by the time the three of them strolled off for an early dinner at the Carlton Grill, the final vacancy in the Special Duty Squadron had been filled.
That epoch-making spring of 1940 soon proved to be a time of furious activity for Biggles’ squadron — No. 666 as it was officially designated now. At first they were based at Tangmere and it was there that Biggles did the preliminary work of what he described as ‘licking them into shape’. This included aerobatics, close formation flying, and days of intensive practice in techniques of combat flying. For while 666 was specially designed to take on any unusual assignments going, Biggles was also anxious to make it the crack Spitfire squadron in the R.A.F. He was a splendid leader and was inspired by the memory of the way that Major Mullen had built up his Sopwith Camel Squadron during those hard-fought months in France in 1917.
Algy, of course, proved an invaluable second-in-command, and Bertie Lissie — oddities apart — soon showed himself to be an exceptional pilot, flying his aircraft with the dash and flair with which he had driven his racing cars before the war.
But there was little time for 666 to practise now. At the beginning of May they were in France as the German Blitzkrieg swept through undefended Holland and Belgium. They were fighting in the air as Calais fell, and during that fine May weather were in the thick of things as the German armies rumbled on through France. For a few days they were based at Amiens, and when it was threatened they were ordered back to Tangmere. It was from there that Biggles led them through the heroic days of the great evacuation from Dunkirk.
These were the days when the untried fliers in the Squadron proved themselves, whilst for Biggles, this ceaseless flying round the clock was like a repetition of his toughest days on the Western Front — lack of sleep, continual battles with the enemy, and wondering which members of the little Squadron would fail to return. But the personnel of 666 appeared to live a charmed existence. The only casualty was ‘Tex’ O’Hara.
With the Dunkirk evacuation at its height, the Squadron was doing its bit to keep the Luftwaffe from the beaches, and Algy saw O’Hara’s Spitfire set upon by a pair of Messerschmitts which had been machine-gunning the queues of troops waiting to embark. Tex took them both on, single-handed. This was against Biggles’ orders, for he insisted all along that the flights must always stick together — and ‘Tex’ had paid the price. The last Algy saw of his aircraft was a trail of thick black smoke heading to the sea. That night, the Squadron drank to ‘Tex’s’ memory — but two days later he turned up again at Tangmere, his left arm in a sling, but otherwise not much the worse for wear.
