by W E Johns
CONTENTS
BIGGLES’S PHILOSOPHY
CHAPTER 1: BIGGLES TAKES OVER
CHAPTER 2: THE COMING OF CARRINGTON
CHAPTER 3: THE ARRIVAL OF ANGUS
CHAPTER 4: TAFFY TRUNDLES IN
CHAPTER 5: ONE GOOD TURN
CHAPTER 6: SO THIS IS WAR!
CHAPTER 7: CUTHBERT COMES — AND GOES
CHAPTER 8: THE LOVE SONG
CHAPTER 9: THE COWARD
CHAPTER 10: THE FLYING SPY
CHAPTER 11: THE RECORD-BREAKERS
CHAPTER 12: THE FORTUNE OF WAR
CHAPTER 13: BERTIE PICKS THE LOCK
BIGGLES’S PHILOSOPHY
When you are flying, everything is all right or it is not all right. If it is all right there is no need to worry. If it is not all right one of two things will happen.
Either you will crash or you will not crash.
If you do not crash there is no need to worry. If you do crash one of two things is certain.
Either you will be injured or you will not be injured.
If you are not injured there is no need to worry. If you are injured one of two things is certain. Either you will recover or you will not recover.
If you recover there is no need to worry. If you don’t recover you can’t worry.
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CHAPTER 1
BIGGLES TAKES OVER
A RAW north-easterly wind swept gustily across the Weald of Kent, tearing the sagging nimbus clouds into shreds of dripping vapour and tugging at the camouflaged bough-shelters which housed the aircraft of Number 666 Fighter Squadron, until the fabric flapped heavily, like wet sails, in protest. Quietly, almost furtively, three Spitfires in vee formation dropped out of the murk above the rain-soaked turf; with engines throttled back they circled once, losing height, and then, still in formation, came to rest near the farm-house that served both as an Officers’ Mess and the Squadron Office. Mechanics ran out to take charge of the machines, while the pilots, after an appraising glance round the landing-ground, walked towards the building.
One strode a little in front of the others. His step was light and his figure slim, almost boyish, but his bearing was that of a man of experience. His deep-set hazel eyes were never still and held a curious glint, a sort of speculative fire, that seemed to be in keeping with a pale, clean-shaven face upon which the strain of war and the sight of sudden death had graven little lines. His hands, as small and delicate as those of a girl, were nearly lost in the fur of the gloves they carried.
Of the two who followed closely at his heels one was of about the same age and build, but his manner was nonchalant, and his expression one of slightly bored humour. The other was a mere lad, with curious inquiring eyes; but his air was alert, and he carried himself in a way that suggested a degree of self-confidence hardly to be expected in one so young. A wisp or two of ginger hair escaped under the rim of the flying cap which he had just loosened.
As the trio reached the farm-house a door opened, and a man of uncertain age, with a black shade over one eye, and the single wing of an Air Gunner above the purple and white ribbon of the Military Cross on his breast, appeared in the doorway. For a moment he stared at the approaching officers; then a glad cry of welcome broke from his lips.
‘Biggles, by all that’s wonderful!’ he cried. ‘I didn’t expect you.’
Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., D.F.C., better known in flying circles as ‘Biggles’, after a brief pause to survey the man in front of him, hurried forward with outstretched hand.
‘Toddy!’ he exclaimed delightedly. ‘What are you doing here?’ He turned to the two officers who were with him, Flight Lieutenant the Hon. Algernon Lacey, D.F.C., and Pilot Officer ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite. ‘Algy, you remember Toddy, Recording Officer at 266 Squadron in the old days?’ Without waiting for an answer he went on quickly. Oh, and Toddy, this is Ginger Hebblethwaite, a protégé of mine.’
There was a general handshaking.
‘I’ve heard about you fellows,’ declared Toddy. ‘I’ve seen your names in the papers, too. You seem to have got over a nice time, flying round the world and what-not.’
‘Not so bad,’ admitted Biggles, smiling. ‘But that’s all over now. We’re back again in harness — I mean, real harness. But tell us about yourself, you old war-horse. Apparently you couldn’t keep out of it.’
Toddy laughed quietly. ‘Of course not,’ he said softly. ‘They let me come back as a Flight Loot — ground duties only, of course. I was posted here as Station Adjutant, but nobody told me that you were going to command the Squadron.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Colonel Raymond was responsible for that, no doubt — you remember Raymond, our Wing Intelligence Officer? He’s an Air Commodore at the Air Ministry now, and, incidentally, a friend of ours; we’ve done odd jobs for him from time to time. Knowing that we were together in the last war, he must have arranged this reunion, feeling sure that I’d be pleased about it.’ Biggles clapped his old friend on the shoulder to show his appreciation.
‘What have you been doing up to now?’ asked Toddy.
‘Oh, one thing and another — special missions mostly; but I got fed up with that and insisted on getting back to a fighter squadron, so the Ministry decided to give me a squadron of my own and allowed me to bring Algy and Ginger with me. We’ll see what we can do to stop these Hun raiders. Where’s everybody?’
Toddy smiled wanly, and for a moment looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid they haven’t given you much of a squadron — at any rate, not so far.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, apparently 666 is a new squadron, just formed. The airmen are here, and a few machines, but when I arrived there wasn’t an officer on the place. Two turned up this morning though, two flying officers named Ferris and O’Hara.’
‘Where are they ?’
‘Down in B Flight shed, looking fed to the teeth, the last I saw of them. By the way, the airmen are under your old fitter, Flight Sergeant Smyth.’
Again Biggles looked pleased. ‘Raymond must have fixed that, too,’ he declared. ‘Still, I don’t quite understand what’s happening—’
‘There’s some official correspondence on your desk; perhaps it will explain things,’ suggested Toddy. ‘Let’s go in.’
Biggles took off his flying kit and hung it on a peg. ‘Don’t go away,’ he told the others. ‘I’ll just glance through the mail, then we’ll have a look round. Oh, and by the way, you fellows, don’t call me Biggles - at least, not in front of the others. I’ve got to make some show of discipline.’
Seating himself at the C.O.’s desk, he began opening the letters that lay on it. As he read one, rather longer than the rest, an extraordinary expression crept over his face; but it turned slowly to a smile as he raised his eyes to his friends, who were watching him ‘I ought to have known there was a trick in it,’ he murmured, a trifle sarcastically. ‘Just listen to this. It’s a letter from Raymond, and it certainly explains things.
‘“My dear Bigglesworth,
‘“In case you feel that you have been given an unusual command, I’d better tell you about it. I’m responsible. The fact is, we’ve started a new stunt, a little register of star turns and officers who do not take kindly to discipline. As you probably know, they’ve always been a problem — you know the type I mean. The ass on the ground is often the ace in the air. It’s no use keeping these fellows on the ground, it only makes them worse, so we have decided to send them, as an experiment, to a special squadron, in the hope that they will at least kill a few Boche before killing themselves in some foolhardy escapade. In view of your long and varied experience we have put you in command of this squadron, an
d I, personally, have no doubt that you will be able to build up a good team. These officers will be reporting to you immediately.
‘“A word of warning. Don’t judge them by appearances. Give them plenty of rope and they’ll make things hum, although in doing so they are likely to lead you a lively dance.
‘“Take Lissie - Lord Lissie - for example. He’s a Flight Lieutenant, and should make you a brilliant, if somewhat eccentric, Flight Commander; he’s a devil with a Spitfire and a wizard with a gun, but I’m afraid he’s as mad as a hatter. Carrington is another queer case. His trouble is that he’s got an inferiority complex — thinks people are laughing at him behind his back because he’s a Cockney — and tries to hide it by a show of cheek. Added to that, the war is a personal matter with him; his parents were killed in one of the first raids on the East End. I doubt if he should have been given a commission, but it’s too late to alter that now. For heaven’s sake, don’t laugh at him or he’s liable to shoot up your mess. He went through the School of Fighting in ten days, and left behind him a trail of broken aeroplanes and nerve-shattered instructors. I believe his flying is ghastly to watch; he’s got his own ideas, and nothing will prise him off them. For the past month he’s been with a Coastal Squadron, and as he was popular there he must have his points. Now he’s all yours. Just let him go.
‘“Ferris and O’Hara are friends; they are queer birds, and as yet without experience, but they show promise so I am sending them to you. Other officers will follow in due course.
‘“I’ll try to let you have some more machines shortly — I have an idea you’ll need them.
‘“Best of luck,
‘“Yours sincerely.”’
As Biggles finished reading he dropped the letter on the desk and looked up. The others were smiling.
‘I don’t see anything to laugh at,’ he observed seriously. ‘Don’t forget, I shall be responsible for this unit, and judging from that letter I’m going to have a squadron of lunatics.’
‘Raymond tells you not to judge by appearances,’ Algy pointed out.
‘Perhaps he’s right. We’ll wait until —’ Biggles started as there cut in across his words a most extraordinary noise.
Algy ducked. ‘Good lord! What’s that?’ he gasped. ‘I thought at first it was a siren.’
Biggles sprang up and made for the door. As he did so there was a sudden pandemonium outside. And instant later a cat, hotly pursued by a mongrel terrier, shot into the office.
The cat took a flying leap on to Biggles’s desk, scattering the papers, and then, with the same urgent alacrity with which it had entered, went through the open window. The terrier baulked, let out a shrill yell of excitement, and tore back through the door.
Simultaneously the shrill blast of a hunting horn split the air.
‘What the —’ Again Biggles strode towards the door, but stopped abruptly, staring in amazement, as a curious figure entered. It was that of a tall, slim young man in Air Force uniform bearing the badges of rank of a Flight Lieutenant on his sleeve. Over his left arm, in disarray, hung a bundle of flying kit. His jacket was undone, revealing a yellow suede hunting waistcoat with silver, crested buttons. In his hand he carried a small brass hunting horn. He started, and then smiled faintly when his eyes fell on Biggles.
Nobody, not even his best friend, would have called Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie handsome, or his face a strong face. On the contrary, his small aristocratic features had, at Cranwell, once inspired an adaptation of his name to ‘Cissy’. But only once. Such decorations as his face boasted, a wisp of hay-coloured moustache and a rimless eyeglass, did nothing to correct this impression, however. But his eyes were extraordinarily blue and curiously bright.
For a moment he regarded Biggles meditatively, then smiled apologetically.
‘What cheer,’ he said, with a slight lisp. ‘Sorry to butt in and all that.’
Biggles eyed him coldly. ‘You don’t by any chance happen to be reporting to this squadron for duty, do you?’
Lord Bertie nodded. ‘That was the general scheme,’ he announced.
Biggles took a deep breath. ‘And your name is, I suspect, Lissie. Am I right?’
Again Bertie nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he confirmed. ‘Yes, absolutely right.’
‘Do you usually report to a new unit like this?’ inquired Biggles in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘It all depends,’ replied Bertie readily. ‘I’m really most frightfully sorry and all that, but I was told that no one had yet arrived, so I thought I’d give Towser a spot of exercise – if you see what I mean.’
‘Towser ?’
‘My little doggie. You saw him perhaps? Jolly little feller.’
Biggles stiffened. ‘Yes, I saw him,’ he said slowly. ‘What’s the idea of the hunting horn?’
Bertie regarded the instrument in his hand as if he had only just noticed it. ‘You mean this? Oh, yes. Well, the fact is, at my last station we got so bored, me and Towser, that we thought we’d have a little huntin’ – if you see what I mean. But not having any foxes we had to hunt cats, and I’m afraid Towser has got into bad habits. Of course, he wouldn’t hurt a cat even if he caught it. He just wants to play with them, that’s all.’
Biggles’s lips curled slightly. ‘His idea and the cat’s idea of playing are probably two quite different things,’ he murmured.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the telephone. Biggles picked up the receiver, held a brief conversation, and put it down again.
‘That was Fighter Command on the phone,’ he announced. ‘We’ve got a job to do. A Blenheim is on the way to Calais to take photos of the docks, and it may need an escort home. Lissie, I shall want you to take over B Flight, so you may as well start. You’ll find two officers in the shed. Their names are Ferris and O’Hara. Take them along and bring the Blenheim home. We’ll finish this conversation later.’
Bertie’s eyes brightened. He buttoned his tunic. ‘What fun,’ he chortled enthusiastically, and with a perfunctory salute left the room.
Biggles sat down heavily, looking at Algy, Ginger, and Toddy in turn. ‘Raymond was right,’ he said slowly. ‘That fellow’s off his rocker. I expect he takes his little horn with him when he goes Hun-hunting. Well, if the rest of the officers they send along are anything like him, heaven help me; this won’t be a squadron, it’ll be a mad-house.’ He winced as from the distance came the blast of the horn.
Ginger shook his head wonderingly. ‘Nuts,’ he breathed. ‘Absolutely crackers.’
Biggles stared at him helplessly. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he whispered plaintively.
A ray of moist sunshine filtered through the clouds and for a moment bathed the landscape in a golden glow. It rested lightly on the farm-house, and then moved to the shelter that housed the Spitfires of B Flight, but it was unnoticed by the two flying officers who sat on the wheels of a camouflaged aircraft engaged in earnest, if somewhat desultory, conversation. In appearance they had nothing in common — not that there was any reason why they should have had anything in common, beyond the fact that before the war had snatched them from their civil occupations they had been members of the same Auxiliary Squadron.
George ‘Ferocity’ Ferris had got his commission on sheer flying ability. There was nothing else he could have got one on, for his family connexions were obscure, and the back street of Liverpool wherein he lived, while it may have been all that it should be, was hardly a recommendation.
So had it not been for his amazing — and sometimes alarming — flying, it is likely that the Selection Committee of the Air Ministry would have looked askance at his pungent Merseyside accent, his perky freckled face, and bristling yellow hair. Nevertheless, nobody — at least, not in his home town — ever referred to this, for he was sensitive about it, and to back up any argument that might arise he had a fighting record that had earned for him the significant name of ‘Ferocity’. He had learned to fly at his own expense, and forthwith revealed that
his nimbleness was not confined to the boxing ring where, as an amateur, he sometimes performed.
His companion, Tex O’Hara, sometime of Cactusville, Texas, U.S.A., was tough—and proud of it. Short but heavily built, he retained many of the not altogether pleasing manners of the Texas prairie whereon his Irish-born parents had brought him into the world.
A natural intolerance of anything in the nature of ‘fancy-pants’ had not been softened by two years as a New York ‘cop’, a turbulent career that had been terminated when he had the unpardonable effrontery to arrest a well-known gangster, whose ‘boys’ had promptly put him on the spot.
His superior officer had pushed him out of the country, not so much from a humane desire to save his life as to prevent him from being the cause of any more trouble. Seething with indignation for getting the sack for an effort which he had fondly supposed would have brought him promotion, it was a sore ex-cop who had landed at Liverpool, where he had glowered about like a baited bull for something on which to let loose the steam of his wrath.
Why he chose an aeroplane was something he himself did not know—unless it was because it provided a ready means of breaking something, if only himself. Running out of cash, he joined the Auxiliary Air Force, not so much from any particular desire to attack the king’s enemies as to continue flying.
He got his military ticket just in time for the war, much to his satisfaction, for the wish to ‘plug somebody’ was still uppermost in his mind, and he wasn’t particular who it was.
That he had not yet succeeded in doing this was the subject on which he had just been unburdening his overcharged soul, rolling a cheap cigar from one side of his mouth to the other in his agitation.
‘Pal,’ he assured Ferocity earnestly, ‘if the guy who called this a war was right here, I’d hand him a basinful of slugs to cut his teeth on.’
‘This may be him coming now,’ returned Ferocity moodily dropping the stub of his cigarette into the mud and putting his heel on it as footsteps were heard approaching.
