Biggles (6 page)

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 Littleton, 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.

Biggles was irrepressible, and twenty minutes later he was giving the F.E.2 full throttle, and the sheds and hangars of the Squadron H.Q. were receding in the rain beneath them. It was filthy weather all the way — rain, broken cloud, and at 8,000 feet ice was soon forming in the cockpit (twice Way fired short bursts on his Lewis guns to stop them icing up). In some ways, however, the weather was a blessing. The cloud gave cover and it would be
a very eager German who took his aircraft up in such conditions. And in fact, some forty minutes after taking off, Biggles and Way had reached their destination without incident.

Then came the tricky bit. Biggles had difficulty finding a break in the cloud and had to bring the aircraft down to 2,000 feet before he and Way could see a thing below then, and at that height the eighty-mile-an-hour F.E.2 was something of a sitting duck for the German anti-aircraft guns. Not that this made the slightest difference to our hero. One of the earliest lessons he had learned was that the only way to deal with ‘Archie' was to ignore it. ‘If a shell has your name on it, too bad,' was his philosophy. But as the aircraft sailed slap through the middle of the German barrage, even his equanimity was shaken, and the aircraft bucked and bucketed as the German gunners got rather too close for comfort. Biggles took what evasive action he could manage, banking the F.E.2 and doing his best to twist and turn across the target — none of which made his observer's task any easier. But Way was meticulous, and as the lumbering aircraft flew across Vanfleur at little more than 1,000 feet, he had a great deal to record. The sidings of the goods yard were full of flat trucks, each with a German field gun plainly visible. Shell were being loaded further on, and there were stores and motor vehicles, whilst outside the little town were row on row of tents for troops that would reinforce the big attack.

In those days before aerial photography much depended on the accuracy of the observer, and it was clearly urgent to get detailed news of this big German build-up back to the Allied High Command. So whilst Biggles' instincts were to get out of Vanfleur now as speedily as possible (and how he wished he'd had a bomb or two to drop on the ammunition dump outside the station), Way was insisting on a further flight across the town just to make sure that he had everything recorded on his note-pad. Biggles reluctantly agreed and, bringing the aircraft almost down to rooftop level now, started the return journey over the town.

This time all hell broke loose, not only from aircraft guns, but also from German soldiers in the streets, who took pot shots with their rifles at the aircraft with the unmistakeable red, white and blue roundels on its wings. Miraculously, she came through unscathed — apart from some tell-tale bullet-holes around the cockpit, and shrapnel gashes in the wings — and Biggles decided
they had tempted providence enough for one wet afternoon and that it was time for home.

Easier said than done. As he began to put the aircraft into a slow climb and turn her nose south-west, the German guns below fell silent, and suddenly he saw the reason. Out in the clearing sky that lay between the F.E.2 and home were twelve black dots which, even as they watched, grew larger. German Albatrosses! Against such opposition Biggles' F.E.2 had as much chance of surviving as a cow faced with a pack of hungry lions.

But he still possessed one lingering advantage — the blanket of low grey cloud that stretched north of Vanfleur to the Belgian coast. If they could reach it, there was still a chance of giving the faster German planes the slip.

For the next few minutes it was touch and go, with Biggles speeding for the cloud-bank at full throttle, and the German triplanes closing in. Biggles could see by now the Squadron numbers on the fuselage of the leading aircraft, and then, suddenly, they were in the cloud. It was like flying straight into a dense grey fog, an eerie, silent world in which the German planes could never hope to find them.

There was no question now of flying south towards St Omer, for their best hope of dodging their pursuers still lay in the protection of this interminable bank of cloud. So, Biggles flew north-west by his compass, hoping in the end to reach the Belgian coast, then follow it down towards Dunkirk and home.

At first it seemed as if this plan would work. The German aircraft had no hope of finding them, and after studying his map and calculating distance from his flying time, Biggles decided they would soon be over the Belgian coast, and cautiously brought the aircraft down below the level of the cloud.

‘Great!' shouted Way as they reached clear air beneath the cloud-bank, for there on the horizon lay the sea with a pale blue sky beyond. Biggles gently eased the aircraft to the left and started the slow journey back to Base. Two things were worrying him by now. The first was his petrol level. The F.E.2's maximum endurance was three hours, and they had already been airborne more than half of this. The second worry was an enemy patrol. In this clear sky by the coast the F.E.2 would have no hiding place.

For twenty minutes all seemed well. The pale blue winter sky began to darken with the approach of evening, and Biggles kept
the aircraft's nose along the white line of the breaking surf beneath, whilst Way kept a sharp lookout for an enemy. But as always happens, trouble came when least expected.

From the map, Biggles had calculated that they would soon have reached the point where the Front Line met the sea, and was already looking forward to getting back in time for dinner, when Lieutenant Way shouted out a warning and swung his Lewis gun towards the water. Biggles followed the direction, only to see the dark shape of an Albatross heading towards them from the mist. At the same time, something made him glance in the opposite direction: another Albatross was swooping towards them for the kill. The two scout planes, out on their evening patrol, were evidently working together and launching a beautifully-timed dual attack on them.

Way did his best to head them off by firing manfully at each aircraft, but the odds were obviously too great, and the F.E.2 was no match for the synchronised machine-guns of the German planes. The distances began to narrow, and above the racket of the engine and the Lewis gun. Biggles could hear the whine of the two approaching Albatrosses. They were daring fliers to approach so close, and at the point where it looked as if collision was inevitable, Biggles yanked at the joystick and sent his aircraft zooming upwards. A second later came an appalling crash from just below. The aircraft shuddered in the explosion and was hit by small bits of wreckage, and as Biggles peered down he saw what had occurred. The two German pilots must have taken simultaneous evasive action to avoid collison, but had done it in the same direction and had met each other head on. There were no survivors, and as the F.E.2 lumbered on unharmed, Biggles could tell himself that he and Way had just had one of the luckiest escapes of the war.

But talk of escape was slightly premature. St Omer was still a good half hour away, the light was failing and suddenly the engine faltered, coughed, and then cut out. Biggles held the aircraft steady as it started to plane down towards the sea, and for a while he thought that he would even make the beach. No such luck. Like an extremely tired seabird the old F.E.2 glided towards the waves, bounced on the water and then subsided in a shower of spray. Luckily the sea was very shallow, and Biggles and Way, their flying jackets jettisoned already, were able to
wade ashore unhurt and make their way towards the sand dunes up beyond the beach.

It was as well they did, for at this point they had no idea on which side of the Front Line they had landed, but they soon found out when they heard German voices echoing along the beach. An enemy patrol had ventured out to investigate the crashed British aircraft. Luckily the light was fading quickly by now and the Germans were delayed by their attempts to search the plane. During this time the two British airmen made good their escape along the dunes, dodging between the shadows and the banks of high sea-grass that gave them perfect cover.

Soon they were halted by barbed wire, and as they lay hidden, trying to make out just what lay ahead, they heard a German working party digging a few hundred yards ahead. There was no longer any doubt of their position. They had reached the Front Line — and were lying on the German side of it.

Both men were wet and very cold — conditions not exactly calculated to bring out the best in Biggles — and it was Way who then decisively took charge.

‘Nothing for it, I'm afraid,' he whispered. ‘Either we swim, or spend the remainder of the war in a German prison camp.'

Swimming had never been much of a speciality with Biggles. To tell the truth, he loathed the water and it required the grim alternative of prison even now to make him think of it. Fortunately Way was a powerful swimmer — ‘Hang on to my collar,' he told Biggles as they slid into the icy waves.

The swim appeared to last for ever, and but for Way, Biggles would undoubtedly have drowned. Luckily the Lines were fairly close together, and the current flowed towards the south. After what seemed a wet eternity, Way turned towards the shore, and Biggles felt the sand again beneath his feet.

They scrambled up the shore and then a voice rang out —
‘Halte-là!'
It was a French patrol and they were safe at last.

It took another hour and a half to get back to the Mess at St Omer by road, and when they arrived, in borrowed French uniforms, they were something of a sight. But they received a hero's welcome, and that very night Way's information from Vanfleur was en route to the generals — who, for once, made good use of it.