by W E Johns
For two hours the aerodrome presented a scene of unparalleled activity, and by the end of that time everything was in apple-pie order. All ranks were then dismissed to their quarters, with orders to parade in twenty minutes properly dressed, and in their best uniforms.
Biggles complained bitterly as he struggled with the fastenings of his collar.
‘Confound all brass-hats!’ he snarled. ‘If I had my way—’
‘All right! All right!’ growled Algy. ‘Don’t keep on about it! It only makes it worse.’
With tightly laced boots, and well-brushed uniforms, they took their places on the tarmac.
‘Everyone will stand by until further orders!’ called the C.O.
The officers took their places by the respective machines. The minutes rolled by. An hour passed slowly, and nothing happened. Two hours passed, and still there was no sign of the staff officers – otherwise ‘brass-hats’.
Biggles began to sag at the knees.
‘My hat!’ he groaned. ‘I can’t stand much more of this! Aren’t we getting any lunch today, Mahoney?’
‘The Old Man says no. The brass-hats might arrive at any moment, so we’re to carry on until they come.’
Slowly the afternoon wore on, but still there was no sign of the expected officers. Then, from a distance, came the drone of many aeroplanes flying in formation, and the personnel of Squadron No. 266 stiffened expectantly.
‘My word, they’re doing the job properly!’ muttered Algy to Biggles.
‘Don’t be a fool! Brass-hats don’t fly!’ snapped Biggles. ‘Look! What’s this coming? What the—’
He broke off, staring unbelievingly towards the far edge of the aerodrome as nine Bristol Fighters, flying very low in a beautiful tight Vee formation, swept into sight.
Straight across the aerodrome they roared. When they were about half-way, and immediately in front of the sheds, they dipped in ironical salute.
A message streamer fluttered to the ground from the leading machine. Then they disappeared from sight beyond the hangars, and the drone of their engines was lost in the distance.
An air-mechanic raced out, picked up the message, and carried it to the puzzled C.O.
Under the curious eyes of the entire squadron he opened it. There was an extraordinary expression on his face as he looked up and called:
‘Captain Mahoney and Captain Bigglesworth, please come here! What do you make of that?’ he went on curtly as he passed a sheet of paper.
They read it together:
‘It is requested that Captains Mahoney and Bigglesworth be asked how they like their eggs boiled,
‘For and on behalf of the officers of Squadron No. 301.’
‘(Signed) A. L. BENSON, Major.’
‘What a put-over!’ gasped Biggles, as understanding flashed to him.
‘Come with me!’ said the C.O. curtly, and led the way to the squadron office. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he went on as he closed the door behind them, ‘kindly have the goodness to explain what all this is about.’
Biggles acted as spokesman. Clearly and concisely he told the whole story, from Algy’s reprimand by Captain Bitmore up to the masquerade, and the admonition of that officer.
The major heard him out in silence.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘there are two aspects in this situation. Major Benson has evidently discovered the plot, and he has taken the course that I, knowing him as an officer of the finest type, would expect.
‘If he had reported the matter officially to Headquarters I need hardly tell you that you would both have been court-martialled. As it is, he has taken an unofficial course to enable the squadron to get its own back. He has put it across us very neatly!
‘At this moment every member of Squadron No. 301 is probably convulsed with mirth at our expense. We shall never hear the last of it. The joke has recoiled on us with a vengeance. What are we going—’
The door was flung open, and Wat Tyler, the recording officer, dashed in,
‘Staff car just arrived, sir, with a full load of officers from General Headquarters!’ he gasped.
Major Mullen sprang to his feet.
‘Get back to your stations!’ he shouted, making for the door.
Biggles gurgled with glee, as with Mahoney at his side they dashed back to the sheds.
‘What a fluke! What an absolute hummer!’ he chortled. ‘It’s a surprise inspection. Won’t 301 be pleased when they hear about it!
‘They’ve done us the finest turn they could possibly do for us – if they’d spent a year trying to work it out. The laugh will be on our side, after all.’
An hour later the officers and mechanics of Squadron No. 266 were paraded in front of the sheds, and General Sir Martin Ashby, of the General Headquarters Staff, addressed them.
‘It gives me great pleasure,’ he began in his stentorian voice, ‘to see a squadron in the field that can carry itself with such spotless efficiency. I have visited many units in the course of my duties, but never has it been my lot to find one in which such praiseworthy zeal is so obviously displayed by all ranks.
‘Your equipment is a credit to yourselves, your commanding officer, and the Service as a whole. I shall make it my business to see that the magnificent example you have set is made known to every other squadron in France. So gratified am I to find that a unit in this command can maintain itself as I have always claimed that a squadron can be maintained, in spite of active service conditions, that I shall cause these observations to be published tonight in R.F.C. orders, so that all other units on the Western Frontfn1 may be aware of the pattern you have set. Thank you!’
Major Mullen’s face wore a broad smile as he returned from seeing the officers on their way.
‘What a slice of luck!’ he laughed. ‘The squadron’s reputation is now higher than it has ever been before, and the general has just told me that all requests from us will in future receive his personal consideration. Applications for leave will receive priority.
‘Yes, the laugh is certainly with us. What is more, I took the opportunity of mentioning Lacey’s little episode, and the general has promised to put the matter right with Wing, which means that no further action will be taken in the matter, except that Captain Bitmore is likely to get a rap over the knuckles. In fact, everything seems to have panned out extremely well!’
fn1 The front-line trenches stretching from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier where the opposing armies faced one another.
About the Author
CAPTAIN W. E. JOHNS was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The First Biggles story, Biggles: The Camels Are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.
MORE BIGGLES ADVENTURES
FIRST WORLD WAR
Biggles Learns to Fly
Biggles Flies East
Biggles of the Fighter Squadron
Biggles in France
Biggles and the Rescue Flight
Biggles: The Camels Are Coming
BETWEEN THE WARS
Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor
Biggles and Co.
Biggles Flies West
Biggles Goes to War
Biggles and the Black Peril
Biggles in Spain
SECOND WORLD WAR
Biggles Defies the Swastika
Biggles Delivers the Goods
Biggles Defends the Desert
Biggles Fails to Return
BIGGLES IN FRANCE
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 409 02354 8
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
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This ebook edition published 2014
Copyright © W. E. J
ohns (Publications) Ltd, 1935
Cover design copyright © Mick Wiggins, 2014
First Published in Great Britain by Boy’s Friend Library, London, 1935
The right of W E Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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