by John Pearson
‘What news?’ said Biggles, thoroughly alarmed.
‘We have a visitor — or should I say a guest. Someone we haven’t seen for years. My sister, Catherine — that is to say, your mother.’
Biggles’ heart began to pound as fast as if he were facing twenty Fokker triplanes in a dogfight.
‘My what?’ he said incredulously.
‘My dear boy,’ said his Lordship. ‘I do realise the shock that this must be for you. And I realise how you must feel, but life has not been easy for her. She is a widow now. Her husband died last year in France and we have offered her a home at least until the war is over.’
Biggles was completely lost for words. This was the moment he had dreamt about for years, the longed-for rediscovery of his beloved mother. But now that it had come he wasn’t sure he wanted it.
‘What is she like?’ he asked at last.
Lord Lacey smiled. ‘She’s changed a lot, but underneath I think she’s probably the same as ever. Life never really can defeat people like your mother.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Biggles quietly.
She was waiting in the drive to greet them, and at first he barely recognised her. The mother he remembered was the youthful, fair-haired goddess who had come to kiss him goodnight every evening in the nursery. Now she was a plump, grey-haired matron in a dark-green overcoat. Could it possibly be her?
He jumped down from the trap, and for a moment they stood staring at each other.
‘James?’ she said tentatively.
‘Mother,’ he replied, not certain if he should laugh or cry, and then they were in each other’s arms.
‘Thank God I’ve found you!’ she exclaimed.
Biggles’ rediscovery of his mother did not turn out to be as joyful an affair as he imagined, and though it would be pleasant to record an idyllic reunion after all the years that they had been apart, it did not happen.
‘Perhaps deep down I still resented her for leaving us,’ Biggles admitted in old age when he brought himself to talk about it all. ‘And I suppose that I reminded her of many things that she would rather have forgotten.’
The truth was that they were strangers. Biggles had been living for so long with the image of a dream-like mother that he was not prepared for the reality. For Catherine Lacey — or the Widow Duclos as she had now become — was as dominating and tiresome as ever, but she no longer had the beauty which had previously disguised her faults. Even that first night at the Laceys, over dinner, she managed to annoy her new-found son.
‘But surely, James,’ she said, ‘the Flying Corps is not particularly smart. I think that I must do my best to get you transferred to the Guards.’
‘I’d rather that you didn’t,’ he replied.
‘Oh, but why not?’ she asked quickly.
‘Because I happen to love flying,’ he replied.
‘Young Algy’s just the same,’ said Aunt Priscilla, trying to change the subject slightly. ‘Since he’s joined up, the only thing he wants to do is get a transfer from the Grenadiers to the R.F.C
‘How very strange of him,’ said Catherine, coldly.
Later, as she kissed her son goodnight, she smiled and said, ‘Now that I’ve found you, darling James, I think the time has come to take you firmly in hand. You really do need looking after.’
How those words echoed in his ears for the remainder of his leave! For years now he had managed on his own and really pleased himself in everything he did. But now he had a mother, this had changed. Nothing was sacred any more — his friends, his underwear, his overdraft, and even his sex-life.
‘James, darling, you are so uncouth,’ she’d say and flash her brilliant smile at him. ‘You need a really nice girl who’ll take your mind off this beastly war.’
‘I’m not so sure I want one,’ he replied.
‘So like your father,’ was her answer, and before he left for France, Biggles endured interrogation upon almost every subject he held dear to him.
So it was probably as well that his leave ended when it did, and as he stepped aboard the Channel ferry he did so with a sense of freedom and relief. No more loneliness in London, no more comparisons with his brother Charles, and — for a time at least — no more questions from Mama!
‘Biggles, my boy, you look exhausted,’ said Mahoney as he slunk into the Mess that night.
‘Did you find yourself a lovely girl?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No such luck! I found myself a mother, and now the Huns will come as quite a rest. Thank God for the enemy!’
For the next few days it was exhilarating to be back and flying once again. Despite the filthy weather and the depressing progress of the fighting in the trenches, Biggles had never felt so happy since he first joined 266. His old Sidcot flying suit was waiting for him like a faithful friend, and while he was away the mechanics had fitted a new Bentley engine into his Sopwith Camel. She flew like a bird, and as he took off on his first patrol he was like a man renewed. The strain and tension of the weeks before his leave were over, and more than ever now he felt that this was the only life he wanted. London, relatives, and those fat civilians he had seen on leave bored or disgusted him. He wanted nothing but the freedom of the skies and the excitement of the day’s adventure.
But it was a slack time now for 266. There were two new Camel squadrons in the sector, clamouring for action on their own account. Mahoney was content to let them have it, but for Biggles life without its daily dose of action would have been unbearable.
‘You know what you are, James my lad?’ Mahoney said.
Biggles shook his head.
‘A bloody flying addict. It’s worse than taking to the bottle. You should watch it and relax.’
This was something Biggles could not do, and during the Christmas period he was continually nagging Major Mullen for some fresh assignment. Sometimes he got one and was happy. Twice he was ‘lent’ to Colonel Raymond (as he was now — he had been promoted) for a night-time ‘drop’ of Allied agents into Belgium. Both trips went off perfectly, and the excitement helped to keep the Bigglesworth adrenalin flowing. These operations also helped keep Biggles in the Colonel’s eye. He even dined with him one night, and for the first time Biggles found that that cold strange man was almost human.
‘Happy, Bigglesworth?’ he asked, as he swirled his pale gold vintage brandy in a glass the size of a small goldfish bowl.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders.
‘Life gets a little dull at times,’ he said.
‘Does it indeed?’ the Colonel laughed. ‘We’ll soon change that for you. Ever thought of working for Intelligence?’
Biggles was instantly on his guard.
‘Not if it means the end of flying,’ he said quickly.
‘Good Lord, no! That’s the last thing we would want, but I’d like to think that we could call upon you for, shall we say, some more demanding operations if the need arose.’
‘I’d enjoy that, sir,’ said Biggles.
‘Splendid,’ said the Colonel.
But there was no immediate result of that evening’s conversation. Christmas came, all operations ceased, and then the routine of the ordinary patrols continued.
Christmas was a trying time for Biggles. He never had enjoyed it as a festival. He disliked Christmas pudding, and the carols and the horseplay in the Mess embarrassed him. There was a parcel from his mother, which contained cigars, a novel by Ouida and two sets of woollen underwear. This was bad enough, but worse still was the Christmas letter he received from Aunt Priscilla. His cousin Algernon, she wrote, had got his transfer to the Flying Corps and had finished his basic training. He was already on his way to France, and she had pulled strings with the Air Board to have him sent to 266.
‘The boy has always looked up to you,’ she wrote, ‘and I know that you will do your best to keep an eye on him. He’s very young, and I would like to think that you will be an elder brother to him.’
Major Mullen roared with laughter at the news.
‘Elder brother! That’s a good one, James my boy!’
‘But sir,’ said Biggles, ‘you must do something about it. The boy’s a frightful weed, a real mother’s darling. He’s called Algernon Montgomery — and, by God, he looks like it!’
‘Well, he can’t help what he’s called, poor fellow, and if he’s as you say, he clearly does need looking after. I think you’d better have him in your flight.’
‘My what?’ said Biggles, suddenly aghast.
‘James, remember you were young yourself once, and they say that blood is thicker than water.’
‘Algy’s isn’t,’ Biggles answered grimly, and stormed out of the Mess.
The following afternoon Algernon arrived. Biggles himself had just returned from a sortie over no-man’s-land. For the third day running he had missed a German Halberstadt reconnaissance plane he had been after, and as he stumped across the tarmac in his flying gear, he was not in the best of tempers. A truck had drawn up beside the hangars arid a lanky, freckled youth with overlong fair hair was strolling cheerfully towards him, peaked cap worn jauntily on the back of his head.
‘Biggles!’ he shouted. ‘Wonderful to see you. The Mater told me you’d be here.’
Biggles stopped, and eyed him with disfavour.
‘Lieutenant Lacey, I presume,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ the youth replied, but Biggles cut him short.
‘My name is Captain Bigglesworth,’ he said icily. ‘I am your Flight Commander. Get your kit to your room, report your arrival to the Adjutant, and meet me in the Mess in twenty minutes’ time. I want a word with you.’
It was unusual for Biggles to pull rank on a younger flier in this way, but he had been thoroughly put out by having his young cousin wished upon him by his dominating aunt. There was also something about young Algy that annoyed him. But luckily, by the time they met in the Mess, Biggles had simmered down, deciding he must give the boy a chance.
He bought him a drink (Biggles noted with approval that he asked for ginger ale), then asked him how much flying he had done.
‘Ten hours in Camels, fourteen in Avros,’ he said proudly.
‘Jumping Jehosaphat! Ten hours in a Camel and they think you’re fit to face the enemy. Listen laddie, and listen carefully. Forget what they taught you back at training school. You start learning combat flying now with me. The Huns we’re up against are von Kirtner’s circus — Fokker triplanes. They’re not as good as Richthofen’s gang — you can thank your lucky stars for that. But they’re mean and dangerous, and you can’t afford mistakes. Tomorrow I will take you out to see the Lines, and I insist on certain rules. Rule number one — keep position in formation. You’ll be on my left, and stick there at all costs. An isolated plane is easy meat. Rule number two — keep your eyes peeled, and always watch the sun. That’s where the opposition comes from if it gets the chance. And rule number three — if a Hun does get on your tail, don’t try to get away. You won’t. Go for him instantly. Give him everything you’ve got. Try and ram him. You’ll see how quickly he’ll get out of your way. And one last thing, if you ever meet a Hun head on, you don’t give way. In 266 it isn’t done. Leave it to him to give way to you.’
Algernon Montgomery seemed slightly dazed by all this good advice, and next day Biggles called him early for their tour of the Lines. He was not expecting trouble, and in fact had tended to exaggerate the risks from Kirtner’s fliers. But as the two Camels took off from the airfield and headed east, Biggles was disturbed to see the banks of scattered cloud across the German territory — ideal cover for a lurking enemy. But Algernon Montgomery was on his best behaviour, keeping position close by Biggles’ wing-tip as if his life depended on it. Once or twice Biggles glanced back at him, and the boy smiled and waved in return.
For half an hour they flew along the Lines at about 7,000 feet, with Biggles pointing out the all too familiar landmarks — a stream, a wood, an abandoned village, with the fearsome desolation of no-man’s-land beyond. Apart from some lazy puffs of anti-aircraft fire, there was no sign of opposition — until suddenly, less than a mile away in an opening in the clouds, Biggles spotted six Fokker triplanes flying in tight formation. Had he had Mahoney with him, he would have plunged into the attack, but with a greenhorn pilot like his cousin, it was far too risky. Instead, he dipped his wings as a signal, dived straight towards the nearest bank of cloud and turned for home — trusting Algernon would follow.
He did nothing of the sort, and when Biggles looked behind he saw to his horror that he had disappeared. He turned back instantly, climbed, and flew out from the cloud — in time to see his cousin’s aircraft far below following the German triplanes.
‘He’s raving mad,’ he said, and set off in pursuit, but even as he did so the distant aircraft disappeared into a further bank of cloud, and it was pointless to continue.
‘Poor silly idiot,’ he said, and somewhat callously began to wonder what on earth he’d write to Aunt Priscilla. ‘A hero’s death’, or something of the sort. Biggles was getting rather used to writing letters to his pilots’ next of kin, and had a standard set of phrases he could use.
When he landed, Major Mullen was already waiting on the tarmac.
‘Where’s Algernon?’ he shouted. Biggles shook his head.
‘Copped it, I’m afraid. Chased off in pursuit of half a dozen Fokkers. I’d warned him. Sorry sir, but there it is.’
But even as he spoke, there came the unmistakable engine note of a Sopwith Camel, and through the low cloud came an aircraft with the Squadron’s markings.
‘Looks as if you wrote him off too early,’ Mullen said. ‘Perhaps you’d better deal with him yourself
‘It will be a pleasure, sir,’ said Biggles savagely.
Algernon Montgomery seemed quite surprised at Biggles’ fury.
‘Daft young puppy!’ Biggles shouted. ‘Next time you feel like suicide, please do it somewhere else, and not in your aircraft. We’re short of Camels, but we can do without lunatics like you. What did you think that you were up to?’
‘Having a crack at them, sir! They were the first Huns I’d ever seen, and I’m afraid that my excitement got the better of me.’
‘Did it indeed? You’re lucky to have escaped alive.’
‘But I got one.’
‘Got what?’
‘A Fokker. Shot it down. It was at the tail-end of the formation, and with all that cloud around he can’t have seen me. It was a fluke, of course — more luck than judgment, sir.’
He smiled happily, and despite himself Biggles began to wonder if he could possibly be telling the truth.
‘How d’you know you shot it down?
‘I saw it fall — on the edge of that square-shaped wood on our side of the Lines.’
‘We’ll check. But get this straight, Algernon my boy. In future, when I say that you stay put I mean exactly that. You understand?’
The boy nodded. ‘Sorry sir,’ he said.
‘Well,’ said Biggles as he sat with Major Mullen and Mahoney, having his customary pre-lunch gin and orange in the Mess beside a blazing fire, ‘I just don’t know what to make of him. Either he really did shoot down that Hun, or he’s the biggest liar in creation.’
‘He might have done it,’ Mullen said. ‘It has happened.’
‘But not to Algernon,’ said Biggles. ‘He’s too soft to shoot a dicky-bird, let alone one of von Kirtner’s triplanes.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to wait and sec. Taking him with you on the dawn patrol tomorrow morning?’
Biggles nodded.
‘Then for God’s sake drum into his idiotic head that he’s to stick to you this time whatever happens.’
‘If it’s the last thing that I do,’ said Biggles grimly.
Biggles was in a pensive mood next morning as he led his flight toward the German Lines. Reports had reached the Squadron Office that a German aircraft had indeed crashed in flames exactly where his cousin said. ‘So he may be a damn fool, but at any
rate he’s not a liar,’ he said to himself. ‘At least that’s something.’ A more serious matter on his mind was that enemy air activity was starting to increase again. There had been reports that Kirtner’s circus had been reinforced and warnings to all British combat pilots in the sector to expect trouble.
For a while there was no sight of it. The clouds of the previous day had dispersed, and with the pale blue sky and wintry sun the world held a totally deceptive air of peace. Even the ever-present anti-aircraft fire had taken the day off, and Biggles was humming to himself when he saw the enemy. There was no question of evading them this time, even if he’d wanted to, for they were flying straight towards them, six Fokker triplanes with the green and white insignia of von Kirtner’s circus. ‘Three Britons to six Huns,’ Biggles muttered to himself. ‘About the right odds I should say!’ He waved to Healy on his right and Algernon on his left, then dipped his wings and roared head-on towards the enemy.
It was the sort of fight that Biggles liked — a test of nerve and flying skill where everything depended on split-second judgment. If anything would really test his cousin, it was this. The great temptation in this sort of battle was always to over-react, to fire too soon, to dodge too rapidly, and he could see the wicked flashes of the Spandaus on the leading German plane already firing towards him. He clenched his teeth and held his fire a moment longer as he kept the nose of the oncoming aircraft firmly in his sights and curled his finger round the twin triggers of his Vickers guns.
By now he could feel the Spandau bullets striking home into the Camel’s body. The aircraft shuddered, then at last he fired — one long and deadly burst that sent the Fokker zooming down with a plume of black funereal smoke spewing from its shattered engine. ‘One down and five to go!’ said Biggles to himself. But even as he said this there was a resounding crash that drowned the roar of Biggles’ engine. Away on his right, Healy’s Camel had just collided head-on with another Fokker, and the two planes, blazing and entwined in death, were spiralling to earth.
‘Good fellow, Healy,’ Biggles said, and raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. Tour of them to two of us. A bit close for comfort now!’