Free Biggles by John Pearson Page A

itself on Biggles’ memory. Down, down he went, the Beardmore engine thundering and the ground hurtling towards him. Way had long given up all hope of getting out alive, when Biggles eased back the joystick, jerked at the toggle to release the bombs, and felt the exhilarating lift from the impact just below as the German guns exploded. Honour was saved, and three weeks’ boredom was atoned for. Now let the Germans do their worst!
    In fact it was not the Germans that Biggles had to fear. Apart from a close shave with a formation of twenty Albatrosses, the journey back to Base was uneventful. But once he landed the real trouble started. The Artillery Colonel had already been in touch with Major Paynter to complain about the brash young officer who had called him a ham-fisted idiot. (The fact that the same young officer had saved innumerable lives by silencing the German battery scarcely came into it.) The Artillery had been insulted, and Major Paynter was already waiting on the tarmac — fuming.
    â€˜Recklessness,’ ‘overstepping orders,’ ‘endangering an aircraft and the life of a brother officer’ — these were the spluttered words that Major Paynter used to describe Biggles’ exploit. And, having reprimanded him, he added just one further touch of senior officer’s pettiness.
    â€˜You will return this afternoon to the scene of this unfortunate affair, taking a camera with you. I shall require a photograph of the battery you bombed upon my desk by one hour after sunset. Is that clear?’
    Biggles saluted, and held his tongue, knowing that there was little point arguing against a martinet like Paynter. But Biggles had never grown used to reprimands from anyone, and that day was probably the nearest he ever came to mutiny. Just the same, the Major had his photographs before sunset.
    This exploit rather brought things to a head in the uneasy relationship between Biggles and the rest of 169, for by now there were two clear parties in the Mess. The larger, led by Major Paynter, was opposed to Biggles and its main aim was to ‘cut him down to size’, as one of them expressed it. And the smaller party, led by Lieutenant Way, while admitting most of Biggles’ faults, insisted that his skill and courage more than made up for them.
    â€˜Of course the boy’s a lunatic,’ said Way in a discussion in the bar that night, ‘but he flies like an angel and he kills Germans. You can’t condemn him just because he doesn’t drink and hasn’t got a sense of humour.’
    For several days the arguments went on, and then, in that dreadful early summertime of 1917, all argument became superfluous as every man in 169 suddenly found himself with more important things to think about. The British High Command had launched the great, ill-fated ‘push’ that ended in the slaughter of Paschendaele, and 169 was thrown in as well, providing non-stop ground support for the advancing British troops.
    This was the grimmest fighting 169 had ever seen — for Biggles, it would always be the low point of his life. For days on end the Squadron kept up unremitting pressure on the enemy, bombing and strafing troops, artillery and anything that moved in German territory. Single planes were flying nine and ten sorties daily, and the wear and tear on men and on machines was frightful. It was as if the war in the air had suddenly come down to earth, and no one could escape the noise and stink of battle. Losses were heavy — four of the Squadron’s aircraft failed to return in the first three days of the fighting — and even Biggles’ iron nerve began to waver with the strain. In his sleep he seemed to hear the rattle of his Lewis guns and see the nightmare faces ofthe troops he killed. He knew for certain that it would only be a few days before he joined them.
    He had one slight consolation. Owing to the damage to machines, he had been given a new Bristol