Biggles (10 page)

Not that the General seemed to notice, for the old man was now in roaring form and spent the entire evening over dinner grumbling about the war, the generals, and particularly the politicians. Their chief offence was that they had apparently turned down the General's own attempt to re-enlist. He was in his seventies by now, but had dyed his hair — ‘it looked extremely odd', said Biggles — and had stumped up to Whitehall and tried to join the fray. ‘It must have been that blithering Lloyd George,' he shouted. ‘What does a Welsh mountebank like that know about the principles of war? He's scared that men like me will show him up for the fraud he is. No wonder that we're in the mess we're in.'

But with the port, the old man calmed down sufficiently to notice Biggles' M.C. ribbon and congratulate him. But even then poor Biggles' triumph was short-lived. ‘Pity, just the same,' the General said, ‘that you didn't stay put in a decent regiment like your brother Charles. He's doing very well, I hear. Just won the D.S.O. in that muck-up on the Somme,
and
been promoted Major. Grand chap, your brother!'

It was the same old story. Charles had beaten him again, but
Biggles wisely kept his disappointment to himself and turned the conversation to the other members of the family. Throughout his time in France he had heard nothing of his father, but the General kept in touch with him. ‘Poor old chap,' he said (although in fact John Henry Bigglesworth was a good twelve years younger than the General) ‘dreadful trouble with malaria and his heart's affected. Last I heard from him he was on his way back to the U.K. When you're over next you'll see him.'

Biggles wondered if he wanted to. He had managed for so long without a father that the whole idea of coping with him now was not attractive. It was his mother that he really longed to see, but naturally the General had no news of her, and for the remainder of the week that Biggles spent with his uncle there were other things to occupy his mind. The pheasants were magnificent that year, but to the General's disappointment, Biggles had little taste for shooting them. ‘I think I've had enough of shooting in the last few months,' he said. The General shook his head as if to say the boy was going soft. The General also had a new invention with which he was terrorising the whole neighbourhood — a radio-controlled anti-aircraft rocket. ‘Like most of the old boy's brainwaves, it was a trifle premature,' said Biggles later. ‘Probably as well it was. If it had really worked there'd not have been much future left for chaps like me.'

After his time in Norfolk, Biggles still had a few days before returning to his Squadron, and had planned to see the Laceys at their house in Sussex. He had not had much time to write to them whilst at the Front, and had no idea what to expect when he went down to Lewes. His Aunt Priscilla had been somewhat guarded on the telephone, but he was looking forward to seeing his absent-minded botanising uncle once again, and even his spoiled young cousin, Algy. Rather to his surprise, his uncle met him at the station with an ancient pony trap that had been taken out of moth-balls, since the motorcar was laid up for the war.

Lord Lacey seemed as vague and bumbling as ever with his long dundreary whiskers and his big checked overcoat. For a while he chatted on about the scandalous way the local farmers had been ploughing up the Downs. ‘Never a thought for the effect on the flora of the district. Still, such is war, and one must make one's sacrifices.' Biggles agreed that it was very hard, and then his uncle suddenly said, ‘Your dear Aunt thought that I should
break the news to you so that it wouldn't be too great a shock.'

‘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.'