Embedded Files
Mathematics.
A young, bookish-looking RFC officer sat on an empty oil drum in the corner of the aerodrome of 266 Squadron, of Maranique, France. He stared pensively into the middle distance for some time and then turned his eyes downward and began to write in a copybook open in his lap. The young man’s name was Henry Watkins, recently joined the squadron, but he had quickly earned the nickname “The Professor” for his tendency to take a highly analytical and mathematics-based approach to all things and, in particular, air combat.
“Deuced air resistance,” he muttered to himself, “why can’t it be constant? It’s bad enough not being able to assume ideal conditions let alone having a war on”. He continued to mutter and intermittently make notes in the copybook when he was interrupted in his ruminations by the approach of his flight commander, Captain James Bigglesworth, better known as Biggles.
“What ho, professor? I would ask you what new mad scheme you’re brewing up in your copybook but I dread to hear the answer.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s projectile motion related to the release of bombs from a moving Sopwith Camel where if you consider the X and Y motion independently as Galileo did, then you can…..”
“Hold hard!” cried Biggles. “I hadn’t actually asked! I don’t think I can manage with all that X-Y-Z stuff again.”
“You’re right,” sighed Henry resignedly, “it’s not bald-headed enough for the likes of you.”
“That’s how you get huns, my lad. I thought you had learned that by now”, grinned Biggles. “Anyway, I’ve some news for you and you may or may not like it. I’m not sure I’m particularly happy about it, if I’m honest”, he added lugubriously.
Henry, curious, frowned slightly. “What is it then?”
“Colonel Raymond has just been by. It seems that after your escapade with that bridge, Wing have got a rush of blood to the brain and they’ve asked us to go after another one of some strategic importance. The DH.9s they sent over on high level bomb runs haven’t made a dent. They believe a single seat scout doing a low level run might stand a better chance. They seem to think we’ve become bridge fanatics or something. Not for me, though. I prefer a proper dogfight with some Fokkers up where the air is clear than footling around near the carpet playing some fool game of boules with Cooper bombs.”
“That sounds jolly good”, replied Henry, genuinely pleased. “I’ve been rather wanting to try to refine my bombing runs which is why I’ve been trying to tackle these projectile problems. Mathematics, always a matter of mathematics. Here, take a look!” He held out his open copybook in his flight commander’s face.
Biggles’ recoiled. “You keep that thing away from me! I don’t want to catch what you’ve got.”
“You are a lost cause”, muttered Henry, lowering his book. “My intellect is wasted here, you know.”
“Now listen here, laddie” said Biggles, becoming serious. “None of your hair-brained antics on this one, is that clear? You will attack the bridge from above and you will keep your wings on. We can’t afford to be throwing away perfectly good Camels in the service of your daft schemes.” In saying this, Biggles was referring to Henry’s previous attempt to bomb a bridge from beneath which, while succesful in causing the destruction of the bridge, also resulted in the destruction of Henry’s aircraft through removal of its wings by the bridge supports. Henry had only just managed to survive the experience and evade capture.
Henry coloured. “Yes, no fear on that account. I’ve no desire to repeat that. Can I ask for a concession, however? I would like to continue using a single large 50 pound bomb than the four small Coopers.”
Biggles considered for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you may….provided that you can deliver it safely. It was certainly effective last time.”
“I’m all for it then” replied Henry brightly.
“Very well. Let’s find Algy and take a dekko. We can check the approaches and the archie before we hit it properly. It’s not too far over the lines. Seems the huns need it for bringing up reserve troops and they recently reinforced it so it may be a tough nut to crack.”
Henry grinned. “Then let me fetch my nut cracker!”
The three pilots gathered by the C flight sheds and Biggles briefed them. “We’ll head over at 10 thousand, overshoot the bridge and then turn and dive on it towards our own lines. We’ll need to drop down rather sharpish as they’re likely to lay it on thick with the archie. We’ll do a swoop and look for the best line to see where we can hit the span or supports. We won’t have long so keep your wits about you. Algy, you keep an eye out for huns while Henry and I scan the bridge. We’ll do two low level passes then hedge hop for home. I don’t feel like taking my chances climbing for height as it will make us vulnerable. We’re likely to come under a lot of small arms fire but it’s a relatively short dash for the lines and it’s nothing we haven’t put up with before on trench strafing runs. In fact, while you’re at it you might want to sow some lead into the trenches on your way through. All clear?” Henry and Algy both nodded.
“Right then. Let’s get airborne.”
A short time later the three Sopwith Camels of C flight were in the air and heading for the lines on a course that would take them over the bridge that formed their objective. They crossed the lines and were briefly harassed by archie in the usual fashion. It was in German territory that the real danger lay. In his cockpit, Henry scanned the sky continuously for enemy scouts, an act that became second nature for any pilot after even a short time in France. He knew that his flight commander would be doing the same and he kept an eye out for the tell-tale rocking of the wings that would signal that an enemy patrol had been spotted. They remained unmolested as they neared their target, which was something of a surprise. Henry saw Biggles' Camel tilt forward and start to dive for the bridge and he followed, still keeping an eye out for German aircraft. As they descended a furious bombardment of archie began, as the German gunners made every effort to defend the bridge they were tasked with defending. Henry flinched as shrapnel whirred past his head, taking the small propeller off the Rotherham air pump on the cabane strut. “By the ghost of Copernicus, that was a bit close!” he cried out. He looked over at the pump with concern, knowing that without the pressurisation of his fuel tank that it provided, he may have problems with fuel delivery should he need to put the Camel through any hard maneuvers. He eyed the pump with a worried frown and listened for any change in the note of his Bentley rotary that might signal a fuel feed problem. “Dash it all, I hope Biggles gets us out of this thunderstorm soon.”
Realising they were levelling out over the bridge now and able to view it clearly, Henry turned his attention to it and looked with interest. While he was not a structural engineer, he could tell by looking at it that the Germans had gone to some lengths to ensure it was sturdy and difficult to bring down. Many bomb craters surrounded the area but the bridge remained intact, evidence that the bombing efforts of the DH.9s had been ineffective. As they turned to begin their second pass the archie died away and at the same time he heard the chatter of Algy’s guns, firing in warning. Henry frantically scanned the sky and spotted 6 straight winged machines dropping down on them like a birds of prey on a family of hares. Henry saw Biggles turn and bring the nose up to face the new menace and he followed suit, still keeping formation. Flame spurted from the twin Spandau’s on the lead machine and Henry heard bullets tearing through the fabric. In a flash they were past and turning to come around for a second attack. It was immediately apparent that the other aircraft in the patrol were not being piloted well, as each scattered haphazardly. Henry also noticed that they were of a type unfamiliar to him. That they were from the Fokker factory was clear, having a rotary engine and unmistakable fuselage and tail design in common with the triplane. However, these were of biplane construction. A Fokker triplane with only two wings was outside of Henry’s experience. He noticed that the leader flew a bright yellow machine with black and white stripe while the other five aircraft had the standard German multicoloured lozenge, though each having the same black stripe as the leader. All this went through Henry’s mind in the few moments it took him to bring his aircraft around as all 9 machines entered a whirling melee. Very quickly two of the enemy aircraft collided and fell in a tangle of wings. “Four to three now, that certainly evens things up!” he thought to himself.
As he turned to follow one of the enemy aircraft he saw Biggles’ tracer pour into another, which went down in a sheet of flame. The yellow machine seemed to have fastened itself to Algy’s tail and followed tenaciously despite Algy’s best efforts to throw it off. Henry let off a burst of tracer at another aircraft as it passed in front of him. Seemingly rattled, the pilot turned clumsily and made full out in a direction away from the lines. Henry saw the other two Germans doing the same and their leader break off from pursuing Algy and turn to follow his own pilots. Henry looked over at Biggles machine to see his flight leader twirling a hand above his head then jabbing toward the lines. Henry needed no second invitation and made flat out in the direction of British territory with the other two members of his flight, hedge-hopping to an accompaniment of ground fire and emptying his guns into the trenches on the way over in keeping with Biggles’ instructions.
Back at Maranique, Henry taxied up to the tarmac and switched off. The other two machines were already there and the pilots waiting for him. “That was a little warmer than I would like”, called Henry as he walked over to join the other two.
“We’ve been in much worse scrapes before, replied Algy, “but my word that yellow chap could fly! I felt a mite uncomfortable I don’t mind saying. What were those kites anyway? Fokkers by the look of them.”
“I’ll wager a steak dinner that those machines were from the Fokker works” agreed Biggles.
“Trouble with some Fokkers, Bigglesworth?” asked Major Mullen the squadron C.O., who had approached unnoticed. As one the three pilots stiffened to attention and saluted. "At ease, gentlemen."
“Sir, yes, a spot of bother with some Fokkers. We ran into them over the bridge that Wing asked us to have a crack at. A type I’ve never seen before. Biplanes, but not D.VIIs. Rotary engined. In fact, they looked rather like a triplane had met a D.VII coming the other way.”
“They weren’t D-fives, I can tell you that for a fact. I’ve seen them up close.” chimed in Algy.
Biggles laughed while Henry looked on quizically. Biggles explained: “On Algy’s first flight over the lines he tried to join a formation of D-fives from Von Kirtner’s circus.”
“Yes, only they objected so I had to push one of them into the floor” rejoined Algy grinning broadly.
“If you’ve quite finished reminiscing, gentlemen?” interrupted the major. “The D.V is long obsolete so they would hardly keep them over the front. I would say they are the new D.VI the Germans have introduced, though they are a rare bird from what I hear. I understand most of the effort has gone into producing the D.VII. However, from what little I know of them I believe they can be quite maneuverable so take care around them.”
“Not with the pilots they had flying them, sir” said Biggles. “The flight leader was clearly an old hand but the rest looked terribly inexperienced. They bolted like rabbits at the first sign of gunfire. I imagine they will be getting a dressing down as we speak.”
Major Mullen thought for a moment. “That’s not entirely surprising to hear. The Germans are starting to run short of men and equipment and their practice of moving all the aces into circuses has left the regular squadrons devoid of experienced pilots to train up the newer ones. I fear that the practice is coming back to bite them. It certainly works in our favour though. Anyway, how did you get on with the bridge?”
Biggles expression became serious. “It won’t be easy. The bridge is sturdy, the Germans have made sure of that. There is also a solid wall of archie to fly through not to mention it looks like they keep a patrol over it to chase anyone off. Even if the pilots are inexperienced it will make for a trying time.”
“Mathematics”, Henry interjected. “As with all things, it’s a matter of mathematics.”
Biggles passed a hand over his face while Algy shook his head sadly. The major looked sharply at Henry and asked “And what exactly do you mean by that, Watkins?”
Henry paled slightly. “I mean, sir” he stammered, “with the right charge dropped at the right point it’s possible to bring that bridge down. I have been doing some calculations lately….”
“Oh don’t let him start on that, sir, please!” cried Biggles aghast. “Just leave it with us and we’ll put an end to that bridge for you. Mathematically or otherwise.”
“I shall rely on you then, Bigglesworth”, returned the major. “Just don’t take any unnecessary risks. I’ve no desire to lose good pilots over this, no matter how much Wing wants that bridge gone. I very nearly lost one on the last bridge” he added, looking pointedly at Henry, whose cheeks reddened. Biggles and Algy suppressed smiles as the major turned on his heel and walked back to the flight office.
“Well, you heard the C.O. you fellows. We’ll have a crack at it tomorrow. But Henry, remember: over it not under it and bring your kite back with all its wings this time. Now, let’s see what we can find in the mess.” Turning to the sheds he called “Smyth! These machines need attention. We shall need them in the morning. This one needs a new air pump by the looks of it. Also, I believe Watkins here wishes to have an unorthodox bomb mounting again.”
“Very good sir” Smyth replied, saluting. The pilots turned and made their way to the mess.
Early the next morning the three Camels were in the air, once again heading for the bridge. Henry had stayed up much of the night calculating the height and speed needed to successfully land his bomb at the exact point on the span where it would bring the structure down. He had researched the span length of the bridge so he could use it to judge his release point. The ack-emmas had affixed the single 50-lb high explosive bomb via a modified bomb rack. While it weighed less than the usual set of four Cooper bombs, the drag and weight distribution of the 50-pounder caused some unusual flying dynamics for the Camel. Henry, knowing the laws of motion described by the great Sir Isaac Newton, was also acutely aware that releasing the bomb may result in some bucking of the machine as it was suddenly relieved of its load. “F equals delta m times a” he muttered, referring to the famous equation linking force, mass and acceleration, “and that’s a large and sudden delta m. It won’t do to chuck the kite around too much either. Well, we shall see.”
Repeating the course taken the day before, the three aircraft over-flew the bridge and began to turn to make their diving run. Before they could do so, the sudden cessation of archie warned them of the approach of enemy aircraft. Although Biggles had taken care to scan the sky continuously for hostile machines, it seemed that the enemy flight commander was experienced enough to have managed to keep his patrol hidden in the sun. Henry looked up to see eight machines tearing down from a superior height. He squinted and let out a small gasp. “It’s the Fokkers again, but now there’s eight of them. They’ll be looking to get even I’ll warrant.” He picked out the yellow machine at their head. He saw Biggles and Algy release their bombs so as to be able to maneuver more freely, for to make an attempt on a bomb run now would be suicidal. For Henry, however, the decision to unload his cargo was not so simple. “Dash it all, I’ve come this far! Hanged if I’m going to let all that effort go to waste. I stayed up half the night doing those calculations you blasted huns!”
So saying, he dragged his aircraft around and began to line up for his dive on the bridge, leaving the other two pilots to handle the Boche scouts. “Those huns will probably knock each other out of the sky anyway” he thought to himself, in a half-hearted attempt to justify his decision to leave the flight. He began a wire screaming dive toward the bridge but as he did so, he looked over his shoulder to see the yellow Fokker diving to follow him. Henry went pale as death, knowing that Biggles and Algy would have their hands full with the other seven machines and be unable to intervene. “All right, you rotter, I’ve a trick or two to show you!” So saying, Henry steepened his dive. One thing he hoped to rely on was that German machines were often known to shed their wings in a steep dive. Turning around to look again he saw to his horror that the yellow Fokker was matching his dive effortlessly. It seemed the construction of this new type was more robust than the typical German machines. There was one advantage to it; in following Henry down the German pilot had at least ensured that the sky was empty of Archie.
The rattle of guns caused Henry to begin to weave to make a difficult target, as rounds from the German’s guns began to bore into his machine. Henry held his dive to within a hundred feet of the ground, levelling out with the Camel groaning in protest. The yellow machine seemed to have a little more difficulty levelling out, giving Henry brief respite, but soon the other aircraft began to return to its position on his tail. Henry knew he had one last chance. Lining up for the bridge he flew straight and level, but at an airspeed in excess of what his calculations allowed for. Frantically he did mental arithmetic to apply a correction factor to compensate with a different release point. Henry held the bomb release, expecting at any moment to feel bullets boring into his back. He heard the rattle of guns again and felt the Camel quiver as the bullets bore into the framework. “Steady….not yet” he said softly, fixing his eyes on the bridge span ahead. Again the rattle of guns and the thud of bullets. Henry felt one graze a rib but so focused was he that he barely felt the pain. “Now!” he cried, pulling the bomb release.
Three things happened, almost simultaneously. The 50-lb bomb soared in a parabola that would have made Galileo weep with joy and disappeared in a sheet of flame and dust. As a result of being released of its load, the Camel soared upwards as though hit by an almighty updraft. This sudden change meant that the burst of bullets intended for the Camel and its pilot passed harmlessly underneath. The German pilot had not been expecting the sudden climb and was momentarily perplexed as the Camel disappeared from in front of him, so intent had he been on lining up his gun sight. Henry, having fully expected what happened, mouthed a quick thankyou to the late Sir Isaac Newton before executing an Immelmann turn that brought him sweeping down on the tail of his opponent. “Take that, you rotter!” he shouted, pressing his finger on the bowden lever of his twin Vickers. The range was short and Henry’s aim was true. He saw splinters fly out as the propeller of the Boche aircraft disintegrated and smoke start to pour from the engine. The pilot appeared unhurt and looked around for somewhere to put the aircraft down. Henry saw the machine aim for the only piece of clear ground but it was not large enough to land an aeroplane. The Fokker clipped a tree and cartwheeled, coming to a stop in a tangled mess of wood, wire and yellow canvas. Henry breathed a long sigh of relief after the anxiety of the last few moments.
Turning to rejoin the other members of his flight, he saw them descending to meet him. In the distance he could see four remaining Fokkers diving for home. He reasoned that Biggles and Algy must have shot down the other three. Henry turned to assess the damage caused by his bomb, followed by a storm of archie and small arms fire that had resumed now that the German aircraft had been shot down or driven off. Making a quick pass over the bridge he was delighted to see that for a quarter of its length it had collapsed into the river. “Well, Wing will be pleased at any rate” he thought to himself. Turning again, he made for the lines, forming up with Biggles and Algy and once again strafing the German support trenches on the way to the lines.
On the tarmac at Marinique, Henry climbed stiffly from his cockpit. The pain from his wounded ribs becoming more acute now. Biggles was waiting to greet him.
“What were you doing diving down like that, you dashed fool? If you wanted to make yourself easy meat for that hun you couldn’t have done a better job.”
“Ah, but I knew something he didn’t know” rejoined Henry.
“And what was that?”
“Newton’s second law. You see, when the force of lift is applied to a changing mass, there must be an acceleration proportional to…”
“Oh what rot!” laughed Biggles. “Anyway, you didn’t come away completely unscathed” he said, looking at Henry’s bleeding side with concern. “You need to get that seen to. In the meantime I shall report to Major Mullen the successful destruction of one bridge and the loss to the enemy of four Fokker D.Vs, one yellow. That was jolly good shooting.”
“Thank you, sir. Don’t forget to tell him what really brought that hun down though”, said Henry.
“And what might that be?” asked Biggles curiously.
“Mathematics” grinned Henry.
The Seaplane
Biggles stifled a yawn as, at ten thousand feet, his Camel cruised North above a blanket of unbroken white cloud. Tired after a hair-raising week of introducing the reckless young Algernon Montgomery to war flying, he had been sent by Major Mullen to pick up one of the new RNAS1 shipboard Camels. The CO had asked for it to compare with the squadron’s own machines for a potential advantage in balloon busting, and the Navy had reluctantly agreed. The aircraft he was collecting was aboard the HMS Pegasus and Biggles looked forward with some interest to looking over the aircraft as well as the launching arrangement that allowed it to take off and land on board a ship. Leaving Algy under the watchful eye of Mahoney, Biggles had headed North in stages, calling in on squadrons for meals and company along the way, and he was now on the final leg to the Belgian coast where the ship was currently moored. So far the trip had proved uneventful, for Biggles was flying well behind the lines and for once, due perhaps to an increasing sense of exhaustion, Biggles was more than happy not to encounter any opposition in the sky.
A slight frown creased his forehead as he realised the cloud cover stretched from horizon to horizon and he now had no idea how near to the sea he was. The thought of running out of fuel or experiencing engine failure over the ocean was not a pleasant one to contemplate. Biggles peered intently at his compass to ascertain that he was still on his allotted course. Not knowing the direction or strength of the wind at his current altitude he experienced further consternation as he realised he could be far off course and not be aware of it. Tilting his nose down slightly he approached the top of the cloud cover at just under four thousand feet. Anxiously, he scanned it for a break that would allow him to go down to check his whereabouts.
“My hat!”, he ejaculated suddenly, as an aircraft emerged from the mist just off his port wing, like some sea creature arising slowly from the depths. The plane was of a type entirely unknown to Biggles, but the maltese crosses emblazoned on it told their own story. “A hun eh”, muttered Biggles, “where are your pals I wonder, or is it just you and I out for a stroll?”. The pilot suddenly appeared to notice Biggles, for he was close enough to observe his reaction, and he did something quite unexpected. He turned and saluted. Biggles, used to the hostility of air combat and the instinct to attack on sight any black-crossed machine, was somewhat taken aback. He throttled back slightly, for the other machine was slower than he, and returned the salute, grinning. “Well, he’s a gentleman at any rate” he mused, wondering how the affair would turn out as the two aircraft flew side by side.
He now had an opportunity to study the enemy machine and did so with great interest since no move toward combat had yet been made. It was a flying boat, that is to say the fuselage was actually hulled such that the machine operated from water, and there was no undercarriage, just a set small floats attached to the lower wings. The engine was attached to the top wing instead of the fuselage and drove a “pusher” propeller. Biggles had heard of flying boats but had not yet encountered one in the air or on the ground. The lines of this machine were very graceful and Biggles felt a real admiration for it. “She’s a trim looking kite, that’s for certain”, he reflected. “I shouldn’t mind having a chance to fly one of those some day. Must be a dickens of a lark taking off from water, I don’t wonder!”
Suddenly he was shaken from his reverie by the faint sound of the enemy pilot warming his single Spandau machine gun. Biggles answered with a brief burst from his twin Vickers and increased the throttle in readiness for the impending action. The German pilot threw him a second salute and begun to manoeuvre into position for an attack. Biggles immediately took evasive action and manoeuvred to put himself behind the enemy’s tail. While doing so, Biggles observed that the seaplane was significantly slower and less manoeuvrable than his Camel, though it was clear that the pilot did not lack skill. Biggles brought himself into position for an easy shot but suddenly felt loathe to attack this plane and its friendly and noble pilot. He didn’t wish to destroy such a fine-looking machine and his brief moment of camaraderie had endeared him unexpectedly to the man at the controls. As he hesitated, the enemy pilot took advantage and heaved the seaplane around in a turn quite unlike anything Biggles had seen before. It was somewhere between a sideslip and a roll and put the aircraft well out of Biggles’ sights. The aircraft had somehow climbed sideways while turning, a feat Biggles had not seen before, and disconcertingly the pilot had brought it round on to Biggles’ tail. A stream of Bullets passed by the tailplane as Biggles swerved to foil the enemy’s aim, hearing the sound of his tail fin being perforated as he did so. “By James”, he snorted, “I had better watch my step! He certainly knows how to fly that thing.” The two aircraft now settled into a circle and began to chase each other’s tail, looking for a clearer shot.
Biggles, still loath to inflict severe damage on the plane or pilot, began to wonder how he could end the combat without doing so. Diving into the cloud was out of the question, as it would be seen as an act of cowardice. It would look particularly bad because the enemy had avoided doing so, despite the fact that his aircraft was clearly outclassed in speed and agility. Looking across the rapidly closing circle, Biggles’ eye was drawn to the high-mounted engine. “I wonder…” he mused, noting that it was well above the pilot’s head. Suddenly rocketing out of the circle, he did a lightning right-hand turn, for which the Camel was famous, and put himself behind and slightly below the seaplane. Taken by surprise, the other pilot wasted precious moments searching for the Camel. Coolly, Biggles drew a bead on the spinning propeller and his thumb closed over the Bowden lever. The twin Vickers snarled a chorus of destruction and Biggles watched a double stream of tracer bore into the engine of the other machine. Immediately the enemy plane jerked violently from side to side and Biggles realised that he had hit the propeller and the uneven torque must be shaking the plane about terribly. Still watching the engine, he saw a surprising thing. One of the pistons rocketed out through the side of the crank case and sailed back over his top plane. A cloud of smoke and a mist of oil followed it and he saw the nose of the aircraft tilt down. He could see that one of the interplane struts holding the engine had been shattered loose and half of it was trailing behind, attached to a flying wire. Biggles looked below to find that a break had opened in the cloud cover and toward this the seaplane was plummeting. Biggles followed, drawing alongside, and watched the pilot wrestling with the controls. As he snatched a glance across, Biggles waved to show that he meant no further harm. The German threw a brief and grateful wave across and returned to the task of getting his damaged aircraft down safely.
At five hundred feet both aircraft came out of the clouds to a panorama of Belgian fields. Biggles looked up to see the coast a few miles distant but realised the seaplane would never be able to glide far enough to land on the water. The enemy pilot evidently realised this too, for he turned the aircraft to put it down in a sizeable field near to hand. Biggles sheared off to watch the landing, feeling his own palms become sweaty in empathy for the stricken pilot. The seaplane levelled out for what would have been a smooth landing for any land plane. Biggles wondered what would be the result of trying to put the boat-like machine down on solid ground. He didn’t have long to wait, as he watched the aircraft hit the ground and bounce high into the air. To his surprise, he saw the pilot flung from the cockpit and into some dense undergrowth. The plane touched down once more and slithered along the field, turning slightly as it did so. Biggles watched it strike a hedge, with the nose and wingtip hitting simultaneously. The wing crumpled up and finally the machine came to rest, still pouring smoke from the shattered engine.
“I had better see if that poor fellow is alright, even if he is a hun”, he mused as he put the nose of the Camel down to land in the same field. The wind was not strong and Biggles put down lightly, coming to stop near to the undergrowth into which the unfortunate pilot had been catapulted. Biggles switched off and swinging down from the cockpit he drew his revolver and advanced quickly but cautiously toward the bushes. A brief search revealed the German pilot laying crumpled in some particularly thick bush, which had no doubt cushioned his fall. Biggles approached and felt the man’s pulse. He detected a beat but the man was evidently unconscious. Biggles dragged him from the undergrowth and contrived to make him comfortable, placing his flying jacket beneath the man’s head as a pillow. The pilot was about Biggles’ age, with handsome aristocratic features. He appeared to be unharmed but for cuts and bruises, the result of his plunge through the tangled branches. Biggles lit a cigarette and sat back on a tree stump to wait for him to regain consciousness.
After ten minutes or so, he observed the man stir and let out a weak groan. His eyes fluttered open and he took in his surroundings slowly, his eyes coming to rest on Biggles, then the pistol he held and finally the smouldering cigarette. “May I have one of those?” he asked in fluent English, with eyes twinkling and with only a trace of accent in his voice. Biggles eyes widened in shock and once again he was taken aback at the unexpected behaviour of this enemy airman. Recovering himself, he walked over and proffered the open cigarette packet, still warily holding the pistol at the ready. The man took a cigarette and then pointed to his own pistol, in a holster at his belt. “I expect you will want to take this, yes?” he said with a sigh. Feeling somewhat foolish for having forgotten to do so previously, Biggles nodded, smiling, and walked around to relieve the man of the weapon while but still covering him with his own. Having done so, he threw a packet of matches over and the German lit up with obvious relief, raising himself into a sitting position. “Nothing broken?” inquired Biggles.
“I think only my aeroplane” returned the German, turning to survey the wreckage with a resigned look. Turning back to Biggles he raised the cigarette and remarked “Good. Quite smooth.” “Better than the terrible ones of our French” he chuckled, referring to the region under German occupation. “I think you have the better side, yes?” he winked. Biggles laughed at the joke and nodded in agreement. “I think your side ought to just give up theirs and go home in that case” he taunted, “It’s not worth hanging on to”. The German laughed and replied “Ah yes, but your side is worth fighting for my friend, so I think we shall stay!”. Biggles laughed again and felt a surge of camaraderie for this polite, good-humoured man.
He remembered he carried a hip flask of French brandy, given to him by an old comrade at his last port of call, and taking it out he offered it to his companion. The German took it gratefully, his eyes lighting up with thanks, and took a mouthful with obviously positive results. “Let’s take a look at this machine of yours”, suggested Biggles after the flask was returned. “I must say, it’s a jolly nice looking kite…. or was”, he added. The German nodded morosely and rising somewhat unsteadily to his feet, he walked together with Biggles toward the wrecked aircraft. The smoke had stopped issuing from the engine and the risk of fire appeared to be minimal by this time. Biggles directed the man to sit on the aft section of the fuselage to rest, away from the cockpit and any potential weapon therein, while Biggles inspected the aeroplane up close. “It’s quite a machine. I wouldn’t mind going up in something like this one day. Tell me, what is it?” he asked curiously as he admired the streamlined hull. The German drew on his cigarette and replied “This one is a Hansa Brandenburg CC. They do not fly this anymore, it is too old, too slow. But I like it, with this one I do things the other plane they give to me cannot do.”
“I’ll say you can. You jolly nearly had me with that turn”, replied Biggles, “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Perhaps you’re the next Immelmann” he joked. The German smiled, “perhaps, but for me I think the air war is over, but I do not mind”, he continued sadly, “I do not enjoy to shoot the British pilots. Maybe I am shooting down an old school friend.”
“Is that how you speak such good English?” enquired Biggles.
“It is, yes. My Father sent me to Eton for he was a diplomat before the war. We return home and then straight away the war starts. I must decide to fight my old friends or my country men. It is hard” he shook his head sadly. Biggles inwardly cursed the war and the futility of men killing men they had never met, nor had any grievance with. For this pilot it must have been terrible, wondering whether the next man he shot at was one he had learnt and played alongside as a youth. Biggles sighed and turned to the man “As you say, for you the war is over. I suppose it’s just as well.”
At that moment, a troop of French soldiers appeared from the wood bordering the field, looking for the downed aircraft, and Biggles hailed them. “I say, do you fellows speak English?” he asked.
“Oui, I ‘av some” replied the officer in charge, approaching with a wary look at the German pilot.
“Jolly good. In that case, can you arrange a tender and a guard to take this man to Wijmendorp on the coast for questioning? I will take charge of him there. Oh, and can you please tell me which direction it is? I need to fly that plane there.”
The French officer looked at him oddly for a moment but acquiesced, “Oui, I shall have it done, m’sieur aviateur. Wijmendorp is that way” he said waving to the North-East, and turning he issued a string of commands to his men.
Biggles turned to the pilot and beamed, “You are my prisoner but you shall be my guest tonight. I must insist. I think I can find more brandy” he said, with an exaggerated wink. “We shall toast the end of your beautiful aeroplane, and the end of your war.”
The German smiled back at him. “It will be a pleasure, mein Herr. But I should know the name of my host. For myself, I am Leutnant Bruno Von Schlessel. And you, sir?”
“Biggles. My friends call me Biggles.” And with a wave he turned to his Camel as the man was led away under escort.
“Not a bad sort. Not a bad sort at all. Now if only there were more like him piloting those kites” he mused. “But then, I shouldn’t have the heart to fire a shot. Bah! What a daft war.” He shook his head sadly and walked slowly back to his waiting aircraft.
1. Royal Naval Air Service
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