Arrogance

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

Biggles and Algy were just walking past the squadron office when Toddy, the RO, stuck his head of the window and said, “CO wants you two.”

“What have we done now?” asked Biggles, exchanging a look with Algy.

Toddy shrugged. “Don’t look at me. He just said he wanted to see you. Have you been playing tricks on the 287 crowd again or something?”

“Not that I can remember. Well, we’d better see what he wants.”

They were soon in Major Mullen’s office. The CO was working his way through a thick wad of papers and glanced up distractedly as Biggles and Algy entered the office. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Don’t look so worried; for once, you’re not in trouble. I just wanted to let you know that there’s a new man coming today—name of Carlton. I’ve posted him to C Flight, so perhaps you’ll show him around when he arrives.”

“All right, sir,” said Biggles. “We’ll look after him. When’s he coming?”

“Sometime this afternoon, I believe. I’ve sent the tender to fetch him.”

“All right. We’ll be here.”

“Good. That’s all.”

“Wonder what he’s like?” said Algy, as they left the squadron office and continued on their way to the hangers.

“I don’t really care as long as he can shoot straight and bag some Huns,” replied Biggles frankly. “That must be his Camel over there, the new one. Isn’t that just the way, giving all the new buses to the people who are most likely to break them? Now, if I had—”

“If you had a new Camel, perhaps you’d get a Hun every once in a while,” grinned Algy, dodging the punch that Biggles threw at him. “What’s wrong with the one you have now, anyway?”

“They’re patching the wing up. It got in the way of a bullet this morning.”

Algy gave the plane a cursory look and shrugged. “Well, I told 84 I would drop in after lunch. See you later.”

“But we’re supposed to meet Carlton when he comes.”

“I shall be back in time for that,” promised Algy, as, with a cheerful wave, he strolled off.

&&&

But there was still no sign of Algy when, half an hour later, the tender pulled up in front of the squadron office and a tall, fair-haired boy of about twenty got out. He looked around the squadron with expressionless blue eyes, almost as if he were passing judgment on his surroundings.

Biggles walked up to meet him. “Are you Carlton?”

“Yes.” The voice was cold, and just as expressionless as the eyes.

A little taken aback by the hostility, Biggles said, “I’m Bigglesworth—Biggles—your Flight Commander.”

Carlton seemed to thaw slightly. “Pleasure to meet you.” He extended a hand that was so stiff it could have been made of wood. Rather reluctantly, Biggles shook it. “What are the procedures for new arrivals?” went on Carlton, in the same slightly distant tone of voice. For a moment, Biggles felt as if he were speaking to someone who was standing several miles away from him.

“You should report to the squadron office first. That’s here. When you’re done, go over to that building over there. That’s the mess. I’ll be waiting for you. I’d like to have a word with you, and then we can go and take a look at the Line.”

“All right.”

Biggles, somewhat surprised by Carlton’s attitude, made his way thoughtfully to the mess and seated himself near the door, so as to be sure of seeing Carlton when he came in. “Seen Algy?” he asked Mahoney, who was sitting beside him.

“He’s at 84.”

“He said he’d be back to meet the new pilot.”

Mahoney shrugged. “Perhaps he forgot. You should know what he’s like by now. What’s he like, the new man?”

“Unusual.”

Mahoney raised his eyebrows, but Biggles did not elaborate, instead turning away to order a drink from the mess waiter.

Neither Carlton nor Algy had put in an appearance by the time he finished the drink.

“Is he lost?” muttered Biggles, feeling a stab of annoyance. “I told him to come to the mess.”

“You’d better go look for him.”

Biggles rose. “I think I will.” Striding out of the mess, he hurried to the squadron office. “I say,” he said, putting his head around the door. “How long are you planning to keep Carlton?”

Toddy looked up from his desk. “Carlton?” he said, in surprise. “He left here ages ago. Good thing too. Chap talks too much.”

“Which way did he go?”

Toddy shrugged. “I have no idea. I didn’t watch him leave. Maybe he’s gone to his room. He’s only been gone about ten minutes or so. He can’t have gone far.”

Biggles cursed. “I told him to meet me in the mess. If he can’t even follow a simple order like that I don’t give much for his chances in the air.”

“Well, don’t stand there complaining to me. Go and find him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” said Biggles grimly. “And when I find him I’m going to have words with him, I can promise you that.”

&&&

Biggles found no sign of Carlton in his room, and he was just starting to get really worried about his new pilot when he saw him by the hangers, looking over his new Camel. Exhaling a breath of relief, he hurried forward and demanded, “What are you doing? I told you to meet me in the mess!”

“Did you?” The blue eyes held what might have been a hint of challenge, but it quickly disappeared. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

“Well, come along now,” said Biggles impatiently. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Back in the mess, he waited until the mess waiter had taken their orders before asking, “So. How many hours have you flown?”

“I can fly Camels, Avros, Pups, Triplanes, Bristols, and SEs.”

“Yes,” said Biggles, testily. “That’s all very well, but how many hours have you flown?”

“I went solo after about ten hours of training,” continued the new pilot, as if Biggles had not spoken. “My training instructor said that he had never had a pupil—”

“How many hours have you flown?” snapped Biggles, through clenched teeth.

There was a pause, presumably while Carlton debated whether he should continue listing his achievements or answer Biggles’ question. Finally, reluctantly, “Fifteen.”

“Good,” said Biggles. “Fifteen hours. All right, look. Learning to fly in an FTS can’t really prepare you for what you’re going to be facing here. Most people who come out here survive about twenty-four hours on average. If you listen to what I’m about to tell you, you might live for a bit longer than that. Once you’ve been here a week, you can start calling yourself a veteran.”

Carlton said nothing. He was looking down at his glass with a small smile on his lips. At various intervals during Biggles’ speech, he gave what he must have considered to be attentive nods.

“Archie—anti-aircraft gunfire—might be a bit intimidating at first,” began Biggles.

Carlton said, casually, “Oh, that shouldn’t worry me. I’m prepared for it.”

Biggles had a sudden urge to take what was left of his drink and pour it onto the new pilot’s head. With an effort, he controlled himself. He decided to keep the conversation going. The faster they finished, the faster he could be in the air, taking his aggression out on the Huns. “Stay away from balloons,” he said shortly. “The cables can kill you if you’re not careful. Don’t ever go down after a Hun. If you see a Hun looking like an easy catch, make for home. It’s bound to be a trap. Don’t shoot anything outside of two hundred feet, it’s a complete waste of ammunition. Which reminds me, you’re going to need some practice with shooting—”

“I’m quite a good shot,” said Carlton, shaking his glass just a little to make the contents swirl slightly. “I’m sure I don’t need to practice. I used to win awards for shooting competitions, you know.”

Biggles drained his drink and signaled for another. “I’ll take you out to see the Line in just a bit,” he said. “If we run into any Huns, stay upstairs and let me deal with them. If anything happens to me, come straight home. I’ll shake my wings if I see any Huns, and if you see me raise my hand above my head like this, that means go home. If you’re in a formation, never leave it—you’ll never get back into it. Don’t cross the Line under ten thousand on your own. Not yet, anyway.” He almost expected Carlton to say something more of his achievements, but when he said nothing, Biggles continued, “Never turn if you’re meeting a Hun head on. We don’t do that sort of thing. Stay away from clouds, and always keep an eye on the sun. You never know how many planes could be hiding in the sun. And don’t go more than a couple of miles over the Line on your own. All right. I think that’s all you need to know for now. Let’s go take a look at the Line.”

They met Algy as they were walking down to the sheds from the mess.

“Where have you been?” demanded Biggles. “Never mind, tell me later. I’m taking Carlton up. Do you want to come?”

“Might as well.”

“Carlton, this is Algernon Lacey, he’s another pilot in my Flight.”

“Call me Algy,” said the owner of that name cheerfully, holding out a hand.

Instead of shaking the proffered hand, Carlton turned away with a brief expression of what might have been disdain on his face and strolled over to his new Camel without a word of acknowledgement.

“Nice cove,” said Algy, looking after the new pilot with distaste.

“Tell you about him later,” muttered Biggles. “Come on, let’s get away.”

&&&

Biggles, at eleven thousand feet, turned to check that Carlton was in place at his left wingtip. There was no need to check his right wingtip. Biggles knew that Algy would be in position as surely as day followed night.

It was not an ideal day for observation, for it was somewhat cloudy, but occasionally there would be patches of clear sky, and through these Biggles pointed out landmarks to the new pilot.

They soon reached the Line and Biggles glanced unconsciously at Carlton, wondering how he would react. “We’ll see just how prepared you think you are,” he murmured to himself.

To his surprise and slight annoyance, Carlton did not seem to be affected by the archie. Or if he was, he was good at hiding it. Biggles saw none of the tell-tale swerves that usually marked new pilots’ flights when they encountered anti-aircraft gunfire.

“Perhaps he is as good as he makes himself out to be, after all.” A sudden movement to his right caught his attention. Algy was shaking his wings, pointing to five fast approaching black specks. Biggles pulled himself together with a guilty start. He had been so busy worrying about the new pilot’s abilities that he had genuinely not seen the planes until that moment. “Fokkers,” he murmured to himself. “Well, well, this will be fun.”

He gave Algy a brief nod, and the two of them dove down at the Huns. Biggles picked out a Fokker and thumbed the firing button, smiling a grim mirthless smile as tracer poured into the other machine and it burst into flame.

Suddenly, he remembered Carlton. Where was the new pilot? Looking up, he soon found his missing charge: he was still where Biggles had left him, a few hundred feet above the dogfight, staying well out of the line of fire. “The fool. What’s he doing? What does he think this is? A pantomime? Why doesn’t he come down and fight?” And then he remembered: “By gosh! I told him to stay upstairs and watch me if we ran into Huns, so that’s what he’s doing. Still, if he wasn’t such a fathead he would know to come down and help. Oh, well. Algy and I can probably handle this anyway. Perhaps it’s a good thing he’s not getting in our way.”

A sheet of fire leapt up on his left, and Biggles flinched instinctively as a burning Fokker went hurtling earthwards. Through the smoke, he saw Algy’s Camel cruise up next to his. Algy grinned at him from the pilot’s seat, thumbs raised in a gesture that means the same thing the entire world over.

“That’s two down. Three more to go.” Looking up, he was horrified to see one of the Fokkers streaking head-on towards Carlton’s plane. A collision seemed inevitable, at least until the Camel shifted itself aside, out of the Fokker’s path, allowing it to pass harmlessly by. Biggles bit back an expletive. “What’s he doing, the coward? I told him we don’t turn when meeting Huns head on.” He resolved to speak with Carlton when they got back—if they got back—then quickly turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

One black-crossed machine was spinning helplessly through the air. Biggles chased after the other. The battle was short. The pilot evidently was not an experienced one, for he made the fatal mistake of allowing Biggles to get on his tail. After that, it was the work of seconds to send him spinning through the air after the other Fokker.

Biggles glanced around and saw that the last Fokker, the one that had tried to go for Carlton, had returned. He started off after it, but Algy was already on the Fokker’s tail and waved him away. Biggles grinned. “Go to it, laddie!” he shouted.

Algy circled after the Fokker, guns spitting double streams of lead. It was obviously only a matter of time before the end, and Biggles was content to sit back and wait for it to come.

It did, but not in the way he had expected.

The Fokker, with Algy sticking determinedly to its tail, made a desperate swoop towards Carlton’s Camel, perhaps hoping to take at least one plane with it before the inevitable end.

Carlton did not move until the Hun was almost right on top of him, and then Biggles saw tracer spurting from his guns. At that exact moment, Algy shot a large piece of the tail unit off the plane, and a column of smoke leapt upwards.

Biggles did not need to look to know the fate of the Fokker. He had seen it too many times already. Feeling suddenly weary, he passed a hand over his face and circled, waiting for the others to join him before heading for home.

&&&

Biggles landed first and stood by his Camel waiting for the others. The second plane to come in was Algy’s, and Biggles was concerned to see blood pouring out from a cut on his arm as he clambered out of his machine.

“Are you hurt?”

“A scratch, that’s all. Grazed by a bullet. Did you see that Fokker I got? Wasn’t it an absolute wizard?”

“You’d better see the MO about that arm.”

“Why? It’s nothing serious. I’ll just stick some plaster over it—”

“Just for once, will you do as you’re told? I’ve had enough insubordination for one day, and I’ve still got to tell Carlton what I think of him.”

Algy looked hurt. “You’ve got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. But what’s the problem with Carlton? I agree he wasn’t very helpful, but that’s not unusual on first flights out.”

In a few brief sentences, Biggles told Algy how he seen Carlton flinch away from the Hun who had been charging towards him. “I’ll have to explain to him again that that isn’t the sort of thing one does here. I did explain earlier, but I doubt that he really listened. Here he comes now. You’d better go; I don’t think he’d appreciate an audience.”

“All right. Cheerio, then. See you in the mess.” Algy walked off.

Biggles waited for the pilot to get out of his plane and walked over to him before he spoke. “What exactly did you think you were doing just now?”

The new pilot’s face was glowing with undeniable pride. “Did you see the way I shot down that Hun?” he asked.

“Which Hun?” demanded Biggles, coldly. “As I recall, all you did during that dogfight was stay upstairs and do nothing.”

Carlton did not appear to notice his Flight Commander’s sarcasm. “The last one, of course. I fired my tracer and he went right down like a bag of bricks.”

“That wasn’t you, you idiot. That was Algy. He shot its tail off.”

“Algy?” Carlton looked astonished, as if such a thing were too ludicrous to believe. “I shot down that Hun.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I never thought it would be so easy to shoot down Huns,” continued Carlton, ignoring Biggles. “But then again, perhaps I have natural talent.”

“It’s not particularly hard to shoot a Hun when someone else has practically chased it into your face,” grated Biggles, keeping his temper with an effort. “Now listen to me. I saw you flinch in front of that Hun, and I thought I told you the thing is to meet them head-on.”

The blue eyes went wide. “I thought you meant when I was actually in combat.”

“Well, what did you think we were doing today? Having a picnic?”

“No…I just thought you and the other chap—what’s his name again? Algy?—wanted to show me how it was done. Very nice, of course, but I probably would have done it faster. I’m quite a good shot, you know. Very fast, and very accurate. But then, you’ve already seen me in action, shooting down that Hun, haven’t you?”

“I—” Biggles gave up. He was tired, and hungry, and in his current mood, he was likely to do or say something he would probably regret. He would have to tackle Carlton again after dinner, perhaps with Algy or Mahoney to help. “All right, wash out for today,” he ordered, wearily. “We’ve got dawn patrol tomorrow.”

“I’d better go and get my combat reports made out,” was Carlton’s parting remark, as he strolled off.

&&&

Dinner over, a small group of officers gathered by the mess fire. Carlton was not among them; he had left straight after dinner, saying that he wanted to go to the map room to study up on the maps there.

“Bit keen, isn’t he?” murmured Mahoney, as the door of the mess closed behind the new pilot. “You wouldn’t catch me looking at the maps on my first day.”

“Is it true that he got a Hun on his very first trip out?” asked Parker, who had come over from 287 squadron to join them for dinner. “He must be very good.”

“He didn’t get a Hun on his first trip out,” grated Biggles, emptying his glass. “If he says he did it’s only because Algy chased one practically into his face, and not being a complete fool he fired at it just as Algy shot it down.”

“He’s made out a combat report, you know.”

Biggles snorted. “Well, that’s one combat report I won’t be confirming, you can count on that. To be frank, I’ve had just about enough of Carlton. If he tries anything on the dawn patrol tomorrow I’ll shoot him down myself.”

“Is he as good as he’s made out?” inquired MacLaren, who had had the misfortune to be seated next to the new pilot at dinner. “He says he went solo after about ten hours, which is pretty impressive.”

“Don’t you believe a word of it,” said Biggles. “If you ask me, his instructor was probably so fed up with him that he told him to go solo in the hopes that he would crash himself.”

“Well, he’s still here,” observed the ever fair-minded Algy. “So he must have done something right. Don’t worry about him, everyone’s a bit overwhelmed on the first day out.”

“Underwhelmed would probably be a better word in his case,” muttered Biggles. “But perhaps you’re right. Well, I’m on the dawn patrol tomorrow, so I’ll push off to bed. And you’d better turn in as well, my lad.” This last to Algy, who looked slightly disappointed, but did not argue.

Biggles was walking back to his room when he ran into his new charge. “Hullo,” he said, with perhaps less enthusiasm than he would normally greet a fellow pilot with. “We’re on the early show tomorrow, you’d better be getting to bed.”

“Oh, not to worry,” replied the new pilot airily. “I’m used to sleeping four or five hours. I shall be all right.”

“Now look here,” snapped Biggles. “That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order, and when your Flight Commander gives you an order you follow it, understand?”

Carlton appeared not to notice Biggles’ loss of temper. Or, if he did, he pretended not to notice. He merely smiled and said, somewhat patronizingly, “If you say so.” Biggles opened his mouth to tell the new pilot exactly what he thought of him, but Carlton spoke first. “I’ve just been to the map room,” he said casually, as if he had not announced that simple fact to the entire mess just a quarter of an hour ago. “Fascinating maps. I’ve made notes, look.” He held out a thick wad of paper covered in copious amounts of tiny penciled letters.

Biggles didn’t even so much as look at the wad of notes. “Get to bed,” he said, coldly, as he walked away, fuming.

&&&

Biggles, shivering in the cold gray dawn, rubbed his hands together in a futile attempt to warm himself as he waited impatiently for the other members of his Flight to join him.

Algy appeared about ten seconds later, looking more cheerful than anyone had a right to look at that hour of the morning. “Where’s Carlton?” was his first question.

“Goodness knows. I told him to turn in early last night, but somehow I have the feeling that he disobeyed orders just to spite me. If he isn’t here within the next minute, I’m going to go to his room and—”

“Pardon me, sir,” said one of the NCOs. “If you’re looking for Mr. Carlton, I saw him in the mess about a minute ago.”

“The mess!” exclaimed Biggles. “What’s he doing in the mess?” Without waiting for an answer, he started off in the direction of the mess, Algy following.

Once there, he found Carlton contently tucking into a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, with several pieces of hot buttered toast to keep them company.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” demanded Biggles.

Carlton looked up at his Flight Commander with an expression of faint surprise. “I’m eating my breakfast,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“And just why,” grated Biggles. ‘Why are you eating breakfast when you’re supposed to be on dawn patrol? D’you suppose the Huns will wait until you’ve had a second cup of tea before they decide there’s a war on? If you’re not in the cockpit of your Camel within the next five minutes, I’m going to have you court-martialed. Do you understand?”

Carlton, wearing an expression of injured dignity, abandoned his breakfast and sulkily followed his Flight out to the sheds, looking like a first former who had just been told off by the headmaster for something he did not do.

Biggles, tight-lipped, clambered into his Camel, and ten minutes saw him heading towards the Line at twelve thousand feet. “Young idiot!” he muttered savagely to himself. Crossing the Line five minutes later, his mood still had not improved, and he was looking forward to letting off some steam. “Come on,” he murmured, shading his eyes with one hand so he could look into the sun.

Where were the Huns? A small sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips as he spotted four black specks, rapidly approaching. “Here they come.” Shaking his wings, he glanced over to his right and saw that Algy too had seen the Huns and was preparing for action. Biggles turned to check on Carlton and got the shock of his life as the wing of the Camel beside him almost took his windscreen off. “What the--?” The Camel lazily drifted in a slow semi-circle before his astonished eyes. “Has he been hit, or is he having engine trouble?” wondered Biggles, snatching a quick look at the ground to see if a landing could be attempted.

The Camel turned again, and Biggles got a good look at the cockpit. He fully expected to see Carlton wrestling to control his machine, but to his horror and amazement, he realized that the problem at hand had a much simpler cause.

Carlton had fallen asleep.

And the four Huns were fast closing in.

&&&

Biggles, waving frantically, managed to alert Algy to Carlton’s condition. Algy grimaced and rolled his eyes as he realized what had happened, turning inquiring eyes on Biggles as if to ask, What do you want me to do about this mess?

“Good question, laddie,” muttered Biggles, firing a quick burst to warm his guns before the inevitable dogfight with the fast approaching planes. Was it possible to fight the Huns and somehow prevent Carlton from killing himself at the same time? Biggles rather doubted it. For one thing, he was at a complete loss as to what he could do to help Carlton, except find a way of waking him up before the Huns arrived and shot him out of the sky altogether. “It’s a wonder he’s managed to stay in the air as long as he has,” fumed Biggles to himself. “He must have all the luck in the world on his side.”

He exchanged glances with Algy, who shrugged helplessly in reply, before suddenly grinning and pointing to his guns, and then at Carlton.

“No, you don’t!” cried Biggles, as Algy began to turn away. “What if you miss?” Algy, in the other Camel, of course could not hear him, and Biggles could only watch as Algy headed for Carlton’s plane and began firing a double stream of tracer.

It is one thing for a pilot to hit a target he wants to bring down, and another thing altogether to deliberately hit a target in a way so as not to bring it down. Biggles could only watch with baited breath as Algy got nearer and nearer to the other Camel, which was still showing no signs of life.

And then an ominous rat-tat-tat behind him reminded him of where his true danger lay.

The Huns had arrived.

&&&

Biggles pulled the stick into his stomach, and the Camel rolled like a startled horse as he narrowly avoided the double streams of tracer that had been aimed towards him. Looking up, he saw that Algy too had become aware of the danger, and was swiftly taking measures to join in the dogfight.

And yet Carlton’s Camel still showed no signs of life.

“I hope Algy hasn’t killed the idiot by accident,” was the passing thought in Biggles’ mind. Some hidden pilot’s instinct made him turn, and, to his relief, he saw three SEs fast approaching the scene, the one in the lead easily recognizable as Wlks’ machine. “We’ll make short work of this and get out while the going’s good,” he murmured to himself.

Then, to his horror, the three planes split up. Wilks streaked towards the Huns, guns blazing, and the other two SEs, to Biggles’ astonishment, turned their guns on Algy and began firing on him. “What on earth are they doing?” A cold hand closed over his heart as he realized, “They saw him firing at Carlton, and they think he’s a spy, or something of the sort, the fools!”

Algy twisted and turned helplessly in the streams of tracer like a mouse caught in a trap.

&&&

Biggles turned to go to Algy’s rescue—although the details as to how he would carry out said rescue were slightly vague—but found himself cut off by a black-crossed Fokker. In the few tense minutes of shooting that followed, he lost sight of Algy’s Camel, and when he had finally shot down the Hun, Algy’s plane had disappeared from its former position.

A Camel flew up alongside him, and he breathed a sigh of relief, only to suck it back in again as he realized that the pilot was Carlton, not Algy. The new pilot gave him a cheerful smile, which was quickly wiped away as Biggles glared at him through narrowed eyes. If anything had happened to Algy, Biggles decided, he would make sure that Carlton paid for it.

Casting a quick look around, he saw that the SEs had scattered the remaining Huns, and were now heading back for home. In front of them, looking rather forlorn and trailing a useless wing, was a solitary Camel—Algy.

Biggles snatched a look downwards and calculated that Algy might just make it to 287, and in this he was correct, for about a minute and a half later, he saw Algy gliding down towards Wilks’ squadron. “I hope none of Wilks’ lads get it into their heads to try and shoot him down over their own aerodrome,” muttered Biggles anxiously to himself, but fortunately no attack occurred.

Algy made a bad landing, although considering the circumstances, he could hardly be blamed. The Camel barreled headlong into a clump of bushes by the side of the squadron, and Algy was seen to leap from the cockpit even before the Camel had come to a complete standstill. He was just in time, too, for just as he exited the machine, it burst into flame behind him.

Biggles, feeling dread in his stomach, landed. The two SEs came in right behind him, and just as he was scrambling out of the cockpit of his Camel, Parker leapt out of his SE and, gun in hand, rushed towards the crumpled pilot on the ground. “Put your hands up, you—” he began.

Algy sat up and tore off his goggles with an expression of disgust. “What do you lot want now?” he demanded, ruefully rubbing his elbow. “As if shooting me down wasn’t enough.”

Parker’s jaw dropped as he realized who his captive was. “How on earth—but why—” he stammered.

Wilks, having landed, now joined the party. “Why on earth were you shooting at one of your own men?”

“Because that fathead Carlton fell asleep!” retorted Algy. “What’s the matter with your crowd, anyway? Haven’t they learned how to tell a Hun from a Camel yet?”

“All right; you needn’t look so peeved,” said Parker, sounding injured. “I wasn’t to know it was you, was I? Although I did wonder why you didn’t shoot back…”

“Of course I didn’t shoot back!” snapped Algy. “If I did you wouldn’t be here now. Just look at my machine,” he added bitterly, regarding the charred wreck that had once been his Camel. “Goodness knows what the CO will have to say about it.”

“Would you like a nice hot cup of tea?” asked Parker, almost timidly.

“I’d like a nice hot cup of tea to pour over Carlton’s head.”

At that moment, the low roar of a plane overhead sent all eyes skyward.

Carlton was just coming in to land.

&&&

Algy made a noise not unlike a bear getting ready to attack. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—the MO arrived at that moment to take a look at Algy’s various cuts and bruises.

Carlton landed and sauntered casually up to the small circle of pilots and mechanics surrounding Algy. “Got stung, did you?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows in a patronizing manner.

“You’re one to talk,” growled Algy.

Carlton looked down at Algy coldly. “And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“You know jolly well what it means! The only reason I was shot down in the first place was because you were asleep in the cockpit—”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Carlton, looking both outraged and astonished. “Asleep in the cockpit? Have you been knocked on the head or something?”

“Are you saying you didn’t fall asleep in your Camel when we were up in the air just now?” demanded Biggles. “You nearly hit me!”

“I would never dream of doing such a thing!” said Carlton indignantly. “What’s the matter with you two, anyway? You’ve had it in for me since the moment I set foot on the squadron. D’you treat all the new pilots like this? Is it some sort of joke you play for your own sick amusement?”

A hush fell over the assembled pilots and mechanics as all eyes turned to Biggles.

&&&

Biggles’ hands clenched into fists and he took an unconscious step towards Carlton. “So you’re saying that I’m lying, are you?”

“I don’t really know what game you’re playing,” snapped back Carlton, trying for a wearily resigned tone of voice, as if to convey how utterly pointless he felt the conversation was. “As if I would even think about falling asleep in the air, with all the Huns around. In fact, you should be thanking me for shooting down that Hun on your tail.”

Wilks made a faint noise of disbelief. “I shot down that Hun.”

“Only after I chased it into your face,” retorted Carlton.

“Much like I chased one into your face yesterday,” countered Algy, who was still being tended to by the Medical Officer. “Ironic, isn’t it, the way things happen like that?”

Carlton snorted. “Don’t go on about that again. We all know who really shot down that Hun yesterday, there’s no point pretending. I’ll have you know I’ve had the combat reports made out. But I suppose this is the sort of thing that happens over here, isn’t it? The older pilots taking credit for the new pilots’ kills, and adding to their scores? How pathetic! I’ve seen the way you two fly. I’m amazed you could shoot down a tree, let alone a Hun—”

He got no further, for Algy, heedless of the MO’s restraining hands, leapt to his feet and barreled towards him like an arrow released from a bow. His fist met the new pilot’s face with a resounding crack, and as the two of them tumbled to the ground in a highly undignified manner, Algy could be heard shouting incoherently.

Biggles, torn between worry for Algy and a subconscious desire to see Carlton getting what he deserved, moved forward somewhat hesitantly. Before he had a chance to take action, however, an authoritative voice rang out behind him.

“What’s going on here?” Major Sharp, the commanding officer of 287 squadron, was just stepping out of a tender parked on the edges of the crowd. “Oh, it’s you, Bigglesworth, and Lacey”—for by now several NCOs had separated the two fighting pilots—“Why exactly are you fighting on my squadron? Can’t you fight on your own?”

Biggles opened his mouth to speak, but the major forestalled him, cutting him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Never mind, come into the squadron office and let’s get this sorted out without providing entertainment and keeping everyone from the duties they should be attending to.” This last was delivered with a cold glare at the assembled pilots and mechanics, who swiftly melted away to go about their business.

&&&

Once in the squadron office, Major Sharp sat down at his desk and glared around at the small company of pilots standing before him. “All right, what’s all this about?”

In a few brief sentences, Biggles narrated what had happened that morning, starting from when he had found Carlton asleep in his Camel. Carlton opened his mouth to interrupt, but a cold look from the CO stopped him in his tracks. “You’ll have your say in a minute, my lad.” The major heard Biggles through to the end and then turned to look at Carlton. “Well?” he said simply. “What do you have to say to that?”

Carlton, who had suddenly been transformed into the picture of politeness, poured out his tale of woe. He had, he said, behaved admirably from the moment he’d arrived on the squadron, but certain pilots seemed to be purposely playing tricks on him for their own amusement, taking credit for his Huns, saying that he had fallen asleep on patrol, and now—with a sidelong look at Algy—assaulting him.

At that, Algy muttered something under his breath, to the effect that if Carlton didn’t shut up, he would be quite happy to assault him again.

It was impossible to tell from the major’s expressionless face what was going through his mind as he listened to Carlton’s story. After it had finished, he said, “Well, it doesn’t seem to be my place to decide matters of this nature. I’ll leave that to Mullen. However, I’m sure my pilots”—glancing over at Wilks, Parker, and Anderson—“would like to extend their apologies for shooting you down. Although,” he added sternly, looking at Algy, “perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to shoot at one of your own planes, whatever the reason. There’re too many Huns disguising themselves nowadays, and that sort of thing is a danger in itself. But there, I think you’ve learned your lesson, and thankfully you aren’t too badly injured. I’ll explain to Mullen about the Camel. Now, I think I’ll have the tender take you all back to 266, so Mullen can handle this as he sees fit. Those of you with machines here can come back for them later. And”—looking at Biggles and Algy—“I expect you all to behave civilly towards one another on the journey back. That’s an order, understand? All right, off you go. I’ll ring Mullen and tell him what’s happened.”

&&&

The ride back to 266 was tense and silent.

Major Mullen was waiting to greet the trio as when they arrived, no doubt having been warned by Major Sharp that they were on their way. “In the squadron office,” was his curt order.

Once inside the office, he looked sternly at the three pilots. “It’s a confounded shame that you’ve made it necessary for Major Sharp to have to concern himself with the affairs of our squadron. In case you’ve managed to forget, there’s a war on, so there should be plenty of people for you to fight without adding members of your own squadron to the list.”

There was a pause while the three pilots stared at the floor.

“I’ve spoken with Major Sharp, and I agree with him that none of you are completely blameless for what happened. I also know, however, that any kind of punishment would only serve to further intensify any bad feeling you have towards each other. With that in mind, I’m not going to mete out any sort of punishment over this, but I don’t want to see anything like this happening again.”

Carlton opened his mouth as if to say something, but Major Mullen held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear any more about this, I’ve got to go to Wing for a meeting, and I’m going to be late as it is.”

Biggles and Algy exchanged a look, shrugged, and left. Carlton, murmuring something about needing to use the phone, remained.

“Well, that’s that, I suppose,” muttered Algy. “Wish I could have known how lenient Mullen would be, I would have hit him harder.”

&&&

Supper was a strained affair. The topic on everyone’s mind was the fight that had taken place earlier that morning, but with both Mullen and Carlton present, no one dared to broach the subject. Biggles, for one, was thankful, for he had spent most of the afternoon as the center of much good-natured ribbing, and by now was heartily sick of the whole incident.

The only lull in the proceedings came when Carlton was briefly called away to answer the phone, but the lull was short-lived, for he was back almost immediately, a smug smile on his face.

As soon as supper was over, Biggles escaped to the relative silence of his room. The last thing he was wanted to talk about was Carlton, and he knew that it would be the only topic on everyone’s lips. However, having reached his room, he was annoyed to find that he had left his cigarette case in the mess. “Dash it!” he muttered, feeling in his pockets to see if there were any stray cigarettes inside them. “Well, there’s nothing to do but go back, I suppose.”

On the way to the mess, he saw Carlton emerging from the squadron office, a triumphant expression on his features. Seeing Biggles, the smile on his face grew wider, and perhaps even a little vicious as well.

“What’ve you been doing?” asked Biggles shortly, more to be saying something than anything else.

“You’re going to be sorry,” gloated Carlton, not answering the question.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You’ll see,” said Carlton. “You’ll see, my friend.”

&&&

Not having dawn patrol on the following morning, Biggles had no occasion to think about his new pilot until after lunch, when he was walking over to the sheds in preparation for the afternoon’s patrol.

“Where’s Carlton?” he asked wearily, as he approached Algy, who was standing outside the sheds.

“No idea. I suppose he’ll be wanting a written invitation to join every single patrol from now on,” said Algy. “I say we go off and leave him. He’s not much help when he is in the air anyway, so I don’t see he’s much of a loss.”

“Confound the idiot,” muttered Biggles. He would have liked to follow Algy’s advice, but on some level he did feel somewhat responsible for his new charge, and so he spent the next ten minutes or so looking for Carlton, only to find himself frustrated when the pilot was nowhere to be found.

“Where is he?”

As a last resort, he popped his head around the door of the squadron office. “Toddy, you haven’t seen Carlton by any chance, have you?”

The RO’s eyes were weary and bloodshot as he turned towards Biggles. “I hope I never see that young fool again as long as I live,” he declared.

“Why, what’s he done now?”

“What’s he done?” Toddy laughed, a dry bitter sound that seemed half stuck in his throat. “I’ll tell you what he’s done. Remember how he was on the phone most of yesterday? Well, whoever it was he rang up wasn’t too happy at the state of things. Mullen was up half the night taking calls from Wing. The way they went on about Carlton, anyone would think he was the King of England.”

“So where is he?” asked Algy.

“Didn’t anyone tell you? Posting orders came in this morning. G. Carlton to Home Establishment, effective immediately.”

“You don’t mean he’s gone?”

“Yes, I do mean he’s gone, and good riddance to him, I say. The little nuisance actually had the brass face to complain that he’d been ill-treated and that the commanding officer was showing favoritism.”

“The nerve of the man!” Biggles was appalled and indignant at the same time. “Imagine what he would have had to say if we’d treated him like he treats us!”

“Mullen’s gone off to Wing to explain himself,” said Toddy gloomily. “He’ll have a hard time finding something to explain about.”

At that moment, Major Mullen himself appeared in the doorway, looking tired and not a little grim. “Biggles, Algy, aren’t you two supposed to be on patrol?”

“Yes, sir, we just wanted to find out what happened to Carlton. I understand he’s gone?”

“Yes, he’s gone.” Mullen’s tone gave Biggles a hint as to just how badly his visit to Wing must have gone. “Between you and me, I’m glad to see the back of him. Wing was all for launching an inquiry on the two of you; thankfully Major Raymond stepped in and said a few words on your behalf, or you wouldn’t be here now. Anyway, off you go. There’s a war to win.”

“We’ll be off right away, sir.”

“Oh, by the way,” the major called after them, “there’s a new man coming in two days’ time who I’ll be posting to C Flight. His name’s Henry Watkins. Keep an eye on him, will you?”

THE END