A difference in philosophy
You see me now, a veteran
Of a thousand psychic wars
I've been living on the edge so long,
Where the winds of limbo roar…
And I'm far too old to look at
And far too young to see
All the scars are on the inside…..
And I'm not sure that there's anything left of me!
Don't let these shakes go on, it's time we had a break from it –
Send me to the rear!
(From Veteran of the Psychic War, written by Michael Moorcock, performed by the Blue Öyster Cult)
February, 1918. R.F.C. Wing Headquarters. North-Eastern France.
The conference room at the chateau rapidly filled with squadron commanders and their senior flyers. The elegantly furnished room, in a country mansion once the property of one of Napoleon's minor generals, and reputedly slept in by L'Empereur himself on his ignominious retreat from Waterloo, was again playing host to uniformed fighting soldiers, as it had done periodically since before the Revolution.
The elegant grace of the room was belied by the men streaming into it, dressed for the most part in dull leather and khaki. Hard-eyed men, made old before their time, with lined faces and the thousand-yard stare of the combat soldier. All wear at least one medal ribbon; some have nervous tics, a twitch of the cheek or of the fingers or a random muscle of the arm.
A measure of the times is that very few are over thirty but very few are of a lower rank than major. In the peacetime British army, it is rare to be promoted to Major much before one's middle forties: to make it to Colonel, one has to be well over fifty. Four years into this Great War, the average age of a major is twenty-eight, and the colonel about to address them, the man with the red tabs of a Staff officer at his neck, is thirty-three. The lowest rank present is captain. There are three of them: two are around twenty, the other barely nineteen. Colonel Raymond addresses them affably by name: the young Captain from 266 Squadron is his particular protégé and has proven his worth many times over.
But one thing all these young men have in common: the shared experience of war has made them all very, very, old.
With his key Wing personnel more-or-less comfortably seated on collapsible Army chairs, Colonel Raymond and his deputy Major Henry set out the war situation.
Biggles, sitting between Algy and his squadron c/o Major McMullen, paid only half an ear to the briefing. The war situation was not good. It looked as though the Russians had conclusively thrown in the towel and this new chap in charge, Lenin, had proven his lack of backbone and moral fibre by caving into the Hun, despite everything we and the French could do to keep him in the war. We even offered to recognise the Bolshevik government, for heaven's sake, if only Mr Vladimir Ulyanov could oblige us by keeping Russia in this war, and pinning down hundreds and thousands of Huns a long way away from us.
"The least we can expect, gentlemen, the least, is that the Kaiser will redeploy those armies in the West for one last crack at Paris. Three quarters of a million fighting men, which we and the French cannot hope to match. After Paeschendale last year and the Somme the year before that, I have to tell you that Great Britain is bled dry."
"Should have taken more care with those armies while we still had 'em, then!" Biggles heard a familiar Birmingham accent drawl , somewhere over to his right. Like fingernails down a blackboard, thought Biggles, distastefully. He can't be blamed for being born working-class, but if he got promoted through the ranks, he could at least try to talk like a proper chap now he's a Major!
Raymond paused, coloured red, and frowned at the source of the remark.
He went on: "And the French have put every man they can into uniform. We had the Somme, they had Verdun. And now their Army is beginning to mutiny."
And a British colonel is being heckled during his briefing. Which for the British is as good as a mutiny. Thought Biggles. Even if it is that low-bred Socialist-voting oaf Wooley.
"Every Intelligence report we can get is telling us the Germans are most likely to hit here. This is the hinge, the meeting-point between the British and French armies. Separate us, and the Hun can deal with us in detail. And this offensive will happen in May at the latest, most probably in April."
Raymond paused.
"The Germans will also be bringing considerable air strength from the Eastern Front. We estimate this will give him a three-to-two superiority in aircraft, along with the traditional advantage conferred by the prevailing westerly wind. We believe at critical points on the front, the Hun will strive for outright two to one, or three to one, air superiority. Which is where we come in."
Biggles winced, then mentally rebuked himself and thought If it has to be. Then so be it. He looked to Algy, and then Mac. They met his gaze, and nodded. They'd all lived this far. If service to King and Empire meant anything at all, they'd take a deep breath and go the distance, hopefully taking a few more Boche with them. He looked over at Wooley, unshaven, unkempt, with a suspicion of unwashed neck, and thought But can that be said for all of us?
Wooley made another sour and meant-to-be-heard comment about We're really going to miss all those men we mislaid at Cambrai and Paschendaele and the Somme. And Gallipoli. And Mons. And the million or so the Frogs wrote off at Verdun. Bloody careless of us, wasn't it?
Raymond purpled again, but controlled himself.
"The only silver lining to this very big cloud is that at last the United States is in the war and its Army is filtering through in some numbers. Although it will be June or July before a significant American presence is here and can turn the tide against the Boche. Our job is to hold the Boche, let him blow his strength out, contain him, until that moment when we have a million fresh troops to turn the tide with."
Raymond paused, and glared at Major Wooley, expecting further insubordination. None came.
"I'm glad to welcome advance elements of the United States Army Air Force to this briefing. Our first job is to help our American friends come up to the mark, teach them what we know about air fighting, help them make a difference now."
Raymond then went through what would be expected of the Royal Flying Corps in the coming months – take the attack to the enemy, try to get his planes on the ground as he established new airfields, disrupt his communications, bomb and strafe his armies, make life, in general, difficult.
"Get in there and queer his wicket! The Empire is depending on you, gentlemen. Now, come to me at any time with ideas you have and I'll listen. Drinks will be served in the anteroom. Thank you."
"How dare you, Wooley!" Colonel Raymond was red with unaccustomed fury. The object of his wrath coolly bit the cap off a Guinness bottle, spat it out, and took a long swig straight from the neck.
Just proves he isn't a chap like us, thought Biggles. Beer? Straight from the bottle? Definitely proletarian!
"Wooley, I deliberately overlooked your first act of insubordination. I made allowances. In 1916, you and I – and Captain Paxton here – were all flying sorties over the Somme. We'd all been told it would be a walkover and there would be no opposition. We all saw what a prize shambles it was. We all heard of sixty thousand dead on the first day. We shared that experience. You say publicly what I sometimes think."
Paxton, a tall fair product of a major public school and Wooley's second in command, smiled wanly at Biggles and his party. Biggles nodded back. Pax was, most of the time, OK.
"But I am NOT having this deliberate, premeditated, defeatist, insubordination, Wooley! Another outbust like that at any briefing I give – well, you rose from the rank of Private. I can see you return there!"
Wooley took another swig of his beer, and belched, theatrically. "Even with fifty-five kills, sir? It's a funny thing, isn't it: because I rose out of the ranks, if you feel you need to keep me in line you think I'd actually be threatened by the prospect of going back there. I'd welcome it, sir, I might even survive this war if I'm grounded for the rest of it!"
"Good gods, man, do you have any moral fibre in your body?" demanded Major Wilkinson of 287 squadron, echoing Biggles' thoughts.
"Ah, it's Wilks, the great knight of the air, whose single combats with a valiant Jerry foe are that talk of the Flying Corps!" observed Wooley. Together with the usual suspects. Step forward the valiant Major McMullen, commander of the Boy Scout troop known as 266 Squadron, together with his troop leaders Bigglesworth and Lacey! All together, boys: Dib-Dib-Dib!"
"Wooley, you're drunk" Mac said, evenly. "At one in the afternoon"
"And by eight tonight you'll all have caught up with me! And I tell you what, I put myself to bed at nights, which is more than I hear young Bigglesworth can manage most nights."
Biggles flushed hotly, and an uneasy laugh died down. "But I tell you what. His growing taste for gin hasn't stopped Bigglesworth getting fifteen official kills to his name. Or you shooting down thirty, Mac. Nor me my fifty-five. Pax here has eighteen to his name, and his sin is loose women! The looser the better, eh, Pax?"
Paxton found it was his turn to flush.
"No, no problem with Paxton's joystick and firing pin. But you people are full of shit, if I may say so. You're still full of this crap about it being some glorious cavalry of the air calling out the Teutonic Knights to glorious single combat, and may the best man win. Crap! Air fighting is what it always has been: you wait for some chump on their side to start daydreaming, and you get up so close behind him you can smell whatever the Huns are using for Brylcreem, and then you BLOW HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF. That's air-fighting. Drop the boy scout stuff, Bigglesworth. It's what we all do when we've survived those first few sorties and we've decided we want to live. You put your thumb on the scales, don't you, and weigh the odds in your own favour? And the reality isn't a hero's death, it's falling twenty thousand feet in a blazing plane that's just dumped eighty gallons of burning petrol in your cockpit, and not being able to get out because they think issuing you a parachute will sap your moral fibre. And being alive every inch of the way to know you're burning down to one of those things they rake out of the ashes that barely fill a shoebox. We've all seen them."
Wooley took another swig.
"And people look at you drinking at one in the afternoon and disapprove. Cunts."
"Wooley!" roared Raymond. "My office! Now!"
Paxton joined Biggles' party and stood a round of drinks.
"They'll never sack him" MacMullen mused. "Not with fifty-five kills. Public won't stand for one of their aces being demoted. And he's good publicity. It means the War Office can paint a pretty picture of how anyone, from any social class, can climb the ladder on merit without needing to pull strings or have powerful friends."
"I'd like to say you're seeing the worst of him." Paxton mused. "But the truth is, he can lead Goshawk Squadron up there and get results nobody else can get with them. The pilots may not love him, but they all respect him."
"Ah yes" said Wilkinson, thoughtfully. "Hornet Squadron. And Goshawk Squadron. "You've flown with both?"
Biggles and Algy regarded Paxton. Goshawk and Hornet were the two original squadrons of the RFC: so old, comparatively speaking, that they were allowed the distinction of preserving their original pre-war names rather than the anonymity of numbers. Even Number One Squadron had arrived a lot later, only just before the outbreak of war. Both squadrons had been continually flying since 1914, and were viewed as flying Bedlams by the rest of the Corps, a repository for the maddest of the mad, the craziest of the crazy. It was true that Wooley had been one of the first clutch of private soldiers to be elevated to officers' rank on learning to fly, but nobody had expected them to last that long. It had been an experiment that looked good in the papers and flew the flag for wartime democracy.
Wooley had confounded expectations: Second-Lieutenant Wooley had developed a taste for air combat, back in 1915, and lived long enough to ascend to a squadron command that no reasonable superior could have denied him. You had to give him that. But his working-class origins and distinctly not-a-chap-like-us-chaps attitude had abraded a lot of senior officers. It was widely believed giving him Goshawk had been a punishment posting, but after four years in the air war, he'd positively thrived on it.
"I was with Hornet in 1916, since just before the Somme." Paxton said, thoughtfully. "Looking back, I can't believe what a pompous little prick I was at first. I thought I was some sort of noble knight errant and tried to act the part. And you know, I was so wet behind the ears that I really thought the bloody big hole they were digging behind our airbase was a swimming pool? I even bribed the engineers to divert the river into it so we could swim. But when the bodies started rolling in after July 1st and they drained the pool…" his voice broke off.
"I grew up in July 1916."
Biggles nodded, with respect. He could see where Pax was coming from.
Wooley left Raymond's office and moved with all the cocksure surety of a sailor on shore leave.
"Right, that's sorted out" he said to Paxton. "If you'd care to end Patrol Night with the Boy Scouts, Pax, you can drive me back to base. Raymond wants us up in force over Mossyface Wood to check out a story that Jerry's kitting it out as a holding point for troops. Better go in with bombs and the full works if he's right."
He turned to Biggles and the party.
"Dib dib dib" Wooley said, by means of farewell.
Afterword:-
A long time later, an older Biggles was resting by the fire contemplating a late gin and tonic. He noticed Ginger Hepplethwaite had selected a beer, a dark porter.
"Anything wrong, Biggles?" Ginger asked, noting the older man's speculative gaze.
Biggles shrugged.
"Just a man I knew back in the war. I'm wondering if.. right at the start… he might have looked and acted and thought like you. The War turned him, I'm sorry to say."
"Did he live?"
"No. He was killed during the big German push in 1918. But he'd been flying since 1915 and was well into borrowed time by then. He was from a background like yours, and made it to Major and squadron commander. Which in those days was a remarkable achievement."
"Were you close?"
"Hardly! At the time I despised his attitude and I was snob enough to think he didn't belong as an officer. Certainly no gentleman. But he was true to himself, and that's a quality worth admiring in a man."
And Biggles wondered if in opting to care for and provide for the boy, he was at some deep level trying to save Wooley from himself… or creating the next one. He pushed the paper away, with its foreboding headline concerning "stormclouds over Czechoslovakia".
Story based on the Biggles books of Captain W.E. Johns (especially Biggles:Pioneer Air Fighter) crossed with Derek Robinson's acerbic and black comedies of WW1 air combat Hornet Squadron and Goshawk Squadron.
Robinson said his black comedies are a necessary antidote to Biggles. I agree up until this point: Wooley and Biggles are such polar opposites, yet in the closed world of the RFC in 1918 they'd both have classed as "aces" and would surely have known of each other. What would have happened had they met, the cynical and foul-mouthed Wooley and the prissy young idealist Bigglesworth? I hope I've filled in a blank…