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After the crushing fate of Bertie's ancient Morris, Bertie bore an apologetic Taffy no ill-will. The two of them had an established friendship which enabled a few choice words that expressed Bertie's mind on the day in question. Having relieved his feelings he adopted a “what’s done is done” mentality, and partook of refreshments during those early evenings with goodwill as new arrivals came to 666 and some stayed longer than others.
Yet in the weeks that followed Algy noticed a slight slump in the shoulders of his normally cheerful if reserved fellow Flight Commander, the face behind the monocle unreadable at times.
“I could be reading too much into it, but you know how when we first met him Bertie used to have a certain levity,” remarked Algy in a quiet moment to Ginger and Biggles.
“Like a soufflé,” put in Ginger helpfully.
“Yes, I couldn’t have put it better,” agreed Algy.
“I suppose Taffy has punctured it along with the Morris,” pointed out Ginger brutally.
“It’s a noticeable change,” agreed Algy. “At first I thought he’d had bad news from home, but perhaps the Morris is just the incident that made the difference between some natural protective cheer and – well – reality, maybe.”
“With this war on, I think everyone’s personal soufflé could be punctured for less than the loss of an expensive car,” said Biggles absently, his mind on three different sets of forms waiting to be filled on his table. “It was a waste of a good vehicle, though.”
*
By chance, the conversation in the mess the next day flowed along the lines of whether airmen truly disliked exerting themselves on foot, having gotten used to the high speeds attained in the air, with Spitfire pilots particularly spoilt by speed.
“Nice to feel the air bearing your weight once in a while, rather than your legs,” said Tex O’Hara. “After my time in the mounted police, it took a while to get used to running after a criminal on foot again. What’s worse, now when I’m back on the ground, everything moves so slowly. I feel my legs have lead on them.”
Tug scowled. “A good thing this isn’t the RFC, when you’d have to have ridden horses to be a pilot, or I wouldn’t be here, and neither would Ginger,” he sneered. “Nothing to blame but yourself if your body gets soft! Wasn’t much food on our table and we all grew up short and stringy like my old man, but his work kept him tough and if there was a good reason to run, he’d leg it as good as any toff in a mile race – maybe better.” His pale grey eyes held a challenge as they ran defiantly over his fellow officers.
“Och, now, Tug, you don’t feel it so much because you’re not heavy,” bantered Angus, commander of ‘C’ Flight. “You can nip along light as a feather, and I know you’re fast too. It’s the likes of us above ten stone who are complaining.”
“Like how a Blenheim needs a longer runway than a Spitfire to take off, c’est vrai, c’est plus lourd,” said Nutty, gesturing with his hands to illustrate their relative sizes.
“Angus? No, you mean a Halifax at least, surely,” came the muttered voice of Ferocity, a mutter designed to carry, which turned into a cough as he felt the wrathful gaze of the big man.
Amidst the laughter, only Algy, seated in the nearest armchair, heard Bertie sigh and growl under his breath to the mongrel terrier sitting at his feet, ”You won’t get a chance to feel the wind in your ears, eh, Towser, now the Morris is gone!” Algy understood his reluctance to say this louder in case it carried to Tug, who was not his target audience. This confirmed his suspicions, however, that he still grieved the car, and it was so unlike Bertie to give vent to serious emotion that there and then he felt a deep impulse to restore the soufflé.
*
This was why, two weeks later, when Algy spotted the penny-farthing at the back of the isolated barn, it didn’t let him go.
It struck him, even while otherwise preoccupied, as something that Bertie might like. Indeed, Bertie might like it very much.
The origins of the penny-farthing would later be airily obscured in the retelling, which added to its mythology. It was reputed to have been purchased from Farmer Harwood, who owned one of the farms nearest to the Rawlham airfield, but this rumour was later disproven. Biggles suspected that it was a barn that Algy likely had no business to be exploring, possibly in circumstances related to an unchaperoned WAAF, but this could not be ascertained.
*
In any case, whatever its provenance, the penny-farthing appeared one lovely sunny morning outside Rawlham airbase ‘B’ Flight hangar, restored, polished, larger than life. (Algy had got it cheap; he’d asked Taffy if he’d like to be included in the gesture for a token contribution. Taffy agreed with alacrity and it was from both of them.)
A buzz went around and came to Bertie’s ears at the breakfast table. When he reached ‘B’ Flight hangar, it had already developed a bit of a holiday atmosphere, surrounded by a mixture of ground crew and officers, chattering like excited schoolboys. A blue ribbon tied to its handlebars bore a card, “Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie – Humble compensation for destroyed property”, sufficiently impressive to be a protective charm against inquisitive fingers.
Algy was present to witness the gleam that came into the blue eyes. Bertie’s amused gaze travelled to the seat, wondering. A ground engineer volunteered the timely information that, when he was around twelve, he had seen a demonstration of how to ride an old specimen which had belonged to somebody’s grandfather. He hadn’t been tall enough to try it out at that time, but it had made an impression and he’d remembered the lesson. At the flight commander’s invitation, he demonstrated how to get on using the mounting peg. There was an audible ooooh as he achieved this manoeuvre, a silence of suspended breath while he did a creditable two hundred yards on the apron and turned, and an appreciative ahhhhh as he dismounted in a somewhat ungainly manner, red-faced with pleasure at having given himself neither injury nor embarrassment in front of an appreciative audience.
Naturally, out of courtesy, the crowd deferred to Bertie to have the next go. If he might have desired to perform his maiden ‘flight’ in front of a smaller audience, he showed no sign of nerves. With a steadiness as if he had been born to it, he mounted gracefully and perched straight-backed on the contraption, pedalling to keep balance. He rapidly discovered that direction and velocity had to be maintained using certain muscles which he associated more with riding horses, but this was not a problem.
Biggles, perhaps the only person on base by then not aware of the goings-on outside, was filling out forms in his office, when he was startled to see the disembodied head of his ‘B’ Flight commander speeding past the office window at 1.5x the normal human height, accompanied by sounds of the excited barking of Towser. “What --- Flight L---- Lissie!” he exclaimed, disbelievingly, and was rewarded with the sight of a monocled face, abruptly sobering, raising an imaginary top hat to him as he sailed past the window.
*
There was no rule against officers parking their velocipedes on base, as long as they did not interfere with normal operations. Besides, what good was a gesture like this unless allowed to be made use of to the full? The penny-farthing stayed, to the delight of all, though some ground rules had to be set, such as not using it when scrambles were expected or likely, so as not to detract from vigilance. It lightened the mood during stand-down, with turns generously distributed to all who sought the thrill of an unconventional ride - given the natures of the members of the squadron, the numbers of these thrill-seekers were not few, and included the ground-crew. The penny-farthing soon earned itself the name of Bluebell, christened after a steed Bertie had known which delighted in throwing off its rider.
Biggles was not immune to the buoyant mood on the base. He occasionally heard whoops of delight drifting through the air. Even Tug was to be seen joining in the fun and proved to be rather good at riding Bluebell.
"I hear there's a competition for who can stay on for the longest while going down the slope at the bottom of Harwood Farm," said Algy conversationally.
"What, you mean that bit which has the steep incline at the bottom?" asked Biggles. "Is it even possible on a normal bicycle?"
"Maybe just," admitted Algy. "No one has managed to stay on yet while riding Bluebell. There's a certain technique involved that no one has quite mastered yet."
"Are you in the competition?" asked Biggles suspiciously.
"No, I'm a little too old to desire a guaranteed fall," said Algy, grinning. "But I can give Bertie a run for his money on the straight stretch at the bottom. There's a race for the fastest timing for that too."
"Tug's already broken yesterday's record," put in Ginger. "He's the first one who managed to stay on with the headstart from the downhill. No one will beat that."
"Ah, maybe they'll lose interest now," said Algy.
"Not likely," retorted Ginger. "There's a new goal now, to go fast enough to jump the trench behind 'B' Flight sheds."
"Oh no," grumbled Biggles. "This doesn't bode well. The rules are vague, and it's competitive. In case you forget, we have a job to do. Go watch them and make sure they don't do anything too crazy. I don't want anyone getting confined to sick bay because of Bluebell."
*
A week later, the new Station M.O., ‘Doc’ Lorton, had a word with Biggles in his office.
“Lord knows, they need some fun and I’d be the last one to stop it,” he said. “But there are too many beginners taking a tumble. That’s three lacerations I’ve had to stitch up this week – three too many. It’s only a matter of time till someone gets a fracture or a nasty bump on the head.”
“What do you propose?” asked Biggles. “A rule that they can only ride on the grass? That might cause even more falls.”
“At least some sort of headgear,” replied ‘Doc’ Lorton promptly. “With long sleeves and long trousers if possible. I’d rather the holes are in their clothes than their skin!”
The upshot of this guidance was that the next day, some of the members of 666 Squadron were spotted solemnly riding in their flying caps (one of the most logical and convenient options). There was a great deal of laughter when Squadron Leader Wilkinson of 701 Squadron turned up for a visit and was treated to the unplanned sight of Tex O’ Hara, in flying cap and striped football shirt, riding the monstrosity.
“What… is that?” said Wilks. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said you were commanding a squadron of lunatics.”
“Eccentrics,” corrected Biggles gently. “I’m getting used to them.”
Being the owner, having put in the hours of practice, and, as the exercise proved, having the stamina for both exercise and eccentricity, there was no surprise that Bertie was the best of them all and could exert quite fine control over the thing. The icing on the cake, was, of course, when Algy managed to produce an actual top hat to go with the monocle (type of protective headgear not specified by the worthy doctor) for his occasional promenades.
*
The summer of the penny-farthing concluded with an air raid on Rawlham.
Someone rang the bell, furiously, as it became clear that the object of the raid this time was the airbase itself.
Rawlham buzzed with activity like a hornet’s nest that had been disturbed, with ground crew frantically towing aircraft into takeoff position, and airmen having to make split-second calculations as to whether they could make it into their aircraft to take off in the few minutes before lethal hail rained down on them. Those who knew they could not dove for cover in the trenches which had been dug for the purpose. The Bren gun came to life and chattered angrily as the dive-bombers whined above them and clods of earth started to fly all around.
Algy, crouching for cover next to Biggles, winced as at least one of the Spitfires caught taxiing on the ground, Q for Queenie, took a direct hit to the wing, which was torn off at the roots. The pilot – Angus – happily jumped clear before the fuselage became a raging fireball. There was chaos and the usual runway approaches were a mess.
Above, a second battle raged short and sharp – at least two Spitfires flown by pilots specialised in unorthodox takeoffs had made it into the air, no prizes for guessing at least one was Tug’s – and Rawlham was revenged on at least one Junkers whose smoking hulk ended by joining the other aircraft carcasses on the carpet.
*
When it was all over, the ambulance raced to meet calls for stretcher-bearers.
Biggles, trying to do a quick headcount, had a nasty turn when he overheard a sharp intake of breath from around a pile of sandbags that demarcated the beginning of the next shelter trench.
“Ah! Les salauds,” he heard Nutty hiss in a pained voice.
“%#&$#& murderers!” swore Tex.
Biggles raced hurriedly around the corner, shouting for ‘Doc’ Lorton and bracing himself for a bloody mess. Only to find that the occasion for such expressions of grief and rage was the shattered frame of the penny-farthing, spread across the lawn in front of the office in a few dozen pieces. The small wheel was twisted beyond recognition. Where was the larger?
Ah, there it was, leaning against a heap of sandbags, from which a somewhat dazed Bertie was emerging, with a cut to the cheek, wondering, to make their headcount complete. Biggles breathed a sigh of relief to find all his pilots intact for the moment.
“Oh well. Goodbye, Bluebell, it wasn't my fault this time,” said Taffy philosophically.
“I say, chaps,” remarked Bertie. He indicated the large wheel of the penny-farthing next to the sandbags. “I think I was flung backwards into the sandbags, which also knocked this wheel into my chest. I was stunned for a while, but I think that the wheel must have saved my life, yes, by Jove!” He held up a large, sharp piece of metal with a wicked edge. “I found this just inches away from my head, on the other side.”
They marvelled at how Bluebell had apparently seen fit to protect her owner even in her demise. Besides, it was so much better to have Bertie alive than dead that this completely mitigated the sad end of the penny-farthing. By the end of that evening, exhausted from the massive clean-up the raid necessitated, they had put Bluebell behind them completely, as just another chapter - albeit a memorable one - in the squadron annals.
THE END