“I am Sir, as ever, your humble servant, James Bigglesworth, Captain, RAF. The following is a true and honest account of a recent action that I feel obliged to submit in order to clear up certain inaccuracies raised by the scurrilous gentlemen of the press. Oh wicked, perfidious Albion.
At approximately …. No, there is nothing approximate about it. It must have been 1000 hours sharp as we, of the 6th Air Squadron, are loathe to machine gun Huns before a hearty English breakfast.
Flying in formation over No Man’s Land near Villiers were myself, Captain Biggles, Algy, Ginger and a new chap, Algernon. The air was clear and sharp, visibility being particularly good. A little higher and I would have seen the white cliffs of Dover.
As it was all we saw were Fokkers. Flocks of f…g Fokkers. While we all are prepared to die for God and country and would, if asked, kiss the Queen’s pinky, we do not appreciate having to fly second rate aircraft. Camels and Spads are fine and dandy but why can’t the British Air Manufacturing Industry make Fokkers instead?
Damn it man, their name even sounds like an aeroplane instead of something that spits out fur balls in the middle of a bloody desert.
I spotted three Fokkers. Signalling to the others to engage I immediately powered my Spad up into the high ground and captured it for Britain. Hail Britannia!
Looking down I observed a thrashing maelstrom of aircraft twisting and turning like an orgy of snakes on heat. Algernon, poor chap, went down in flames fairly quickly and Ginger jammed his guns good and proper and had to depart forthwith. All in all it was a jolly bad run of events. Only Algy, riddled with holes, fought on.
With the high ground secured and Algy in dire straits I took it upon myself to do what any red blooded Englishman would do in such desperate circumstances. Diving out of the sun I locked onto the tail of the nearest Fokker and filled him full of lead. As luck would have it the pilot took two in the buttocks.
So there I was, tailing a wounded Hun who clearly had no sense of decency. A true sportsman would have nose-dived into the ground at the earliest opportunity. But no, this wayward Hun just continued to stagger through the air leaking filthy foreign blood out of his rear-end all over the Western Front.
What a boob. Clearly Huns aren’t acquainted with the concept of Chivalry and “doing the proper thing”.
So I did it for him. Shot him to shreds. Splattered him good and proper.
A second Hun, probably rattled and frightened by this show of British fortitude, took flight and scurried out of sight.
This only left the third and last Hun for Algy and myself to deal with. I’m embarrassed to report that he got a couple of lucky shots in on my good self but only through a disturbing disregard for aeronautical rules.
Lucky shots nevertheless, Algy and I, working as a team, soon hounded him into a death dive and the Gods of War took care of the rest. Huns always roll one on their dice in emergencies. A known fact and further proof, if any were needed, of the superiority of the English way of life.
In summary I would like to say a word of gratitude to our ex-new chum, Algernon, who, while only with us for a short time, flew straight and true. Ginger is to be praised for getting back to the airfield early and organising G&T’s prior to our return. Algy is to be promoted and I recommend myself for a decoration for outstanding gallantry and bravery in the air. I will leave it to your lordships to find some appropriate bauble to pin on my chest.
I am, as ever, your humble servant, Captain James Bigglesworth, RAF.