Fairly entertaining, and unexpectedly wry, stories about the adventures of fighter pilot Captain Bigglesworth, his squadron, and neighbouring squadrons, fighting in France in the First World War.
There is danger and death, but this is not gritty social realism. There is no mud-caked trench warfare here. The pilots of all officers, and enjoy comfortable beds, a mess, a batman, tea, meals, a gramophone, a billiards room. Pilots improvise tactics and schedules, watched on by avuncular approving superiors. This reads more like a scout camp than a war.
Except of course that the pilots die, many of them. They cope with this by simply refusing to think about it, but also by adopting a sense of fair-play, a sense that is shared, it would appear, by their German enemies. Once it is clear that an enemy combatant will be forced down, you should not shoot at him again. Particularly not once he is on the ground. Don’t shoot at another aircraft if their guns have jammed (this, I think, is from another Biggles book). The opposing pilots drop messages for each other, sometimes pleasant, sometimes challenging, but always sporting. It seems like quite a good way to carry on a war.