Biggles Learns To Fly

by Captain W E Johns

  at a brisk trot; the C.O. was standing in the doorway of the squadron office. Mark, with a bandage round his head, caught Biggles' eye as two R.A.M.0 men gently lifted the dead observer from his seat. Biggles did not look; he felt that tears were not far away, and was ashamed of his weakness. He taxied up to the sheds and climbed wearily to the ground.

  `How did the Bristol go?' asked Mabs awkwardly. `Bristol? Oh, yes—fine, thanks!'

  The photographic sergeant removed the camera.

  `See that the prints are in the squadron office as quickly as you can manage it,' Biggles told him.

  `Lucky for me the doc made me stay at home,' observed Mark. Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'Maybe. On the other hand, it might not have happened if you'd been there.'

  `How did it happen?' asked the C.O., coming up. Briefly Biggles told him. Ànyway, it's some consolation that you got the Hun,' said the C.O.

  `Yes, I got him!' answered Biggles grimly.

  Ànd the photos?'

  `You'll have them in time, sir.'

  `Cheer up, whispered Mark, as they walked slowly towards the mess. 'It's a beastly business, but it's no good getting down-hearted.

  Ì know,' replied Biggles. 'It's the sort of thing that's liable to happen to any of us—will happen, I expect, before we're very much older. But it was tough luck for Harris. He'd only been here about five minutes, and now he's gone—gone before he fully realized what he was up against. It's ghastly.'

  Ìt's a war!' retorted Mark. 'Try to forget it, or we'll have you getting nervy. The other Bristols will be here in the morning,' he added, changing the subject.

  `Mahoney, of 266, is on the 'phone asking for you,' shouted Toddy, as they passed the squadron office. 'He asked me who was in the Bristol, and when I told him it was you he said he'd like to have a word with you.'

  Biggles picked up the receiver. 'Hallo, Mahoney!' he said.

  `You'll be saying hallo to the Flanders poppies if you don't watch your step, my lad!'

  Mahoney told him seriously.

  Biggles started. 'What do you know about it?' he asked quickly.

  `Know about it? I like that,' growled Mahoney, over the wire. 'Is that all the thanks I get—?'

  `Was that you in the Pup?' interrupted Biggles, suddenly understanding.

  `What other fool do you suppose would risk being fried alive to get a crazy Bristol out of a hole? You ought to look where you're going. Have you bought the sky, or something?'

  `Why, have you sold it?' asked Biggles naïvely.

  There was a choking noise at the other end of the wire. Then: 'You watch your step, laddie! We want you in 266. The Old Man has already sent in an application for your transfer, but it looks to me as if he's wasted his time. You'll be cold meat before—'

  Òh, rats!' grinned Biggles. 'I'm just beginning to learn something about this game. You watch your perishing Pup!'

  `Well, we're quits now, anyway,' observed Mahoney. `That's as it should be,' replied Biggles. 'Meet me

  tonight in the town and I'll stand you a dinner on the strength of it.'

  Ì'll be there!' Mahoney told him briskly. 'Bring your wallet—you'll need it!'

  Biggles had just left the fireside circle preparatory to going to bed when Major Paynter entered the officers' mess.

  `Pay attention, everybody, please!' said the major, rather unnecessarily, for an expectant hush had fallen on the room. 'A big attack along this entire section of Front has been planned to come into operation in the near future. If weather conditions permit, it may start tomorrow morning. As far as this squadron is concerned, every available machine will leave the ground at dawn, and, flying as low as possible, harass the enemy's troops within the boundaries you'll find marked on the large map in the squadron office. Each machine will carry eight Cooper bombs and work independently, concentrating on preventing the movement of enemy troops on the roads leading to the Front. Every officer will do three patrols of two and a half hours each, daily, until further notice.

  `The greatest care must be exercised in order that pilots and observers do not fire on our own troops, who will disclose their positions, as far as they are able, with Very lights and ground strips. Their objective is the high ridge which at present runs about two miles in front of our forward positions. These are the orders, gentlemen. I understand that all British machines not actually engaged in ground strafing will be in the air, either bombing back areas or protecting the low-flying

  machines from air attack. I need hardly say that the higher command relies implicitly on every officer carrying out his duty to the best possible advantage; the impending battle may have very decisive results on the progress of the War. I think that's all. All previous orders are cancelled. Officers will muster on the tarmac at six-fifty, by which time it should be light enough to see to take off. Good night, everybody.'

  A babble of voices broke out as the C.O. left the mess.

  `That's the stuff' declared Mark Way, enthusiastically.

  Mabs eyed him coldly. 'Have you done any trench strafing?' he asked. 'I don't mean just emptying your guns into the Lines as you come back from an 0.P.*, but as a regular job during one of these big offensives?'

  Mark shook his head. 'As a matter of fact, I haven't,' he admitted. Mabs grinned sarcastically. 'Inside three days you'll be staggering about looking for somewhere to sleep. But there won't be any sleep. You're going to know what hard work it is for the first time in your life. I was in the big spring offensive last year, and the Hun counter-attack that followed it, and by the time it was over I never wanted to see another aeroplane again as long as I lived. You heard what the Old Man said—three shows a day. By this time tomorrow you won't be able to see the ground for crashes, and those that can still fly will have to do the work of the others as well as their own.'

  `You're a nice cheerful cove, I must say!' said Biggles.

  `Well, you might as well know what we're in for,' returned Mabs, 'and it won't come as a surprise! When you've flown up and down a double artillery barrage for a couple of hours you'll know what flying is.' He rose and made for the door. 'I'm going to hit the sheets,' he announced. 'Get to bed, officers of A Flight, please. It may be the last chance you'll get for some time!'

  There was a general move towards the door as he disappeared.

  `Tired or not, I've got an appointment with a steak and chips in Rouen tomorrow night,'

  declared Curtiss, of B Flight, yawning, little dreaming that he was going to bed for the last time in his life.

  The tarmac, just before daybreak the following morning was a scene of intense activity. Nine big, drab-coloured Bristol Fighters stood in line in front of the flight sheds, with a swarm of air mechanics bustling about them, adjusting equipment and fitting Cooper bombs on the bomb racks. Propellers were being turned round and engines started up, while the rat-tat-tat-tat of machine-guns came from the direction of the gun-testing pits. Biggles' fitter was standing by his machine.

  Èverything all right?' asked Biggles.

  Àll ready, sir,' was the reply.

  `Suck in, then!' called Biggles, as he climbed into his cockpit. 'Suck in' was the signal to suck petrol into the cylinders of the engine.

  Mark, his gunner, disappeared for a few moments, to return with a Lewis gun, which he adjusted on the Scarf mounting round the rear seat. A mechanic handed up a dozen drums of ammunition.

  The engine roared into pulsating life, and Biggles fixed his cap and goggles securely as he allowed it to warm up. Mabs' machine, wearing streamers on wingtips and tail, began to taxi out into position to take off. The others followed. For a minute or two they waddled across the soaking turf like a flock of ungainly geese. Then, with a roar that filled the heavens, they skimmed into the air and headed towards the Lines. They kept no particular formation, but generally followed the direction set by the leader. The work before them did not call for close formation flying. A watery sun, still low on the eastern horizon, cast a feeble and uncertain light over the landscape, the Brit
ish reserve trenches, and the war-scarred battlefields beyond. Patches of ground mist still hung here and there towards the west, but for the most part the ground lay fairly clear. Signs of the activity on the ground were at once apparent. Long lines of marching men, guns, horses, and ammunition wagons were winding like long grey caterpillars towards the Front. A group of queer-looking toad-like monsters slid ponderously over the mud, and Biggles watched them for a moment with interest. He knew they were tanks, the latest engines of destruction.

  The ground was dull green, with big bare patches, pock-marked with holes, some of which were still smoking, showing where shells had recently fallen. A clump of shattered trees, blasted into bare, gaunt spectres, marked the site of what had once been a wood. Straight ahead, the green merged into a dull brown sea of mud, flat except for the craters and shell-holes, marked with countless zigzag lines of trenches in which a million men were crouching in readiness for the coming struggle.

  Beyond the patch of barren mud the green started again, dotted here and there with roofless houses and shattered villages. In the far distance a river wound like a gleaming silver thread towards the horizon. Spouting columns of flame and clouds of smoke began to appear in the sea of mud; the brown earth was flung high into the air by the bursting shells.

  It was a depressing sight, and Biggles, turning his eyes upwards, made out a number of black specks against the pale blue sky.. They were the escorting scouts. In one place a dog-fight was raging, and he longed to join it, but the duty on hand forbade it. He nestled a little lower in his cockpit, for the air was cold and damp, so cold that his fingers inside the thick gauntlets were numbed. They had nearly reached the Lines now, so he turned his eyes to Mabs' machine, watching for the signal Very light that would announce the attack. It came, a streak of scarlet flame that described a wide parabola before it began to drop earthwards. Simultaneously the machine from which it had appeared roared down towards the ground. The open formation broke up as each pilot selected his own target and followed.

  Biggles saw the welter of mud leaping up at him as he thrust the control-stick forward, eyes probing the barren earth for the enemy. Guns flashed like twinkling stars in all directions. He saw a Pup, racing low, plunge nose-first into the ground to be swallowed up by an inferno of fire.

  Charred skeletons of machines lay everywhere, whether friend or foe it was impossible to tell. Lines of white tracer bullets streamed upwards, seeming to move quite slowly. Something smashed against the engine cowling of the Bristol and Biggles ducked instinctively.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat! Mark's gun began its staccato chatter, but Biggles did not look round to see what he was

  shooting at; his eyes were on the ground. The sky above would have to take care of itself. The needle of his altimeter was falling steadily; five hundred feet, four hundred, yet he forced it lower, throttle wide open, until the ground flashed past at incredible speed. He could hear the guns now, a low rumble that reminded him of distant thunder on a summer's day. He heard bullets ripping through the machine somewhere behind him, and kicked hard on right rudder, swerving farther into enemy country. He could still see Mabs' machine some distance ahead and to the left of him, nose tilted down to the ground, a stream of tracer bullets pouring from the forward gun. Something tapped him sharply on the shoulder and he looked round in alarm. Mark was pointing. Following the outstretched finger he picked out a mud-churned road. A long column of troops in field-grey were marching along it, followed by guns or wagons, he could not tell which.

  He swung the Bristol round in its own length, noting with a curious sense of detachment that had he continued flying on his original course for another two seconds the machine must have been blown to smithereens for a jagged sheet of flame split the air; it was too large for an ordinary archie and must have been a shell from a field-gun. Even as it was, the Bristol bucked like a wild horse in the blast.

  He tilted his nose down towards the German infantry and watched them over the top of his engine cowling. His hand sought the bomb-toggle. There was a rending clatter as a stream of machine-gun bullets made a colander of his right wing; a wire snapped with a sharp twang, but he did not alter his course.

  A cloud of smoke, mixed with lumps of earth, shot

  high into the air not fifty yards away, and again the machine rocked. He knew that any second might be his last, but the thought did not worry him. Something at the back of his mind seemed to be saying: 'This is war, war, war!' and he hated it. This was not his idea of flying; it was just a welter of death and destruction. The enemy troops were less than five hundred yards away, and he saw the leaders pointing their rifles at him. He drew level with the head of the column, and jerked the bomb-toggle savagely. Then he kicked the rudder-bar hard, and at the same time jerked the control-stick back; even so, he was nearly turned upsidedown by the force of the explosions, and clods of earth and stones dropped past him from above. He glanced down. The earth was hidden under a great cloud of smoke. Again he swept down, tore straight along the road, and released the remainder of his bombs. Again he zoomed upwards.

  The air was filled with strange noises; the crash of bursting shells, the clatter of his broken wire beating against a strut, and the slap-slap-slap of torn fabric on his wings. Mark's gun was still chattering, which relieved him, for it told him that all was still well with his partner. He half-turned and glanced back at the place where he had dropped his bombs.

  There were eight large, smoking holes, around which a number of figures were lying; others were running a away. It struck him that he was some way over the Lines, so he turned again and raced back towards the conspicuous stretch of No Man's Land, across which figures were now hurrying at a clumsy run. Nearer to him a number of grey-coated troops were clustered around a gun, and he sprayed them with a shower of lead as he passed.

  He reached the Line, and raced along it, keeping well over the German side to make sure of not hitting any British troops who might have advanced. Burst after burst he poured into the trenches and at-the concrete pill-boxes in which machine-guns nestled. He passed a Bristol lying upside-down on the ground, and a scout seemingly undamaged. Mark tapped him on the shoulder, turned his thumbs down and pointed to his gun, and Biggles knew that he meant that his ammunition was finished. Ì'll finish mine, too, and get out of this!' he thought. Ì've had about enough.' He took sights on a group of men who were struggling to drag a field-gun to the rear, and they flung themselves flat as the withering hail smote them. Biggles held the Bowden lever*

  of his gun down until the gun ceased firing, then turned and raced towards his own side of the Lines.

  Some Tommies waved to him as he skimmed along not fifty feet above their heads. Mark returned the salutation. The Bristol rocked as it crossed the tracks of heavy shells, and Biggles breathed a sigh of relief as they left the war zone behind them. Five machines, one of which was Mabs' had already returned when they landed, their crews standing about on the tarmac discussing the 'show.'

  `Well, what do you think of it?' asked the flight-commander as Biggles and Mark joined them.

  'Rotten!' replied Biggles buffing his arms to restore circulation. He felt curiously exhausted, and began to understand the strain that low flying entails.

  'Get filled up, and then rest while you can. We leave the ground again in an hour!' Mabs told them. 'The

  enemy are giving way all along the sector and we've got to prevent them bringing up reinforcements.'

  Ì see,' replied Biggles, without enthusiasm. 'In that case we might as well go down to the mess. Come on, Mark.'

  For three days the attack continued. The squadron lost four machines; two others were unserviceable. The remainder were doing four shows a day, and Biggles staggered about almost asleep on his feet. Life had become a nightmare. Even when he flung himself on his bed at night he could not sleep. In his ears rang the incessant roar of his engine, and his bed seemed to stagger in the bumps of bursting shells, just as the Bristol had done during the day. Mabs had gone to hospit
al with a bullet through the kg, and new pilots were arriving to replace casualties.

  On' the fourth morning he made his way, weary and unrefreshed, to the sheds; Mark, who was also feeling the strain, had preceded him. They seldom spoke. They no longer smiled. Mark eyed him grimly as he reached the Bristol and prepared to climb into his seat. 'Why so pale and wan, young airman, prithee why so pale?' he misquoted mockingly.

  Biggles looked at him coldly. 'I'm sick and I'm tired,' he said, 'and I've got a nasty feeling that our turn is about due. Just a hunch that something's going to happen, that's all,' he concluded shortly.

  `You'll make a good undertaker's clerk when this is over, you cheerful Jonah!' growled Mark.

  `Well, come on, let's get on with it. Personally, I'm beyond caring what happens,' replied Biggles, climbing into his seat.

  He was thoroughly sick of the war; the futility of it appalled him. He envied the scouts circling high in the sky as they protected the flow-flying trench strafers; they were putting in long hours, he knew, but they did at least escape the everlasting fire from the ground. Above all he sympathized with the swarms of human beings crawling and falling in the sea of mud below.

  He took off and proceeded to the sector allotted to the squadron, and where four of its machines now lay in heaps of wreckage. For some minutes he flew up and down the Line, trying to pick out the new British advance posts, for the enemy were still retiring; it would be an easy matter to make a mistake and shoot up the hard-won positions that a few days before had been in German hands.

  Archie and field-guns began to cough and bark as he approached the new German front Line, and machine-guns chattered shrilly, but he was past caring about such things. There was no way of avoiding them; they were just evils that had to be borne. One hoped for the best and carried on.

  The battle was still raging. It was difficult to distinguish between the British and German troops, they seemed so hopelessly intermingled, so he turned farther into German territory rather than risk making a mistake.