05 Biggles Learns To Fly
Page 12
There was no hurry. Major Paynter, the C.O., had not named any particular hour for the '
show'. He had said that the photographs must be delivered to him by one hour after sunset and there were still five hours of daylight.
With Mark, Biggles made his way to the mess for a rest, and over coffee they learned some news that set every member of the squadron agog with excitement. Toddy, the Recording Officer, divulged that the equipment of the squadron was to be changed, the change to take effect as quickly as possible. In future they were to fly Bristol Fighters.*
It transpired that Toddy had been aware of the impending change for some time, but the orders had been marked 'secret,' so he had not been allowed to make the information public. But now that ferry pilots were to start delivering the new machines, there was no longer any need to keep silent. They might expect the Bristols to arrive at any time, Toddy told them, and A Flight, by reason of its seniority, was to have the first.
Biggles, being in A Flight, was overjoyed. He had grown very attached to his old F.E.
which had given him good service, but it had always been a source of irritation to him, as the pilot, that the actual shooting
had perforce been left to Mark. In future they would both have guns, to say nothing of a machine of higher performance.
In the excitement caused by the news the time passed quickly, and it was nearly two-thirty when they walked towards the sheds in order to proceed with the work for which they had been detailed.
Biggles' shoulder had been grazed by a bullet in the morning's combat with the red-and-silver Albatros, but it caused him no inconvenience, and he did not bother to report it.
Neither had Mark's wound been very severe, not much more than a scratch, as he himself said, and it did not occur to him to go 'sick' with it. It was a clean cut in his forehead about an inch long, caused by a splinter of flying glass. He had washed it with antiseptic, stuck a piece of plaster over it, and dismissed it from his mind. On their way to the hangars they met the medical officer on his way back from visiting some mechanics who were sick in their huts. They were about to pass him with a cheerful nod when his eyes fell on the strip of court-plaster on Mark's forehead. He stopped and raised his eyebrows.
'Hallo, what have you been up to?' he asked.
Ùp to?' echoed Mark, not understanding.
`What have you done to your head?'
Òh—that! Nothing to speak of. I stopped a piece of loose glass in a little affair with a Hun this morning,' replied Mark casually.
`Let me have a look at it.' The M.O. removed the piece of court-plaster and examined the wound critically. 'Where are you off to now?' he inquired.
Ì've got a short show to do with Bigglesworth.'
`Short or long, you'll do no more flying to-day, my boy; you get back to your quarters and rest for a bit.
Too much cold air on that cut, and we shall hive you down with erysipelas. I'll speak to the C.O.'. `But— ' began Mark, in astonishment.
`There's no "but" about it,' said the M.O. tersely. `You do as you're told, my lad. Twelve hours' rest will put you right. Off you go!'
Mark looked at Biggles hopelessly.
`Doc's right, Mark,' said Biggles, nodding. 'I ought to have had the sense to know it myself. I'll bet your skull aches even now.'
Not it!' snorted Mark.
`That's all right, doc, I'll find another partner,' asserted Biggles. 'See you later, Mark.'
He made his way to the Squadron Office and reported the matter to Toddy.
`You wouldn't like to take one of the new fellows, I suppose?' suggested Toddy, referring to two new observer officers who had reported for duty the previous evening. 'I think they're about somewhere.'
`Certainly I will,' replied Biggles. 'Someone will have to take them over some time, so the sooner the better. It's only a short show, anyway.'
Toddy dispatched an orderly at the double to find the new officers, and Biggles awaited their arrival impatiently. He had already spoken to them, so they were not quite strangers, but they were of such opposite types that he could not make up his mind which one to choose. Harris was a mere lad, fair-haired and blue-eyed, straight from school. He had failed in his tests as a pilot, and was satisfied to take his chances as an aerial gunner rather than go into the infantry. Culver, the other, was an older man, a cavalry captain who had seen service in the Dardanelles before he had transferred to the R.F.C.
They came in quickly, anxious to know what was in .the wind. Briefly, Biggles told them and explained the position. 'Toss for it,' he suggested. 'That's the fairest way. All I ask is that whoever comes will keep his eyes wide open and shoot straight, if there is any shooting to be done.'
Harris won the toss, and with difficulty concealed his satisfaction, for although Biggles was unaware of it, he — Biggles —had already achieved the reputation of being one of the best pilots in the squadron.
`Good enough. Get into your flying kit and get a good gun,' Biggles said shortly. 'I'll go and start up.'
He was satisfied but by no means enthusiastic about taking the new man over. Few experienced pilots felt entirely happy in the company of men new to the job and who had not had an opportunity of proving themselves. It was not that cowardice was anticipated.
Biggles knew what all experienced flyers knew; that a man could be as plucky as they make them when on the ground—might have shown himself to be a fearless fighter in trench warfare—but until he had been put to the test it was impossible to say how he would behave in his first air combat; how he would react to the terrifying sensation of hearing bullets ripping through spruce and canvas.
As a matter of fact, it was worse for an observer than it was for a pilot. It needed a peculiar kind of temperament, or courage, to stand up and face twin machine-guns spouting death at point-blank range; not only to stand up, but calmly align the sights of a Lewis gun and return the fire.
There was only one way to find out if a man could do it and that was to take him into the air. There were some who could not do it, in the same way that there were cases of officers who could not face àrchie.' And after one or two trips over the Line this was apparent to others, even if it was not admitted. And it needed a certain amount of courage to confess. But it was better for an officer to be frank with his C.O.
and tell the truth, rather than throw away his life, and an aeroplane. Officers reporting '
sick' in this way were either transferred to ground duties or sent home for instructional work.
Biggles wore a worried frown, therefore, as he walked up to the sheds. He realized for the first time just how much confidence he had in Mark, and the comfort he derived from the knowledge that he had a reliable man in the observer's cockpit.
They took their places in the machine, and after Biggles had given Harris a reassuring smile he took off and headed for the strafed* German battery. He would gain all the height he needed on the way to the Lines, for he proposed to take the photographs from not higher than five thousand feet. A good deal of cloud had drifted up from the west, which was annoying, for it was likely to make his task more difficult. It would not prevent him reaching his objective, but the C.O. would certainly not be pleased if he was handed a nice photograph of a large white cloud.
He crossed the Lines at four thousand, still climbing, and zigzagged his way through the archie in the direction of the wrecked German battery. He noted with satisfaction that his new partner took his baptism of anti-aircraft fire well, for he turned and smiled cheerfully, even if the smile was a trifle forced. He was rather pale, but Biggles paid no attention to that. There are few men who do not change colour the first time they find themselves under fire.
The sky seemed clear of aircraft, although the clouds formed good cover for lurking enemy scouts, and he began to hope the job might be done in record time. He skirted a massive pile of cloud, and there, straight before him, lay the scene of his morning exploit. A grin spread over his face as he surveyed the huge craters that marked th
e spot where the enemy battery had once hidden itself; the job had been done thoroughly, and headquarters could hardly fail to be pleased.
After a swift glance around he put his nose down and dived, and then, swinging upwind, he began to expose his plates. In five minutes he had been over the whole area twice, covering not only the actual site of the battery, but the surrounding country. With the satisfaction of knowing that his job had been well done, he turned for home. 'Good!' he muttered. 'That's that!'
Swinging round another towering mass of opaque mist he ran into a one-sided dog-fight with a suddenness that almost caught him off his guard. A lone F.E. was fighting a battle with five enemy Albatroses.
Now, according to the rules of war flying, this was no affair of Biggles'. Strictly speaking, the duty of a pilot with a definite mission was to fulfil that mission and return home as quickly as possible; but needless to say, this was not always adhered to. Few pilots could resist the temptation of butting into a dog-fight, or attacking an enemy machine if one was seen. To leave a comrade fighting overwhelming odds was unthinkable.
Biggles certainly did not think about it. The combat was going on at about his own altitude, and although the F.E. had more than one opportunity of dodging into the clouds and thereby escaping, the pilot had obviously made up his mind to see the matter through.
Biggles' lips parted in a smile and he barged into the fight. Then, to his horror, he saw that his gunner was not even looking at the milling machines. He had not even seen them. It seemed incredible. But there it was. And Biggles, remembering his own blindness when he was a beginner, forgave him. Harris was gazing at the ground immediately below with an almost bored expression on his face.
`Hi!' roared Biggles, with the full power of his lungs. `Get busy!'
Harris' start of astonishment and horror as he looked up just as a blue Albatros dashed across his nose was almost comical; but he grabbed his gun like lightning and sent a stream of lead after the whirling Hun.
Biggles dashed in close to the other F.E. to make his presence known. A swift signal greeting passed between the two pilots, and then they set about the work on hand.
The fight did not last many minutes, but it was red-hot while it lasted. One Albatros went down in flames; another glided down out of control with its engine evidently out of action. The other three dived for home. Biggles straightened his machine and looked around for the other F.E., but it had disappeared. He had not seen it go, so whether it had been shot down, or had merely proceeded on its way, he was unable to ascertain.
Harris was standing up surveying their own machine ruefully, for it had been badly shot about. Biggles caught his eye and nodded approvingly. 'You'll do!' he told himself; for the boy had undoubtedly acquitted
himself well. Then he continued on his course for the aerodrome.
He reached it without further incident and taxied in, eyes on a brand new Bristol Fighter that was standing on the tarmac. The photographic sergeant hurried towards him to collect the camera and plates, in order to develop them forthwith. Biggles jumped to the ground, and was about to join the group of officers admiring the Bristol when a cry from the N.C.O. made him turn.
`What's the matter?' he asked quickly.
`Sorry sir, but look!' said the sergeant apologetically.
Biggles' eyes opened wide as they followed the N.C.O.'s pointing finger, and then he made a gesture of anger and disgust. The camera was bent all shapes, and the plate container was a perforated wreck. There was no need to wonder how it had happened; a burst of fire from one of the enemy machines had reduced the camera to a twisted ruin.
He could see at a glance that the plates were spoilt. His journey had been in vain.
Looking over the machine thoroughly for the first time he saw that the damage was a good deal worse than he had thought. Two wires had been severed and one of the hinges of his elevators shot off. The machine had brought him home safely, but in its present condition it was certainly not safe to fly.
`What's the matter?' asked Mapleton, his flight-commander, seeing that something was wrong.
Briefly, Biggles explained the catastrophe.
`What are you going to do about it?' asked Mabs.
Ì'll have to do the show again, that's all about it!'
replied Biggles disgustedly. 'The Old Man was very
decent about this morning's effort. He's waiting for these photos; I can't let him down.'
`You can't fly that machine again today, that's a certainty.'
`So I see.'
`Would you like to try the Bristol?'
Biggles started. 'I'd say I would!'
`You can have it if you like, but for the love of Mike don't hurt it. It's been allotted to me, so it's my pigeon. She's all O.K. and in fighting trim. I was just off to try her out myself.'
`That's jolly sporting of you,' declared Biggles. 'I shan't be long, and I'll take care of her.
Come on, Harris, get your guns—and get me another camera, sergeant; look sharp, it will soon be dark.'
In a few minutes Biggles was in the air again, on his way to the enemy battery for the third time that day. He had no difficulty in flying the Bristol, which was an easy machine to fly, and after a few practice turns he felt quite at home in it.
He noticed with dismay that the clouds were thickening, and he was afraid that they might totally obscure the objective. Twice, as he approached it, he thought he caught sight of a lurking shadow, dodging through the heavy cloud-bank above him, but each time he looked it had vanished before he could make sure.
`There's a Hun up there, watching me, or I'm a Dutchman,' he mused uneasily. 'I hope that kid in the back seat will keep his eyes skinned.' He shot through a small patch of cloud and distinctly saw another machine disappear into a cloud just ahead and above him. It was an Albatros, painted red and silver. 'So it's you, is it?' he muttered, frowning, for the idea of taking on his old antagonist with a comparatively untried gunner in the back seat did not fill him with enthusiasm. With Mark it would have been a different matter.
He turned sharply into another cloud and • approached the objective on a zigzag course, never flying straight for more than a few moments at a time. He knew that this would leave the watcher, if he were still watching, in doubt as to his actual course, but it was nervy work, knowing that an attack might be launched at any moment.
As he expected, he found the battery concealed under a thick layer of grey cloud, but he throttled back and came out below it at two thousand feet. Instantly he was the target for a dozen archie batteries, but he ignored them and flew level until he had exposed all his plates. He was feeling more anxious than he had ever felt before in the air, not so much for his own safety as for the safety of Mab's machine, so it was with something like a sigh of relief that he finished his task, jammed the throttle wide open, and zoomed upwards through the opaque ceiling.
The instant he cleared the top side of the cloud the rattle of a machine-gun came to his ears and the Bristol quivered as a stream of lead ripped through it. He whirled round just in time to see the red-and-silver 'plane zoom over him, not twenty feet away. Why hadn't Harris fired? Was he asleep, the young fool? With his brow black as thunder Biggles twisted round in his seat and looked behind him. Harris was lying in a crumpled heap on the side of his cockpit.
Biggles went ice-cold all over. The corners of his mouth turned down. 'He's got he breathed, and then exposing his teeth, 'You hound!' he grated, and dragged the Bristol round on its axis and in the direction of the Albatros, now circling to renew the attack.
If the Boche pilot supposed that the British machine would now seek to escape he was mistaken. Unknowingly, he was faced with the most dangerous of all opponents, a pilot who was fighting mad. A clever, calculating enemy, fighting in cold blood, was a foe to be respected; but a pilot seeing red and seething with hate was much worse. For the first time, the war had become a personal matter with Biggles, and he would have rammed his adversary if he could have reached him.
The Hun saw death on his tail and twisted like an eel, but the Bristol stuck to him as if connected by an invisible wire. A hundred feet—fifty feet—Biggles drew nearer, but still he did not fire. The glittering arc of his propeller was nearly touching the other's elevators. The cross-wires of the Aldis sight cut across the tail, crept along the fuselage to the brown-helmeted head in the cockpit.
Biggles knew that he had won and was filled with a savage exultation. He was so close that every detail of the Boche machine was indelibly imprinted on his brain. He could see the tappets of the Mercedes engine working, and the dark smoke pouring from its exhaust. He could even see the patches over the old bullet holes in the lower wings. His gloved hand sought the Bowden
lever, closed on it, and gripped it hard. Orange flame darted from the muzzle of his gun and the harsh metallic clatter of the cocking handle filled his ears. The Albatros jerked upwards, the Bristol still on its tail. A tongue of scarlet flame licked along its side, and a cloud of black smoke poured out of the engine. The pilot covered his face with his hands.
Biggles turned away, feeling suddenly limp. He seemed to have awakened with a shock from a vivid dream. Where was he? He did not know. He saw the Hun break up just as it reached the lower stratum of cloud, and he followed it down to try to pick up some landmark that would give him his position. It was with real relief that he was able to recognize the road near where the wreck of the Albatros had fallen, and he shot upwards again to escape the ever-present archie.
For the first time since the fight began he remembered Harris, and raced for home. He tried to persuade himself that perhaps he was only wounded, but in his heart of hearts he knew the truth. Harris was dead. Four straight-winged 'planes materialized out of the mist in front of him, but Biggles did not swerve. The feeling of hate began to surge through him again. 'If you're looking for trouble you can have it!' he snarled, and tore straight at the Albatroses.