05 Biggles Learns To Fly

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles was amazed, for although he had heard of such things being done it was his first experience of it. He ceased firing at once and took up a position on the far side of the disabled machine; he did not trust his prisoner very much, for he guessed that he would, if the opportunity arose, make a dash for the Lines—so near, and yet so far away.

  Biggles therefore shepherded him down like a well-trained sheep-dog bringing in a stray lamb.

  He could not really find it in his heart to blame the enemy pilot for surrendering. The fellow had had to choose between being made prisoner and certain death, and had chosen captivity as the lesser of the two evils. `Death before capture,' is no doubt an admirable slogan, but it loses some of its attractiveness in the face of cold facts.

  The German landed about four miles from Maranique and was prevented by a crowd of Tommies from purposely injuring his machine. Biggles landed in a near-by field and hurried to the scene, arriving just as the C.O. and several officers of the squadron, who had witnessed the end of the combat from the aerodrome, dashed up in the squadron car.

  It was purely a matter of luck that Major Raymond, of Wing Headquarters, who had been on the aerodrome talking with Major Mullen, was with them.

  He smiled at Biggles approvingly. 'Good show!' he said. 'We've been trying to get hold of one of these machines intact for a long time.'

  Biggles made a suitable reply and requested that the crew of the Rumpler should be well cared for. The pilot, whose name they learnt was Schmidt, looked morose and bad-tempered—as, indeed, he had every cause to be; the observer had been wounded in the chest and was unconscious.

  They were taken away under escort in an ambulance, and that was the end of the affair.

  Biggles never learned what happened to them.

  The offensive patrol for which he had been detailed in place of Lorton turned out to be a more difficult business. It began quite simply. He took his place in a formation of five machines, and for an hour or more they cruised up and down their sector without incident, except, of course, for the inevitable archie. Then the trouble started around a single machine.

  Several times they had passed a British machine—an R.E.8*—circling over the same spot, obviously engaged in doing a 'shoot' for the artillery, and Biggles was able to sympathize with the pilot. He watched the circling 'plane quite dispassionately for a moment or two, glanced away, and then turned back to the R.E.8. It was no longer there.

  He stared—and stared harder. Then he saw it, three thousand feet below, plunging earthwards in flames. Screwing his head round a little farther he made out three German Albatros streaking for home. They must have made their attack on the two-seater under the

  very noses of the Pups, and, well satisfied with the result of their work, were removing themselves from the vicinity without loss of time. But they were well below the Pups, and Mahoney, who was leading, tore down after them in a screaming dive, closely followed by the rest of the formation.

  As they went down, something—he could not say what—made Biggles, who was an outside flank man, look back over his shoulder. There was really no reason why he should but the fact that he did so provided another example of the uncanny instinct he was developing for detecting the presence of Huns.

  The sight that met his gaze put all thought of the escaping Albatroses clean out of his head. A German High Patrol of not fewer than twenty Triplanes were coming down like the proverbial ton of bricks.

  Biggles' first idea was to warn Mahoney of the impending onslaught, but, try as he would, he could not overtake his leader. Yet he knew that if the Huns were allowed to come on in a solid formation on their tails, most of them would be wiped out before they knew what had hit them. He could think of only one thing to do, and he did it, although it did not occur to him that he was making something very much like a deliberate sacrifice of his own life. That he was not killed was due no doubt to the very unexpectedness of his move, which temporarily disorganized the Hun circus*. He swung the Pup round on its axis, cocked up his nose to face the oncoming Huns, and let drive at the whole formation.

  The leader swerved just in time to avoid head-on

  collision. His wing tip missed Biggles by inches. The lightning turn threw the others out of their places, and they, too, had to swerve wildly to avoid collision with their leader.

  Biggles held his breath as the cloud of gaudy-coloured enemy machines roared past him, so close that he could see the faces of the pilots staring at him. Yet not a bullet touched his machine. Nor did he hit one of them—at least, as far as he could see.

  The Huns pulled up, hesitating, to see if their leader was going on after the other Pups or staying to slay the impudent one. At that moment, Mahoney, missing one of his men, looked back. In that quick flash it must have seemed to him that Biggles was taking on the entire German Air Force single-handed, and he hung his Pup on its prop as he headed back towards the melee.

  He knew what Biggles himself did not know; that. the German formation was the formidable Richthofen circus, led by the famous Baron himself, his conspicuous all-red Fokker triplane even then pouring lead at the lone Pup.

  Biggles could never afterwards describe the sensation of finding himself in the middle of Germany's most noted air fighters. He was, as he put it, completely flummoxed. He merely shot at every machine that swam across his sights, wondering all the while why his Pup did not fall to pieces.

  The reason why it did not was probably that put forward by Captain Albert Ball, V.C., in defence of his method of plunging headlong into the middle of an enemy 'circus'. Such tactics temporarily disorganized the enemy formation, and the pilots dared not shoot as freely as they would normally for fear of hitting or

  colliding with their own men. Be that as it may, in the opening stage of the uproar Biggles' Pup was hit less than a dozen times, and in no place was it seriously damaged.

  By the time the Huns sorted themselves out Mahoney and the other three Pups were on the scene. Even so, the gallant action of the leader in taking on such overwhelming odds would not have availed had it not been for the opportune arrival of a second formation of Pups and a squadron of Bristols—Biggles' old squadron, although he did not know it.

  That turned the tide.

  The huge dog-fight lost height quickly, as such affairs nearly always did, and was soon down to five thousand feet. It was impossible for any pilot to know exactly what was happening; each man picked an opponent and stuck to him as long as he could. If he lost him he turned to find another.

  That was precisely what Biggles did, and it was utterly out of the question for him to see if he shot anyone down. If a machine at which he was shooting fell out of the fight, someone else was shooting at him before he could determine whether his Hun was really hit or merely shamming.

  He saw more than one machine spinning, and two or three smoke-trails where others had gone down in flames. He also saw a Bristol and a triplane that had collided whirling down together in a last ghastly embrace.

  At four thousand feet he pulled out, slightly dizzy, and tried to make out what was happening. He picked out Mahoney by his streamers, not far away, and noted that the fight seemed to be breaking up by mutual

  consent. Odd machines were still circling round each other, but each leader was trying to rally his men.

  Mahoney, in particular, was trying frantically to attract the attention of the surviving members of his patrol, for the fight had drifted over German territory and it was high time to see about getting' nearer the Lines.

  Biggles took up position on Mahoney's flank, and presently another Pup joined them. Of the other two there was no sign.

  The Bristols were already streaming back towards home in open formation and Mahoney followed them. They passed the charred remains of the R.E.8 that had been the cause of all the trouble, gaunt and black in the middle of No Man's Land. They reached the Lines and turned to fly parallel with them.

  Their patrol was not yet finished, but all the machines had been more o
r less damaged, so after waiting a few minutes to give the other two Pups a chance of joining them if they were still in the air, they turned towards the aerodrome. It was as well they did, for Biggles' engine began to give trouble, although by nursing it he managed to reach home.

  They discovered that the squadron had already been informed of the dog-fight, artillery observers along the Line reporting that five British and seven German machines had been seen to fall. There seemed little chance of the two missing Pups turning up. The surviving members of the patrol hung about the tarmac for some time, but they did not return. That evening they were reported 'missing'.

  `How often do you run into shows as big as that?' Biggles asked Mahoney, at lunch.

  Òh, once in a while! Not every day, thank goodness!' replied Mahoney. 'Why?'

  Ì was just wondering.' Biggles ruminated a minute or two. 'You know, laddie, we do a lot of sneering at the Huns, and say they've no imagination.'

  `What about it?'

  `Well, I'm not so sure about it, that's all.'

  `What! You turning pro-Hun, or something?'

  `But it seems to me they're using their brains more than we are.'

  `How?'

  `We just fly and fight, and that's all we think about.' `What do you mean?'

  `Well, in the first place, the Huns mostly stay over their own side of the Lines, knowing that we'll go over to them. How often do you see a big formation of Hun scouts over this side? Mighty seldom. That isn't just luck. That's a clever policy laid down by the German higher authority.

  `Then there's this grouping of their hot-stuff pilots into "circuses". And the way that bunch arrived this morning wasn't a fluke—you can bet your life on that. It was all very neatly arranged. Can't you see the idea? The old R.E.8 was the meat; three Huns go down after it just when they knew we were about due back, and

  that we were certain to follow them—go down after them. It pans out just as they expected, and off they go, taking us slap under the big mob who were sitting up topsides waiting for us. Although I say it as shouldn't, it was a bit of luck I happened to look back.

  As it turned out, the Hun plan went off at half-cock, but it might not have done. That's why I say these tripe-hound merchants are flying with their heads.'

  `Well, I can't stop 'em, if that's what you mean.'

  Ì never suggested you could, did I? But there's nothing to prevent us exercising our grey matter a bit, is there?'

  `You're right, kid,' joined in Maclaren, another flight-commander, who had overheard the conversation. 'You're absolutely dead right!'

  Ì think I am,' replied Biggles frankly. 'War-flying is too new for strategy to be laid down in the text-books; we've got to work it out for ourselves.'

  `What's all this?' asked Major Mullen, who had entered the room and caught the last part of the conversation.

  Briefly, Maclaren gave him the gist of the conversation. The C.O. nodded as he listened, then he looked at Biggles.

  `What do you suggest?' he asked.

  `Well, sir, it seems to me we might have a word with the other scout squadrons about it, and work out a scheme. At present we all do our shows independently, so to speak, but if we could work out a plot together—an ambush, if you like, like the Huns did this morning—we might give the tripe merchants over the way something to think about. If we did happen to catch them properly it would have the effect of making them chary about tackling odd machines for a bit. They'd

  always be worried for fear they were heading into a trap.'

  `That sounds like common-sense to me,' agreed the C.O. 'All right, Bigglesworth, you work out the plot and submit it to me, and I'll see what can be done about it. But we shall have to keep it to ourselves. If Wing heard about it they'd probably knock it on the head, on the ground that such methods were irregular, although perhaps I shouldn't say that.'

  `We all know it, sir, without you saying it, anyway!' grinned Biggles.

  After dinner he sat down with a pencil and paper to work out his 'plot', and before he went to bed he had the scheme cut and dried. It was fairly simple, as he explained to the others in the morning, and based upon the methodical habits of the enemy, and the assumption that the other scout squadrons would co-operate.

  `From my own personal observation,' he explained, `the Huns—by which. I mean the big circuses, particularly the Richthofen crowd which is stationed at Douai—do two big shows a day. Sometimes, when things are lively, they do three. They always do a big evening show, one that finishes about sunset, just before they pack up for the night. Very well. It gets dark now about half past six. That means that the Huns must leave the ground on their last show between four and four-thirty. Now, if they have a dog-fight they don't all go home together, but do the same as we do—trickle home independently, in twos and threes. They did that this morning. I saw them. Now, I reckon that the last place they'd expect big trouble would be on the way home, near their own aerodrome, and that's where I propose to spring the surprise packet.

  `To carry out my idea with maximum safety, it would

  need three squadrons—four would be even better. This is the way of it: at four o'clock one squadron pushes along to some prearranged sector of the Line, and makes itself a nuisance—shooting up the Hun trenches, or anything to make itself conspicuous. The Hun artillery observers will see this, of course, and are almost certain to ring up the Richthofen headquarters to say there is a lot of aerial activity on their bit of Front. It stands to reason that the circus will at once make for that spot; give them their due they don't shirk a roughhouse. Right-ho. The squadron that is kicking up the fuss keeps its eyes peeled for the Huns. It'll pretend not to see them until they're fairly close. Then they scatter, making towards home. The Huns are almost bound to split up to chase them, and our fellows can please themselves whether or not they stay and fight. But they must remember that their job is to split up the Huns.

  Às soon as this business is well under way, the other two—or three—squadrons will take off, climb to the limit of their height, and head over the Lines on a course that'll bring them round by Douai. Get the idea? The Huns will think the show's over and come drifting home in small parties, without keeping very careful watch. We shall be there to meet them, and we shall have height of them. Huns on the ground may see us, but they won't be able to warn the fellows in the air. In that way, if the scheme works out as I've planned it, we shall catch these pretty birds bending when they're least expecting it. That'

  s all. If the worst comes to the worst we should be no worse off than we are on an ordinary show, when we always seem to be outnumbered. At the best, we shall give the Huns a

  shock they'll remember for some time. What do you think about it, sir?'

  Ì certainly think there is a good deal to be said for it,' agreed the major. 'I'll speak to the other squadrons. Perhaps your old squadron would oblige by kicking up the fuss with their Bristols. Then, if 287, with their S.E.s, and 231, and ourselves, get behind the Huns we shall at least be sure of meeting them on even terms, even if they do happen to keep in one formation. All right; leave it to me. I'll see what I can do.'

  It took nearly a week of conferences to bring the scheme to a stage where it was ready to be tried out, but at last, burning with impatience and excitement, Biggles made his way to the sheds with the others for the big show.

  Watches had been carefully synchronized on the instrument boards of all pilots taking part, and every possible precaution taken to prevent a miscarriage of plans. Major Paynter, of Biggles' old squadron, had agreed to send every. Bristol he could raise into the air, to make itself as obnoxious as possible at a given spot, at the arranged time.

  The others were to rendezvous over Maranique in `layer' formation (machines flying in tiers) at fourthirty—No. 266 Squadron at ten thousand feet, 231 Squadron at thirteen thousand feet, and 287 Squadron at sixteen thousand feet. Major Mullen was leading the whole show on a roundabout course that would bring them behind the enemy, assuming, of course, that
the enemy circus would concentrate in the area where the Bristols were to lure them.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Major Mullen swung round in a wide circle that brought them actually within sight of Douai, the headquarters of the most famous fighting scouts in the German Imperial Air Service. Biggles never forgot the scene. The sun was low in the west, sinking in a crimson glow. A slight mist was rising, softening the hard outlines of roads, woods, hedges, and fields below, as though seen through a piece of lilac-tinted gauze. To the east, the earth was already bathed in deep purple and indigo shadows.

  No enemy aircraft were in sight, not even on the ground, as they turned slowly over the peaceful scene to seek the enemy in the glowing mists of the west. They had not long to wait.

  Biggles saw two Triplanes, flying close together, slowly materialize in the mist, like goldfish swimming in a pale milky liquid. The enemy pilots were gliding down, probably with their eyes on the aerodrome, and it is doubtful if they even saw the full force of British machines that had assembled to overwhelm them. Biggles felt almost sorry for them as Major Mullen shook his wings, as a signal, and the nine Pups roared down on the unsuspecting Triplanes.

  It was impossible to say which machine actually scored most hits. One Triplane broke up instantly. The other jerked upwards as if the pilot had been mortally wounded, turned slowly over on to its back, plunged downwards in a vicious spin with its engine full on and bored into the ground two miles below.

  The Pups resumed formation and returned to their original height and course. Another Triplane emerged from the mist, but something evidently caught the pilot's eye—perhaps the sun flashing on a wing—and he looked upwards. He acted with the speed of light and flung his machine into a spin to seek safety on the ground. The Pups did not follow, for the Triplane was

  far below them and they would not risk getting too low so far over the Line.

  A few minutes later a straggling party of seven machines appeared, followed at a distance by five more. It was obvious from the loose formation in which they were flying that they considered themselves quite secure so near their nest. They, too, must have been looking at the ground, and Biggles was amazed at the casual manner in which they continued flying straight on with death literally raining on them from the sky.