by W E Johns
fn1 The First World War 1914–18. Principal contenders, the Allies: Britain, France, Russia, Italy, Serbia, Belgium, Japan (1915), Romania (1916), USA (1917). Against the Central Powers: Germany, Austria-Hungary, Turkey and Bulgaria (1915).
fn2 Liquid similar to varnish, applied to the fabric surfaces to stiffen and weatherproof them.
A week later, a Rumpity landed on the aerodrome, and Captain Nerkinson swung himself to the ground. Biggles, in the front cockpit, was about to follow, but the instructor stopped him.
‘You’re absolutely O.K.,’ he said, ‘except that you are inclined to come in a bit too fast. Don’t forget that. Off you go!’
‘Off I what?’ cried Biggles, refusing to believe his ears.
‘You heard me. You’re as right as rain – but don’t be more than ten minutes.’
‘I won’t – by James I won’t, you can bet your life on that!’ declared Biggles emphatically. He took a last lingering survey of the aerodrome, as when a swimmer who has climbed up to the high diving-board for the first time looks down. Then, suddenly making up his mind, he thrust the throttle open with a despairing jerk and grabbed at the weird, spectacle-like arrangement that served as a joystick in the Rumpity.
The machine leapt forward and careered wildly in a wide circle towards the distant hedge. For a moment, as the machine started to swing, Biggles thought he was going to turn a complete circle and charge the hangars; but he kept his head, and straightened it.
The tail lifted, and he eased the joystick back gently. To his surprise the machine lifted as lightly as a feather, but the needle on the airspeed indicator ran back alarmingly. He shoved the joystick forward again with a frantic movement as he realized with a heart-palpitating shock that he had nearly stalled through climbing too quickly. Settling his nose on the horizon and holding the machine on an even keel, he soon began to gather confidence.
A nasty ‘bump’ over the edge of a wood brought his heart into his mouth, and he muttered ‘Whoa, there!’ as if he was talking to a horse. The sound of his own voice increased his confidence, so from time to time he encouraged himself with such comments as ‘Steady, there! Whoa, my beauty!’ and ‘Easy does it!’
Presently it struck him that it was time he started turning to complete a circuit that would bring him back to the aerodrome. He snatched a swift glance over his left shoulder, but he could not see the hangars. He turned a little farther and looked again. The aerodrome was nowhere in sight. It had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed it up. Perspiration broke out on his brow as he quickened his turn and examined every point of the compass in quick succession; but there was no aerodrome.
It took him another few seconds to realize that this miracle had actually taken place.
‘No matter,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve only got to go back the way I came and I can’t miss it.’ In five minutes he was looking down on country that he knew he had never seen before.
His heart fluttered, and his lips turned dry as the full shock of the fact that he was completely lost struck him. Another ‘plane appeared in his range of vision, seeming to drift sideways like a great grasshopper in that curious manner other machines have in the air, and he followed it eagerly. It might not be going to his aerodrome, but that did not matter; any aerodrome would suit him equally well. His toe slipped off the rudder-bar, and he looked down to adjust it.
When he looked up again his machine was in an almost vertical bank; he levelled out from a sickening side-slip, with beads of moisture forming inside his goggles. He pushed them up with a nervous jerk, and looked around for the other machine. It had gone. North, south, east and west he strained his eyes, but in vain. His heart sank, but he spotted a railway line and headed towards it.
‘It must be the line that goes to Settling,’ he thought, and he started to follow it eagerly. He was quite right – it was; but unfortunately he was going in the wrong direction.
After what seemed an eternity of time, a curious phenomenon appeared ahead. It seemed as if the land stopped short, ending abruptly in space, so to speak. He pondered it for a moment, and had just arrived at the conclusion that it was a belt of fog, when something else caught his eye, and he stared at it wonderingly. The shape seemed familiar, but for a moment or two he could not make out what it was. It looked like a ship, but how could a ship float in fog? Other smaller ones came into view, and at last the truth dawned on him. He was looking at the sea. It seemed impossible. As near as he could judge by visualizing the map, the coast was at least forty miles from Settling.
‘This is frightful!’ he groaned, and turned away from the forbidding spectacle. A blast of air smote him on the cheek, and objects on the ground suddenly grew larger. He clenched his teeth, knowing that he had side-slipped badly on the turn. He snatched a quick glance at the altimeter, and noted that it indicated four hundred feet, whereas a moment before the needle had pointed to the twelve hundred mark.
‘Good heavens, this won’t do!’ he told himself angrily. ‘What was it Nerky had said? “Never lose your head!” That was it.’ He pulled himself together with an effort and looked at his watch. He had been in the air an hour and a half, and Nerky had told him not to be more than ten minutes.
He wondered how much longer his petrol would last, realizing with fresh dismay that he did not know how much petrol had been in the tanks when he started. The light was already failing; presently it would be dark, and what hope would he have then of finding his way? He remembered that he had a map in his pocket, but what use was that if he did not know where he was? He could only find that out by landing and asking somebody.
‘It’s the only way!’ he told himself despairingly. ‘I might go on drifting round in circles for the rest of my life without finding the aerodrome.’
He began to watch the ground for a suitable field on which to land.
He flew for some time before he found one. It was an enormous field, beautifully green, and he headed the machine towards it. At the last moment it struck him that there was something queer about the grass, and he pulled up again with a jerk, realizing that he had nearly landed on a field of turnips.
Another quarter of an hour passed, and another large field presented itself; it looked like stubble, which could do the machine no harm; but he approached it warily. Only when he was quite sure that it was stubble did he pull the throttle back. The sudden silence as the engine died away almost frightened him, and he watched the ground, now seeming to come towards him, longingly.
In the next few seconds of agonizing suspense he hardly knew what he did, and it was with unspeakable relief and surprise that he heard his wheels trundling over solid earth. The machine stopped, and he surveyed the countryside, scarcely able to believe that he was actually on the ground.
‘I’ve landed!’ he told himself joyfully. ‘Landed without breaking anything! How did I do it? Good old aeroplane!’ he went on, patting the wooden side of the cockpit. ‘You must have done it yourself – I didn’t. But the thing is, where are we?’
He stood up in the cockpit and looked around. Not a soul was in sight, nor was there any sign of human habitation.
‘I would choose the only place in England where there aren’t any roads, houses or people!’ he thought bitterly. ‘If I’ve got to walk to the horizon looking for somebody, it will be pitch dark before I get back. Then I should probably lose myself as well as the aeroplane!’ he concluded miserably.
He sprang up as the sound of an aero-engine reached his ears. It was a Rumpity, and, what was more, it was coming towards him. It almost looked as if the pilot intended landing in the same field.
‘Cheers!’ muttered Biggles. ‘Now I shall soon know where I am!’
He was quite right; he was soon to know.
The Rumpity landed. The pilot jumped to the ground and strode towards him; there seemed to be something curiously familiar about his gait.
‘Can it be?’ thought Biggles. ‘Great jumping fish, it is. Well, I’m dashed!’
‘Game?’ echoed Biggles, in amazement. ‘Playing?’
‘Yes, game! Who told you you could land outside the aerodrome?’
‘I told myself,’ replied Biggles truthfully. ‘I wanted to find out where I was. I lost myself, and I knew I had got so far away from the aerodrome that I—’
‘Lost! What are you talking about? You’ve crossed the aerodrome three times during the last hour. I saw you!’
‘I crossed the aerodrome?’
‘You’ve just flown straight over it! That’s why I chased you.’
‘Flown over it!’ Biggles shut his eyes, and shook his head, shuddering. ‘Then it can only be a few miles away,’ he exclaimed.
‘A few miles! It’s only a few yards, you young fool – just the other side of the hedge!’
Biggles sank down weakly in his seat.
‘All right, let’s get back,’ went on the instructor. ‘Follow close behind, and don’t take your eyes off me.’
He hurried back to his machine and took off. Biggles followed. The leading machine merely hopped over the hedge and then began to glide down again at once, and Biggles could hardly believe his eyes when the aerodrome loomed up; it did not seem possible that he could have missed seeing those enormous sheds.
He started to glide down in Captain Nerkinson’s wake. He seemed to be travelling much faster than the leading machine, for his nose was soon nearly touching its tail. He saw the instructor lean out of his seat and look back at him, white-faced. He seemed to be yelling something.
‘He thinks I’m going to ram him,’ thought Biggles. ‘And so I shall if he doesn’t get out of my way; he ought to know jolly well that I can’t stop.’
The instructor landed, but he did not stop; instead, he raced madly across the ground towards the far side of the aerodrome, Biggles following close behind.
‘I’m not losing you,’ he declared grimly.
Captain Nerkinson swung round in a wide circle towards the sheds, and then, leaping out of the machine almost before it had stopped, sprinted for safety.
Biggles missed the other machine by inches; indeed, he would probably have crashed into it but for half a dozen mechanics, who, seeing the danger, dashed out and grabbed his wings.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Captain Nerkinson asked him, with deadly calm. He was breathing heavily.
‘You said I wasn’t to lose you.’
‘I know I did, but I didn’t ask you to ram me, you lunatic!’
The instructor recovered himself, and pointed to the hangar. ‘Go and enter up your time,’ he said sadly. ‘If you stick to the tails of the Huns as closely as you stuck to mine, you should make a skyfighter.’
Three days later a little group collected around the notice-board outside the orderly-room.
‘What is it?’ asked Biggles, trying to reach the board.
‘Posting,’ said somebody.
Biggles pushed his way to the front and ran his eye down the alphabetical list of names until he reached his own, and read:
2nd Lieut. Bigglesworth, J., to No. 4 School of Fighting, Frensham.
The posting was dated to take effect from the following day.
He spent the evening hurriedly packing his kit, and, in company with four other officers who had been posted to the same aerodrome, caught the night train for his new station.
It was daylight the following day when they arrived, for although the journey to the School of Fighting, which was situated on the Lincolnshire coast, was not a long one, it involved many changes and delays. A tender met them at the station and dropped them with their kits in front of the orderly-room.
Biggles knocked at the door, entered, and saluted.
‘Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth reporting for duty, sir,’ he said smartly.
The adjutantfn1 consulted a list. ‘The mess secretary will fix you up with quarters, Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘Get yourself settled as soon as you can and report to “A” Flight – Major Maccleston.’ He nodded, and then went on with his work.
Biggles dumped his kit in the room allotted to him, and then made his way to the sheds, where he was told that Major Maccleston was in the air.
He was not surprised, for the air was full of machines – Avros, B.E.s, F. E.s, Pups, and one or two types he did not recognize. Most of them were circling at the far side of the aerodrome and diving at something on the ground. The distant rattle of machine-guns came to his ears.
Later on he learned that the far side of the aerodrome ran straight down into the sea, a long, deserted foreshore, on which old obsolete aeroplanes were placed as targets. Scores of officers stood on the tarmac, singly or in little groups, waiting for their turns to fly.
A Pupfn2 taxied out to take off, and he watched it with intense interest, for it was the type that he ultimately hoped to fly. An F. E. was just coming in to land, and he stiffened with horror, knowing that a collision was inevitable.
He saw the gunner in the front seat of the F. E. spring up and cover his face with his arms; then the Pup bored into it from underneath with a dreadful crash of splintering woodwork. For a moment the machines clung together, motionless in mid air; then they broke apart, each spinning into the ground with a terrible noise which, once heard, is never forgotten. A streak of fire ran along the side of one of them, and then a sheet of flame leapt high into the air. An ambulance raced towards the scene, and Biggles turned away, feeling suddenly sick. It was the first real crash he had seen.
A flight-sergeant was watching him grimly. ‘A nasty one, sir,’ he said casually, as if he had been watching a football match in which one of the players had fallen, ‘You’ll soon get used to that, though,’ he went on, noting Biggles’ pale face. ‘We killed seven here last week.’
Biggles turned away. Flying no longer seemed just a thrilling game; tragedy stalked it too closely. He was glad when an instructor landed, turned out his passenger, and beckoned him to take his place. Biggles took his seat in the cockpit, noting with a thrill that it was fitted with machine-guns.
‘We’re going to do a little gunnery practice,’ said the instructor, and took off.
Three days later, Biggles was called to the orderly-room.
‘What’s up?’ he asked a sober-faced officer, who was just leaving.
‘Heavy casualties in France,’ was the reply. ‘They’re shoving everybody out as fast as they can.’
Biggles entered and saluted. The adjutant handed him a movement order and a railway warrant.
‘A tender will leave the mess at six forty-five to catch the seven o’clock train,’ he said. ‘You will proceed direct to France via Newhaven and Dieppe.’
‘But I haven’t finished my tests yet, sir!’ exclaimed Biggles, in surprise.
‘Have you got your logbook and training transfer-card?’
Biggles placed them on the desk.
The adjutant filled in the tests which had not been marked up, signed them, and then applied the orderly-room stamp.
‘You’ve passed them now,’ he said, with a queer smile. ‘You may put up your “wings”!’
Biggles saluted, and returned to the aerodrome in a state of suppressed excitement. Two thoughts filled his mind. One was that he was now a fully fledged pilot, entitled to wear the coveted ‘wings’, and the other that he was going to France.
The fact that he had done less than fifteen hours’ flying, dual and solo, did not depress him in the least.
fn1 An officer responsible for assisting the Commanding Officer with correspondence and paperwork.
fn2 Sopwith Pup, A single-seat fighter with one fixed machine-gun synchronized to allow the bullets to pass between the propeller blades.
There are some people who say that the North Pole is the most desolate spot on the face of the globe. Others give the doubtful credit to the middle of the Sahara Desert. They are all wrong.
&nb
sp; Without the slightest shadow of doubt the most dismal spot on the face of the earth is that depressing railway terminus known as Newhaven Quay, on the south coast of England, where the passenger for the Continent gets out of a train, walks across a platform, and steps onto the cross-Channel boat. At normal times it is bad enough, but during the First World War it was hard to find words to describe it.
So thought Biggles, who crouched rather than sat on a kit-bag in a corner of the platform. His attitude dripped depression as plainly as the dark silhouette of the station dripped moisture.
He was not alone on the platform. At intervals along the stone slabs, dark, ghostly figures loomed mysteriously, in ones and twos, and in little groups. At the far end, a long line of men in greatcoats, with unwieldy-looking bundles on their backs, filed slowly into view from an indistinguishable background. The only sounds were vague, muffled orders, and the weird moaning of the biting north-east wind through the rigging of a ship that rested like a great vague shadow against the quay. Not a light showed anywhere, for German submarines had been reported in the Channel. Once, a low laugh echoed eerily from the shadows, and the unusual sound caused those who heard it to turn curiously in the direction whence it came, for the occasion of the departure of a leave-boat for France was not usually one for mirth.
Biggles moved uneasily and seemed to sink a little lower into the greatcoat that enveloped him. He did not even move when another isolated figure emerged slowly from the pillar behind which it had been sheltering from the icy blast, and stopped close by.
‘Miserable business, this messing about doing nothing,’ observed the newcomer. His voice sounded almost cheerful, and it may have been this quality that caused Biggles to look up.
‘Miserable, did you say?’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘It’s awful. There isn’t a word bad enough for it. I’m no longer alive – l’m just a chunk of frozen misery.’
‘They say we shall be moving off presently.’
‘I’ve been hearing that ever since I arrived!’
‘They say it’s a U-boat in the Channel that’s holding us up.’
