Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Mabs quickly.

  ‘Fine! If I’d known you were waiting I’d have brought you a bunch of German primroses; there were some growing in the field.’

  ‘You’d better turn in and get some sleep,’ Mabs advised him.

  ‘Yes, I might as well – for a bit.’

  ‘For a bit? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m going over again presently to fetch my bowler hatted pal back!’

  Biggles condemned the spy, the authorities in general, and the Germans in particular, to purgatory when, at the depressing hour of five o’clock the following morning, his batman aroused him from a deep, refreshing sleep.

  It was bitterly cold, and the stars were still twinkling brightly in a wintry sky; a thick layer of white frost covered everything and wove curious patterns on the window-panes. It was one of those early spring frosts that remind us that the winter is not yet finished.

  ‘What an hour to be hauled out of bed!’ he grumbled, half-regretting his rash promise to fetch his man. But a cup of hot coffee and some toast put a fresh complexion on things, and he hummed cheerfully as he strode briskly over the crisp turf towards the sheds. He had told the flight-sergeant to detail two mechanics to ‘stand by,’ and he found them shivering in their greatcoats, impatiently awaiting his arrival. ‘All right, get her out,’ he said sharply, and between them they dragged the F. E. out on to the tarmac. ‘Start her up,’ he went on, tying a thick woollen muffler round his neck and then pulling on his flying kit.

  Five minutes later he was in the air again, heading towards the scene of action.

  The sky began to grow pale in the east, and, following the same landmarks that he had used before, he had no difficulty in finding his way. The first flush of dawn was stealing across the sky as he approached the field, but the earth was still bathed in deep blue and purple shadows.

  He throttled back and began gliding down, eyes probing the shadows, seeking for the field and a little man. He picked out the field, but the spy was nowhere in sight, and Biggles’ heart sank with apprehension, for he had developed a strong liking for him. He continued to circle for a few minutes, losing height slowly, eyes running over the surrounding country. Suddenly they stopped, and remained fixed on the one spot where a movement had attracted his attention. Something had flashed dully, but for a second he could not make out what it was.

  A fresh turn brought him nearer, and then he saw distinctly – horses – mounted troops – Uhlansfn2. A troop of them was standing quietly under a clump of leafless trees near the main road, not more than a couple of hundred yards away from the field. He saw others, and small groups of infantry, at various points around the field, concealing themselves as well as the sparse cover would permit.

  His lips turned dry. No wonder the little man was not there. For some reason or other, possibly because the mission had been successful, the whole countryside was being watched. Yet, he reasoned, the very presence of the troops suggested that the little man had not been caught. If he had been taken there would be no need for the troops – unless they were waiting for the plane. Well, the little man was not there, so there was no point in landing. He might as well go home. He had no intention of stepping into the trap.

  He was within two hundred feet of the ground, and actually had his hand on the throttle to open his engine again, when a figure burst from the edge of the field and waved its arms. Biggles drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, for the Uhlans had started to move forward. He flung the control-stick over to the left, and, holding up the plane’s nose with right rudder, dropped like a stone in a vertical sideslip towards the field.

  Never in his life had his nerves been screwed up to such a pitch. His heart hammered violently against his ribs but his brain was clear, and he remained cool and collected. He knew that only perfect judgment and timing could save the situation. The Uhlans were coming at a canter; already they were in the next field.

  With his eyes on the man he skimmed over the tops of the trees, put the machine on even keel, and began to flatten out. Then a remarkable thing happened – an occurrence so unexpected and so inexplicable that for a moment he was within an ace of taking off again. A second figure had sprung out of the ditch behind the man in the field and started to run towards him. The new-comer wore a black coat and bowler hat. He did not run towards the machine, but raced towards the man who had been waving, and who was now making for the F. E.

  Up to this moment it had not occurred to Biggles for one instant that the man who had been waving was not his little man, and when the second figure appeared his calculations were thrown into confusion. The man in the bowler hat was the spy, there was no doubt of that, for he was now close enough for his face and figure to be recognized. Who, then, was the other?

  The Frenchman seemed to know, for as he closed on him he flung up his right hand. There was a spurt of flame. The other flung up his arms and pitched forward onto his face.

  Biggles began to see daylight. The thing was an artfully prepared trap. The first man who had showed himself was a decoy, an imposter to lure him to his death. The real spy had been lying in the hedge bottom, not daring to show himself with so many troops about, hoping that he, Biggles, would not land, which would have been in accordance with their plans.

  From his position the spy had seen the decoy break cover, and knew his purpose. So he had exposed himself to warn his flying partner, even at the expense of his own life.

  The knowledge made Biggles still more determined to save him, although he could see it was going to be a matter of touch-and-go. The decoy lay where he had fallen, and the little Frenchman, still wearing his bowler, was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him towards the now taxi-ing machine.

  But the Uhlans were already putting their horses at the hedge, not a hundred yards away. Shots rang out, the sharp whip-like cracks of cavalry carbines splitting the still morning air. Bullets hummed like angry wasps, one tearing through the machine with a biting jar that made Biggles wince.

  ‘Come on!’ he roared, unable to restrain himself, and he opened the throttle slightly.

  The little man’s face was red with exertion, and he was puffing hard. He took a flying leap at the nose of the F. E. and dragged himself up on to the edge of the cockpit. ‘Voila! We have made it, my little mushroom!’ he gasped. And then, as Biggles jammed the throttle wide open, he pitched head first inside.

  The Uhlans were galloping towards them, crouching low on the backs of their mounts, and spurring them to greater efforts. There was no time to turn. Biggles did the only thing possible. He shoved the joystick forward and charged. He caught a glimpse of swerving horses and flashing carbines straight in front of him; then he pulled the stick back into his stomach, flinching from what seemed must end in collision.

  He relaxed limply as the F. E. zoomed upwards, and shook his head as if unable to believe that they were actually in the air. For the last two or three minutes he had not been conscious of actual thought. He had acted purely on instinct, throwing the whole strain on his nerves.

  A round, good-humoured face appeared above the edge of the forward cockpit. The spy caught his eye and grinned. ‘Bon!’ he shouted. ‘That’s the stuff, my little cabbage!’

  Major Raymond was watching on the tarmac when they landed. His face beamed with delight when he saw they were both in the machine.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked the little Frenchman quickly.

  ‘Pouf! Like that!’ said the spy. ‘The bridge is no more, and, thanks to my little specimen here, I can now have my coffee at home instead of with the pigs-heads over the way.’

  ‘Have a close call, Bigglesworth?’ asked the major, becoming serious.

  ‘We did, sir!’ admitted Biggles. ‘I think I shall fly in a bowler hat in future – they seem to be lucky!’

  ‘Ah! But those Boches are cunning ones!’ muttered the Frenchman. ‘They hunt for me, but I am in the ditch like a rabbit. They know the aeroplane will come, so they find anoth
er man to make my little artichoke land. He lands – so. I think furiously. La, la, it is simple. I shoot, and then I run. My Jingoes, how I run! Pish. We win, and here we are. I think we will go again some day, eh?’ He beamed at Biggles.

  ‘Perhaps!’ agreed Biggles, but without enthusiasm. ‘I’ve had all I want for a little while, though!’

  ‘Pish!’ laughed the spy. ‘It was nothing! Just a little excitement to – how you say? – warm the blood.’

  ‘Warm the blood!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘When I want to do that I’ll do it in front of the mess-room fire, thanks! Your sort of warm gets me overheated!’

  fn1French slang for ‘open the throttle’.

  fn2German cavalrymen.

  Biggles’ face wore a curious expression as he gazed down upon the blue-green panorama four thousand feet below. The day was fine and clear, and recent rain had washed the earth until roads and fields lay sharply defined to the far horizon. Ponds and lakes gleamed like mirrors in the sun, and ruined villages lay here and there like the bones of long-forgotten monsters. At intervals along the roads were long, black caterpillars that he knew were bodies of marching men, sometimes with wagons and artillery. There was nothing unusual about the scene, certainly nothing to cause the look of distaste on the pilot’s face. It was an everyday scene on the Western Front.

  The truth of the matter was he was setting out on a task that he expected would be wearisome to the point of utter boredom. He had never been detailed for this particular job before, but he had heard a good deal about it, and nothing that was pleasant. The work in question was that known throughout the Royal Flying Corps by those two mystic syllables ‘art obs’ – in other words, artillery observation.

  There were certain squadrons that did nothing else but this work – ranging the guns of our artillery on those of the enemy; sometimes, however, the target was an ammunition dump, a bridge, or a similar strategical point that the higher command decided must be destroyed.

  It was by no means as simple as it might appear, and the crew of the machine told off for the task were expected to remain at their post until each gun of the battery for which it was working had scored a hit, after which, without altering the range, they might continue to fire shot after shot at the target until it was wiped out of existence.

  If the pilot was lucky, or clever, and the battery for which he was spotting good at its work, the job might be finished in an hour – or it might take three hours; and during the whole of that period the artillery aeroplane would have to circle continuously over the same spot, itself a target for every archie battery within range, and the prey of every prowling enemy scout.

  Whether the task was more monotonous for the pilot, who had to watch his own battery for the flash of the gun and then the target for the bursting shell, signalling its position by the Morse code, or for the observer, whose duty it was not to watch the ground (as might reasonably be supposed) but the sky around for danger while the pilot was engrossed in his work, is a matter of opinion.

  In any case, Biggles neither knew nor cared, but of one thing he was certain; circling in the same spot for hours was neither amusing nor interesting. Hence the unusual expression on his face as he made his way eastwards towards the Lines, to find the British battery for which he was detailed, and the enemy battery which the British guns proposed to wipe out. This being his first attempt at art obs, he was by no means sure that he would be able to find either of them, and this may have been another reason why he was not flying with his usual enthusiasm.

  Now, in order that the operation known as art obs should be understood, a few words of explanation are necessary, although the procedure is quite simple once the idea has been grasped. Biggles, like all other R. F. C. officers, had been given a certain amount of instruction at his training school, but as he had hoped to be sent to a scout squadron, which never did this class of work, he had not concentrated on the instruction as much as he might have done.

  Briefly, this was the programme, for which, as a general rule, wireless was used, although occasionally a system of Very lights was employed. Wireless, at the time of which we are speaking, was of a primitive nature. The pilot, by means of an aerial which he lowered below the machine, could only send messages; he could not receive them. The gunners, in order to convey a message to the pilot, had to layout strips of white material in the form of letters. The target was considered to be the centre of an imaginary clock, twelve o’clock being due north. Six o’clock was there fore due south, and the other cardinal points in their relative positions. Imaginary rings drawn round the target were lettered A, B, C, D, E, and F. These were 50, 100, 200, 300, 400, and 500 yards away respectively.

  When the gunners started work, if the first shell dropped, say, one hundred yards away and due north of the target, all the pilot had to do was to signal B12. ‘B’ meant that the shell burst one hundred yards away, and the ‘12’ meant at twelve o’clock on the imaginary clock face. Thus the gunners were able to mark on their map exactly where the shell had fallen, and were therefore able to adjust their gun for the next shot. As another example, a shell bursting three hundred yards to the right of the target would be signalled D3, or three hundred yards away at three o’clock. In this way the pilot was saved the trouble of tapping out long messages.

  Briefly, while the ‘shoot’, as it was called, was in progress, the pilot continued to correct the aim of the gunners until they scored a hit. The first gun was now ranged on the target. The second gun was ranged in the same way, and so it went on until every gun in the battery was ranged on the target. Then they fired a salvo (all guns together) which the pilot would signal ‘mostly O.K.’, and thereafter the battery would pump out shells as fast as it could until the enemy guns were put out of action.

  This is what Biggles had to do.

  Approaching the Line, he quickly picked out the battery of guns for which he was to act as the ‘eyes’, and after a rather longer search he found the enemy battery, neatly camouflaged, and quite oblivious to the treat in store for it. He reached for his buzzer, which was a small key on the inside of his cockpit, and sent out a series of letter B’s in the Morse code, meaning ‘Are you receiving my signals?’

  This was at once acknowledged by the battery, which put out three strips of white cloth in the form of a letter K – the recognition signal.

  Biggles was rather amused, not to say surprised, at this prompt response. It struck him as strange that by pressing a lever in the cockpit he could make people on the ground do things. In fact, it was rather fun. He reached for his buzzer again, and sent K Q, K Q, K Q, meaning ‘Are you ready to fire?’ (All signals were repeated three times) Biggles, of course, could not hear his own signals; they were sent out by wireless, which was picked up on a small receiving set at the battery’s listening-post.

  The white strips of cloth on the ground at once took the form of a letter L, meaning ‘ready.’

  G – G – G, buzzed Biggles. G was the signal to fire.

  Instantly a gun flashed, and Biggles, who was becoming engrossed in his task, turned his machine, eyes seeking the distant objective to watch the shell burst.

  ‘Hi!’

  The shrill shout from Mark Way, his observer, made him jump. Mark was pointing. Falling like a meteor from the sky was an Albatros, silver with scarlet wing-tips. The sun flashed on the gleaming wings, turning them into streaks of fire, on the ends of which were two large black crosses.

  Biggles frowned and waved his hand impatiently. ‘Make him keep out of the way!’ he yelled, and turned back to watch the shell burst. But he was too late. A faint cloud of white smoke was drifting across the landscape near the target, but it was already dispersing, so it was impossible to say just where the shell had burst.

  ‘Dash it!’ muttered Biggles, turning and feeling for his buzzer. ‘Now I’ve got to do it again.’ G – G – G, he signalled.

  There was a moment’s pause before the gun flashed again, the gunners possibly wondering why he had not registered thei
r first shot. Biggles turned again towards the target, but before the shell exploded the chatter of a machine-gun made him look up quickly. The Albatros had fired a burst at them, swung up in a climbing turn, and was now coming back at them.

  ‘You cock-eyed son of a coot!’ Biggles roared at Mark, as he turned to meet the attack. At this rate the job would never be done. ‘And I’ll give you something to fling yourself about for, you interfering hound!’ he growled at the approaching Albatros. Curiously, it did not occur to him that their lives were in any particular danger, a fact which reveals the confidence that was coming to him as a result of experience. He was not in the least afraid of a single German aeroplane. However, he had still much to learn.

  His windscreen flew to pieces, and something whanged against his engine. Again the Hun pulled up in a wonderful zoom, twisting cunningly out of the hail of lead that Mark’s gun spat at him. He levelled out, turned, and came down at them again.

  For the first time it dawned on Biggles that the man in the machine was no ordinary pilot; he was an artist, a man who knew just what he was doing. Further, he had obviously singled him out for destruction. Well, the battery would have to wait, that was all.

  Biggles brought his machine round to face the new attack, pulling his nose up to give Mark the chance of a shot. But before he could fire, the Hun had swerved in an amazing fashion to some point behind them, and a steady stream of bullets began to rip through the wings of the British machine. Again Biggles turned swiftly – but the Hun was not there.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat – a stream of lead poured up from below, one of the bullets jarring against the root of the joystick with a jerk that flung it out of his hand.