Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  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 Mabs’ 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 him!’ 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 pilot in the black-crossed machine seemed to realize this, for he suddenly broke off the combat and sought to escape by diving towards the nearest cloud. Biggles was behind him in a flash, eye to the Aldis sight. Farther and yet farther forward he pushed the control-stick, and the distance rapidly closed between them.

  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.

  They opened up to let him go through, and then closed in behind him. He swerved round a fragment of cloud, and then, with the speed of light, flung the Bristol on its side with a sharp intake of breath. It was perhaps only because his nerves were screwed up to snapping point that he had caught sight of what seemed to be a fine wire standing vertically in the air.

  Without even thinking, he knew it was a balloon cable. Somewhere above the clouds an enemy observation balloon was taking a last look round the landscape, or as much of it as could be seen, before being wound down for the night. Then an idea struck him, and he swerved in the opposite direction.

  The leading Hun, with his eyes only on the Bristol was round in a flash to cut across the arc of the circle and intercept him, and Biggles witnessed just what he hoped would happen – the picture of a machine colliding with a balloon cable. It was a sight permitted to very few war pilots, although it actually happened several times.

  The cable tore the top and bottom port wings off the Albatros as cleanly as if they had been sheared through with an axe. The machine swung round in its own length, and the pilot was flung clean over the centre section. He fell, clutching wildly at space. Biggles saw that the cable had parted, and that the other machines were hesitating, watching their falling leader. Then they came on again. They overtook him before he reached the Lines, as he knew they would. A bullet splashed into his instrument-board, and he had no alternative but to turn and face them.

  With a steady gunner in the back seat he would have felt no qualms as to the ultimate result of the combat, but with his rear gun silent he was much worse off than the single-seaters, as he had a larger machine to handle. To make matters worse, the Lewis gun, pointing up to the sky in the rear cockpit, told its own story. The enemy pilots knew that his gunner was down, and that they could get on his tail with impunity.

  The three Boche pilots were evidently old hands, for they separated and then launched an attack from three directions simultaneously. The best that Biggles could do was to take on one machine at a time, yet while he was engaging it his flanks and tail were exposed to the attacks of the other two.

  Several bullets struck the Bristol, and it began to look as if his luck had broken at last. He fought coolly, without the all-devouring hate that had consumed him when he attacked the red-and-silver Albatros. These methods would not serve him now.

  He tried to break out of the circle into which they had automatically fallen, in order to reach the shelter of the clouds, but a devastating blast of lead through his centre section warned him of the folly of turning his back on them. He swung round again to meet them. A shark-like aircraft, painted dark green and buff, circled to get behind him; the other two were coming in from either side. His position, he knew, was critical.

  Then a miracle happened, or so it seemed. The circling Hun broke into pieces and hurtled earthwards. Biggles stared, and then understood. A drab-coloured single-seater, wearing red, white, and blue ring markings, swept across his nose. It was a Sopwith Pup. He looked around quickly for others, but it was alone.

  Its advent soon decided matters. The black-crossed machines dived out of the fight and disappeared into the clouds. Biggles waved his hand to the single-seater pilot and they turned towards the Lines. The Pup stayed with him until the aerodrome loomed up through the gloom, and then disappeared as magically as it arrived.

  Biggles felt for his Very pistol and fired a red light over the side. The ruddy glow cast a weird light over the twilight scene. He saw the ambulance start out almost before his wheels had touched the ground, and he taxied to meet it. Mabs and Mark were following it 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.C 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 sergea
nt 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.

  ‘Anyway, it’s some consolation that you got the Hun,’ said the C.O.

  ‘Yes, I got him!’ answered Biggles grimly.

  ‘And 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.

  ‘I 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.’

  ‘It’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 two-six-six, 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 two-six-six. 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—’

  ‘Oh, 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.’

  ‘I’ll be there!’ Mahoney told him briskly. ‘Bring your wallet – you’ll need it!’

  fn1 Two-seater biplane fighter with remarkable manoeuvrability.

  fn2 To strafe: to bombard a target with gunfire, artillery shells or machinegun fire.

  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 O.P.fn1, 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.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘All 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 Scarff 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 wing-tips 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 o
ver the landscape, the British 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.