Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  fn1 German: Friend! Friend!

  fn2 Hand grenade.

  fn3 Part of the trench system to protect moving troops from enemy gunfire.

  When the time came for Biggles to leave his old squadron and say good-bye to Mark Way, his gunner, he found himself a good deal more depressed than he had thought possible; he realized for the first time just how attached to them he had become. Naturally, he had been delighted to join a scout squadron, for he had always wanted to fly single-seaters. The presence of his old pal, Mahoney, who was flight-commander, prevented any awkwardness or strangeness amongst his new comrades, and he quickly settled down to routine work.

  The commanding officer, Major Mullen, of his new squadron, No. 266, stationed at Maranique, allowed none of his pilots to take unnecessary risks if he could prevent it. So he gave Biggles ten days in which to make himself proficient in the handling of the single-seater Pup that had been allocated to him.

  Biggles was told to put in as much flying-time as possible, but on no account to cross the Lines, and he found that the enforced rest from eternal vigilance did him a power of good, for his nerves had been badly jarred by his late spell of trench strafing.

  By the end of a week he was thoroughly at home with the Pup, and ready to try his hand at something more serious than beetling up and down behind his own Lines. He had noted all the outstanding landmarks around Maranique, and once or twice he accompanied Mahoney on practice formation flights. His flight-commander had expressed himself satisfied, and Biggles begged to be allowed to do a ‘show’.

  His chance came soon. Lorton was wounded in the arm and packed off to hospital, and Biggles was detailed to take his place the following morning. But the afternoon before this decision took effect he had what he regarded as a slice of luck that greatly enhanced his reputation with the C.O., and the officers of the squadron, as well as bringing his name before Wing Headquarters.

  He had set off on a cross-country flight to the Aircraft Repair Section at St Omer, to make inquiries for the equipment officer about a machine that had gone back for reconditioning, when he spotted a line of white archie bursts at a very high altitude – about 15,000 feet, he judged it to be.

  He was flying at about 5,000 a few miles inside the Lines at the time, and he knew that the archie was being fired by British guns, which could only mean that the target was an enemy aircraft. It seemed to be flying on a course parallel with the Lines, evidently on a photographic or scouting raid.

  Without any real hope of overtaking it he set off in pursuit, and, knowing that sooner or later the German would have to turn to reach his own side he steered an oblique course that would bring him between the raider and the Lines. In a few minutes he had increased his height to 10,000 feet, and could distinctly see the enemy machine. It was a Rumpler two-seaterfn1. He had no doubt that the observer had spotted him, but the machine continued on its way as if the pilot was not concerned, possibly by reason of his superior altitude.

  Biggles began to edge a little nearer to the Lines, and was not much more than a thousand feet below the Hun, when, to his disgust, it turned slowly and headed off on a diagonal course towards No Man’s Land.

  The Pup was climbing very slowly now, and it was more with hope than confidence that Biggles continued the pursuit. Then the unexpected happened. The enemy pilot turned sharply and dived straight at him, but opened fire at much too great a range for it to be effective, although he held the burst for at least a hundred rounds. Biggles had no idea where the bullets went, but he saw the Hun, at the end of his dive, zoom nearly back to his original altitude, and then make for home at full speed. But he had lingered just a trifle too long.

  Biggles climbed up into the ‘blind’ spot under the enemy’s elevators, and although the range was still too long for good shooting, he opened fire. Whether any of his shots took effect he was unable to tell, but the Hun was evidently alarmed, for the Rumpler made a quick turn out of the line of fire. It was a clumsy turn, and cost him two hundred precious feet of height at a moment when height was all-important. Moreover, it did not give the gunner in the back seat a chance to use his weapon.

  Biggles seized his opportunity and fired one of the longest bursts he ever fired in his life. The German gunner swayed for a moment, then collapsed in his cockpit. Then, to his intense satisfaction, Biggles saw the propeller of the other machine slow down and stop, whereupon the enemy pilot shoved his nose down and dived for the Lines, now not more than two or three miles away.

  It was a move that suited Biggles well, for the RumpleI’ was defenceless from the rear, so he tore down in hot pursuit, guns blazing, knowing that the Hun was at his mercy. The enemy pilot seemed to realize this for he turned broadside on and threw up his hands in surrender.

  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 RE.8fn2 – 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 ga
ze 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 circusfn3. 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 mêlée.

  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 or 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’.

  fn1 German two-seater biplane used for general duties as well as fighting.

  fn2 British two-seater biplane designed for reconnaissance and artillery observation purposes.

  fn3 Formations of German fighter aircraft usually named after their leader e.g. Richthofen circus.

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

  ‘Oh, once in a while! Not every day, thank goodness!’ replied Mahoney. ‘Why?’

  ‘I 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.’

  ‘I 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!’

  ‘I 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.