Biggles Learns To Fly

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles never forgot that dive. There was something awe-inspiring about it. It was like sinking down into the very centre of the earth. There was insufficient room for the four machines to keep in a straight dive, as the cavity was not more than a few hundred yards across, so they were compelled to take a spiral course.

  Down—down—down they went. Biggles thought they would never come to the end. The wind howled and screamed through struts and wires like a thousand demons in agony, but he heeded it not. He was too engrossed in watching the tragedy being enacted below. Twice, as they went down in that soul-shaking dive, he saw machines fall out of the fight, leaving streamers of black smoke behind them, around which the others continued to turn, and roll, and shoot. There were at least twenty of them: drab biplanes with yellow wings, and rainbow-hued triplanes —red, green, blue, mauve, and even a white one.

  Soon the dawn patrol was amongst the whirling machines, and it was every man for himself.

  Biggles picked out a group of triplanes with black-crossed wings that were flying close together. They saw him coming, and scattered like a school of minnows when a pike appears. He rushed at one of them, a blue machine with white wing-tips, and pursued it relentlessly. Mark's gun started chattering, and he saw the tracer-bullets pouring straight into the centre of the fuselage of the machine below him. The Hun did not burst into flames as he hoped it would. Instead, it zoomed upwards, turned slowly over on to its back, and then, with the engine still on, spun down out of sight into the misty floor of the basin.

  Biggles jerked the machine up sharply, and swerved just in time to avoid collision, with a whirling bonfire of struts and canvas. His nostrils twitched as he hurtled through its smoking trail.

  Mark was shooting again, this time at a white machine. But the pilot of it was not to be so easily disposed of. He twisted and turned like a fish with a sea-lion after it, and more than once succeeded in getting in a burst of fire at them. This was the hottest dog-fight in which Biggles had as yet taken part. One thought was uppermost in his mind, and that was—that he must inevitably collide with somebody in a moment. Already they had missed

  machines— triplanes, F.E.s, and Pups, which he now perceived the British machines to be— by inches. But the thought of collision did not frighten him. He felt only a strange elation, a burning desire to go on doing this indefinitely—to down the enemy machines before he himself was killed, as he never doubted that he would be in the end. There was no thought in his mind of retreat or escape. Mark's gun was rattling incessantly, and Biggles marvelled at the calm deliberation with which he flung the empty drums overboard after their ammunition was exhausted, and replaced them with new ones.

  Something struck the machine with a force that made it quiver. The compass flew to pieces, and the liquid that it contained spurted back, half blinding him. Mechanically, he wiped his face with the back of his glove.

  Where was the white Hun? He looked around, and, his blood seemed to turn to ice at the sight that met his gaze. An F.E. — a blazing meteor of spurting fire—was roaring nosedown across his front at frightful speed!

  A black figure emerged from the flames with its arm flung over its face, and leapt outwards and downwards. The machine, almost as if it was still under control, deliberately swerved towards the white triplane that was whirling across its front. The Hun pilot saw his danger, and twisted like lightning to escape. But he was too late. The blazing F.E. caught it fair and square across the fuselage. There was a shower of sparks and debris, and then a blinding flash of flames as the triplane's tanks exploded. Then the two machines disappeared from Biggles's field of view. For a moment he was stunned with shock, utterly unable to think, and it was a shrill yell from Mark that brought him back to realities. Where was. he? What was he doing? Oh, yes, fighting! Who had been in the F.E.? Marriot? Or was it McAngus? It must have been one of them. A yellow Hun was shooting at him.

  With a mighty effort he pulled himself together, but he felt that he could not stand the strain much longer. He was flying on his nerves, and he knew it. His flying was getting wild and erratic.

  Turning, he swerved into the side of the cloud, temporarily blinding himself, and then burst out again, fighting frantically to keep the machine under control. Bullets were crashing into his engine, and he wondered why it did not burst into flames. Where were the bullets coming from? He leaned over the side of the cockpit and looked behind. A yellow Hun was on his tail. He turned with a speed that amazed himself. Unprepared for the move, the Hun overshot the F.E. Next instant the tables were turned, Biggles roaring down after the triplane in hot pursuit.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat! stuttered Mark's gun. At such short range it was impossible to miss. The yellow top wing swung back and floated away into space, and the fuselage plunged out of sight, a streamer of flame creeping along its side.

  For a moment Biggles watched it, fascinated, then he looked up with a start. Where were the others? Where were his companions? He was just in time to see one of them disappear into the side of the cloud, then he was alone.

  At first he could not believe it. Where were the Huns? Not one of them was in sight. Where, a moment or two before, there had been twenty or more machines, not one remained except himself—Yes, one; a Pup was just disappearing through the floor of the basin.

  A feeling of horrible loneliness came over him and a doubt crept into his mind as to his ability to find his way home. He had not the remotest idea of his position. He looked upwards, but from his own level to the distant circle of blue at the top of the crater there was not a single machine to be seen. He had yet to learn of the suddenness with which machines could disappear when a dog-fight was broken off by mutual consent. He had hoped to see the F.E. that he had seen disappear into the mist come out again, but it did not.

  bet that Pup pilot knows where he is; I'll go after him,' he thought desperately, and tore down in the wake of the single-seater that had disappeared below. He looked at his altimeter, which had somehow escaped the general ruin caused by the bullets. One thousand feet, it read. He sank into the mist and came out under it almost at once. Below lay open country—fields, hedges, and a long, deserted road. Not a soul was in sight as far as he could see, and there was no landmark that he could recognize. He saw the Pup at once. It was still going down, and he raced after it intending to get alongside in the hope of making his predicament known to the pilot. Then, with a shock of understanding, he saw that the Pup's propeller was not turning. Its engine must have been put out of action in the combat, and the pilot had no choice but to land. As he watched the machine, he saw the leather-helmeted head turn in the cockpit as the pilot looked back over his shoulder. Then he turned again and made a neat landing in a field.

  Biggles did not hesitate. He knew they were far over

  hostile country—how far he did not like to think—and the Pup pilot must be rescued. The single-seater was blazing when he landed beside it, and its pilot ran towards the F.E., carrying a still smoking Very pistol in his hand.

  Biggles recognized him at once.

  `Mahoney!' he yelled.

  The Pup pilot pulled up dead and stared.

  `Great smoking rattlesnakes!' he cried. 'If it isn't young Bigglesworth!'

  `Get in, and buck up about it!' shouted Biggles. `Get in here with me,' called Mark. 'It'll be a bit of a squash, but it can be done.'

  Mahoney clambered aboard and squeezed himself into the front cockpit with the gunner.

  `Look out,' he yelled. 'Huns!'

  Biggles did not look. He saw little tufts of grass flying up just in front of the machine, and he heard the distant rattle of a gun. It told him all he needed to know, and he knew he had no time to lose.

  The F.E. took a long run to get off with its unusual burden, but it managed it. Fortunately, its nose was pointing towards the Lines, and there was no need to turn. The machine zoomed upwards and the mist enfolded them like a blanket. For a few minutes Biggles fought his way through the gloom, then he put the nose of the machine down a
gain, for he knew he could not hope to keep it on even keel for very long in such conditions. The ground loomed darkly below; he corrected the machine, and then climbed up again.

  `Do you know where we are?' he yelled.

  Mahoney nodded, and made a sign that he was to keep straight on. Biggles breathed more comfortably, and flew along just at the base of the clouds. Suddenly he remembered the blazing F.E.

  `Who was in that F.E.?' he bellowed to Mark. `Rayner!' was the reply. So Rayner had gone at last—gone out in one of the wildest dog-fights he could have desired. Sooner or later it was bound to happen, Biggles reflected, but it was tough luck on poor Marble, his observer.

  Poor old Marble. Two hours before they had drunk their coffee together, and now—

  What a beastly business war was!

  It must have been Marble whom he had seen jump. And Rayner had deliberately rammed the Hun, he was certain of it.

  `Well, I only hope I shall have as much nerve when my time comes!' he mused. 'Poor old Rayner, he wasn't such a bad sort!'

  Biggles pulled himself together and tried to put the matter from his mind, but he could not forget the picture. He knew he would never forget it. An archie burst blossomed out just in front of him and warned him that they were approaching the Lines. Two minutes later they were in the thick of it, rocking in a wide area of flame-torn sky. The gunners, knowing to an inch the height of the clouds, were able to make good shooting, yet they passed through unscathed, letting out a whoop of joy as they raced into the sheltered security of their own Lines. Mahoney guided the F.E. to his own aerodrome, which Biggles had seen from the air, although he had never landed on it, and after a rather bumpy landing, it ran to a standstill in front of No. 266 Squadron

  sheds, where a number of officers and mechanics were watching. Ì believe I've busted a tyre,' muttered Biggles, in disgust. But a quick examination revealed that the damage had not been his fault. The tyre had been pierced from side to side by a bullet.

  There was a general babble of excitement, in which everybody talked at once. Biggles was warmly congratulated on his rescue work, which everyone present regarded as an exceptionally good show.

  `Does anyone know what happened to the other two F.E.s?' asked Biggles.

  `Yes, they've gone home,' said several voices at once. `They broke off the fight when we did, and we all came home together!'

  `Thank goodness!' muttered Biggles. 'I thought they had all gone west. How did the show start?'

  `We saw the Huns down in that hole, and we went in after 'em; it looked such a nice hole that we thought it ought to be ours,' grinned Mahoney. 'There were seven of us, but there were more of them than we thought at first. We had just got down to things when you butted in. I didn't see you until you were amongst us. Which way did you come in?'

  `Through The front door—at the top!' laughed Biggles.

  `Well, it was a fine dog-fight!' sighed Mahoney. 'The sort of scrap one remembers. Hallo, here's the C.O.!' he added. 'Here, sir, meet Bigglesworth, who I was telling you about the other day. He picked me up this morning in Hunland after a Boche had shot my engine to scrap iron.' He turned to Biggles again. 'Let me introduce you to Major Mullen, our C.O.,

  ' he said.

  `Pleased to meet you, Bigglesworth,' said Major

  Mullen, shaking hands. 'You seem to be the sort of fellow we want out here. I shall have to keep an eye on you with a view to getting you transferred to 266.'

  Ì wish to goodness you could fix that, sir,' replied Biggles earnestly. 'I shall not be happy until I get in a scout squadron—although I should be sorry to leave Mark,' he added quickly.

  `Don't worry about me,' broke in Mark. 'My application's in for training as a pilot, so I may be leaving you, anyway.'

  `Well, I can't promise anything, of course, but I'll see what can be done about it,' Major Mullen told him.

  `What are you two going to do now?' asked Mahoney.

  Ì think we'd better be getting back,' answered Biggles.

  `Won't you stay to lunch?'

  `No, thanks. We'll leave the machine here, if you'll have that tyre put right and can lend us transport to get home. We'll come back later on to fly the machine home.'

  `Good enough!' declared Mahoney. 'I'll ask the C.O. if you can borrow his car. I shan't forget how you picked me up. Maybe it will be my turn to lend a hand next time!'

  `Well, so long as you don't ask me to squeeze into the cockpit of a Pup with you I don't mind!' laughed Biggles. 'See you later!'

  `Beg pardon, sir, but Major Paynter wishes to speak to you, sir.'

  Biggles glanced up, folded the letter he was reading, and put it in his pocket. 'On the '

  phone, do you mean?' he asked the mess waiter, who had delivered the message.

  `No, sir, in his office. Mr Todd rang up to say would you go along right away.'

  Àll right, Collins, thanks.' Biggles picked up his cap as he went through the hall and walked quickly along the well-worn path to the squadron office. Two people were present in addition to the C.O. when he entered—one a red-tabbed staff-officer, and the other, a round-faced, cheerful-looking civilian in a black coat and bowler hat. Biggles saluted.

  `Just make sure the door is closed, will you, Bigglesworth?' began the C.O. 'Thanks. This is Major Raymond, of Wing Headquarters.'

  `How do you do, sir?' said Biggles to the staff officer, wondering why the C.O. did not introduce the civilian, and what he was doing there.

  Ì want to have a few words with you, Bigglesworth, on a very delicate subject,' went on the C.O. rather awkwardly. 'Er— I, or I should say the squadron, has been asked to undertake an— er—operation of the greatest importance. It is a job that will have to be done single-handed, and I am putting the proposition

  to you first because you have shown real enthusiasm in your work since you've been with us, and because you have extricated yourself from one or two difficult situations entirely by your own initiative. The job in hand demands both initiative and resource.'

  `Thank you, sir.'

  `Not a bit. Now, this is the proposition. The operation, briefly, consists in taking an —

  er—gentleman over the Lines, landing him at a suitable spot, and then returning home. It is probable that you will have to go over the Lines again afterwards, either the same night or at a subsequent date, and pick him up from the place where you landed him.'

  `That does not seem diffi—'

  Major Paynter held up his hand.

  `Wait!' he said. 'Let me finish. It is only fair that I should warn you that in the event of your being forced down on the wrong side of the Lines, or being captured in any way, you would probably be shot. Even if you had to force-land in German territory on the return journey, with no one in the machine but yourself, it is more than likely that the enemy would suspect your purpose and subject you to rigorous interrogation. And if the enemy could wring the truth from you—that you had been carrying a Secret Service agent—they would be justified in marching you before a firing squad.'

  Ì understand. Very good, sir. I'll go.'

  `Thank you, Bigglesworth! The gentleman here with Major Raymond will be your passenger. It would be well for you to meet him now, as you will not see him again in daylight, and you should be able to identify each other.'

  Biggles walked over to the civilian and held out his hand. 'Pleased to meet you!' he said. The spy—for Biggles had no delusion about the real nature of the work on hand—smiled and wrung his hand warmly. He was a rather fat, jovial-looking little man with a huge black moustache; in no way was he like the character Biggles would have expected for such work.

  `Well, I think that's all for the present, Raymond,' went on the C.O. 'Let me know the details as soon as you can. I'll have another word with you, Bigglesworth, before you go.'

  Biggles saluted as the staff officer departed with his civilian companion, and then turned his attention again to Major Paynter, who was staring thoughtfully out of the window. Ì want you to see this thing i
n its true perspective,' resumed the C.O. 'We are apt to think spying is rather dirty work. It may be, from the strictly military point of view, but one should not forget that it needs as much nerve—if not more—than anything a soldier is called upon to face. A soldier may be killed, wounded, or made prisoner. But a spy's career can only have one ending if he's caught—the firing squad! He does not die a man's death in the heat of battle; he is shot like a dog against a brick wall. That's the result of failure. If he succeeds, he gets no medals, honour or glory. Silence surrounds him always.

  Ànd most of these men work for nothing. Take that man you've just seen, for instance. He is, of course, a Frenchman. In private life he's a schoolmaster at Aille, which is now in territory occupied by the enemy. He worked his way across the frontier into Holland, and then to France, via England, to offer his services to his country. He asks no reward. There's courage and self-sacrifice, if you like. Remember that when he's in your machine. His knowledge of the country around Aille makes his services particularly valuable. If he gets back safely this time—he has already made at least one trip—he will go again. And so it will go on, until one day he will not come back. Às far as you're concerned as his pilot, you need -have no scruples. Most of the leading French pilots have taken their turns for special missions, as these affairs are called. For obvious reasons, only the best pilots, those of proven courage, are chosen for the work. Well, I think that's all. I'll let you know the details, the date and time, later on. Don't mention this matter to anybody, except, of course, your flight-commander, who will have to know.'