Biggles Learns To Fly

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles bumped into Mapleton, his flight-commander, just outside the office.

  `What's on?' asked Mabs quietly. 'Special mission?' Biggles nodded. Ì thought so. For the love of Mike be careful! You've only got to make one bloomer at that game, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't save you. I did one once, and that was enough for me. No more, thank you!'

  `Why, did things go wrong?' inquired Biggles, as they walked towards the mess.

  `Wrong! It was worse than that. In the first place, the cove refused to get out of the machine when we got there; his nerves petered out. He couldn't speak English, and I can't speak French, so I couldn't tell him what I thought of him. When I tried to throw him out he kicked up such a row that it brought all the Huns for miles to the spot. I had to get off in a hurry, I can tell you, bringing the blighter back with me. But some of these fellows have been over no end of times, and

  they have brought back, or sent back, information of the greatest importance. They have to carry a basket of pigeons with them, and they release one every time they get information worth while. How would you like to walk about amongst the Boche with a pigeon up your coat? It's only got to give one coo and you're sunk. The French do a lot of this business; most of the leading French pilots have had a go at it. Vedrines, the pre-war pilot, did several shows. When the War broke out the French expected great things of him, and when he just faded into insignificance they began saying nasty things about him. But he was doing special missions, and those are things people don't talk about.'

  `Well, if my bowler-hatted bird starts any trouble I'll give him a thick ear!' observed Biggles.

  Òh, he'll be all right, I should think!' replied Mabs. `The landing is the tricky part. The Huns know all about this spy-dropping game, and they do their best to catch people in the act by laying traps in likely landing-fields, such as by digging trenches across the field and then covering them up with grass so that you can't see them. When you land—

  zonk! Another scheme is to stretch wire across the field, which has a similar result.'

  `Sounds cheerful! And there are no means of knowing

  whether a trap has been laid in the field that you have to land on?'

  `Not until you land,' grinned Mabs.

  `That's a fat lot of good!' growled Biggles. 'Well, we shall see. Many thanks for the tips!'

  `That's all right. My only advice is, don't let them catch you alive, laddie. Remember, they shoot you as well as the fellow you are carrying if you're caught,. They treat you both alike!'

  `They'll have to shoot me to catch me!' replied Biggles grimly. The hands of the mess clock pointed to the hour of nine when, a few evenings later, Biggles finished his after-dinner coffee, and, collecting his flying kit from its peg in the hall, strolled towards the door.

  Mark Way, who had followed him out of the room, noted these proceedings with surprise. 'What's the idea?' he asked, reaching for his own flying kit. Ì've a little job to do—on my own. I can't talk about it. Sorry, old lad!' replied Biggles, and departed. He found Major Raymond and his civilian acquaintance waiting on the tarmac. In accordance with his instructions to the flight-sergeant, his F.E.2b had been wheeled out and the engine was ticking over quietly.

  `Remember, he's doing the job for us, not for the French,' Major Raymond told him quietly. 'He's going to dynamite a bridge over the Aisne near the point that I told you about yesterday,' he went on, referring to a conversation on the previous day at which the details had been arranged. 'He's asked me to tell you not to worry about his return. He's quite willing for you to leave him to work his own way back across the frontier, although naturally he'd be glad if you would pick him up again later on.'

  `How long will he be doing this job, sir?' asked Biggles. Ìt's impossible to say. So much depends on the conditions when he gets there—whether or not there are guards at the bridge, and so on. If it is all clear, he might do the job in half an hour, or an hour. On the other hand, he may be two or three days, waiting for his opportunity. Why do you ask?'.

  Ì was thinking that if he wasn't going to be very long, I might wait for him?'

  The major shook his head. 'It isn't usually done that way,' he said. 'It's too risky!'

  `The risk doesn't seem to be any greater than making another landing.'

  `Wait a minute and I'll ask him,' said the major. He had a quick low conversation with the secret agent, and then returned to Biggles.

  `He says the noise of your engine would attract attention if you waited, and it would not be advisable for you to switch off,' he reported. 'All the same, he asked me to tell you that he'd be very grateful if you would pick him up a few hours afterwards—it would save him three weeks' or a month's anxious work getting through Holland. He suggests that you allow him as much as possible, in case he's delayed. If you'll return at the first glimmer of dawn he'll try to be back by then. If he's not there, go home and forget about him. He suggests dawn because it may save you actually landing. If you can't see him in the field, or on the edge of the field, don't land. If he is there, he'll show himself. That seems to be a very sensible arrangement, and a fair one for both parties.'

  `More than fair,' agreed Biggles. 'If he's got enough nerve to dodge about amongst the Huns with a stick of dynamite in one pocket and a pigeon in the other, I ought to have enough nerve to fetch him back!'

  `Quite! Still, he's willing to leave it to you.'

  • Biggles strolled across and shook hands with the man, who did not seem in the least concerned about the frightful task he was about to undertake. He was munching a biscuit contentedly.

  Ìt is an honour to know you,' Biggles said. And he meant it. Ìt is for La France,' answered the man simply. `Well, I'm ready when you are!'

  `Bon. Let us go,' was the reply. And they climbed into their seats. Biggles noted with amazement that his passenger did not even wear flying kit. He wore the same dark suit as before, and the bowler hat, which he jammed hard on. He carried two bundles, and Biggles did not question what they contained; he thought he knew. Pigeons and dynamite were a curious mixture, he thought, as he settled himself into his seat.

  He could hardly repress a smile as his eye fell on the unusual silhouette in the front cockpit. There was something queer about going to war in a bowler hat. Then something suspiciously like a lump came into his throat at the thought of the simple Frenchman, unsoldierly though he was in appearance, risking his all to perform an act of service to his country. He made up his mind that if human hands could accomplish it, he would bring his man safely back.

  Ì am ready, my little cabbage. Pour the sauce*!' cried the man. And Biggles laughed aloud at the command to open the throttle. There was something very likeable about this fellow who could start on a mission of such desperate peril so casually.

  `Won't you be frozen?' asked Biggles.

  Ìt is not of the importance,' replied the Frenchman. `We shall not be of the long time.'

  Às you like,' shouted Biggles, and waved the wing-tip mechanics away. The engines roared as he opened

  the throttle, and a moment later he was in the air heading towards the Lines. In spite of the cold the little man still stood in his seat, with his coat-collar turned up, gazing below at the dark shadow of his beloved France.

  Presently the archie began to tear the air about them. It was particularly vicious, and Biggles crouched a little lower in his seat. The spy leaned back towards him, and cupped his hands around his mouth. 'How badly they shoot, these Boche!' he called cheerfully. Biggles regarded him stonily. The fellow obviously had no imagination, for the bombardment was bad enough to make a veteran quail.

  `He can't understand, that's all about it! Great jumping cats, I'd hate to be with him in what he would call good shooting!' he thought, and then turned his attention to the task of finding his way to the landing-ground they had decided upon. For his greatest fear was that he would be unable to locate it in the darkness, although he had marked it down as closely as he could by means of surro
unding landmarks.

  He picked out a main road, lying like a grey ribbon across the landscape, followed it until it forked, took the left fork, and then followed that until it disappeared into a wood. On the far side of the wood he made out the unmistakable straight track of a railway line, running at right angles to it. He followed this in turn, until the lights of a small town appeared ahead. Two roads converged upon it, and somewhere between the two roads and the railway line lay the field in which he had been instructed to land. He intended to follow his instructions to the letter, knowing that the authorities must have a good reason for their choice. Possibly they knew from secret agents who were working, or had worked, in the vicinity, that the field had not been wired, or that it had not even fallen under the suspicion of the enemy. He dismissed the matter from his mind and concentrated upon the task of finding the field and landing the machine on it.

  He cut the engine and commenced a long glide down. He glided as slowly as he could without losing flying speed so that possible watchers on the ground would not hear the wind vibrating in his wires, which they might if he came down too quickly. The spy was leaning over the side of the cockpit, watching the proceedings with interest. Then, as Biggles suddenly spotted the field and circled carefully towards it, the Frenchman picked up his parcels and placed them on the seat with no more concern than a passenger in an omnibus or railway train prepares to alight.

  Biggles could see the field clearly now—a long, though not very wide strip of turf. He side-slipped gently to bring the F.E. dead in line with the centre of the field, glided like a wraith over the tops of the trees that bounded the northern end, and then flattened out. The machine sank slowly, the wheels trundled over the rough turf—with rather a lot of noise, Biggles thought—the tail-skid dragged, and the machine ran to a stop after one of the best landings he had ever made in his life. He sank back limply, realizing that the tension of the last few minutes had been intense.

  `Thank you, my little cabbage!' whispered the Frenchman, and glided away into the darkness.

  For a moment or two Biggles could hardly believe that he had gone, so quietly and swiftly had he disappeared. For perhaps a minute he sat listening, but he could hear nothing, save the muffled swish of his idling propeller. He stood up and stared into the darkness on

  all sides, but there was no sign of life; not a light showed anywhere. As far as his late passenger was concerned, the ground might have opened and swallowed him up.

  `Well, I might as well be going!' he decided.

  There was no need for him to turn in order to take off. He had plenty of 'run' in front of him, and the engine roared as he opened the throttle and swept up into the night. He almost laughed with relief as the earth dropped away below him. It had been absurdly easy, and the reaction left him with a curious feeling of elation—a joyful sensation that the enemy had been outwitted. 'These things aren't so black as they'

  re painted!' was his unspoken thought as he headed back towards the Lines. He crossed them in the usual flurry of archie, and ten minutes later taxied up to his flight hangar and switched off He glanced at his watch. Exactly fifty minutes had elapsed since he and his companion had taken off from the very spot on which the machine now stood, and it seemed incredible that in that interval of time he had actually landed in German territory and unloaded a man who, for all he knew, might now be dead or in a prison cell awaiting execution. He hoped fervently that the second half of his task might prove as simple. He climbed stiffly to the ground and met Mabs and Mark, who had evidently heard him land.

  `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?'

  Ì'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

  — Uhlans*. 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 inst
ant 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 on to 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!