Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  ‘What about it? Surely to goodness it’s better to drown quickly than sit here and freeze to death slowly. Why the dickens don’t they let us go on board, anyway?’

  ‘Ask me something easier. Is this your first time over?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said grimly, ‘and if it’s always like this, I hope it will be the last.’

  ‘It probably will be, so you needn’t worry about that.’

  ‘What a nice cheerful fellow you are!’

  The other laughed softly. ‘I see you’re R. F. C. What squadron are you going to?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. My Movement Order takes me as far as the Poolfn1 at St Omer.’

  ‘Splendid! We shall go that far together: I’m in Two-six-six.

  Biggles glanced up with fresh interest. ‘So you’ve been over before?’ he queried.

  ‘Had six months of it; just going back from my first leave. By the way, my name’s Mahoney – we may as well know each other.’

  ‘Mine’s Bigglesworth, though most people find that rather a mouthful and leave off the “worth”. You fly Pups in Two-six-six, don’t you?’

  ‘We do – they’re nice little Hun-getters.’

  ‘I hope to goodness I get to a scout squadron, although I haven’t flown a scout yet.’

  ‘So much the better,’ laughed Mahoney. ‘If you’d been flying scouts they’d be certain to put you on bombers when you got to France. Fellows who have been flying two-seaters are usually pitched into scout squadrons. That’s the sort of daft thing they do, and one of the reasons why we haven’t won the war yet. Hallo! It looks as if we’re going to move at last.’

  A gangway slid from the quay to the ship with a dull rattle, and the groups of officers and other ranks began to converge upon it.

  ‘Come on, laddie; on your feet and let’s get aboard,’ continued Mahoney. ‘Where’s the rest of your kit?’

  ‘Goodness knows! The last I saw of it, it was being slung onto a pile with about a thousand others.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It will find you all right. How much flying have you done?’

  ‘Fifteen hours.’

  Mahoney shook his head. ‘Not enough,’ he said. ‘Never mind, if you get to Two-six-six, I’ll give you a tip or two.’

  ‘You can give me them on the journey, in case I don’t,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to learn a few things first-hand from someone who has done it.’

  ‘If more chaps would take that view there would be fewer casualties,’ said Mahoney soberly, as they crossed over the narrow gangway.

  Two days later a Crossley tender pulled up on a lonely, poplar-lined road to the north of St Omer, and Biggles stepped out. There was nothing in sight to break the bleak in-hospitality of the landscape except three many-hued canvas hangars, a cluster of wooden huts, and three or four curious semicircular corrugated iron buildings.

  ‘Well, here you are, Biggles,’ said Mahoney, who had remained inside the vehicle. ‘We say good-bye here.’

  ‘So this is One-six-nine Squadron,’ replied Biggles, looking about him. ‘My word! I must say it doesn’t look the sort of place you’d choose for a summer holiday!’

  ‘It isn’t. But then you’re not on a holiday!’ smiled Mahoney. ‘Don’t worry; you’ll find things cheerful enough inside. It’s too bad they wouldn’t let you go to a scout squadron; but F. E.’sfn2 aren’t so bad. They can fight when they have to, and the Huns know it, believe me. I suppose they’re so short of pilots that they are just bunging fellows straight to the squadrons where pilots are most needed. Well, I must get along; Two-six-six is only seven or eight miles farther on, so we shall be seeing something of each other. Come over to our next guest night. Remember what I’ve told you – and you may live until next Christmas. Cheerio, laddie!’

  ‘Cheerio!’ replied Biggles, with a wave of farewell as the car sped on to its destination. He picked up his valise and walked towards a square wooden building near the hangars, which he rightly judged to be the squadron office. He tapped on the door, opened it in response to a curt invitation to enter, and saluted briskly.

  ‘Second-Lieutenant Bigglesworth, sir,’ he said.

  An officer who sat at a desk strewn with papers rose, came towards him, and offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘And if you can fly, everyone here will be more than pleased to see you. We are having a tough time just at present. I’m Todd – more often known as “Toddy” – and I’m simply the Recording Officer. The C.O. is in the air, but he’ll want a word with you when he gets back. You’ll like Major Paynter. Wing ’phoned us that you were on the way, so you’ll find your quarters ready in Number Four Hut. Get your kit inside, and make yourself comfortable; then go across to the mess. I’ll be along presently. By the way, how many hours’ flying – solo – have you done?’

  ‘Nearly nine hours.’

  Toddy grimaced. ‘What on?’ he asked.

  ‘Shorthorns and Avros.’

  ‘Ever flown an F. E.?’

  ‘Not solo. I had a flight in one at Frensham, but an instructor was in the other seat.’

  ‘Never mind; they’re easy enough to fly,’ answered Toddy. ‘See you later.’

  Biggles departed to his quarters. The work of unpacking his kit occupied only a few minutes, and then he made his way slowly towards the officers’ messfn3. He was still a little distance away, when the sound of an aero-engine made him glance upwards. An aeroplane was heading towards the aerodrome, a type which he did not recognize. But, unwilling to betray his ignorance before possible spectators in the mess, he paid no further attention to it and continued on his course. He then noted with some surprise that Toddy was behaving in a very odd manner. The Recording Officer began by flinging open the door of the squadron office and racing towards the mess. When he had reached about half-way, however, he appeared to change his mind, and, turning like a hare, took a flying leap into a sort of hole.

  Biggles next noticed the faces of several officers at the mess window; they seemed to be very excited about something, waving their arms wildly. It did not occur to him for a moment that the signals were intended for him. The first indication he received that something unusual was happening was a curious whistling sound; but even then the full significance of it did not strike him. The whistle swiftly became a shrill howl, and thinking he was about to be run down by a speedy car, he jumped sideways. The movement probably saved his life, for the next instant the world seemed to explode around him in a brilliant flash of flame. There was a thundering detonation that seemed to make the very earth rock, and he was flung violently to the ground. For a moment he lay quite still, dazed, while a steady downpour of clods, stones, and loose earth rained about him.

  The steady rattle of machine-guns in action penetrated his temporarily paralysed brain, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He noted that the aeroplane had disappeared, and that a little crowd of officers and mechanics were racing towards him.

  ‘What the dickens was that?’ he asked the officers who ran up.

  The question seemed to amuse them, for a yell of laughter rose into the air.

  Biggles flushed. ‘Do you usually greet new fellows like that?’ he inquired angrily.

  There was a renewed burst of laughter.

  ‘Jerryfn4 does, when he gets the chance. Our friends over the Line must have heard that you had arrived, so they sent their love and kisses,’ replied a tall, good-looking officer, with a wink at the others. ‘Don’t you know an L.V.G.fn5 when you see one?’ he added.

  ‘An L.V.G.! A Hun!’ cried Biggles.

  The other nodded. ‘Yes. Just slipped over to lay the daily egg. You’re lucky,’ he went on. ‘When I saw you strolling across the aerodrome as if you were taking an airing in the park, I thought we should be packing up your kit by this time. You’re Bigglesworth, I suppose; we heard you were coming. My name is Mapleton, of A Flight. This is Marriot – Lutters – Way – McAngus. We’re all A Flight. The others are in the air. But come ac
ross to the mess and make yourself at home!’

  ‘But what about that L.V.G.?’ cried Biggles. ‘Do you let him get away with that sort of thing?’

  ‘He’s half-way home by now; the best thing we can hope for. is that the Line archiesfn6 give him a warm time. Hallo, here comes the patrol! What—’

  A sudden hush fell upon the group as all eyes turned upwards to where two machines were coming in to land. Biggles noticed that Mapleton’s face had turned oddly pale and strained. He noticed, too, for the first time, that there were three stars on his sleeves, which indicated the rank of captain.

  ‘Two!’ breathed the man whom Captain Mapleton had named Marriot. ‘Two!’ he said again. And Biggles could feel a sudden tension in the air.

  ‘Come on!’ said Mapleton. ‘Let’s go and meet them. Maybe the others have stayed on a bit longer.’

  Together they hurried towards the now taxi-ing machines.

  The events of the next few minutes were to live in Biggles’ mind for ever. His whole system, brought face to face with the grim realities of war, received a shock which sent his nerves leaping like a piece of taut elastic that has been severed with scissors. He was hardly conscious of it as the time, however, when, with the others, he reached the leading machine. He merely looked at it curiously. Then, instinctively, he looked at the pilot, who was pushing up his goggles very slowly and deliberately.

  One glance at his face and Biggles knew he was in the presence of tragedy. The face was drawn and white, but it was the expression on it – or, rather, the absence of expression on it – that made Biggles catch his breath. There was no fear written there, but rather a look of weariness. For perhaps two minutes he sat thus, staring with unseeing eyes at his instrument-board. Then, with a movement that was obviously an effort, he passed his hand wearily over his face and climbed stiffly to the ground. Still without speaking he began to walk towards the mess, followed by two or three of the officers.

  A low, muttered exclamation made Biggles half-turn to the man next to him. It was Lutters.

  ‘Just look at that kite!’ Lutters said. ‘The Old Manfn7 must have been through hell backwards.’

  ‘Old Man?’ ejaculated Biggles questioningly.

  ‘Yes – the C.O. There must be two hundred bullet holes in that machine; how it holds together beats me!’

  Biggles’ attention had been so taken up with the pilot that he had failed to notice the machine, and now he caught his breath as he looked at it. There were holes everywhere; in several places pieces of torn canvas hung loosely, having been wrenched into long, narrow streamers by the wind. One of the interplane struts was splintered for more than half its length, and a flying wire trailed uselessly across the lower ’plane.

  He was about to take a step nearer, when a cry made him look towards the second machine. Two mechanics were carefully lifting a limp body to the ground.

  ‘You’d better keep out of the way,’ said McAngus brusquely, as he passed; but Biggles paid no attention. He knew that McAngus was right, and that the sight was hardly one for a new pilot; but the tableau drew him irresistibly towards it.

  When he reached the machine they had laid the mortally wounded pilot on the ground. His eyes were open, but there was an expression in them that Biggles had never seen before.

  ‘Jimmy – how’s Jimmy?’ the stricken man was muttering; and then: ‘Look after Jimmy!’

  Biggles felt himself roughly pushed aside.

  It was the C.O., who had returned. ‘Get him to hospital as fast as you can,’ he told the driver of the motor-ambulance which had pulled up alongside. Then, ‘How’s Mr Forrester?’ he asked a mechanic, who was bending over the front cockpit of the machine.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, sir,’ was the quiet reply.

  ‘All right – get him out!’ said the C.O. briefly.

  Biggles watched two mechanics swing up to the forward cockpit of the F. E.. Slowly, and with great care, they lifted the body of the dead observer and lowered it into waiting hands below.

  Biggles caught a glimpse of a pale, waxen face, wearing a curious, fixed smile, and then he turned away, feeling that he was in the middle of a ghastly dream, from which he would presently awaken. He was overwhelmed with a sense of fantastic unreality.

  Again the drone of an aero-engine rose and fell on the breeze, and at the same instant a voice cried: ‘Here’s another!’ He swung round and stood expectant with the others as the machine reached the aerodrome, roared low over their heads as it came round into the wind, and then landed. A large white letter U was painted on the nose.

  ‘It’s Allen and Thompson!’ cried several voices at once.

  The machine taxied up quickly. The observer leapt out as soon as it stopped, and started buffing his arms to restore the circulation. The pilot joined him on the ground, flung open his flying-coat and lit a cigarette.

  Biggles saw there were several bullet holes in this machine, too, but neither pilot nor observer paid any attention to them. In fact, the pilot, a stockily built, red-faced youth, was grinning cheerfully, and Biggles stared in amazement at a man who could laugh in the shadow of death.

  ‘Love old Ireland!’ observed Thompson, the observer. ‘Isn’t it perishing cold! Give me a match, somebody. What a day!’ he went on. ‘The sky’s fairly raining Huns. The Old Man got a couple – did he tell you? Poor Jimmy’s gone, I’m afraid, and Lucas. We ran into the biggest bunch of Huns over Douai that I ever saw in my life.’

  He turned and walked away towards the mess, the others following, and Biggles was left alone with the mechanics, who were now pulling the machines into the hangars with excited comments on the damage they had suffered. He watched them for a few minutes, and then, deep in thought, followed the other officers towards the mess, feeling strangely subdued. For the first time he had looked upon death, and although he was not afraid, something inside him seemed to have changed. Hitherto he had regarded the War as ‘fun’. But he now perceived that he had been mistaken. It was one thing to read of death in the newspapers, but quite another matter to see it in reality.

  He was passing the squadron office when Toddy called him. ‘The C.O. wants to have a word with you right away,’ he said.

  Several officers were in the room when Biggles entered, and he felt rather self-conscious of his inexperience; but the C.O. soon put him at ease.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve come at rather a bad moment,’ he began, shaking hands. ‘I mean for yourself,’ he added quickly. ‘We hope it will be a good one for us. I’m posting you to A Flight; Captain Mapleton will be your flight-commander. We like to keep pilots and observers together, as far as we can, but it’s not always possible. I believe Way is without a regular pilot, isn’t he, Mapleton? So Bigglesworth might pair off with him.’

  Captain Mapleton nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s my only observer now without a regular pilot.’

  ‘Good! Then your Flight is now up to establishment,’ continued the major, turning again to Biggles. ‘Don’t let what you’ve seen today depress you. It was an unfortunate moment for you to arrive; that sort of thing doesn’t happen every day, thank goodness!’ He hesitated and went on, ‘I want you always to remember that the honour of the squadron comes first. We are going through rather a difficult time just now, and we may have a lot of uphill work ahead of us, so we’re all doing our best. Trust your flight-commander implicitly, and always follow his instructions. In the ordinary way I should give you a week or two to get your bearings before letting you go over the Line, but we’ve had a bad run of casualties, and I need every officer I can get hold of. It’s rather bad luck on you, but I want you to do the best you can in the circumstances. Study the map and the photographs in the map-room; in that way you will soon become acquainted with the area. All right, gentlemen, that’s all.’

  As the officers filed out, a deeply tanned, keen-eyed young officer tapped Biggles on the arm. ‘I’m Mark Way,’ he said. ‘It looks as if we shall be flying together, so the sooner we know each othe
r the better.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Biggles. ‘Have you been out here long?’

  ‘Nearly three months,’ replied Mark simply. ‘But I saw a bit of active service with the infantry before I transferred to the R. F. C. I came over with the New Zealand contingent; my home is out there.’

  ‘Sporting of you to come all this way to help us. Who have you been flying with?’

  ‘Lane.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Mark gave Biggles a sidelong glance. ‘He’s gone topsides,’ he said slowly. ‘He died in hospital last week – bullet through the lungs.’

  Biggles was silent for a moment, feeling rather embarrassed.

  ‘You’ll like Mapleton,’ went on Mark. ‘He’s a good sort. By the way, we call him Mabs; I don’t know why, but he was called that when I came here. Marble is his observer – his real name is Mardell, but Marble is a good name for him. He’s as cold as ice in a dog-fight,fn8 and knows every inch of the Line. They’re a jolly good pair, and I’d follow them anywhere. Allen is O.C.fn9 B Flight. It’s best to keep out of his way; he’s a bad-tempered brute. Perhaps it isn’t quite fair of me to say that, because I don’t think he means to be nasty; he’s been out here a long time, and his nerves are all to pieces. Rayner has C Flight. He’s all right, but a bit of a snob, although personally I think it’s all affectation. His brother was killed early in the war, and all he really thinks about is revenge. He’s got several Huns. He takes on Huns wherever he finds them, regardless of numbers, and he gets his Flight into pretty hot water; but they can’t complain, because he’s always in the thick of it himself. I don’t think his luck can last much longer. I wouldn’t be his observer for anything! Marriot and McAngus are the other two pilots in A Flight. Conway flies with Marriot, and Lutter is Mac’s observer; they’re a good crowd. Hallo, here comes Mabs. What does he want?’

  ‘Bigglesworth,’ began the flight-commander, coming up, ‘I don’t want to rush you, but I’m taking a Line patrol up this afternoon. I think it will be pretty quiet, or I wouldn’t let you come, even if you wanted to. But the fact is, everybody has been flying all hours, and it will mean extra flying if someone has to make a special journey to show you the Lines. And it isn’t as if we were flying single-seaters; you’ve always got Mark with you to put you right if you get adrift. So if you care to come this afternoon it will serve two purposes. You’ll get a squint at the Line and a whiff of archie, and it will give McAngus a rest. He’s looking a bit knocked up.’