Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  ‘I 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.

  ‘I 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!’

  fn1An attendant serving an officer. A position discontinued in today’s Royal Air Force.

  ‘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.’

  ‘All 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.

  ‘I 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.’

  ‘I 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.

  ‘I want you to see this thing in 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.

  ‘And 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.

  ‘As 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.’

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

  ‘What’s on?’ asked Mabs quietly. ‘Special mission?’

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘I 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 worthwhile. 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 prewar 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 t
alk about.’

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

  ‘Oh, 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.

  ‘I’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.

  ‘It’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?’·

  ‘I 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.

  ‘It is an honour to know you,’ Biggles said. And he meant it.

  ‘It 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.

  ‘I am ready, my little cabbage. Pour the saucefn1!’ 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.

  ‘It is not of the importance,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘We shall not be of the long time.’

  ‘As 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 surrounding 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.