Biggles Learns to Fly

by W E Johns

  Far and wide he searched, but curiously enough the sky appeared to be deserted. Once he saw a formation of three Camels, and a little later three more, but he did not join them. Never had he seen the sky so empty.

  At the end of two hours he was forced to return to the aerodrome without having seen an enemy aircraft of any sort, and consequently without firing a shot. On the ground he learned that the other machines had already returned, refuelled, and taken off again.

  Then he had a stroke of luck – or so he regarded it. His tanks had been filled, and he was about to take off again, when Watt Tyler rushed out of the Squadron Office and hailed him. ‘You’re looking for that yellow devil, I suppose?’ he inquired shortly.

  ‘Who else do you suppose I’d be looking for?’ replied Biggles coldly.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on! I was only going to tell you that forward gunner observers have just reported that a large enemy formation has just crossed our Lines in pursuit of two Camels.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up by Passchendaele.’

  Biggles did not stop to thank Watt for the information. He thrust the throttle open, and as his wheels left the ground he soared upwards in a steep climbing turn in the direction of the well-known town.

  He saw the dog-fight afar off. At least, he saw the archie bursts that clustered thickly about the isolated machines, and he roared towards the spot on full throttle, peering ahead round his windscreen to try to identify the combatants. Presently he was able to make out what had happened, for the two Camels that had been pursued had turned, and were now hard at it, assisted by half a dozen Bristols. There seemed to be about twelve or fourteen Huns, all Albatroses. He guessed that they had chased the Camels over the Line, and, on turning, found their retreat cut off by the Bristols. That, in fact, was exactly what had happened.

  The enemy machines were still too far away for their colours to be distinguished, but as he drew nearer he saw one, dark blue in colour, break out of the fight some distance below him and streak for the Line.

  ‘Not so fast!’ growled Biggles, as he altered his course slightly and tore down after the escaping Hun. The enemy pilot, who did not even see him, was leaning out of his cockpit on the opposite side of the fuselage, looking back at the dog-fight as if he expected the other machines to follow, and wondered why they did not. For a few seconds he omitted to watch the sky around him and paid the penalty for that neglect – as so many pilots did, sooner or later.

  Biggles fired exactly five rounds at pointblank range, and the Hun’s petrol tank burst into flames. Biggles zoomed clear, amazed at the effectiveness of his fire, for hitherto he had fired many rounds before such a thing had happened. His first shot must have gone straight through the tank. He glanced down, to see the Hun still falling, the doomed pilot leaning back in his cockpit with his arms over his face. It crashed in a sheet of flame near a British rest camp, and Biggles turned again to the dog-fight, which had now become more scattered over a fairly wide area.

  Several Huns had broken out of the fight and were racing towards the Lines. But, as far as Biggles could see, there was not a yellow one amongst them, although he wasted some precious time chasing first one and then another in the hope of recognizing the particular one he sought. He turned back towards the spot where several machines were still circling, and as he drew nearer he saw something that would normally have given him satisfaction, but on this occasion brought a quick frown to his forehead. With a quick movement of his left hand he pushed up his goggles to make quite certain that he was not mistaken. But there was no mistake about it.

  A bright yellow Hun had broken clear of the fight, but was being furiously attacked by a Camel – which Biggles instantly recognized by its markings as the one belonging to Mahoney. He had never seen a Camel handled like it before, and he sensed the hatred that possessed the pilot and inspired such brilliant flying.

  The Hun hadn’t a ghost of a chance; it was outmanoeuvred at every turn. Once, as if to make suspicion a certainty, it turned broadside on towards Biggles, who saw a large black diamond painted on its yellow wooden side. That the Hun would fall was certain. It was only a matter of time, for the Camel was glued to its tail, guns spouting tracer bullets in long, vicious bursts. The pilot of the yellow machine seemed to be making no effort to retaliate but concentrated his efforts in attempting to escape, twisting and turning like a fish with an otter behind it.

  Biggles had no excuse for butting-in, and he knew it. Mahoney was quite capable of handling the affair himself, and his presence might do more harm than good. If he got in the way of the whirling machines, the two Camel pilots would certainly have to watch each other to avoid collision, and in the confusion the Hun might escape.

  That was a contingency Biggles dared not risk, much as he would have liked to take a hand. So he kept clear, and, circling, watched the end of a very one-sided duel. Suddenly in a last frantic effort to escape, the Hun spun, came out, and spun again; but the Camel had spun down behind it and was ready to administer the knock-out. Mahoney let drive again, but the Hun did not wait for any more. Once again he spun, only to pull out at the last minute, then drop in a steep side-slip to a rather bad landing in a handy field.

  Biggles, who had followed the fight down, beat the side of his cockpit with his clenched fist in impotent rage. ‘The yellow skunk!’ he grated. ‘He’s got away with it. Never mind, this is where Mahoney treats him to a spot of his own medicine.’

  But Mahoney did nothing of the sort, as Biggles, in his heart, knew he would not. The flight-commander simply could not bring himself to shoot at a man who was virtually unarmed.

  The knowledge that he, Biggles, could not either, made him still more angry, and with hate smouldering in his eyes, he dropped down and landed near Mahoney who had already put his machine on the ground not far from the Hun.

  As they jumped from their cockpits and raced towards the yellow machine Biggles was afraid that Von Kraudil would set fire to his Albatros before they could reach him; but the Boche had no such intention, either because he forgot to do so, or because he was too scared.

  ‘I got him!’ roared Mahoney as they ran.

  ‘All right, I know you did. I’m not arguing about it, am I?’ answered Biggles shortly. The fact that his flight-commander had shot down the yellow machine, the pilot of which, had after all escaped just retribution, was rather a bitter pill for him to swallow. He slowed down while still some yards away, for the German pilot certainly did not look the sort of man Biggles imagined he would be. He had taken off his cap and goggles and was leaning against the fuselage, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed – eyes now wide open with apprehension. A trickle of blood was running down his ashen cheek, and he endeavoured to stem it with a handkerchief while he looked from the two pilots to a crowd of Tommies who, with an officer at their head, were coming at the double across the field.

  Mahoney eyed his prisoner coldly, but said nothing.

  ‘What’s your name?’ snapped Biggles, eyes bright with hostility.

  The German shook his head, making it clear that he did not understand.

  Biggles pointed at the man. ‘Von Kraudil?’ he asked.

  ‘Nein, nein!’ was the reply.

  Biggles looked at Mahoney, and Mahoney looked at Biggles.

  ‘I don’t believe it’s him after all!’ declared Biggles. ‘This kid doesn’t look like a murderer to me. I say,’ he went to the infantry officer, who now joined them, ‘do you, or any of your fellows, happen to speak German?’

  ‘I know a bit,’ admitted the youthful, mud-splashed subaltern.

  ‘Then would you mind asking him his name?’ requested Biggles.

  The officer put the question to the Boche, and turned back to Biggles.

  ‘He says his name is Schultz.’

  ‘Ask him for his identification disc; I have special reasons for not wanting to make any mistake about this.’

  Again the infantry officer addressed the German, who groped under his tunic and produced
a small, round piece of metal.

  ‘He’s telling the truth,’ went on the subaltern, after a quick glance at it. ‘Here’s his name right enough – Wilhelm Schultz.’

  ‘Then ask him if he’s flying Von Kraudil’s machine.’

  ‘No!’ came the prompt reply from the subaltern, who had continued the interrogation. ‘He says this used to be Von Kraudil’s machine, but it was handed over to him the other day; Von Kraudil has a new one – a blue one.’

  Biggles stared.

  ‘Blue, did you say?’

  The Hun stared from one to another as the question was put to him, evidently unable to make out what the questions were leading up to.

  ‘Yes. He says Von Kraudil’s machine is blue, with a white diagonal bar behind the cross on the fuselage.’

  ‘So that was Von Kraudil, eh?’ mused Biggles softly.

  ‘Why do you say “was”?’ asked Mahoney.

  ‘Because I got him after all!’ cried Biggles exultantly. ‘I got a machine answering to that description ten minutes ago! Come on, let’s go and confirm it!’

  ‘How did you manage to get mixed up in this affair?’ asked Mahoney, as Biggles led the way to where the blue machine had crashed in flames. ‘You were missing when the rest of us took off – asleep in your room or something.’

  ‘Asleep, my foot!’ snorted Biggles. ‘I was doing a spot of thinking – wondering what was the best way to get at that yellow Hun. It was sheer luck I heard about your dog-fight. I was making for my machine when Watt Tyler gave me the news that a formation of Huns was chasing two Camels. He gave me the direction so I beetled along. I saw the blue machine break away from the fight as I came up, went after it, and sent it down a flamer.’

  ‘How about the pilot?’ asked Mahoney. ‘Did he manage to jump clear of his machine? If he didn’t, we’re going to have a job proving that Von Kraudil was flying it. We’ve only that other pilot’s word for it that it was Von Kraudil’s machine, you know.’

  ‘H’m!’ grunted Biggles. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I certainly didn’t see him jump, but he may have been flung clear when his machine crashed. Anyway,’ he added, as the still-smoking remains of the blue machine came into view, ‘we’ll soon know.’

  A crowd of officers and men from the nearby rest camp were clustered around the remains. Forcing their way through the crowd, Mahoney and Biggles approached as near as they could to the hot debris of the machine. It was a terrible jumble of fused and twisted wires, utterly unrecognizable as an aeroplane.

  ‘Gosh! What a mess!’ muttered Biggles.

  It was impossible to search the hot debris for the body of the pilot, and from the distance it was impossible to distinguish any sign of human remains. Mahoney turned to one of the officers. ‘Can you tell me what happened to the pilot of this machine?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied the other. ‘We found his body lying some distance away. He must have been killed when he was thrown out, but he had been badly burned beforehand. We took the body to the camp.’

  ‘We want to find out his name,’ said Mahoney. ‘So we’ll go along to the camp.’

  ‘No need to do that,’ said the officer. ‘His name was Von Kraudil. I examined the identity disc.’

  ‘Then it was our man, after all!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘Come on; let’s get back and report. I think I’ll take that week’s leave the Old Man spoke about – and go and see Mark.’

  About the Author

  CAPTAIN W. E. JOHNS was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The First Biggles story, Biggles: The Camels Are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.

  FIRST WORLD WAR

  Biggles Learns to Fly

  Biggles Flies East

  Biggles: The Camels Are Coming

  Biggles of the Fighter Squadron

  Biggles in France

  Biggles and the Rescue Flight

  BETWEEN THE WARS

  Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor

  Biggles and Co.

  Biggles Flies West

  Biggles Goes to War

  Biggles and the Black Peril

  Biggles in Spain

  SECOND WORLD WAR

  Biggles Defies the Swastika

  Biggles Delivers the Goods

  Biggles Defends the Desert

  Biggles Fails to Return

  BIGGLES LEARNS TO FLY

  AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 409 04520 5

  Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK

  A Random House Group Company

  This epub edition updated 2013

  Copyright © W. E. Johns (Publications) Ltd, 1935

  Cover design copyright © Mick Wiggins, 2013

  First Published in Great Britain by Boy’s Friend Library, London 1935

  The right of W. E. Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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