Biggles In France

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Foreword

  1 Down to Earth

  2 A Desperate Chance!

  3 One Bomb and Two Pockets

  4 ‘Stand Clear – I’m Coming!’

  5 Biggles Gets a Bull

  6 Lost in the Sky

  7 The Human Railway

  8 Orange Fire!

  9 Out for Records!

  10 Biggles’ Bombshell!

  11 The Camera

  12 Thumbs to Noses!

  13 What a Bullet Did

  14 Suspicions

  15 Off and Away!

  16 Turkey Hunting

  17 Biggles Gets the Bird

  18 A Sporting Offer!

  19 Getting a Gramophone

  20 Twelve Thousand Feet Up!

  21 Returned Unknown

  22 ‘He Shot Him to Bits!’

  23 ‘Written Off’

  24 Under Open Arrest!

  25 ‘The Laugh’s with Us!’

  About the Author

  Also by W. E. Johns

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A desperate plan!

  As the First World War progresses, Biggles, air ace, finds himself up against the finest fighters in battles where every split second counts. But not all his adventures take place in the air, and not all of them are deadly serious. Even in the bitter fields of war, the men of 266 squadron find time to share laughs as well as thrills.

  Biggles is back! Now classic fiction, the action-packed adventures of cult hero and flying ace Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth are available in new editions for another generation.

  FOREWORD

  Biggles in France was originally published by The Boys’ Friend Library as a cheap paperback in 1935 and has been unavailable ever since. It is appropriate that this rare collection of short stories should be reprinted for the first time in their original form in 1993, the centenary year of W. E. Johns’ birth.

  Although Biggles is a fictional character, many of these early wartime aviation stories were based on the real life experiences of W. E. Johns and his colleagues in the Royal Flying Corps (the Royal Air Force from 1 April 1918). Johns’ early military career also gave him an appreciation of the struggles endured by the ordinary soldier. He entered World War One as a private in the King’s own Royal Regiment, the Norfolk Yeomanry, and fought in the trenches at Gallipoli, Turkey. Later he transferred to the machine-gun corps and contracted malaria while based in Macedonia, northern Greece. While recovering, he heard that the Royal Flying Corps urgently needed volunteers and decided to apply, being accepted for basic training as a pilot in 1917.

  After completing a short spell as a flying instructor, he joined WO55 squadron at Azelot, near Nancy in France, where he flew the two seater De Havilland 4 on day bombing raids and photographic reconnaissance duties over Germany. On 16 September 1918, while on a bombing mission, his plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner, his observer/gunner being killed. He made two unsuccessful attempts to escape and was sent to a punishment camp. Days later the war ended and by Christmas 1918, he was back in England.

  These personal experiences gave Johns a strong basis for Biggles in France and the stories therefore have a particularly authentic atmosphere. He later updated some of these for World War Two and published them in 1941 as Spitfire Parade. He realized that Biggles had strong potential as a role model for a new generation of post-war readers and dedicated the book to airmen ‘in the hope that his [Biggles’] ideals may be an inspiration to them.’

  John Trendler,

  editor Biggles and Co magazine

  Chapter 1:

  DOWN TO EARTH

  Second-Lieut. Bigglesworth of No. 266 Squadron, R.F.C.,fn1 stationed at Maranique, France, settled himself in a deckchair, cocked his feet up on the balustrade that ran round the veranda in front of the officer’s mess,fn2 yawned lazily in the summer sunshine, and then looked up at the group of pilots who had collected there whilst awaiting the summons of the luncheon gong.

  ‘What do you think about it, Biggles?’ asked Mahoney, his flight-commander, fishing a pip from his glass of lemon crush.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I say that the fellow who goes about this war casually volunteering for this and that has about as much chance of seeing the dawn of peace as a snowball has of surviving mid-summer day in the Sahara. Sooner or later he gets it – he’s bound to. I could give you scores of instances. Take Leslie Binton, for example—’

  ‘I never heard anyone talk as much drivel as you do,’ interrupted Biggles wearily. ‘You sit here day after day laying down the law about how to avoid getting pushed out of this world, but do you practise what you preach? Not on your life! If the Old Manfn3 came along here now and said he wanted some poor prune to fly upside down at fifty feet over the Bochefn4 Linesfn5, you’d be the first to reach for your flying togs.

  ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong about this volunteer stuff. Personally, I think you’re right, because it stands to reason that the pitcher that goes oftenest to the well gets a better chance of being busted than the one that sits on the shelf.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ argued Wells, a Canadian pilot with a good deal of experience who had recently joined the squadron. ‘It’s just as likely to get knocked off the shelf onto the floor. It’s no more true than the proverb about an empty pitcher making the most noise.’

  ‘Are you telling me I’m an empty pitcher?’ inquired Biggles coldly.

  ‘Wait a minute – let me finish. What I was going to say was, you’re as bad as Mahoney. You say the volunteer act doesn’t pay—’

  ‘It doesn’t!’

  ‘Then why do you take a pace forward every time a sticky job comes along?’

  ‘To save poor hoots like you from getting their pants scorched.’

  ‘Rot! Well, you go ahead, but anyone in their right mind can get all the trouble they want out here in France without looking for it. All the same, I aim to outlive you guys by at least three weeks.’

  There was a sudden stir, and a respectful silence fell as Major Mullen, their C.O.fn6 and Colonel Raymond, of Wing Headquartersfn7 walked up the short flight of stairs from the Squadron Office.

  Biggles took one glance at the major’s face, caught Mahoney’s eye and winked. The C.O. was too young to dissemble, and he showed his anxiety plainly on his face when the squadron was selected for a particularly dangerous task.

  He looked around the assembled officers. ‘All right, gentlemen, sit down,’ he said quietly. ‘Is everybody here, Mahoney?’ he went on, addressing the senior flight-commander.

  ‘Yes, I think so, sir.’

  ‘Good. I won’t waste time beating about the bush, then. I want an officer to—’

  Biggles and Mahoney sprang up together. Wells took a pace forward, and several other officers edged nearer the C.O. And Major Mullen smiled.

  ‘No, I shan’t want you, Bigglesworth – or you, Mahoney. Wells, you’ve had a good deal of experience at reconnaissance, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Wells eagerly, turning to frown at Biggles, who had tittered audibly.

  ‘Good. Have a word with Colonel Raymond, will you? He will explain what he wants.’

  ‘But sir—’ began Biggles. But the C.O. silenced him with a frown.

  ‘I’m not in the least anxious to lose my best pilots,’ he said softly, as Wells and the colonel disappeared into the ante-room, and the other officers filed into the dining-room as the gong sounded.

  ‘Gosh! This must be something extra sticky,’ growled Biggles to Mahoney, as they followed. ‘It would have been a lot more sensible to hand the job to someone—’

  ‘I never heard a
nyone talk as much drivel as you do,’ mimicked Mahoney, and sidestepped quickly to avoid the jab that Biggles aimed at him.

  ‘You go and get on with your O.P.fn8’ Biggles told him sourly.

  ‘Aren’t you flying this afternoon?’

  ‘No, my kite’sfn9 flying a bit left-wing low, but I may test her if she is finished in time.’

  After lunch, Biggles made his way slowly to the sheds, where he found the riggersfn10 putting the last touches to his machine.

  ‘All right, Flight?’ he asked Smythe, his flight-sergeant.

  ‘She’s OK now, sir, I think,’ replied the N.C.O.fn11 briskly.

  ‘Fine! Start her up; I’ll test her.’

  Ten minutes later, at two thousand feet above the aerodrome, he concluded his test with a couple of flick loops, and, satisfied that the machine was now rigged as he liked it, he eyed the eastern sky meditatively.

  ‘There’s nothing to do on the floor, so I might as well take a prowl round,’ he decided – and turned his nose in the direction of the Lines.

  Mahoney, sitting at the head of his flight in front of the hangars, with his engine ticking over in readiness for the afternoon patrol, watched him go with a curious expression that was half frown and half smile.

  ‘There he goes,’ he mused. ‘He can’t keep out of it. One day, I suppose—’

  Not waiting to complete his remark, he shoved the throttle open and sped across the short turf.

  For an hour or more Biggles soared in the blue sky, searching for hostile aircraft, or anything to distract him from the irritating attentions of archie (anti-aircraft gunfire), but in vain. The sky seemed absolutely deserted, and he was about to turn back towards the Lines when a movement far below and many miles in enemy country caught his eye.

  It was only a tiny flash, and would have passed unnoticed by anyone except an experienced pilot. But he knew that it was the reflection of the sun’s rays catching the planes of a banking machine. Instinctively he turned towards it, peering down through the swirling arc of his propeller, and pushing up his goggles to see more clearly.

  Presently he made out a whirling group of highly coloured machines, and his lips set in a straight line as he ascertained the reason for their aerobatics. A solitary British machine, a Camel,fn12 with the same markings as his own, was fighting a lonely battle against a staffelfn13 of Albatrosfn14 scouts that swarmed around it like flies round a honey-pot. The pilot was putting up a brilliant fight, twisting and half-rolling as he fought his way inch by inch towards the Lines, but he was losing height rapidly.

  Biggles half-closed his eyes, and his top lip curled back from his teeth as he stood his machine on its nose and plunged down like a bolt from the blue, wires and struts screaming a shrill crescendo wail.

  His speed outdistanced his altimeter,fn15 and it was still on the four thousand feet mark when he was down to two thousand, with the tragedy written plain to see. It was Wells, being forced down by ten or a dozen Huns.

  A pilot of less courage might well have considered landing in the face of such frightful odds, and thus escape the fate that must, if he persisted, sooner or later overtake him; but apparently no such thought entered Wells’ head.

  Biggles was still a thousand feet away when the end came. A stream of flame leapt from the side of the Camel, and a cloud of black smoke swirled aft. The pilot, instead of side-slipping into the ground, soared upwards like a rocketing pheasant, in a last wild effort to take his destroyer with him, but the wily Hun pilot saw him coming and swerved in the nick of time.

  A sheet of flame leapt back over the cockpit of the stricken Camel as it stalled at the top of its zoom. The pilot, with his arm over his face, climbed out onto the fuselage, stood poised for an instant, then jumped clear into space.fn16

  The Hun pilot, fascinated by the slowly somersaulting leather-jacketed figure, raised his hand in salute, and at that moment Biggles’ tracerfn17 bullets bored a group of neat round holes between the shoulders of the Hun’s grey jacket. The Hun, without knowing what had hit him, lurched forward across his control-stick, and the Albatros buried itself deep in the ground not a hundred feet from the smoking remains of its victim.

  Biggles, pale as death, and fighting mad, swung round just as the leader of the Hun staffel took him in his sights, far outside effective range, and fired a short burst. It was a thousand-to-one chance, but it came off. A single bullet struck Biggles’ machine, but it struck one of the few vulnerable spots – the propeller.

  There was a vibrating, bellowing roar as the engine, now unbalanced and freed from the brake on its progress, raced and nearly tore itself from the engine bearers.

  Biggles, not knowing for a moment what had happened, was nearly flung out by the vibration, but as he throttled back and saw the jagged ends of the wooden blades, he snarled savagely and looked below. There was no help for it; an aeroplane cannot remain in the air without a propeller, so down he had to go.

  Immediately he looked below he knew that a crash was inevitable, for his height was less than five hundred feet, and the combat had taken him over a far-reaching forest. He switched off automatically, to prevent the risk of fire, and flattened out a few feet above the treetops for a ‘pancakefn18’ landing.

  At the last instant, as the machine wobbled unsteadily before dropping bodily into the trees, he raised his knees to his chin and buried his face in his arms.

  There was a splintering, tearing crash of woodwork and fabric, a jar that shook every tooth in his head, and then a silence broken only by the receding drone of Mercedes engines.

  Slowly he unfolded himself and looked around. The machine, as he had guessed, was caught up in the topmost branches of a large tree, and it swayed unsteadily as he moved.

  Remembering that more than one pilot who had crashed in similar circumstances had been killed by falling from the tree, and breaking his neck, Biggles unfastened his safety belt warily and crept to the nearest fork, from where he made his way inch by inch to the trunk. After that it was fairly plain sailing, although he had to jump the last ten or twelve feet to the ground.

  In the silent aisles of the forest he paused to listen, for he knew that the Boche pilots would quickly direct a ground force to the spot; but he could hear nothing. A steady rain of petrol was dripping from the tree, and he set about his last duty. He divested himself of his flying-coat, which would now only be an encumbrance, and after removing the maps from the pocket, he thrust it far under a bush. Then he threw the maps under the dripping petrol and flung a lighted match after them.

  There was a loud whoosh as the petrol-laden air took fire. A tongue of flame shot upward to the suspended Camel, which instantly became a blazing inferno. He sighed regretfully, and then set off at a steady jog-trot through the trees in the direction of the Lines.

  A few minutes later the sound of voices ahead brought him up with a jerk, and he just had time to fling himself under a convenient clump of holly bushes when a line of grey-clad troops in coal-scuttle helmets, with an officer at their head, passed him at the double, going in the direction of the source of the smoke that drifted overhead.

  Satisfied they were out of earshot, he proceeded on his way, but with more caution. Again he stopped as a clearing came in view, and a low buzz of conversation reached him. He began to make a detour round the spot, but his curiosity got the better of him, and, risking a peep through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, he saw a curious sight.

  An area of about two acres had been cleared, and in the middle of it four enormous concrete beds had been laid down in a rough line. Three appeared to be actually complete, and a gang of men were engaged in smoothing the surface of the fourth.

  He did not stop to wonder at their purpose, but they reminded him vaguely of some big gun emplacements that he had once seen far over the British side of the Lines. Dodging from tree to tree, sometimes dropping to all fours to cross an open place, he pressed forward, anxious to get as near the Lines as possible before nightfall.

 
Just what he hoped to do when he reached them he did not know, but it was not within his nature to submit calmly to capture while a chance of escape remained. He would consider the question of working his way through the Lines when he reached them.

  The sun was already low, when the German balloon linefn19 came into view; far beyond it he could see the British balloons hanging motionless in the glowing western sky. Presently, he knew, they would be hauled down for the night; in fact, the nearest German balloon was already being dragged down by its powerful winch.

  He wondered why it was being taken in so early, until the low, unmistakable hum of a Bentley engine reached his ears. Then he saw it, a solitary Camel, streaking in his direction. It was flying low, the British pilot altering his course from time to time, almost as if he was picking his way through the dark smudges of smoke that blossomed out around him as the German archie gunners did their best to end the career of the impudent Englishman.

  Biggles, watching it as it passed overhead, recognized Mahoney’s streamers,fn20 and suddenly guessed the reason for its mission. It was looking for him – or for the crash that would tell his own story – and he smiled grimly as the Camel circled once over the scene that appeared to tell the story of the tragedy only too plainly. Then it turned back towards the Lines and was soon lost in the distance.

  ‘They’ll be drinking a final cup to the memory of poor old Wells and myself presently!’ he mused, as he hesitated on the edge of a narrow lane that crossed his path. He traversed it swiftly after a quick glance to left and right, and, taking cover by the side of a thick hedge, held on his way.

  fn1 Royal Flying Corps 1914–1918. An army corps responsible for military aeronautics, renamed the Royal Air Force (RAF) when amalgamated with the Royal Naval Air Service on 1 April 1918.

  fn2 The place where officers eat their meals and relax together.

  fn3 Slang: person in authority, the Commanding Officer.

  fn4 A derogatory slang term for the Germans.

  fn5 Front-line trenches, the place where the opposing armies faced one another.

  fn6 Commanding Officer.