Biggles Learns To Fly

First Time Up!

One fine late September morning, in the war-stricken year of 1916, a young officer, in the uniform of the Royal Flying Corps, appeared in the doorway of one of the long, low, narrow wooden huts which had sprung up all over England in the last eighteen months. He paused for a moment to admire the autumn mist, and the shadowy trees as far as he could see. He regarded a great open expanse to it.

There was little about him to distinguish from the thousands of others who had joined the war in hoping of becoming a hero, yet doing anything they could to stay away from getting killed or captured. There was nothing remarkable about his physique; on the contrary, he was slim, a bit below average height, and delicate-looking. Fair hair poked out of one side of his tilted R.F.C cap; his eyes, now sparkling with anticipation, were a fiery hazel. His features were finely cut, but the squareness of his chin and the firm line of his mouth removed any signs of weakness. Only his hands were small and white, and might have been those of a girl.

His youthfulness was apparent; he might have reached the age of eighteen that proudly showed on his papers, but on his birth certificate, which had been conveniently "lost", it showed that he still had to wait eleven months to attain that age. A heavy, hair-lined leather coat that could have fit a man twice the size of him hung over his left arm. In his right hand, he held a flying cap, that was also made of leather but lined with fur, and a pair of goggles.

He was startled as the silence was shattered by a reverberating roar which rose to a mighty crescendo and then died away to a low splutter. The sound, which he knew was the roar of an aero-engine, came from a row of giant structures that loomed dimly through the now-dispersing mist. A faint smell was brought to his nostrils. It was one common to all aerodromes, a mingling of petrol, oil, varnish and burnt gases, which when experienced, was never forgotten.

A scatter of figures began running out of the huts in the distance, all heading towards the sheds as one of the planes was wheeled out. He walked towards them and reached the nearest hanger, and then stopped, eyes devouring an extraordinary structure of wood, wire and canvas that stood in his path. A propeller, set behind two exposed seats, revolved slowly. Beside it stood a tall, thin man in flying-kit; his leather flying coat, which was beyond filthy, showed oil stains and an equally dirty tunic, on the breast of which a device in the form of a small pair of wings could be seen. Underneath was a violet-and-white ribbon of the Military Cross.

To a fully fledged pilot the object was common enough to see, but the young newcomer regarded him with an awe that amounted almost to worship. He knew that the tall, thin man could fly; not only could he fly, but he had fought other aeroplanes in the sky, as the decoration on his breast proved. At that moment, however, he seemed to be bored. He yawned as he stared at the aeroplane with no sign of interest. Then, turning suddenly, he saw the newcomer watching him. 

'You one of the fellows on the new course?' he asked shortly. 

'Er-er-yes, sir,' was the startled reply.

 'Ever been in the air?' he continued. 

'No, sir.' 

'What's your name?'

'Bigglesworth, sir. I'm afraid it's a bit of a mouthful, but that's not my fault. Most people cut off the "worth" and call me Biggles for short.' 

A slow smile spread over the face of the instructor. 'Sensible idea,' he said. 'All right, Biggles, get in.' Biggles started violently. He knew that he had come to the aerodrome to learn how to fly, but at the back of his mind he knew that there would be some ceremony about it, with the admiring mechanics watching as Biggles looked at the machine helplessly. And now the instructor had just said "Get in!" as if the aeroplane was some kind of common motor-car.