Biggles Learns To Fly

The Boat For France

Biggles crouched on a kit-bag in a corner of the platform. His attitude expressed depression, as the ferry platform at Newhaven Quay was without a shadow of a doubt the most dismal place on Earth. At the far end of the platform, a long line of men in greatcoats filed slowly from an undistinguishable background. The only sounds were vague, muffled orders. 

Biggles moved uneasily and was able to sink a little lower into the massive greatcoat that enveloped him. He did not even move when another figure emerged slowly from the pillar behind which was sheltering Biggles from the icy blast, and stopped close by. 

'Miserable business, this messing about doing nothing,' observed the newcomer. His voice almost sounded cheerful, and it was this quality that caused Biggles to look up. 

'Miserable, did you say?' he exclaimed bitterly. 'It's awful. There isn't a word bad enough for it. I'm no longer alive - I'm just a chunk of frozen misery.' 

'They say we shall be moving off presently.' 

'I've been hearing that ever since I arrived!'

'They say it's a U-boat in the Channel that's holding us up.'

'What about it? Surely to goodness it's better to drown quickly than sit here and freeze to death. 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 Pool* 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.'