Nervous Flying

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

The squadron had been detailed for trench strafing that week, and Biggles was on the brink of exhaustion. He felt as though he hadn’t slept for weeks. On top of that, his flight had dwindled down to two pilots, Algy Lacey and himself. The others had either gone west, or were in the hospital.

He had just gotten in from the trenches and was walking past the CO’s office when the door opened and Major Mullen himself looked out. “Ah, Biggles,” he said. “Just a minute. We’ve had a new man posted to the squadron, Forrest. I thought I’d put him in your flight, as you have the fewest pilots. He’s probably in his room at the moment, unpacking his kit. I can’t really let you have too much time to ease him into it—this trench strafing business is the very dickens—but do what you can with him.”

“All right, sir,” said Biggles wearily. “I’d better go have a word with him.”

Making his way to the new pilot’s room, he looked inside and found Forrest sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space. Biggles stepped into the room. “Hello,” he said awkwardly. “You’ve just been posted to my flight. I’m Captain Bigglesworth. Most people call me Biggles.”

Forrest turned his head and regarded Biggles with the sort of quiet fascination small boys hold for interesting specimens of beetles. He did not speak.

Biggles eyed the boy without enthusiasm, for Forrest was a young lad, just out of school. His build was slight, and his skin held the unhealthily pale pallor of one who did not see too much sun. “How much flying have you done?” he asked, as the boy gave him a nervous smile.

“About ten hours, sir.”

“That’s enough of the sir,” Biggles told him. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. You can call me Biggles like everyone else. Anyway, you’ve come at a bit of a sticky moment. Sticky for the squadron, I mean. We’re just in the middle of a bout of trench strafing, which means you’ll probably be thrown in at the deep end. Normally, new pilots get a week or so before they go over the lines, but as things stand you’ll be lucky to get a day. Algy—you’ll probably see him in a minute if he’s come in—is the only other member of my flight at present, and if you have any questions you can ask him. Come along now, if you like, and I’ll give you some tips while they’re filling up my machine.”

&&&

At the end of a half hour of watching his new charge fly, Biggles had no idea what to say. Forrest had managed to get himself into the cockpit without life-threatening incident, but there his skills seemed to end. His take-off was shaky, his sense of direction non-existent, and his landing was something better not thought of.

Biggles, in a hurry to get back to his trench strafing, could only mutter a few noncommittal sentences as he slunk away from the new pilot.

“Whatever am I going to do with him?” he groaned to himself.

&&&

Later, in the mess, he consulted Algy. “The chap clearly can’t fly,” he said. “But we’re losing pilots so fast I can’t possibly go to Mullen and ask him to send the boy back to the FTS where he belongs.”

“You can’t send him up flying like that either,” snorted Algy, who had had a chance to observe Forrest’s flying skills himself. “It would be close to murder. You’ll have to tell Mullen, because if you don’t, I will.”

“All right,” said Biggles heavily. “If I—What is it, Adams?” he inquired, as the mess waiter appeared by his elbow.

“Major Mullen, sir. He wants to see you in the office.”

“Does he? All right, I’d better see what he wants.”

Biggles walked briskly towards the squadron office, and was greeted by a worried-looking Major Mullen.

“Biggles,” began the major, without preamble. “I know it’s short notice, but you’ll need to take Forrest up with you tomorrow. Mahoney’s lost two men today, and Mac’s been sent to the hospital with a broken leg. It’ll be weeks before he can fly again.”

“Sir,” protested Biggles. “I can’t take him up tomorrow, he can barely fly as it is. He looks to me as if he’s never handled a plane by himself before. We can’t send him over in that state. The Huns would get him as soon as he sticks his nose over the lines.”

“Well, do what you can for him,” said the major. “I know it’s asking a lot, but we’re seriously short of pilots, and I have no other option.”

Algy was still in the mess when Biggles returned. “Well?” he demanded expectantly, as Biggles sat down next to him.

“Well nothing,” said Biggles, with only a trace of bitterness in his tone. “I’ve got to take him up tomorrow—CO’s orders.”

“But didn’t you tell him?” asked Algy, aghast.

“I did. Or at least I tried to. The problem is that half of our pilots have gone west or are unable to fly, so we’re short of pilots.”

“But what are we going to do about it?”

“Do?” repeated Biggles. “There’s nothing else we can do. He’ll have to go up tomorrow morning with the rest of us. It’s bad luck for the poor beggar, but it can’t be helped. We’ll just have to manage the best we can.”

Algy looked dubious. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “It’s bad enough having to watch our own backs trench-strafing, without having to watch someone else’s. He’ll end up getting all of us killed.”

“No doubt he will,” was Biggles’ parting remark, as he pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “Cheerio, laddie. See you in the morning.”

&&&

Biggles, walking briskly to the sheds the next morning, was annoyed and worried to see only one member of his flight waiting for him. “Where’s Forrest?” he asked curtly.

Algy, in the process of pulling on his flying jacket, shrugged. “I don’t know. He was here when I got my Camel out, but then I went along to the mess for some tea, and when I came out he wasn’t here anymore.”

“Perhaps he’s gone back to his room for something,” said Biggles, eyeing the sky overhead somewhat anxiously. “I hope he bucks up about it,” he muttered.

But the minutes passed, and there was no sign of the new pilot. Biggles fidgeted restlessly, then made up his mind. “I’ll just go and see what he’s up to,” he told Algy.

“Righto.”

Biggles pushed open the door to Forrest’s room and found his new pilot sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. “What’s the matter?” he asked, striding quickly into the room.

Forrest raised a pale face to his flight commander and choked out, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t go on the trench-strafing. I can’t fly. I’ve seen the way you and Lacey look at me, talking about me behind my back. You know I can’t fly. I know I can’t fly. And if I go up there, the Huns will know that I can’t fly—”

“Pull yourself together,” said Biggles sharply, for he could see that the other pilot had worked himself up to a state of near-hysteria. “No one’s saying you can’t fly. No one can fly worth two pins when they first come out here, anyway.”

“You don’t understand,” replied Forrest, desperately. “You don’t understand at all.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“Never mind.” Forrest stood up abruptly, almost bowling Biggles over. “If I have to die, I’m going to die like a man. Let’s go.”

“But—”

Forrest, ignoring Biggles’ confused protests, made his way to the sheds and climbed up into his Camel.

“What’s going on?” whispered Algy, as Biggles came up beside him. “What happened?”

“He’s crazy,” said Biggles grimly, as Forrest’s engine roared to life. “Keep your eye on him, Algy,” he shouted, running for his own Camel. “Goodness knows what he’s up to.”

&&&

The three planes headed in a straggling formation for the Line, Biggles more or less in the lead.

Algy, flying at Biggles’ wingtip, was having strong misgivings towards the third member of their flight. Forrest’s Camel was tilting to and fro in an unsteady manner, as if the pilot was unsure what he was doing or where he was going. Twice he almost smacked into Algy’s plane, and it was only thanks to Algy’s quick reflexes that disaster was averted.

And they were still on their own side of the lines.

Algy met Biggles’ eye and grimaced, his expression making it clear what he thought of this state of affairs.

Biggles sailed over the line, and that was when the trouble really started.

A burst of archie sent Forrest’s plane skidding wildly out of formation, and Biggles had to go back for him, waving impatiently for the new pilot to rejoin the formation.

Forrest was cowering down in his cockpit, his face white, his eyes wide and staring. His Camel was listing idly at an impossible angle, and it was obvious that he was frozen in place, unable or unwilling to pilot his plane.

It was another burst of archie that brought the new pilot to his senses. Forrest started violently, jerking his Camel back to his original course, not seeming to notice the formation of black-crossed planes that were directly in his path.

“The idiot!” swore Biggles, setting off in pursuit, but knowing that he would be too late to do anything.

But Algy had seen the situation, and he was already there, zooming across Forrest’s nose, waving and gesticulating. Biggles’ shoulders sagged in relief, only to tense again when Forrest, undaunted, proceeded on his way as if he had not seen Algy at all.

Algy circled back, evidently getting ready to go back for another try.

And at that moment, whether by accident or design, Forrest flew his Camel straight into Algy’s, nudging the wing just violently enough to send the entire plane spinning over on itself.

Hanging upside-down in the air, it did not take long for Algy to realize that the only thing that stood between him and twenty thousand feet of empty air was a pair of tattered straps.

&&&

The engine cut out, and the Camel began to yawn alarmingly from side to side. Algy clutched the sides of his cockpit, hoping to lessen some of the strain on his straps, for he could see that they could not support his weight much longer. He braced his knees on the instrument panel, willing himself not to look down.

From his awkward position he saw another Camel drifting uncertainly underneath him. Knowing that it could only be Biggles, and not certain what else to do, Algy reluctantly peeled a hand free and waved.

With nothing to hold it in the air, the Camel was now dropping earthwards at a breathtaking speed. Algy winced, bracing himself for the inevitable impact.

It came much sooner than he expected.

&&&

Something slammed into the side of his Camel, and the plane rocked violently with the impact. Algy, who had closed his eyes against the crash, hurriedly opened them again and was met by the bizarre sight of another Camel ramming him in mid-air.

“What the—” he protested.

Another impact sent the Camel spinning, and he found himself suddenly upright. The engine coughed, coughed again, and then began working normally.

With shaking hands, Algy reached for the controls.

&&&

In the excitement of rescuing Algy, Biggles had all but forgotten about Forrest. Now, he looked wildly around for the new pilot, and was both relieved and surprised to see Forrest’s Camel, still drifting blissfully on its original course—still heading for the Hun formation.

Choking back an expletive, Biggles swung his own plane around and started heading towards Forrest at a ridiculously dangerous speed.

The other Camel seemed to be living a charmed existence; although bullets were flying furiously, none seriously affected either the plane or the pilot’s performance.

“He can’t hold on much longer,” Biggles mused to himself, keeping his eyes on Forrest. “It’s a wonder no one’s hit him yet—there must be a hundred bullets in that plane already. He’s—oh!”

The inevitable had happened, and Forrest’s Camel was trailing black smoke as it floundered in mid-air. Biggles snatched a quick glance earthwards, biting his lip. “He should be able to make it over our side of the line,” he decided, gauging the distance. “At least,” he amended bitterly to himself, watching the progress of the other Camel, “anyone else would be able to make it.”

He was too far away to feel the impact, but Biggles could not help flinching as the Camel crashed, fifty yards short of the line, and then somersaulted awkwardly, spinning and bouncing its way over the British side of the line.

Biggles’ eyebrows raised as he saw tiny ant-like figures dashing towards the aircraft, some of them looking up and waving at him. He was further surprised to see a somewhat battered figure crawling out of the debris. “Well, well,” he murmured, pursing his lips into a soundless whistle. “He is a lucky chap and no mistake.”

A burst of archie brought him back to reality, and he remembered where he was. With a guilty start, he scanned the sky around him quickly, but the only other plane in sight was Algy’s; the Huns that had shot Forrest down were nowhere in sight. Biggles circled in a half-hearted attempt to find them, but soon gave up and headed for home.

&&&

Back on the aerodrome of 266, Algy climbed shakily from the cockpit of his Camel. He was white-faced and breathing heavily. The moment his feet touched terra firma he sank down against the side of his Camel as if his legs were too weak to hold him up.

“If that idiot Forrest ever gets back,” he said deliberately, “I'm going to kill him.”

“Well, you can't really blame the kid,” began Biggles, awkwardly.

“Can't I?” scoffed Algy. “I swear I'm going to knock his block off the minute he sets foot back here.”

“Are you hurt?” asked Biggles quickly, as Algy slowly got to his feet.

“No; but my nerves are never going to be the same again.”

“Where do you think you're going?” demanded Biggles, as Algy began to limp briskly away.

“I'm going to have a drink,” declared Algy. “And then I'm going to bed. Not necessarily in that order.”

“But we've still got the trench-strafing to do yet!” protested Biggles.

“Fiddlesticks to the trench-strafing!” replied Algy curtly. “I'm not getting in an aeroplane again for at least a week. If ever.” And with that last parting shot, he turned on his heel and headed for the mess, limping as quickly as he could.

He did not look back.

&&&

Biggles was halfway towards his room when an NCO caught up with him and said, “Major Mullen’s compliments, sir, and could you step into the squadron office for a minute? Mr. Forrest has just arrived back, sir.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” said Biggles grimly. “Good. I’ve something to say to him.”

He made his way to the CO’s office and knocked briskly. In reply to the shouted invitation from within, he pushed open the door and entered.

Major Mullen was seated at his desk. Forrest sat across from him, looking very woebegone with his arm in a cast.

“Ah, Biggles, there you are,” said the major, looking up.

But Biggles, in a fury, had crossed the distance between himself and the new pilot in one quick stride, and was glaring down into Forrest’s face. “What did you think you were doing?” he demanded. “You almost killed Algy!”

“What?” exclaimed Major Mullen, half-rising from his chair. “Is Algy—?”

“Algy’s fine,” replied Biggles, his eyes still fixed on Forrest.

The new pilot looked astonished. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know you almost knocked him out of the sky!” sneered Biggles. “Just before you went cruising into those Huns who shot you down.”

“What Huns?” asked Forrest, puzzled. “I wasn’t shot down by any Hun, it was the anti-aircraft gunfire. I didn’t see a single Hun plane in the sky today!”

Biggles, breathing heavily, continued to glare at the pilot in silence, and Major Mullen quickly intervened. “Er, Forrest has just been telling me something I thought you should know,” he said. To Forrest, he added, “You’d better say it in your own words.”

Forrest took a breath, looked up nervously at Biggles, and said, “I can’t fly. I haven’t done ten hours solo. I’ve done about fifteen minutes of flying altogether in my entire life.”

“So what in the world are you doing here?” demanded Biggles.

“My instructor at the FTS was sent back to fly a desk for insubordination or something like that,” said Forrest. He seemed calmer now that he was telling his story. “He didn’t really teach me anything, he was always drunk. A few days before I left, he signed my logbook and papers and told me I was coming here.”

“But why didn’t you say something?” asked Biggles, aghast.

Forrest shrugged. “I thought I could find a way past it,” he said simply.

&&&

Biggles knocked lightly on the door of Algy’s room.

There was no answer.

He knocked again, louder this time, but still received no reply, so he pushed open the door and peered inside.

Algy was stretched out on the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his flying jacket and boots carelessly discarded in the corner. “Go away,” he said, without looking at Biggles.

“Algy, we’ve got to go trench-strafing. The others have already gone.”

“I’m not going,” asserted Algy stubbornly, as Biggles came into the room and stood by his bed. “I’m never setting foot in a plane again, even if it means getting court-martialled. I’ve never been so scared in my life as when I was hanging upside down in the air, and I promised myself that if I got out of it alive, I would never fly again.”

“Algy, don’t be a fool,” protested Biggles. “Look, Forrest won’t be coming with us this time, he’s got a broken arm, and besides, he really can’t fly, he was just telling me and Mullen about it—”

“Oh, get out.”

“Fine,” said Biggles, turning to leave. “Looks like I’ll have to go up by myself then.”

He left the room, slamming the door behind him, and hurried to the sheds, where his Camel stood waiting. He was just starting up the engine when a flurry of action behind him made him turn.

Algy was climbing into his Camel. Seeing Biggles’ gaze on him, he blushed, but determinedly meet Biggles’ eyes.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Shut up, Biggles,” retorted Algy.

&&&

Algy dove low and emptied his guns on the trenches below, then swung out of the way to avoid the furious burst of returning machine-gun fire.

He was just preparing to go down for another round of strafing, when he saw a formation of black-crossed machines coming towards them. Hurriedly, Algy pulled his Camel up for more height, waving frantically to Biggles as he did so.

As the first bullets struck his machine, Algy suddenly had a flashback of himself hanging upside down in the air, and the horror of it was so real that he froze at the controls, unable to move a muscle as he struggled to battle his inner demons.

A Fokker came zooming head on towards him, and he was so panicked that he didn’t even bother to try getting out of the way. Just as the plane was about to smash into his windshield, it suddenly burst into flames.

Turning, Algy saw Biggles’ Camel alongside, its pilot gesticulating wildly at him.

There were Huns all around them, but he was incapable of returning their fire.

&&&

A black bulk interposed itself between him and the oncoming Huns. It was Biggles, of course, there could be no doubt about that.

Something whanged into his windshield, and it flew to pieces, splinters landing on his face and flying jacket. Algy winced, brushing the glass away as best as he could without cutting himself on the sharp edges.

Limply, he reached for the joystick and urged his Camel into an Immelmann turn, and the concentration required to do this relaxed his mind somewhat from the fear.

Algy came out of the turn to find himself on the tail of a Fokker. Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, he blazed at it.

The sound of the guns firing seemed to change him. A casual observer might have been surprised by the sudden grim lines that settled onto Algy’s features as he continued to thumb the firing button. It was not a cold expression, rather, it was the fierce pride of a man who has done something very well several times before, and fully expects to do it very well indefinitely.

The Fokker burst into flames and spun earthwards. Algy, still wearing his grim expression, turned and scanned the sky for more Huns. Sighting one, he pulled his Camel into a vertical zoom that nearly took the other pilot’s head off. The Hun pilot, sensing danger, immediately veered sharply away and took cover among the clouds.

Algy began to whistle as he took on his next Hun, and it was the work of a minute to dispose of the plane and send it spinning earthwards in flames. Algy pushed up his goggles, looking for more Huns. Seeing none, he glanced over at Biggles and grinned, holding his thumb up in a gesture that means the same thing the whole world over.

&&&

Algy climbed stiffly out of his Camel and dropped lightly to the ground. He was slightly pale but grinning. “Good fight, wasn’t it?’ he commented.

Biggles declined to answer.

They were passing the door of the squadron office when it opened and the RO looked out. “Hullo, Biggles!” he said. “Mullen was just looking for you. He’s sent Forrest back to get some proper training, and he’s reported the matter to Wing, so hopefully the instructor will be made to feel very sorry.”

“He should,” retorted Biggles lightly. “There’s nothing like ignorant flying to make a pilot nervous.”

THE END