stickman,

Hear, hear! I fully endorse your comment on Memorial Day.

Young Dux!

Here he is at readiness and awaiting the call to action stations. This was 1958, 18 years after the Battle...but they never told us!

You can well imagine our alarm and despondency a few years later when Selznick's Luftwaffe joined the circuit with their 109's and He111's (CASA 2111's and HA1112's) prior to landing. We were quite put out.

Strangely, in all the scrambles we were engaged in, I never managed to coax the Austin K6 gas truck even 1" off the ground.

Folks,

Sir Old Dux:

Yes, the somewhat less than aerodynamic Austin K6 was notoriously difficult to fly. There were those who managed to get all four wheels off the ground at the same time but not for any extended length of time I'm afraid.

What a dashing and alert military figure you cut back in 1958. Particularly as according to my most precise calculations you must have been several hundred years old by then........er, ah let's see now, 1958 minus 1500 = zero from eight is 8, zero from five is five, five from nine is.....wait a bit. Drat this abacus....

Hmmmmm. My math like my eyesight is obviously appallingly faulty here. Apologies are certainly in order and I will therefore ask around to see if anyone feels up to passing some on.

What type footgear is that? Are those actually military issue wellies or have you just been fly fishing? Having just mentioned fly fishing, have you ever noticed that when someone goes fishing for flies they generally already have one on the end of their line already? Curious isn't it?

Oh yes, in honor of the occasion of actually seeing a mercifully fuzzy likeness of you for the very first time I'm sending you a minor piece of 'art' that may possibly be appropriate.

Young Dux..

I always thought you are a mischievious devil! I can see it now.

stickman,

Yes! I think you must be right. He does look an impish blighter!

JRT,

Many thanks for you your most creditable presentations! The fuzziness came about when enlarging the jpg image. Like the oil painting effect but J says that's something I've never been.

VP is O.K. but you are limited on your daily output unless you want to pay. I don't!

Folks,

Stickman:

Yes, our dear boy does have that certain look about him, I agree with you. He looks like he has just placed a dead fish on the Brigadier's radiator. Ironically looking at the 'young' Dux I am reminded that the young son of a slight acquaintance of mine had that very same impish grin when he was only about 18........

I think he gets out of prison in about ten more years.

A WASTED LOVE...

Almost three weeks in Sick Bay was just about worthwhile. Fished out of the drink, suffering from exposure and burns, and then carted off to an isolated recuperation ward after prolonged treatment.

The lads from 8238 Flight attached to Manston had been cheering enough with their regular visits but he had something far more important to concentrate his mind than the bonne homme and badinage from JRT, and Co.

She had regularly attended him for five days now and he finally had to admit to himself that he had become completely smitten. He was transfixed by her beauty from their very first meeting. Their conversation had been light and free flowing and so far, never edging to any suggestion of a deeper and more profound exchange. Now he decided that a more direct approach would be needed if he was not going to miss the chance of a developing relationship.

Life had been something akin to one long party since Cranwell days and he had always been ready to use the war as an excuse to avoid permanent romantic entanglement.
Now it was time to find the right woman and he had become fully convinced that she was the one.

Tomorrow morning he resolved to ask her out. Not too much pressure - just a sedate trip to Old Granny Higgins' Pie Shop. He could wire up SNAFU's Jag and they would be there in fifteen minutes or so. Then hopefully a more intimate meeting at a later date.....easy does it.

He awoke early and waited with mounting apprehension until the rattle of the breakfast trolley heralded the arrival of his object of desire. She arranged his breakfast tray and placed the daily paper within easy reach. We need not dwell on the conversation leading up to the all important invitation but time stood still while he awaited her response.
She paused...her sensuous lips quivered as though uncertainly forming the right words.
"Why, of course! I'd be delighted".
Canuck51's mouth gaped in disbelief but he quickly recovered to confirm his plans, his voice now assailed by a mild stammer.
"Just a minute - before I go - let me shake up your pillows." Her voice was soft, maternal, and it marshalled every masculine instinct within him.
She reached across to grip the large bolsters and proceeded to knead and pummel them into a more comfortable support. In this exercise she rocked to and fro bearing down closer to him. He could smell her perfume and detect the warmth of her body. Now the loose folds of her nurses uniform were brushing against his hairy chest and he began to feel the perspiration forming on his forehead.
He gripped the sheets and closed his eyes in torment. He was fighting the urge to encompass her in his brawny , muscular arms.

Suddenly, she had finished her task and with a bright smile, wafted out of the ward with the trolley. At the third attempt he managed to croak a tremulous 'goodbye'.

It was about ten minutes later that he heard the long rasping whine of someone breaking wind in the corridor. A toilet flushed and a door banged shut. Heavy footfalls stopped outside his door which had been left slightly ajar.
The door slowly opened to reveal a woman.....well, a woman of sorts. She filled the doorway with her bulk and afforded him a slow licentous smile which revealed a row of teeth that reminded him of the Officer's Mess snooker set. She closed the door and approached until, at the foot of his bed, she undid the buttons of her skirt. It fell to the floor around her size 12 boots. C51's left hand groped frantically for the call button. Next, she undid the belt which held up her drawers. This was a belt she had torn from the trousers of a Waffen SS Sergeant and was inscribed with 'Gott Mitt Uns' around the buckle.

Her drawers, which had been an excercise in wartime economy measures had been fabricated from two worn out maize sacks and they too hit the floor with a muffled thump.

The early morning nimbus scudded across the leaden sky over Thrutchwell Magna and parted just long enough for a shaft of sunlight to penetrate the ward and fall directly onto her Order of Lenin.

The next day, a sickly and debilitated C51 donned his uniform for the first time in several weeks, fixed his cap at the required jaunty angle and flicked a dried scrap of seaweed from the DFC ribbon. Just then, an orderley arrived and presented him with a perfumed envelope which he opened and began to read...

Dearest Canuck51,

I am writing to say goodbye. How I had longed for you to ask me out, but now, how cruelly have my hopes been dashed. Yesterday, I returned to your ward with a cup of tea and was devastated to see you in a clinch with that dreadful ogre-slut, Olga Krutchlegova who is attached to the M.O.D. Field Latrine Commando.

I intend to mend my broken heart with a short stay at my father's 4,000 acre Scottish estate and further divert myself by assisting my solicitor in the sale of the 11 factories that were recently bequeathed to me.
After that I will spend the rest of the war with another of my benefactors in the United States. He owns a large cattle estate with other adjacent lands and properties which he has amalgamated under the one name of Texas. I will just have to throw myself into some kind of war work and hopefully will get over this.

Yours in devastation,

Ophelia Hardrod.

Greetings all,
Old Dux, unbelievable!
Who could have guessed that that dashing young man with the wellies, (obviously worn to a frazzle in defending the Empire), could have written such an articulate account of love, lust, and heartbreak
First you managed to get me worked up to a fever pitch, then I couldn't stop laughing.
Only to be slammed to the floor in bitter disappointment. Olga scores again.
Brilliant Old Dux.

Folks,

Sir Old Dux:

Ophelia Hardrod another wonderfully descriptive name to conjure with. LOL! Joy and rupture.... er...I do mean rapture. If I had knelt and prayed and prayed until the knees were completely worn off my bib overalls I could not have hoped for a better story with our pal C51 as the daring if tragic hero. I knew there had always been something besides the smell of rotten cabbage between those two.

Now, thank you very much, I am truly reluctant to post this paltry effort.

Damon and Pythias

The sky is filled with sparkling metal. No matter where you swivel your aching neck your bloodshot eyes fall upon hundreds of aircraft glinting in the hot sun. There are several types of bombers and at least three types of fighters up here sharing the ozone with us today. Long black streaks of acrid smoke cut deep, angry paths across the perfect blue canvas of the sky. These long, crooked fingers of death stretching down to watery graves evidence the last moments of friends and foe alike and the bitterly cold, thin air is filled with a cacophony of sounds. Engines roar and sputter, bullets rattle along metal skin, explosions like thunder shake pilots teeth and brave hearts beat way too loud to be ignored completely.

If we choose to concentrate our attention on one small section of this broad battle raging across the summer sky of 1940s England we see that there is a single Spitfire battling for its life. A determined yellow-nosed German 109 follows its every move as it pours withering cannon fire into the smoking RAF fighter. It looks pretty grim for the Spit and its pilot. Into the very teeth of this maelstrom of death flies the resolute wingman of the pilot in trouble. One pass is enough to switch the attention of the German pilot to the attacker and away from the smoking Spit. Too late the hero finds he has overshot his target and he now takes the unenviable place of his stricken comrade in front of the firing 109. The two warplanes roll and climb, dive and zoom but their relative positions are not altered by one iota. What a pounding the brave RAF pilot gets.

Just as he is about give up all hope and climb out on a wing, an amazing thing happens. From out of nowhere a smoking Spitfire plunges down upon the firing 109 with all its .303s blazing. There is a sudden explosion and black, oily clouds of smoke billow from the engine cowling of the 109. As the shells of the avenging Spitfire continue they fall across the port wing to enter the cockpit of the German.

At this moment another yellow-nosed 109, piloted by the wingman of the first arrives on the scene and attempts to intervene. A Lufberry circle results with everyone going round and round, each side trying to get a clear shot of the tail of the other and no one is having any luck. All planes save one are smoking and should they falter now it will be a deadly mistake. Round and round they soar. This goes on for some time until the 109s are finally short of fuel and have exhausted their ammo. They are the first to break for home. Ordinarily this would have spelled instant doom for them. This time however they are lucky for the RAF chaps are happy just to call it a draw and let the two loyal comrades get away. The two Spits join up. Both kites are smoking badly, as they limp away from the setting sun toward home.

In our little sector of the battle at least, friendship and loyalty have triumphed for both sides this day. In the mess tonight in England and in France many an attentive ear will be regaled with great stories of comradeship, glory and the uncontested bravery of both sides. From such powerful things are legends made and myths created.

According to Greek legend, Damon and Pythias were friends who lived on Syracuse in the 4th century BC. When Pythias was sentenced to death, Damon took his friend's place in prison while he went to put his affairs in order. Pythias returned just before Damon was to be executed, and the king was so impressed with their loyalty to one another that he pardoned Pythias.

Greetings all,
Bravo JRT! Certainly an excellent read. And as always, with a magical JRT touch of the humane. Indeed, the pints are flowing well tonight with two memorable stories to delight our imagination and intellect.
I'm buying the next round!