Gentlemen,

Do I detect a challenge here from HK? A joint effort to continue this burgeoning tale perhaps? For the moment it is up to you JRT for I am temporarily incapacitated as I open the fourth can of Thoroughgood's Strong 5% Lager.

I sincerely hope that poor Fritz, bless him, did not descend into that region which adjoins Farmer Dobbins' pigsty...

Folks,

HK:
I do hope that your hero has a soft landing. We have come be be fond of the unfortunate lad and I would hate to see the last of him.

Dux:
Three big cans drained and one more on the way down the cake hole? Were they the economical 2 liter cans? Impossible! That stuff, even taken in moderation, is truly lethal. Most folks I know here in the US use Thououghgood's import variety to strip heavy caked on layers of paint or to clean the accumulated oil and grease off their driveway. I once saw Olga drink two 2 liter cans, stand upright, take two steps and pass out cold with two soldiers still clenched under her arms. You, sir, are a stronger man than I.

I can easily imagine that it may be some days before you feel well enough to move your eyeballs or even breathe deeply much less type, so lurk about and read if you are able. Sadly, drunk or sober anything I write won't seem much better one way or the other.

Notice seen on the Bulletin Board 10th Regiment Royal Field Artillery posted at Dover.

ATTENTION:

It has been recently reported to High Command that some overly keen subordinate officers have taken it upon themselves to order their men to fire on enemy parachutists seen over the Channel fleeing their damaged aircraft. This is considered poor form Gentlemen and will cease immediately.

You may however continue to shoot, stab, throttle, cruelly maim or otherwise swiftly dispatch the dirty Hun blighters when you encounter them on the ground at any time.

By Order Of:
Sir George Rottenbottom, QC,DFC,OBE,IOU, EI, EI,O
Commanding General

This sounds a bit ominous my friends. I do hope HK's trusty hero was not caught short whilst swinging under Axis silk by over zealous antiaircraft fire. If so, this might soil the trousers of the very bravest of men. We shall see. I cannot wait for the next installing enthrallment... er.. enthralling installment.

Feel free to jump right in Dux... when you are feeling up to it.

Folks,

Dux:

In the immortal words of Strother Martin so mercifully preserved for all posterity in the vintage Paul Newman film "Cool Hand Luke" "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

It could be the residual effects of the strong drink or perhaps it is my American accent? (Being a southerner I could not bring myself to call it a "Yankee" accent.) Let me try once more and this time I'll speak more slowly...

Feel..free..to..jump..right..in..Dux.

By Order Of:
Sir George Rottenbottom, QC,DFC,OBE,IOU, EI, EI,O
Commanding General

I am laughing so hard I cant breath and am currently sucking dry the oxygen tank in my spit. Put your left leg in. your left leg out. in, out, in , out yer shake it all about....

Folks,

NOTICE: ALL Flight Operations Are Canceled Due To Prevailing Weather Conditions Until Further Notice:
***************************************************************************
The bad news has only recently reached HWH Squadron. The reaction seems to have been what could reasonably be expected.

As the whole drunken squadron joins Mad in dancing a ragged but enthusiastic version of the Hokey Pokey, JRT spies a comatose Dux sprawled under a nearby table. He is feeling no pain himself and just after the "shake it all about" part he makes a swimming motion with his arms to part the thick cloud of smoke and staggers over to peer down with just one red eye at his poor mate (this done with one eye to aid focus.) Seeing there is still a feeble attempt at breathing, JRT grins, looses a mighty belch and turns back to the merry making, leaving an incapacitated Dux slobbering away in a large pool of regurgitation, beer, and his own 100 proof urine.

JRT rejoins the dance and as it reaches the "Put your left leg in" part again, someone about the size of a London bus with a grinning face and political persuasions just as red, jams herself into the distant door frame. "Ooooh Dahxey, Dahxey Bobbee, fer arrr ju?"

The record player screams out a terrible scratching sound as the needle gouges a deep trough across it. Frozen in his tracks just one tiny Milli-second longer than it took everyone else in the room to jump out the nearest window, JRT is deeply conflicted. Should he try to save his friend or just selfishly save himself?

Stinging with guilt, OK make that without even a twinge of guilt, he plunges through the same open window and, luckily, he lands, followed by much cursing and complaining upon a soft pile of everybody else. He scrambles in the dark to untangled himself from the writhing pile of drunken, terrified pilots struggling at the base of the building.

Some men are soon crawling off, others are getting up and staggering toward the various lights seen twinkling in the distance. Several men lie on their backs, their useless arms flailing about above them. Like drunken turtles, they are either unable or unwilling to right themselves. A few men are completely stiff and seem unable to move at all. These few and JRT are the only souls left under the window when quiet eventually settles in once more. Suddenly JRT clearly hears a mercifully anesthetized Dux start groaning as Olga begins to have her wicked way with him.

I gave him bad advice, thought JRT with genuine regret as he licked his split lip and stood up on shaky legs. Instead of jumping in, he should have jumped out... with the rest of us. Glancing up at the now dark but still open window, JRT listens. The muffled groans were loud whimpers now.

There is nothing he or anyone can do for Dux now. JRT drunkenly dusts himself off, and then, missing one boot, tumbles off in the general direction of his waiting bed. The weather could be better tomorrow and there was a war still to fight.

Mad:
It is so nice to know someone is reading and enjoying. Thank you kindly for the laughter. If anything I write at any time should bring even a hint of a smile, I am more than well rewarded for the effort.

Gentlemen,

DOPPELGANGER DROPS A CLANGER

Ochre coloured parachutes descending into the county of Kent were not an uncommon sight in the summer of 1940. Slowly, slowly descending as petals from the flower of creation disturbed by the corruption of war, they are the residue of an airy conflict only recently resolved.

Now, not very far below, scores of glazed gems twinkle in the the blazing afternoon sun. One here, one there, each containing the fruits of some dedicated gardener's endeavor. These greenhouses possess magical qualities. They have an attraction to parachutists the nature of which has not been satisfactorily explained and right now, Fritz, despite frantic attempts to alter his course of descent now finds himself locked into an unswerving trajectory which must, and does, deliver him through the gleaming roof of Reverend Isiah Buckthumper's conservatory.

Shards of glass and pieces of broken pottery herald his arrival onto English soil and he lies among the cabbage mulch momentarily stunned. The ignominy of this unceremonious conveyence is quickly dispelled when he opens his eyes and upon wiping away a generous sample of Farmer Dobbins Specific Rose Mixture from them he beheld an angel in human form.

'Duxy! What are you doing here...not shot down again! Are you...'
She paused uncertainly and then exclaimed; 'But you are not he are you! How silly of me. He is away picking up a new Hurricane but maybe I shouldn't be telling you that. You are very, very similar but not quite as good looking. You are a German flier...are you hurt?'
Fritz rose unsteadily and painfully to his feet, shook off the two prize marrows attached to them, click his heels and introduced himself.
'Leutnant Fritz von Krankenschafft of St.G/II at your service mein fraulein. I must apologise for this unseemly...'
'Please...do not apologise. I am Sister Heddabord Bangtildoorn, a Dutch nurse attached to this military hospital annexe which was the Rectory. Come with me and we will treat your wounds and inform the Military Police. I must say how alike you are to my friend Flight Leiutenant Duxlington from the RAF base nearby!'

Later that afternoon after a cursory interrogation, Fritz had glass removed from his hind quarters and his sprains and aches alleviated under the tender attention of the glamourous Sister. His keen senses had already taken in the fact that several RAF officers were also enjoying her welcome treatment while they recovered from a variety of injuries. As he bolted down a luxurious meal of fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and Farmer Dobbins acclaimed bacon his escape plan had already been laid.

Shortly afterwards and with heartfelt regret when departing from the company of Heddabord, he sneaked out of the hospital in a Flight Leiutenant's uniform swiped from the wardrobe of one of the patients and as dusk fell made his way furtively towards the airfield.

His plan to purloin some aircraft or other and fly back to France was temporarily forgotten when he realized to his delight that a Mess party was in full swing and he brazenly entered trusting that the nurse had indeed not exaggerated the likeness between him and this fellow Duxy. He was not one to pass up the chance of a good booze-up and he was confident he could handle a fighter even after a few pints.

He was greeted by a distinguished looking pilot with an American accent who approached him while wiping away spew from his tunic. The others referred to him as JRT.
'Hey Duxy! You're back early. Thought you'd missed the fun!'
A double Jack D was thrust into his hand and in no time at all he had become familiar with Mad, HK, Zerosan, Bader and many others. After an hour he had decided that he was in the wrong air force when suddenly the needle on the gramaphone skidded off the record and his companions melted away in an instant.

'Ooooh Dahxey, Dahxey, Bobbee, fer arrr ju?'

Fritz slewed around drunkenly and beheld something that looked like a Mongolian mutante lesbian docker with obesity problems. To the sound of tearing trousers he dropped his glass...Heddaboord seemed worlds away...

Folks,

Dux:

Deeeelightful stuff! Well done. As the drunken boys all said after stumbling upon the woman's latrine...we were all so relieved. So it was not you that Olga was teaching the Stalingrad Push up?

We all want to know. Nay, we all need to know. How is it that Fritzy is so easily mistaken for you old boy? He's a doppleganger you say? I hesitate to use the word with him in Olga's clutches however he does seem to be a dead ringer for you. Did your randy old daddy ever spend a large chunk of his leisure time on the other side of the Siegfried Line? Is Mom in for a terrible shock on Father's day?

With poor Fritz snarled in the clutches of a drooling Olga, this might well lead to big, big questions after the war regarding the inhumane treatment of prisoners.... Given the choice, I'm sure the boy would snap at the chance to become a human target for SS troops in need of more small arms practice on the way to the Eastern Front, rather than endure the unendurable at the hands and, shudder, the lips of Olga.

Poor Fritz.

HK: Can you, will you save Fritz? Perhaps this is not your Fritz? Perhaps Dux has been eating those funny mushrooms again...this might well be a chemical delusion. In fact, knowing Dux as i do this probably IS some kind of delusion.

JRT,

What a laugh! The vision of that party and 'Duxy' wallowing about under the table in a pig-sty of his own making is worth reading several times.

The real Dux appeared early next morning having been kept overnight while the Hurricane was undergoing pre-delivery modifications. He was of course non-plussed to learn that he had fallen foul of Olga again and that previous evening had been admitted to the station sick bay were he was supposed to have spent the night in an oxygen tent when in fact he had been at Nether Swampford MU all the time!

His immediate investigations soon revealed the truth of the matter and he could only sympathise with the poor ravaged Fritz when he visited him in wards 7, 8 and 9. Fritz has requested that he be sent back to Buckthumper's requisitioned Rectory were he can be assured of the necessary care. Under armed guard - in case IT turned up again - he was duly trundled out to the waiting meat-wagon....

Folks,

Dux:

I also thank you for the laugh old Sport. After all the pleasure you have brought to me and to so many others with your Olga Sagas over the past 5 years it is high time you were repaid in kind by someone. Unfortunately I do not write nearly well enough to repay you in 'kind' so you must settle for payment in 'Krap'.

LOL! Yeah, right! It would seem that the rumors of Dux's demise were slightly exaggerated. Though a thousand would not, I believe him when he says he was stone sober and miles away from the festivities. If so, it would seem that this creates yet another sticky question. Were there in fact not one but two dopplegangers? The real Dux's papa was certainly a busy man.

Funny thing. The medic who cared for the 'fictitious' Dux at the base infirmary on the very night in question mentioned in his notes, and he distinctly remembers, a peculiar tattoo seen on that fellow's backside. He was administering a mighty tetanus shot when the unusual artwork came into view.

Tell us Dux, weren't you with us that dark night in that back street in Red Hill when we got drunk and went into that tattoo parlor by mistake? We thought it was a small shop selling etchings until the first needle struck home. I believe that everyone but me got a tattoo that night. I would have gotten one too but I passed out in the lavatory and didn't regain consciousness until I was awakened by all the screams and cursing when the proprietor discovered no one had any money. When I realized that you were challenging that huge, hairy, gorilla to a fist fight, naturally I sobered up and instantly I sprang to your aid. Yes, you will recall how I slipped out the lavatory window, walked around front and held the door open when the stretcher bearers carried you out.

Refresh my memory. Wasn't your tattoo a startling likeness of Olga on one side and Hitler on the other, both smooching your butt cheeks? If I am correct then we will be compelled to rethunk this whole doppleganger situation.

All this talk of tattoos and the proximity of Saint Patrick’s Day compels me to post what is reported to be the favorite Limerick of that debonair, literary sage, Captain Peacock of Grace Bros. Dept. Store.

There once was a barmaid from Sayle
On her chest was tattooed all the prices of ale
Whilst on her behind,
For the sake of the blind,
Was the same only written in Braille

Happy Saint Pat's Day everyone and especially C51 whereever you are!

JRT,

Grace Brothers have opened a branch in the USA?

John Inman (I'm free!) died a few days ago - 71.

I am diverted by certain investigations regarding the tattoo mystery and will be reporting shortly.