Folks,

Here is some more appropriate to this thread:
Appropriate Poems
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/12/02
Posted By: JRT

The Anxious Dead

Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions passing on
Those who fought their fight in time of bitter fear
And died knowing how the day had gone
Oh flashing muzzles, pause and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the far sky afar
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them and Caesar that we still make war
Tell them, Oh guns, that we have heard their call
That we have sworn and will not turn aside
That we will onward till we win or fall
That we will keep the faith for which they died
Bid them be patient and some day anon
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep
Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn
And in content may turn them to their sleep
The Anxious Dead, Maj John McCrae

In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

By: Lt. Col. John McCrae, M.D., 1872-1918

And because you readers must be gluttons for punishment or you would not be here, I have the nerve to post the following fairly rambling collection of words under my own name.

Smokin’ JRT
BY: JRT
HWH Cont. Page 109
July 13, 2005

The heavy oaken door of HWH Hall swings wide open with a loud crash. Silhouetted in the doorway a bedraggled JRT adjusts what is left of his tattered flight dress. He squints painfully as a wisp of smoke drifts into his bloodshot eyes and he swiftly pats out a small glowing area near his belt that is still smoking. Then, wincing a bit, pulling the door shut behind him he staggers across the threshold into the cool darkness beyond. The door closes with a thud.

Hearing the commotion out front the new beer maid and former Liverpool stripper known as Miss Vulgari Teeze hastened to the front door just in time to support JRT as he staggered toward the richly appointed bar.

Miss Teeze helped pat out some of the other freshly smoldering bits JRT couldn't quite reach and in a sympathetic tone asked the stricken pilot "Another terrible crash sir?" JRT only nodded as he planted his tender blistered ass on the nearest bar stool and slumped across the cold marble bar. The smell of burning rubber and singed hair began to be quite noticeable to the young beer maid.

Already the cool air inside the dark hall was tingling his singed ears and as he gulped in lung fulls of fresh air JRT was beginning to show some signs of reviving. He managed to cough up a few more pieces of blackened straw plus a jaw tooth and that made him feel much better.

"The usual sir?" inquired the helpful beer maid. "Right, I pranged the bastid right into a damn pigsty on final." replied JRT, ruefully, not quite understanding the question. "No, sir I meant do you want your usual drink, sir, Château Thames Embankment?" the lovely girl patiently asked already un-corking the dusty bottle. There was plenty of it to drink for no one else would touch the vile beverage whose vintage was listed on the bottle by month not by year.

JRT removed something sticky and disgusting looking from his hair and sniffed it then flicked it away in disgust. Why is it always in the stinking pigsty he whimpered to himself? A terrible fatigue was setting in as JRT nodded again and laid his scorched head down on the cool, smooth bar. His stinking, matted hair had begun to smoke again but JRT was tired beyond noticing. He was sound asleep before the wine even wet the glass.

Folks,

Dux:

Nothing I do seems to make page 450 show up on page one. Maybe if I post here it will do it? I do not see any arrow to make the last page show up. Anyway, I'll try this.

Well, that worked for me. I can now see HWH page 450 showing on the forum main page.

Gentlemen,

JRT,

Thanks for that selection of posts.

That poem - The Anxious Dead - was the inspiration for my very first story and was included in part. I think it was called Ghost Squadron or similar.

Folks,

Dux:

"Ghost Squadron". Indeed, it was that very title that introduced us to your amazing gift with words. I seem to remember a vision of wild hares dancing in the moonlight causing a brief tingle up and down my spine. Let me see if I can conjure that one up for our readers. Gad! I hate going down those crumbling steps at night ... the torch doesn't give off much light and some of those bats down there are beginning to bear a more than striking resemblance to Bella Lugosi... Hand me that wooden stake and mallet...

Folks,

OK, here it is, "Ghost Squadron" in several delightful chapters. You'll pardon me if I don't read along with you, I have a few nasty fang bites to attend to and as I was struggling in the dark to save myself from those very large bats, I hit my thumb with the damn mallet.

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 1
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/10/02
By: Old Dux

There can be very few locations which have retained their character over a period spanning some 60 years or so. I need not have worried about any such change however, as the shallow vale, with village and airfield, came into view.

It had been a long though pleasant drive through Dorset and Wiltshire, my mind beset by crowding memories which grew in intensity as the hours passed. Why had I never returned before now? After a lifetime of purposely avoiding the place yet knowing that a pilgrimage would have to be made, I now found myself confronting that which I had always known would have to be faced one day. Now, that location which had been the scene of the most intense period of my life lay before me, and the mind which had been permanently scarred now almost overcome by a tide of thrusting memories, voices and spectral faces clamouring as never before.

With an eerie feeling of unreality I pulled into the gravel forcourt of the old Plough Inn, unloaded my suitcases and made my way into the silent bar. Once again I felt relief that the worst excesses of modernisation had passed by this place and the quiet within gave me the opportunity to to savour an atmosphere that seemed to have lingered from past times.

Within a few minutes I had signed the register and seated myself with a pint of brown and mild, right next to the dartboard which I was pleasantly surprised to see still placed exactly where it used to be.

Now the memories came flooding back again. Snatches of scenes and conversations from long ago, long forgotten but somehow now refreshed and leaping out involuntarily as in a fever. 'Been on the road long sir?' Startled, I turned to to see a dim form mostly hidden by the smoke laden shaft of sunlight which pierced the gloom between us.

'Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you there' I replied and standing, made my way over and seated myself on a stool at his table. He was a leathery countryman, about the same age as me I thought but with a piercing grey eye and the other covered by an incongruous purple eyepatch. 'Quite a few hours actually - from Minehead - pleasant trip but glad to be here at last.' 'Well, the mild's worth coming a long way for!' he winked.

From then on we entered into animated conversation which mostly covered rural life and some of the advantages of becoming elderly. There was a growing conviction that I had known this man but could not put my finger on it. This continued to nag me long after we had parted company with the mutual promise of a few more drinks in the evening.

That evening was indeed spent in the company of the locals and with Jim Appleyard my new acquaintance as we drank, chatted and played darts and dominoes. Jim soon established his superiority at the dart board and before long, it was my turn to take him on - with some trepidation I might add.

I took the first game of 501 and he the second which was relaxed enough, although I had the distinct feeling that he was giving me an edge. On the final leg - the decider - he finished in style with treble 20, treble 17 and double top. He looked my way with his one good eye. It was a knowing look that shot me back deep into the past but still I was no wiser. We smiled then laughed long and loud. I had been hustled well and truly.

This very convivial evening continued until I decided that the day had been long enough. Bidding everyone a very good night I made my way to bed with a swiftly growing weariness....

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 2
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/11/02
By: Old Dux

The night was warm and scented as I opened the leaded mullioned windows and settled down in the large four poster with it's luxurious overstuffed mattress and pillows. I do not remember dropping off but later the the dreams with disembodied voices gradually presented themselves again and I awoke with a start just after 2 a.m. The pub had long fallen silent after the departure of my erstwhile companions. Looking towards the window, the lace curtains wafted slightly in the balmy nocturnal air and I slowly rose from the bed. Leaning on the window ledge I opened one of the windows fully and took in the glorious panorama before me.

Under the wan light of a full moon at this time of the year, the English countryside is a place all of it's own. The rolling fields, trees and hedgerows lay as though on a ghostly carpet under the moonlight, and in the distance only one or two dull orange lights bore testimony to a few people still being abroad.

Almost imperceptably, a movement caught my eye several fields away. Something like a dark patch.....was it moving? Yes!.....there it is again gradually traversing the field and becoming elongated, then contracting, spreading out then linking into a circular motion. In this manner the dark amorphous shapes performed and as they did so, came closer, field after field.

This uncanny undulating progress caused me to edge back uneasily and eventually, being quite unable to take my eyes from it, the entire mass became strung out into a mad, cavorting and gyrating procession of hares as they rushed by below the window. Off they went on their way in that thrilling nocturnal dance with a zestful freedom and vitality that I could only stand and envy. I laughed over my nervousness and returned to my bed. There I spent the rest of the night in dream filled sleep, disturbed by the constant procession of long forgotten events.

The morning was fresh and beautiful, and after breakfasting well, I set off from the Plough and up the gradually sloping lane towards the site of the old airfield. As I progressed, many features stood out with great familiarity. Each bend, each hedgerow, fence and topographical undulation still as clear as it had been in 1940. The banks beneath the hedge, smothered in wild flowers and grasses were a constant reminder of the many pleasant off-duty walks we had enjoyed all those years ago.

Off to the right now, and just over there was where Proudlove came in, flushed with success, and has he cleared the boundary fence, never even saw the 110 that got him. We had to watch with barely suppressed rage as the Jerry cleared the trees and waggled his wings mockingly like a schoolboy leaving somebody's orchard with his pockets stuffed with apples. Then he was gone, leaving a funeral pyre at the west end of the airfield. So died 'Prodder' Proudlove.

This farm gate, with the track paved with compacted flint and pebbles, leads to the farm over the rise. From here, the chimney can be discerned. Here is where our shooting party came across the flock of grey partridge feeding on the track and this is where we killed them all before they even had a chance to get airborne. That night in the mess, there was a bad-tempered and prolonged argument over the ethics of sportsmanship versus the necessities of war.

At this point, the lane levels out and reveals most of the site of the airfield - but now I am beginning to feel the gathering warmth of the day and regret bringing my old tweed jacket which I throw over my shoulder.

During a brief spell of night flying patrols we lost Pritchard just around here. Perhaps that slight depression near the edge of the wood is where he struck the ground. The Hurricane night fighter indeed! I know we had our successes but I would have liked a word with the cretin who dreamed that one up........

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 3
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/12/02
By: Old Dux

....Some of the old hangars are still in place but much has been given back to agriculture. It will be about half an hour or so at my present rate of progress before I am any where near the main gate or what will be left of it. I need a short rest before I go the next mile or so.

Over towards the village there is a dip on the horizon still outlined with a row of oaks, and we had watched with a dreaded fascination when Carswell, after taking of in the station Magister, passed through the gap and slammed into an Oxford which we could see approaching low in the circuit. We buried all six in the local churchyard.

Despite taking a lengthy rest I notice a familiar pain returning across my chest and sweat starts to trickle down my face. Foraging for my pills I remember having left them back at the pub and curse myself for such a careless omission. As the pain increases I hold onto a fence post for support.

Well, you bloody fool, you've gone and done it now haven't you?! The long drive, more beer than usual, a late night and not much sleep! You ate enough for two at breakfast and now you're pushing it to get round the airfield. What was it the doc said? 'Take my advise and you will enjoy the company of your grandchildren for a good few years yet....'

Now the pain has extended around my back.....that's a new one. I tighten my grip on the post and jam my stick into the ground as the rural panorama swims before me like a heat haze when seen through binoculars.

Take deep breaths...you have done it before...hold on then you can steadily make it back to the pub for help. Sweat pours down my face. The jolt across my back is not painful but has a deadly finality; a feeling I have never previously experienced. My left foot shoots out to correct my balance and I seem to hang there, frozen in time.

Looking out again across the airfield the view has cleared....in fact it has never been so clear. The pain has gone and as I bend to retrieve my stick from the lane, see myself lying on the right, half hidden by the long grass, meadowsweet and red campion.

Looking down, I am not really surprised to see the young, smooth, strong hands of a nineteen year old protruding from air force blue sleeves and three inches above the cuff, the thin pale blue 'scraper ring' of Pilot Officer.

Now I know why I never came back.....I would only ever be allowed a one-way ticket.
--------------
Across the lane and just beyond the hedge stands a Hurricane and more behind it, straps hanging from cockpits ready for their occupants. The groundcrew turn smiling and beckoning. A long awaited moment which transcends the years. He walks briskly across the lane, wafting away the the exhaust fumes of the Bedford three-tonner which had just dropped him off, and passes through a gap in the low hawthorn hedge. 'Good morning chaps - everything O.K. for standby?' 'Everything on line sir' replies Sgt. Sinclair.He climbs on to the wing, toes into the 'D' steps and lowers himself into the cockpit to quickly complete the pre - flight checks.

'By the way Sargeant. Are you due at the Plough this lunchtime for some send-off party or other?'
'That's right sir. Some armourers are being posted out to Malta tomorrow. Lucky blighters!'
'Well, I don't know about that. Things are starting to warm up over there I've heard. Out of the frying pan and into the fire I'd say! You can do me a favour though while you are at it'.

He fumbles in his pocket and flips half-a-crown to Sinclair who deftly catches it.
'Give that to young Appleyard and remind me not to gamble my hard earned pay against a one eyed darts player'.

'Wish I'd known sir. I've warned a few not to take him on!. The primed Merlin turns briefly and kicks back in the opposite direction. Twice more it does this and then fires with a characteristic crackling roar sending back short blasts of flame from the exhaust stubs.

A covey of grouse rise as one from the thicket and beat low over the dew laden grass, raising a fine misty spray as they hug the field contours. The Merlin's note bawls out and in front Harris and Benson move back, each dragging a chock on a length of rope. To the left and just below, Sinclair teeters back on his heels, trousers rippling, tunic billowing, right hand held up to his face palm outwards against the flaying grit and corn stalks.

As the power rises, carbonised high octane exhaust blasts back past the tail surfaces, through the hedgerow, over the ploughed stubble field and into the copse beyond. Now the ghosts and the voices are back. Restless and hesitant at first but with a growing conviction and determination, eager to re-live the comradeship, glory and high adventure of old days. With forms no longer earth enwrapped they strive to complete their transformation.

Bid them now to wake and rise, and as they turn in wonder toward the dawn streaked sky..........'tell them, and Caesar, that we still make war'

Thanks JRT,

Four and a half years ago eh? How time flies. I enjoyed reading it again. Thought it was lost with the earlier 600 posts.

Folks,

Dux:

There are few I would risk life and limb for, not to mention a quart or two of my vintage hemoglobin just to dig out an old story from down in those gloomy bowels beneath our feet. I am delighted to have read it again myself. It was very well written. One of your better early efforts. Tempus Fugit indeed.

"Ghost Squadron" is a very well written story by an exceptional author.

And now for something completely different:

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Airdrome
By JRT
SNAFU’s original HWH
Page unknown
Originally Posted on 7/6/2001

My Spitfire shudders under the impact of several more vicious impacts. Where is your wingman when you really need him I wonder? I find myself quite the odd man out as my trusted Spitfire whirls around in the very midst of 10 or 20 of the Luftwaffe’s best fighters. I seem to be barely holding my own. The truth of it is that the only thing that has saved my sorry hide so far is the obvious fact that there are so many of them. They hold back their fire, as they are reasonably afraid of hitting each other.

A cannon shell bursts in front of me and my bullet-proof windscreen cracks into a myriad of fine spider veins. I instantly break to the left as more tracers miss by inches. That really wakes me up to the danger and the hopeless nature of the situation. I finally am forced to admit that there is nothing for it but to run for my life. I roll inverted and the sunlight streams down at me through so many bullet holes in the floor I cannot count them all. Shards of glass from the shattered hood and instrument panel fly about the cockpit and fall out into space. The wind screams and roars in my ears like a banshee. I frantically split “s” for the safety of the green earth beneath my tortured craft. A broad layer of white cumulus cloud that is lying just below me obscures those beautiful patchwork fields. This cloud may save my life if I can get into it in time.

Cannon shells are cracking all around me as I fall through a hole in the clouds and notice that my poor Spitfire is now streaming hot steaming glycol and the sweating engine heat gauge gives me the good news that I will shortly be flying a glider. It is much harder to maintain level flight for some reason.

Looking down through one frighteningly damaged wing I can see a peaceful contradiction. Far below all seems so green, peaceful and quiet across the breadth of rural England. Cloud shadows race across sunlit meadows and rise up across bright, sun-shafted, greenish yellow hills. Up here it is quite another story. Death surrounds me and I am fighting so desperately to stay alive for even a moment longer. Others are trying just as desperately to deliberately kill me. I manage an uncharacteristically altruistic prayer. May what we do up here preserve forever that peaceful tranquility down below.

An intrusive little voice in my head is screaming, get out, get out! I try with all my might to force open the hood. It is jammed. There is no way out. Tracers begin to flash menacingly just past my shattered cockpit, thus letting me know that I am not alone after all. I had hoped to loose my attackers by continuing to fly along just under the cloud base, dipping in and out.

A few of my tormentors have considerately followed me down to see that my Spitfire and I do not make the long return journey to our airdrome alone. They are playing with me now, like a cat plays with a helpless mouse. They know I am out of ammunition, out of glycol and out of luck.

I force my protesting little fighter to perform one more split “S” to a much lower altitude thus avoiding the deadly tracers for a moment. Leveling off at 500 feet the engine begins missing badly. There is an explosion of black, oily smoke right before me that coats my cracked windscreen with grime and sludge. The straining engine has over-heated and seized. The useless prop spins wildly. I am almost blind and I am going down.

The Spit’s glide ratio is a good one to be sure but not good enough to get me home from this altitude. Even if it were good enough those continuous thuds I hear pelting the rear of my ailing Spitfire mean that it and I will soon be gnawed to pieces. I am too low now even to bail out in safety if I could get the hood un-jammed. Several powerful blows strike the armor plate behind my head. The right wing begins to shred as more shells find their mark. I squirm miserably in my wet, cold aluminum seat waiting for the inevitable. Huddled down as low as possible behind my armor plate and having little else to do but hold the yoke and pray, I steal a glance at my rear-view mirror. It is just long enough to see that only one enemy fighter continues in hot pursuit. This gives no hope of survival to me as I remind myself that one will be more than enough.

That last 109 pilot pulls his mottled gray, shark-like fighter right up beside me and the pilot seems to be surveying my wrecked Spitfire. We fly along in close formation for a moment and I can easily see the yellow nose of the 109 with streaks of oil running back toward the tail from the engine. I clearly see the pilot’s grim face. He shakes his head in wonder, gives me a little salute and then he pulls up and drops behind me. I flinch in fear as the shelling begins again. Large chunks of my riddled craft are torn away to fall into the fields just 100 feet below. Once more the Axis pilot pulls abreast of me. Once more he shakes his head as he surveys my shredded aircraft. As he pulls up and behind once more I brace myself for the final hail of bullets that will send me screaming into oblivion. They never come.

I do not now know, I will probably never know why the final blast of cannon fire never came. Perhaps the enemy took pity on me or simply ran out of ammunition or fuel. There is no time at the moment for such useless speculation. Time to assess the damage I can see and get this thing down as an aircraft and not a coffin. I can see quite a lot of damage and sense the rest.

My engine is gone and continues to stream caustic, greasy, black smoke that flows over and through the gaps in my hood and shredded wings. The Perspex hood is all shot up, the bulletproof windscreen is a mess of oil and cracks. I have lost some of my left tail plane and a large chunk of rudder. The undercarriage appears to be bunged up and useless. I have no flaps and very little wing surface still intact. Other than that we are in perfect flying condition.

In my professional opinion a Spitfire in this condition is not supposed to fly. I will not, however, argue the point. I am in no position so to do. A bit too low and still too fast I coax my poor ailing Spit to climb a bit and I risk pulling up barely inches over a large oak tree and drop down into a small valley. The climb almost stalls the Spitfire and we lose a lot of speed. Nevertheless, just feet below me the ground passes in a blur as I see my shadow race across a little white fence wrapped around a field full of peacefully grazing sheep. The sheep are scattering before me as I pull my Sutton Harness and all my straps as tight as possible. We are swiftly losing momentum now. The ground is rushing up fast and the buffeting is strong. As I touch down amongst the terrified flock several of the poor unfortunate woolly creatures seem to take to the air in front of me. At this moment a funny (odd) thing happened, I manage a second to question my recollection that sheep do not fly well or very far.

And now I have just enough time to scream a prayer and throw my arms in front of my face before there is an ear-splitting, grinding roar commencing as we plow into the soft manure specked pasture. I just remember being suspended in air as my safety harness bites mercilessly into my writhing flesh. A ground loop begins. I am helplessly falling forward and upside down. All the blood rushes to my head as a tremendous force beyond all imagining shakes me toward merciful unconsciousness.

Coming to rest at last, my cockpit fills with the stink of burning petrol, oil and fabric. From somewhere outside there comes a brief whiff of cool grass, sheep urine, humid air and wet earth. My painful universe grows ever darker around me as I silently swing there between agonizing life and a comforting death.

Then, as I numbly feel a single drop of blood or perspiration run slowly down my just broken, swelling nose, I spit out a tooth and everything shrinks to a tiny dot of infinite blackness.

Yes, somehow I survive. And it hurts me to the quick to admit to you that you have just witnessed one of my finest landings to date in a Spitfire. Well, almost.

Gentlemen,

JRT,

That was indeed a cracking tale of yours, put together so well at a time when there were so many other contributers.

The Transylvanian gothic storage vaults that hold the HWH manuscripts impart not only a fine ageing environment for the untold gallons of fine wines stored there, but also hold some magical properties that seem to mellow and improve the quality of our joint scratchings. One can feel the tangible presence of SNAFU, C51, Bader, Grief, McGonigle, Zerosan, Osram, Mad, and our valued newest contributor HK among many others as I thread my way through the mouldering parchments. Perhaps you can remind me of others JRT. I know their names are recorded on the pillars somewhere around here but there are now too many empty bottles behind me and I grow weary of beating off the demonic featured bats that seem to grow bigger by the minute.

Suddenly, a shapeless heap appears in the gloomy vault. I hold the candle higher and can now make out a human figure of sorts slumped over a barrel of our best Madiera. Something glitters on this bulbous mass....a red star supported by a short length of ribbon. It stirs. Pudgy arms stretch out. Slobbering lips gasp a drunken entreaty....'Duxeee....bebe'...but before the ensuing belch and fart can rebound off the opposite wall I have departed...in abject terror.

Folks,

Dux:

If you are a lover of useless information and mind numbing statistics I'm your man.

All Listed HWH Posters
Bader, C51, dgaad, Donnybrooke, Drakho, EFLutt, Falcon988,
Greif1, Heinkill, Heinxbaby, Jagdneun, jenrick, JRT, Madaboutsims,
McGonigle, Martin Barker 5, Old Dux, Osram, Rainy, Richenbacher, Rypin, Schultzy,
SNAFU, Stickman, Tim Dog,Wanganuilad, Wildman, Yarbles, Zerosan2

Newest Posters
And the date first story was posted

Martin Barker 5 3/16/05
Wanganuilad 4/05/05
EF Lutt 9/26/05
Yarbles 9/28/05
McGonigle 9/29/05
Heinkill 2/21/07

Number Stories Archived
Note: Unfortunately some stories have been lost
Some way Off Topic stories are not included

Bader---- 8---- 2.99%
C51---- 4---- 1.49%
dgaad---- 1---- 0.37%
Donneybrooke---- 1---- 0.37%
Drahko---- 3---- 1.12%
EF Lutt---- 1---- 0.37%
Falcon988---- 3---- 1.12%
Greif1---- 12---- 4.48%
Heinkill---- 4---- 1.49%
Heinzbaby---- 1---- 0.37%
Jagdnuen---- 2---- 0.75%
jenrick---- 3---- 1.12%
JRT---- 127---- 47.39%
Madaboutsims---- 7---- 2.61%
McGonigle---- 2---- 0.75%
Old Dux---- 12---- 4.48%
OSRAM---- 4---- 1.49%
Rainy---- 9---- 3.36%
Richenbacher---- 1---- 0.37%
Rypin---- 1---- 0.37%
Schultzy---- 2---- 0.75%
SNAFU---- 18---- 6.72%
Stickman---- 1---- 0.37%
Tim Dog---- 3---- 1.12%
Wanganuilad---- 1---- 0.37%
Wildman---- 4---- 1.49%
Yarbles---- 1---- 0.37%
Zerosan2---- 32---- 11.94%
Total---- 268---- 100.00%

Wow! This Excel page was incredibly difficult to format properly on this page. When it pops up on the thread it does not look as it does on the editing page. It still doesn't look right however I think you can get the information.

We have no way of knowing how many or whose stories were lost when those 600 pages of the original
HWH thread were sucked into the black hole when SimHQ crashed. I suspect that Bader's, Greif1 and SNAFUs totals would be a good bit higher.

Even with a barrel of wine sloshing about in her innards, Olga can still move amazingly fast for someone her size. You were lucky to have escaped her clutches. How you escaped Olga and bounded up those 3000 crumbling steps with an alligator clamped to one leg, two kegs of Guinness on your shoulders and a huge, thirsty bat clinging to your back is incredible. Please elaborate.

JRT,

Interesting statistics. Some of those names are unfamiliar. Proud to be joint fourth.

How did I escape? Some tales are just too distressing to recount.

Suffice it to say that Olga got locked in. She spent the next two weeks subsisting on a diet of raw bats, 'gaters, rats and tarantula spiders all washed down with some of the finest wines to found outside of His Majesty's cellars. All former signs of life must now be declared extinct. Next time you go down there watch where you are stepping. There aint no lavatory....