Folks,

Dux:

LOL! Under the bed? Over here the insensitive wags would have suggested keeping her in the paddock... but that is much too cruel for my taste. There is no truth to the rumor, as far as I know, that she was first attracted to the Prince only because he always had a cube of sugar or apple in his pocket....

When HMTQ visited here recently and attended the Kentucky Derby some scoundrel suggested that the Royal Family had an entry in that race... and that we should all root for Camilla to win...

There have been many programs on TV here commemorating the anniversary of Diana's death. Some new and many old. Quite a few conspiracy theory programs were aired. For the most part they shed far more heat than light upon the subject. It was suggested in one program that Dianna was pregnant and that she was assassinated for this reason. I have read only one book on the subject of Diana's death and I do not feel qualified to voice an opinion. As with the Roswell incident and the death of JFK, there will always be doubts.

Hmmmm. It was not your nose lengthening that he was cautioning you about however it may have been the 'ho' in Soho that he was alluding to... As for the alcohol, your going on the wagon would risk causing a horrific crash in the stock market as distilled spirit stocks plummeted across the globe. I'd say drink only in moderation, no more than 2 fifths a day and not counting all miscellaneous glasses of beer or wine. As for me I drink nothing stronger than pop...of course Pop would drink just about anything.

Here is something once typed by me that might well be improved by more than a few strong drinks. Personally I'd just have the drinks and skip the reading altogether...

Another Victory Roll
By JRT
HWH (Original)
Page unknown
8/5/01

As dusk began to sift slowly behind me and along the edges of the more brightly-lit horizon I throttled back the big Merlin engine sending a shower of sparks and flame from the hot exhausts right back into my face. My Spitfire slowed just enough to prevent me ramming the writhing enemy bomber that was still firmly centered in my gunsight. Once night vision was restored I coldly poured yet another well-placed 3-second burst into the ill-fated He-111.

The twinkling hard flashes of my .303s were also visible now. Little sparks of flame indicated where my shells tore into the shuddering, lurching behemoth. They started at the right wing root and tore along into the shattered glass nose of the helpless plane. Bright flames licked out from both engines leaving dirty black clouds of smoke trailing far behind in billowing rolls that obscured the final agony of my prey at times from my concentrated view. Like a mortally wounded, whale of steel the dying black-crossed beast rolled slowly over presenting its light blue underbelly and began its true “final approach” to earth. There were several chutes. Not enough I thought to myself, as I counted. Some would be staying on board for the last ride down.

Satisfied with two for the day I slid the yoke over and pressed down on the rudder to coordinate my turn as I rolled away from the dangling clouds of oily smoke trailing across the setting sun. Looking across at my compass I made my course for home. The quarts of adrenaline my heart had so merrily pumped into my excited system during the battle were wearing thin now and a cold fatigue was already setting in. A picture of hot food and a cozy, warm bed flashed pleasantly across my weary mind. What a good rest I would have tonight. My rest would not last as long as that of the crew of the 111. Mine would be but much shorter and far more refreshing. How callous we can become to the loss of human life when witness to it on a daily basis. It also helps if those who die are total strangers attempting to bring death and destruction raining down upon your home, friends and loved-ones.

At first, I resisted the urge. Then, taking a careful bead on the darkening horizon I pushed the yoke a bit forward and over to the left. As my Spitfire became inverted I pulled back a bit and then slowly eased forward to complete the well-practiced victory roll barely losing any altitude at all. Pleased with myself, I broke into a tired but happy grin. Below my triumphant Spitfire everything was not so euphoric.

It was 5:00 PM and Murphy Townsend’s thoughts were far from war and battle as he sweated, trudged and spattered the several yards from the dilapidated old barn to his large pigsty. Laden down with buckets of thick, malodorous swill he continued to crush and crunch his way across the farmyard toward 90 fat, grunting, squealing pigs all rushing about with their beady little porcine eyes firmly riveted on him as he slowly approached. Just then, high in the sky and too far above him to hear the engines or even recognize the danger Murphy saw the He-111 light up the sky and begin to fall toward him.

His gaze fixed firmly upon the flickering point of wavering flame in the sky. Seconds passed and the speechless Murphy suddenly realized how big the falling thing was. “My God,” he thought as he looked back and forth from the growing fiery spot in the sky and then across the less than 400 yards toward Bolton Farmhouse, “This huge thing is falling fast and its headed directly toward Bolton Farmhouse!”

So petrified he could not even run about or shout a warning Murphy just stood there transfixed, his burly arms bent like bows under the weight of his stinking buckets of swill. He could hear the screech of the 111’s engines now as it fell completely out of control. On toward the farmhouse it plunged. A light breeze had picked up across the tops of the trees and it now blew across one tortured wing and then the other swerving the bomber first one way and then that.

Finally, as it roared past a tree lined hill and into the valley the dying 111 eased to the right just a bit in its unerring plunge toward what meant certain death for those poor folk at Bolton Farmhouse. It continued a bit more to the right but not enough. Murphy’s heart clenched as he followed the burning skeleton down with his watery eyes. Finally the reflection passed his gaze to briefly flicker across his face and then there was a horrible, deafening, earth-rendering scream as the dead plane and its gruesome cargo plowed into and right through the unsuspecting farmhouse sending 9 innocent souls screaming curses of fear and pain into black oblivion.

Pig screamed in fear as fire and destruction lit up the farmyard. Steaming, smoking, burning debris fell all around as Murphy Townsend dropped his pails of swill and sat heavily upon the soggy ground. Swirls of the thickish, pink muck ran all about and under the giant man. Murphy Townsend was unmindful. Murphy Townsend sat for a moment in wild-eyed disbelief. The next instant, he fell over stone dead with a shard of exploded HE-111 one foot long sticking wetly from his blistered chest.