Folks,

Dux:

I believe the slow loading is due to my own slow connection and possibly the new CH Products ad. I can't complain about the ad of course because it is part of what pays the bills and makes this forum possible.

Gotcher mail. Thanks for sending that. I have responded by sending you a message up that narrow dial-up pipe of mine. There should be at least the residue from that response crowding your rusty mailbox at this very moment.

Battery acid? Fireworks? Must be two healthy American kids on vacation? Children do have such a droll way of experimenting with substances don't they? A better and more permanent cure would have been to force them to chase the acid with a full box of bicarbonate dissolved in water and the fireworks followed by a gasoline chaser with a lit match. Surely they were released well within reach of several of those burley chaps wearing white coats who were equipped with those funny jackets with extra long arms and way too many fasteners?

Sadly, sometimes you cannot save people from themselves. Such a proclivity toward ingesting unusually harmful substances will take care of itself in due course. Surely a diet like that can't possibly go on for long without bringing one to a very sticky end.

Speaking of sticky endings, I do not have the heart to stretch our reader's suffering even one more day so I am posting the last two chapters of "Danger UXP" here and now. You will thank me in the morning.

Danger Unexploded Pig Episode 3
BY JRT
HWH Original
Page unknown
10/9/01

Author’s note:
Much has happened and it has been a long time since my last post so I will, for the benefit of those like me who have forgotten episodes one and two, recapitulate part of the previous episodes.

After a deadly encounter with the enemy over our own base we are all returning victorious. Only a few enemy bombers made it to their target. Most were forced to jettison their bombs early and flee for their lives. Most did not survive.

Our Spits and Hurris bounce across our grassy field and finally taxi to a swerving halt. Switch off. I see the giant prop spin to a halt. The horrendous noise of the powerful Merlin engine is suddenly still. Sliding back my hood I breathe in fresh air laced with the contradicting smells of petrol, cordite, chalk dust and hot, wet grass. As the last engine is cut I can hear the sounds of sirens and men shouting. Some bombs have fallen on our field. The questioning face of my expectant crew chief pops into view at my side. I weakly motion to him that I am ok and need some help.

Suddenly, I have become overcome with weariness as the concerned crew drops the cockpit door and help me unstrap my Sutton harness and my parachute. Slowly, tenderly, rough hands take hold and I am gently helped to climb down from the steamy cockpit, slide across the broad wing and slump exhausted to the ground. I am only semi conscious from the overpowering stress and fatigue as unseen fingers release me from my flying gear and allow me to stretch out on the cool green grass under the wing.

My world is comfortably dark now. Reality has become a shadow. Exhausted, my bruised mind seeks respite somewhere cool, comfortable and quiet that is deep down in the soft, dark folds of my inner mind. This is the secret place where consciousness hides from all worldly pain and exhaustion. The endless, sleepless, restless life of war, killing and sudden death no longer exists for a few precious, refreshing moments of complete relaxation. I am now totally at rest.

A mile or so away and just beyond a lazy bend in the dusty, rutted road that passes the airfield, several wayward bombs had fallen bringing death and destruction upon a peaceful little farm. Chalky dust and greenish crumbles of smelly horse manure fell from his reeking coveralls as the old farmer sat heavily down on the creaky, wooden steps of his farmhouse. The blood pounded in his eyes and his ears were still ringing. His aching head still swam from the horrendous bomb concussions.

At least his family is safe, he calmly reflected as he surveyed the considerable damage to his beloved farm. His wife and only daughter were not at home today. Mercifully, they were away visiting his spinster sister in the city of Redhill.

He had never visited Redhill or any other big city for that matter. They were too noisy, too busy, too crowded, and in his inexperienced opinion, just too complicated. His sister claimed it was a truly lovely place to live. Perhaps it was for her? Not many cows or hogs in Redhill he was certain of that. There were no horses or chickens either he’d bet. People in Redhill probably slept with their windows shut and their doors locked at night. They slept late too he told himself. And they stayed out half the night doing God knows what. Looking down at his huge, grime encrusted hands he picked something disagreeable from under a nicotine stained fingernail and reflected that city life was not for the likes of him.

Redhill, he thought to himself, now that was just the perfect place for his prune-faced older sister. He honestly loved her but she always was a bit high and mighty if anyone asked him, and all together too citified for a poor, farm raised girl. She had entirely too much education for a woman in his biased opinion.

Yes, she was smart he had to admit that. She was not smart enough to find a husband though. His eyes were glazing as he thought about that for a moment longer and then his bomb-scattered mind went on meandering as he lost all touch with reality and sank back against the porch with a heavy sigh.

Look away for a moment from this scene of death and destruction. Take your eyes off the crumpled figure of the pitiful old man leaning against the porch. Look just past the old farmer’s left ear and up the dirt road a ways. If you do, you can just see a uniformed figure speeding toward the farm on a dilapidated old bicycle.

To Be Continued

Danger: Unexploded Pig (Final Episode)
BY:JRT
HWH Original
Page Unknown
10/11/01

As I rounded that last dusty curve on the road leading from the base past the farmstead, long billowing clouds of dust and smoke had been clearly visible rising into the air for some time now. Under considerable stress, I simply could not pedal my flimsy bike fast enough. Rounding that last bend in the dirt road I spotted the old man leaning against his front porch. Something was terribly wrong. This was a man who seldom stopped moving from sunup to sundown just sitting half on and half off the porch propped on his elbows.

As I came near and spoke he paid no attention to me at all. There was a pitiful vacant look on the weathered face. A 1000-mile look of pain mixed with incredulity had replaced the usual look of quite resolve. I did what I could for the old man, first aid wise, and he recovered in time. Within the day the women folk returned from Redhill to do what they could, and as always that was considerable. The tears of grief and thanks flowed in torrents, I can tell you.

As for the farm, there was destruction everywhere. The barn was gone of coarse. So were many of the farmer’s livestock. The pigs more than other animals had been singled out perhaps at random or due to some unfathomable prejudice of the Hun to give their all for King and Country. Also in the aftermath there was that nasty unexploded bomb in the pasture to be professionally dealt with. I worked through military channels and soon the army sent out a “crack” team of demolition men who worked all day on the dangerous problem. To my amazement these brave men could not have touched the explosive itself with anything more technically advanced than a concerned glance and yet they had proclaimed the difficulty solved and the dangerous explosive “neutralized” to their complete satisfaction by tea time.

Their solution was amazing for it’s simplicity if nothing else. The army lorry disappeared round the bend in the road as I wandered down through the wreckage of a life’s work to see what technical magic had been accomplished. These fellows it seemed were not only stone brave, they were also surprisingly efficient with their use of time. Shortly I was standing there just past the dung heap and past the destruction of the old barn. There for all to see was the simple solution to our explosive problem. Six brave, highly trained men had spent several hours painting and erecting a large yellow sign with bold red letters. The sign read: “DANGER: UXB”. Behind the sign the bomb casing rising from its crater was still clearly visible. So much for the skill of the army, thought I. After all I was a RAF man and subject to a slight service rivalry and prejudice.

Later that week and in spite of the danger still posed by the unexploded remnant of “superior” German technology, the farmer had recovered well enough for the task of clean up and repairs to begin. First on the agenda was removal of the carcasses of the bovine, equine and porcine battle fatalities. The cow and horse removal and burning went rather straightforward. However, on the last day of the week the gruesome undertaking (pardon the pun) of pig and hog carcass removal began. It had been some days now since the “Great and Bloody Air Battle of Hustings Farm” and the sun had been wretchedly hot. Not to put too fine a point on it but the dead animals had done what dead animals are want do when exposed to the heat of the sun over time. How can I put this delicately? Well heck, they expanded…. Ok, they had bloated, swelled to massive proportions really and sometimes they even exploded!

To add injury to insult, the unfortunate farmer was standing a wee bit too close that afternoon when one of his larger and lately lamented sows “went off”! The next day, in the front yard of the farm the exasperated and still somewhat “ripe” farmer had just finished his 20th bath. Squeaky clean if still odiferous he got some materials together and worked for about an hour, whistling a lively tune all the while. When he finished his work he stepped back to admire it. I was curious to say the least so I ran out in the yard to see what he had been up to. The old man had taken a page from the army’s book. He had constructed and placed yet another large yellow sign with bright red letters smack in the middle of his front yard where it could easily be seen by those of the military and any others passing by on the dirt road.

The sign that the smelly, bombed out, disgusted farmer had somewhat less than professionally crafted was none the less clear and easy to read. In big, bold, drippy, red letters the farmer had posted the following message warning one and all: “DANGER: UXP…UNEXPLODED PIGS.”

THE END