Folks,

Speaking of small talent as I did in my last post, here is further evidence of same. As some regular readers may recall, several days ago someone cast dispersions upon JRT's veracity regarding time spent dueling the Africa Corps. I have taken my life in my own hands once more to creep down those 3,000 crumbling steps into the dank and dark HWH archives to retrieve these letters sent years ago proving that JRT was in fact sunning himself upon the ancient and shifting sands of the cradle of humanity, and for quite a spell at that. What say you now you disparaging, beer besotted nay sayers?

Hic? Dux did you just say Hiccup? Is that all you can come up with in the face of this new and exonerating evidence? Wait! Do not come up with anything else, we just mopped the floor.

JRT'S DESERT COMMAND CORRESPONDENCE
By: JRT
HWH (continued)
Pg. 23
10-07-2002

Day 10
From somewhere very warm in the N. African desert
To: Old Dux and my Pals still in Blighty:

I arrived in Cairo a week ago and made it here at [CENSORED] just a short three days ago. (A short day? Have you ever seen a tall day?) So far we have been flying four to six sorties per day. Unlike where you blokes are struggling to scrape together enough planes and pilots to meet the enemy hordes we fly for days and never see the enemy.

Our greatest danger as far as I can see is certainly from the air, but not from the Germans. Mates, never, never under estimate the power of the fly. Since my arrival here at [CENSORED] I have et, drunk, and slept with thousands of big, black, voracious flies. They greet you when you disembark from your plane or ship and each and every one of the friendly chaps instantly gets up really close and personal. Soon, you try your best to slap, kick or swat at least one of the dancing, darting, biting cloud of insects but with no luck whatsoever. Only then does the advance party give the high sign that all is safe and each fly summons about a trillion of their closest friends and relations to join the safety of the welcoming party. I have learned that you are often lonely but never alone here in the desert.

How quickly it is that one becomes accustomed to new surroundings. It has been only three days now and I have already grown weary of standing bareheaded in the blinding sun to observe the supreme novelty of frying an egg on the armor plate of one of our tanks at noon. I no longer automatically begin humming “Bolero” at the sight of a camel passing by, or even notice when a wild camel bleats or spits or does something else infinitely more disgusting. Camels of the non smokable variety are disagreeable creatures.

The sand dunes filling the horizons around here will never again bear the imprints of my RAF issue brogans if I have my way about it. The delightful novelty of burning my arse to a crisp all day long and freezing it off all night has worn off. The thirst one acquires on the coolest day is beyond my ability to describe. I'll try. Have you ever been so incredibly thirsty that you would not hesitate to guzzle down the toilet water of a man with chronic dysentery?

Despite my complaints, the desert still holds many pleasures. Or so I am told. Unfortunately, so far it has not let go of even one of them as far as I can tell. All I want to do mates is to fly my missions and to go home, not necessarily in that order. Oh yes, to top it all off, the obsolete P-40 Warhawks we fly are every bit the airplanes I thought they would be. They could not have been mush less and still get off the ground. Nevertheless, if you know their strengths and the enemy's weaknesses you get the odd victory now and then. Spare parts are hard to come by. Sometime we take off and something useful falls off. If I prang one more aircraft the iron cross will be arriving by post from a grateful Berlin.

Day 11
With the ruddy army somewhere even warmer in the N. African desert.
To: Old Dux and my Pals still in Blighty:

We moved our digs today. As far as I can tell it was from one set of blowing sand dunes to another set of blowing sand dunes. I never suspected how pleasant it would be to have sand in every orifice, every crack and crevice of my body. Yes, in that one too. It is also in the food. The term sandwiches has taken on an entirely new meaning.

We are grounded many days by powerful sand storms. Fortunately for them the blinding sand does not ground the flies, they, unlike us, seem to be able to take off and attack in any weather. According to the weather report we heard over the wireless today heavy rains are expected. This is not the first time we have picked up the BBC broadcast from home. I do hope that you fellows didn't’ get too wet or too much sleep.

We temporarily co-habit this garden spot of the world with a regiment of army blokes in a bad mood and much in need of the bathing facilities. They will be leaving soon we hear. The Khaki crowd seems to be preparing for a major push or something militarily big. You can always tell something’s coming by how long the sick call line gets right before a major attack by our side.

The little fellows with starch in their drawers and pips on their shoulders send the big fellows with yards of stripes running down their arms to round up these embarrassingly thoughtless chaps who have absentmindedly collected no stripes or pips at all. Finally after much cursing and beating the sick call line is shorter by many and the grumbling throng leaving for the front is substantially increased, the proper balance is restored and all depart in a cloud of, you guessed it, a large, billowing cloud of sand. The army chaps are brave but that life is not for me.

Day 14
Somewhere sandy and hot in the N. African desert
To: Old Dux and my Pals still in Blighty:

The army chaps are gone and we have resumed normal flight operations. I don’t miss those fellows as much as do the flies. A rowdy, messy bunch by nature those army types provided not only cannon fodder but also some very tasty nibbles for nearly a multi-impossi-trillion sized pack of the bug-eyed vampires. Now with the army gone they have settled for us. We few, we fortunate few.

Today I shot up a 109. No, that is not the same thing as shooting down a 109, I wish that it were. We were on patrol at angels 10 flying out of the sun toward the island-like oasis of Sheik Ali-HassenBenHappi. I was mentally going over the meritorious citations I would write for the ground crew who had overcome hangovers from hell to get my sand scoured crate into the air today. About the time I got to the “For meritorious valor above and beyond the call of nature” a shadow passed between my present life and any hope I had for stretching that very far into the future.

A large swarm of camouflaged 109s had bounced us. They cunningly came out of the sun from behind us who were coming out of the sun looking for them. They passed right through our tight formation carrying PO “Pig Face” Johnson down with them. We would never see his porcine features grunting over a plate of bangers and mash again.

In unison we rolled over and forced our throttles wide open as we plunged our Warhawks in close pursuit. The Warhawk is good in a dive and best used with boom and zoom tactics. One must be careful however to pull up in time lest the zoom end in a bigger BOOM than was desired. I caught up with my target just as he was beginning his climb back upstairs. Hauling back on the stick and standing on my rudders I began to rake across his ship. I saw a few of my shells sparkle across his darkly blotched and lightly tanned fuselage and starboard wing. He seemed to leap away from me and was soon lost high in the sun.

Content with their surprise attack and the one kill, the 109s were seen as little dots moving swiftly away toward the German lines. The battle was already over. I was low and slow so I hugged the dunes as I found my weary way home. Everyone returned safely but one.

Day 14 /that night
Somewhere shivering in the dark in the N. African desert
To:Old Dux and my Pals still in Blighty:

The most wonderful thing has happened. My 109 was confirmed shot down and not just up. This came to pass when the sand-covered wreck was found by a camel caravan carrying a ton of Tupperware and tambourines to Tobruk. Counting the kills I got with you lot I am now the second highest scoring ass...make that ace in this entire theater. How amazing is that? I have been invited to dine with the colonel tonight and have already purchased a large bottle of bubbly to deliver as a gift to his nibs. Where did I manage to find that in the desert you may ask? Never underestimate my resourcefulness chums. I got it right off one of the local camel drivers for just one tenth of a quarter of a copper salami or whatever they call the Arab cash around here. Where's my glass slippers Cinderella? I’m off to the ball. Do wish me luck. You may call me Captain JRT after this.

Day 15
Somewhere in the desert behind bars
To: Old Dux and my dear Pals still in Blighty:

What went wrong? Yesterday my plane actually got into the air for once and although we did not find him, the enemy found us. I got a confirmed kill and was even an acknowledged hero invited to dine with the brass.

Today I am hungover and sweating in the local clink a sorry and broken man. Where did I go wrong? Oh, my aching head. If only I could remember last night. I remember getting into my best uniform and arriving at the colonel’s on time with the bubbly in tow. I was well received and was having a great time. Wait, my barrister is here to speak with me. Hold on chaps, I’ll get to the bottom of this.

Ok, it seems all was well until I’d had a few too many brandies. That is when I remembered the bottle of bubbly I had brought for the occasion. After impressing the heck out of the Old Man with my scrounging abilities I proposed a toast to the King. We cracked open the bottle, filled the glasses all round and as I watched over the rim of my glass I saw the colonel take a great big healthy swig....of what turned out to be pure camel piss! God forgive me, I am innocent I had no idea, no way of knowing that the camel jockey I bought the French "Champagne" from was a crook, may he find dollar-sized fire ants nesting on his testicles.

I meant no insult, I swear that I did not. My barrister says they are forming a firing squad in the courtyard. He says that he will be surprised if it is for me. Trust me, he won't be nearly as surprised as I will. I’ve just had a pleasant thought, perhaps it is for that dog of a camel driver, may he lay face down blubbering in a deep pool of his own excrement for a full month before he dies of his horrible and painful wounds.

Day 22
Somewhere very wet on the sunny Mediterranean Sea
To: Old Dux and my close Pals still in Blighty:

Good news. The firing squad was not for me. A few of the hungrier blokes were going camel hunting. The day before the trial I was set free, reinstated to all previous rank and privileges and then summarily transferred back to help you chaps get your fingers out and finish off the Hun.

Yes, I am steaming homeward as I write and it was all a mystery to me until I met this medical chappie on our little boat last night. It seems he was treating the colonel for some hideous, disfiguring desert complaint that was not responding to any drug known to modern science. The Old Man was at his wits end on the night he took that big slug of choicest vintage two-hump kidney drippings.

The quack tells me that after all the screaming, arresting and dragging off to jail the old guy noticed he was suddenly free from all pain and had nary a symptom remaining of his chronic illness. The long and short of it is he gave complete credit to the Camel wee-wee for his miraculous cure and had not the heart to keep me in the pokey. So save a Bosch or two for me lads, I’m coming home.

PS:
They even found Pig Face Johnson. Well, most of him anyway. He is coming home too.
The first large pieces should arrive on Tuesday.