Stefan Jaruzelski

Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth DSO, DFC and bar looked out of the window of his Douglas DC3 Dakota and saw an endless carpet of green unrolling 20,000 feet below. The forests of the Belgian Congo were an unexpected sight considering this was 1943 and that he was one of the best pilots in the RAF. His was a special mission to bring vital supplies from Angola to the beleaguered island of Malta. The mighty Pratt and Whitney R-1830-S1C3G Twin Wasp Radial engines droned reliably.

He turned to his navigator Ginger Hebbelthwaite.
“What’s Algy up to back there?” he drawled languidly lighting a Woodbine.
“Just checking the cargo sir” replied Ginger fingering a slide rule nervously.
“Perhaps you’d better go and look.” said Biggles. Ginger disappeared into the rear of the plane. Half an hour passed.
“What the devil are those two up to?” Biggles muttered angrily. “Better go and find out for myself”. The Dakota didn’t have an autopilot but Biggles had rigged up his own version by lashing the control column to a strut with a spare pair of braces. He pushed through the cabin door and saw an astonishing sight. Algernon Lacey had his trouser fly undone and was rubbing his erect member while gazing fixedly at something lying on the sack in the middle of the hold. Ginger, standing behind him was similarly occupied. Both were groaning loudly and seemed oblivious to Biggles’ presence.
“What the blazes!!…” exploded Biggles. Suddenly they noticed him, turned red and became apologetically flaccid.
“Sorry sir” said Algy, “Couldn’t help myself. I was leafing through this copy of the National Geographical magazine when I came across this picture of a Watutsi maiden suckling her baby. I mean sir - just look at her! She looks like a dead heat in a Zepplin race!”
“And what about you Ginger? What have you got to say for yourself?”
Ginger looked sheepish and then blurted out “I came up behind Algy sir and noticed, on the adjacent page, a picture of a young Masai warrior polishing his spear.” Biggles looked at the magazine closely. “That’s not a spear Ginger” he said.
“No. Do you think they hang weights off it sir?”
“Look” said Biggles decisively “I know these long haul freight operations can be tedious and that boredom inevitably leads to…erm…So let’s get this over with as efficiently as possible. Form a circle round the sack and reach round to grasp the todger of the man in front. Hence I’ll pull off Algy, Algy can deal with Ginger, and you Ginger can give me a good seeing to. Got that? Right ho! Trousers down”. Soon the three of them were grunting and groaning in ecstasy while the mighty Pratt and Whitney engines continued to drone reliably over the endless green of the Congo. After reaching a simultaneous climax and ejaculating noisily into the sack which comprised the cargo they fell back exhausted onto the floor.
Suddenly a harsh voice boomed from the intercom. Biggles had inadvertently left the communication channel open.
“Squadron Leader Bigglesworth” the voice rasped harshly “Are you receiving me! This is Air Commodore Foreskine-Knobworthy speaking from Valetta control tower. That sack of fresh coffee is required for the prime minister’s breakfast tomorrow. I trust you are still on schedule. From what I overheard on the radio it sounded like the lot of you were tossing off in the cargo hold.”
“Bigglesworth, Foxtrot Alpha Golf, to Valetta Control. Everything in order sir. We had a slight problem with the seminal fluid pressure which was getting dangerously high. We’ve sorted it out now sir. E.T.A. Valetta is 1830 hours.”
“Don’t try and bullshit me with that techno nonsense Bigglesworth. I’ve been on enough dreary cargo flights to know what goes on. How are your mighty Pratt and Whitney Twin Wasp Radials?”
“Fine sir. Steady at 4000 revs.”
“Good man. Look forward to your arrival. And close that radio channel. If Goebbels gets to listen in there’ll be hell to pay. Over and out.”

Valetta was in turmoil because of the prime minister’s visit. Biggles landed the DC3 with his usual aplomb, feathered his props and parked in a far corner of the airfield. Two burly MPs in a jeep whisked the sack off to the senior staff quarters. Biggles awoke early next day, gazed fondly at the still sleeping forms of Ginger and Algy and then quietly left the Nissan hut with his goggles and flying helmet. Soon he was at 25000 feet over the blue Mediterranean. He managed to come out of the sun behind a Junkers 88 on its way to bomb the harbour and shot it down. Then he was ambushed by two Me 109s but with a quick climb and a tight turn in his borrowed Spitfire Mk VII he got behind them too and shot the pair of them down.

Later that day, in the officers’ mess, he was approached by Air Commodore Foreskine-Knobworthy.
“Damn fine show Bigglesworth. Winston was delighted with the coffee. Said he’d tasted nothing like it since 1933. Said it took him right back to his days at Harrow. There was a flavour he couldn’t quite identify but he finally decided it tasted just like a young boy’s cock. So well done. There’ll be a gong in this if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Thank you sir. Perhaps the contributions of Hebbelthwaite and Lacey could be recognised too.”
“Those two tosspots? I doubt it. By the way, somebody took off in a MkVII Spit early this morning. It came back with the guncovers shot away and later the navy reported three German planes in the sea. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you Bigglesworth?”
“No sir. Sounds highly irregular” replied Biggles languidly lighting a Capstan.

Two days later Biggles was back in London. Knobworthy was as good as his word. He was to report to the King at Buckingham Palace to receive a bar to his Distinguished Flying Cross. The King was, as usual, looking grey and distracted. He stubbed a fag out on the arm of the throne as soon as his visitor appeared at the door.
“B..b…b..b..igglesworth!! N..n..nice to s..s..ss..ee you again. And what is it th..this time? Another bar to your DFC?? I think you and M..m..att B..b.braddock could win the war on your own” He flipped open a small padded jewel case. Suddenly a speaker behind the throne rasped into life. It was the King’s direct channel to Radio Berlin.

“Garmeny calling! Garmeny calling!” the familiar contorted accents of Lord Haw Haw filled the throne room. “So Englanders. How do you like working fourteen hours a day through the freezing winter and living on dried egg and spam while your beloved leader, the international gangster Churchill, is sunning himself on a deck chair in Malta and drinking fresh coffee? Fresh coffee, I add, brought specially by air ace Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth in a privately chartered DC3 which could have been better employed bringing food from America. But then who cares about a few thousand workers dying of cold and hunger – the prime minister must have his perquisites. Also something of a waste to have national hero Squadron Leader Bigglesworth kicking his heels over the endless green canopy of the Belgian Congo. This flawed hero is, however, not what he seems. He and his equally degenerate crew decided to have an orgy at 20,000 feet, pleasuring themselves with a kidnapped Watsutsi maiden and, to cater for the perverted tastes of Hebbelthwaite and Bigglesworth himself, a young Masai warrior. We end today’s broadcast with a recording of the proceedings on the plane picked up by our monitoring station in North Africa.”
The sounds of grunts, groans and ejaculations resounded through the throne room. The King went even more pale, snapped shut the jewel case and said:
“D..d..did I hear an air-raid s..s..siren? P…p…p…perhaps we’d b..b..better postpone this award to a m..m..more convenient time”

Biggles strolled back down the Mall. “Who needs a DFC anyway” he thought “I’ve got two already” He lit a Navy Cut languidly and re-orientated himself. “I know” he said “I’ll go to the Charing Cross toilets. Might find Matt Braddock in there”