Biggles Defies the Beancounters

[Lord_Flashheart]

Biggles Defies the Beancounters

(with apologies to Captain WE Johns)

A Squadron Leader Bigglesworth Story


An aerodrome somewhere in England - Summer 1941

Biggles strode over to his personal Spitfire, sitting on the grass in front of the dispersal. His eyes narrowed. "What the blazes are you doing Smyth?" he admonished after he spotted the young rigger carefully painting out the red, white and blue roundels that signified the Royal Air Force. "S-s-sorry sir the CO told me to do this," he stammered. "He did, did he?" snarled Biggles.

Wing Commander Wilkinson hove into view from around the wing. "Sorry old chap, roundels are out. We trademarked them and then tried to sue other airforces for breach of copyright, but unfortunately the French counter-sued and we lost - apparently they had the bally roundel idea first."

"So where does that leave us?" asked Biggles incredulously.

"Well our marketing chaps have pulled the stops out and, as of today, 266 Sqn are now being sponsored by a German supermarket chain - Aldi - isn't that great? - Smyth is just putting their logo on and the latest sale prices now. Your kite is down for a two-for-one mobile phone ringtone promotion."

Biggles stared coldly at the designs in Smyth’s hand.

"By the way," said Wilks "can you add RAF (TM) after all your correspondence and reports? Saves us trouble with the legal johnnies - we don't want to lose the name as well."

The Wing Commander continued: "On the plus side the marketing chaps have got us these new trainers to wear - look at these fellas!” pointing at a pair of banana shaped oddities on his feet with a roundel on them. “I believe these are ‘respec and well crucial in one’s hood’ as the young people of today say. It should attract the RAF(TM) some high quality candidates in the future." Biggles winced at that thought.

"Right”, said Biggles, looking at the sky, “I can't stand here chatting about your garish new pumps, I've got to get weaving and shoot down some Boche!"

His CO looked white: "Old boy, you can't say that! - we've got an embedded journalist with us in A-flight now - think what the papers and newsreels would say. From now on its ‘let us get airborne and prosecute the mission and see if we encounter the client’. We certainly don’t want any of this racism when Lord Haw-Haw from Berlin FM comes round next month on his media visit!"

Biggles pretended not to hear and examined the cockpit closely “Have you fitted that extra headrest armour like I asked?” he asked Smyth. “Err no sir. There's no money in the budget for that, you'll have to make do with this defensive suite”. He passed Biggles a thick telephone directory. “It goes behind your head sir,” added Smyth, helpfully.

Wilks toyed with his joint paperclip requisition form. “I meant to have a word with you anyway - we've been having complaints about your low flying from the local village,” he said uneasily. “But I was pursuing a Dornier on a tip and run raid!” exclaimed Biggles. “Well yes, but the lawyers are all over us on this one - if you could just try to limit your dogfighting to unpopulated areas…”

“I don't believe this...” said Biggles, reaching inside his flying jacket for a cigarette. “Oh my God, man! Put that down. Don't you know those things are lethal?” “And 100+ Me109s at Angels 20 aren't?" questioned Biggles. “Haven't you been to see the Smoking Cessation Officer?” “No”, said Biggles, “I've been solid on ‘Ops’ for the past six months.”

“So you've missed the ‘Sex-Change Awareness – Your Options Explained’ training too?” said Wilks looking worried, anger rising, “And I notice you didn’t attend your Assertiveness Training course last Wednesday - why was that?” “I was fighting” replied Biggles evenly.

“Well, you will have missed the great news then,” said Wilks, cheerfully. “What?” said Biggles, “we’ve passed 242 Sqn’s kill record? - about time too - I knew those 2 Heinkels that Algy squirted went down eventually.”

“Not exactly,” said the CO. "We've just been awarded an Investors in People award – we’re having it sewn in the squadron battle honours. Possibly we might put our ISO 6000 and our environmental certificates on it as well - I think we might remove the Arras, Somme and Ypres titles - bit of a horrid business and no point in frightening any corporate sponsors off.”

Biggles started to don his helmet, muttering under his breath and looking towards the dispersal hut.

“Don’t bother waiting”, Wilks said, “You haven't got a wingman today – he’s away on paternity leave for a year under new EU regulations.” “But Brussels is in enemy hands!” exclaimed Biggles. “Yes, but rules are still rules”, said Wilks.

“There’s other news too,” said the CO sheepishly. “This aerodrome is being sold off for housing redevelopment - the entire RAF is now relocating to a gigantic superbase in the middle of Scotland. It’s a bit of a squeeze what with Fighter, Bomber, Transport, and Coastal Command all there, but we think it achieves significant operational savings - although it does mean anything south of Dumfries is on its own.”

“Well, I must get cracking,” said Biggles, patting the propeller blade on his faithful Spitfire VB. Wilks looked at the veteran pilot. “Don't get too attached – we’re getting rid of your Spitfires - probably no need for them now we've won the Battle of Britain - so we’re taking a capability holiday - you'll re-equip with the new Typhoons in 1944. However, for the first year, you’ll be capability-restricted – the contractors are behind and having problems integrating the rockets and we left out the 20mm cannon as a cost-saving measure. I'm sure you will cope.”

“Anyway we don't plan on fighting any wars without the Americans - that would just be plain stupid.”

"Err, Sir I don't know if you've noticed..." interrupted Biggles.

"Oh finally," breezed Wilks. “Word from up high at the Ministry - apparently we've done a deal with Herr Hitler at the highest levels. We've negotiated with industry and outsourced the war entirely. It's a five-year rolling PFI contract which could run for 25 years, with options to renew and means high efficiency, lower costs, just in time delivery, leaned synergies and faster, more robust operations for each side - a perfect example of where the private sector can really support the front line - excellent what! We've got Von Stalhein coming over next week to discuss the merger between 266 and JG51. Do you fancy coming in as a consultant?”

Biggles grimly picked up his service revolver and chin jutting, headed towards the legal admin branch building.


To be continued…?



Look for other titles in the War Empire Library range:

Hornblower is Overstretched
Sharpe's Public Inquiry
Warlord Sexes Up the Intelligence

[SirPercyWare-Armitag]

Wonderful
Post it to the Daily Telegraph, you never know.....

[camlobe]

If this was fiction, it would be hilarious.

I got out in '96 after 18 years. They were good years. But it was a-changing, even then, and not for the better. I feel privelaged to have been a loyal member of Her Majesty's armed forces. I look back on a hard but rewarding career with pride and satisfaction, but no regret of having taken the money and ran. It was the right time for me.

Ten years on, I still look upon our armed forces with proud admiration. Somehow, with dwindling resources and spiraling morale, they continue to act professionally and proficiently representing the best the UK has to offer. Unfortunately, they all are continually being overstretched and demoralised by narrow-minded, self-centered politicians, beureucrats and accountants, representing the worst the UK has to offer.

My own opinion and you don't have to share it.

[Roland Pulfrew]

Lord Flashheart

You must have too much time on your hands!! You missed out the GDT/CCS/ODT/IRT (not the flying one) bits prior to Biggles using his pistol!! And what about the fitness test and the operational fitness test and the swimming test and??

Please! Somebody in the outer offices of their Airships and the SofS print Flashheart's post off and put in the "in tray"!!!

I look forward to the next instalment, but I won't be reading it whilst drinking tea...

[Almost_done]

IT, new monitor over here please, this one seems to have shorted due to a fine vapour of coffee being sprayed over it!!

:D

Wonderful, great piece look forward to Biggles pt2.

[Polikarpov]

Brilliant, cheers! :D

[Shackman]

With Apologies to the Daily Telegraph some years ago:

On board HMS Vulnerable
Somewhere in the north Atlantic
OO.43hrs Zulu time

The giant sub had been sitting 40 metres below the churning waves for eight straight hours. The crew were edgy, nervous, sweaty, knowing that the fate of the nation and the free world was being discussed in the skipper’s wardroom.
The order to fire the boat’s nuclear weapons deep into the heart of enemy territory had been received and authenticated at 0800hrs. But now it was gone midnight and still the missiles were in their tubes.
Behind the oak-panelled door of his cabin, Captain Clint Thrust was listening wearily to his health and safety executive officer, Nigel Ormskirk, who had read the hazard assessment form and was not satisfied.
“Captain: you say here that these missiles contain plutonium and you are proposing that we detonate them over a city. Do you not realise people could be hurt here?”
Twenty-five-year-old Ormskirk had left Keele University with a third in human resources, having impressed the examiners with his paper on the perils of hand and arm vibration injuries among stone masons.
Since being posted to the sub fleet. he had chalked up a number of successes, chief among which was changing his boat’s name from HMS Vanquish to HMS Vulnerable. He was also particularly proud of his 1997 “Be Seen” campaign, after which the sub had not hit a single trawler.
Thrust, the Vulnerable’s gnarled old salty sea dog captain, had objected, of course, saying that the point of a submarine was rather lost if it was bright orange and had to spend its entire time on the surface. But what did he know. “You see,” Ormskirk was saying
But a shrill beep from the boat’s PA system cut him off: “Con. Sonar. Contact bearing 270 degrees. It’s a destroyer, sir, and it’s corning right at us.”
Thrust keyed the mike. “Stay calm, people. We’ve plenty of air cover. They can take care of this.”

On board the aircraft carrier
HMS Weak
Somewhere near the Vulnerable
00.47hrs Zulu Time

Veteran pilot Jack Kill simply could not believe what he was being told by the Weak’s health and safety officer, Ron Stapleford. “This is a Harrier GR7.” he screamed. “What do you mean by saying the wings don’t look long enough?”
“I’m just saying.” said Ron in his Brummie drawl, “that with all those bombs and missiles, it really doesn’t look very safe.”
“Look,” said Kill. We've just got word from the Vulnerable that she’s under attack. I have to get out there with my cargo of death. I must spit fire into that enemy ship or the war will be lost and your children will grow up speaking Russian.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ron. “Ormskirk’s on the Vulnerable. He’s a good man. Hell make sure they’re safe.”

On board the Vulnerable
Somewhere in the north Atlantic
00.55hrs Zulu time

The depth charges were raining down, sending the orange sub reeling from side to side. Thrust was barking orders to the helmsman:
‘Flood tubes one and four.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the burly helmsman. “New regs from health and safety. After the Herald of Free
Enterprise disaster, the doors have been welded shut.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ yelled Thrust as yet another depth charge hammered the hull. “Where’s Ormskirk?”
He was in the galley, a look of abject horror on his face: “For crying out loud. How many times do I have to tell you people that you must not store meat and dairy products in the same fridge. Do you want to have tummy ache?”
Before they could answer, an enormous explosion ripped the propeller from its mountings and a wall of freezing sea water spurted into the engine room. “Close all hatches.” yelled Thrust over the PA system
Oh no, thought Ormskirk. Some of the men have boyfriends back there. They must be allowed to try to save them.
Back in the engine room, the trapped men were trying to open the hatch to get out before the North Atlantic claimed yet another teenage soul. Some were screaming. Some were praying. Some were struggling with the latch. But each and every one breathed a sigh of relief when the man from health and safety appeared at the window.
“Do you need counselling?” he said.
“No,” they shouted. “We want you to open this hatch. It can only be done from the outside.”
“Yes,” said Ormskirk, “that’s a valid safety point and I’ll be sure to file a report when we get back.”
“Open the bloody thing,” they shouted.
“I can’t,” said Ormskirk. “You know as well as I do that it’s a two-man job. I could crick my back if I tried to do it on my own.
But then he had an idea. He opened a secure channel to Thrust. “Captain: there are men back here in water that's 4C colder than we recommend. I order you to surrender.”

Gulag 43
Siberia, Russia
Three months later

It was a grey, misty morning and silence hung over the prison yard like an old dishcloth as Ormskirk was tied to the bullet-ridden post.
"Ready,” screamed the Russian execution party leader. “Take aim..."
“Hold on a minute,” said Nigel. “You aren’t allowed to use loaded weapons unless there’s a trained armourer on the.....
“Fire.”


** Pertama **

[Conan the Librarian]

Thanks for cheering an otherwise miserable Friday night. Excellent stuff - Keep it going!!!!

Conan

[Mmmmnice]

Keep going uys - there's got to be enough material for a full length book - give up the day job and retire to somewhere hot (that's everywhere now that the old global warming is kicking in!)