Biggles resists the marketeers
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Biggles resists the marketeers
Biggles resists the marketeers
(with sincere apologies to Captain WE Johns – again!)
A Squadron Leader Bigglesworth Story
An airbase in Lincolnshire - 1943
The roar of the Avro Lancaster’s four Merlin engines rose to a crescendo as the heavy bomber strained like a wild beast – ready to roll forward.
With a thin smile on his lips the pilot, Squadron Leader James ‘Biggles’ Bigglesworth, RAF, glanced over at his flight engineer and nodded – they were ready for take off.
Suddenly he spotted a bright red flare arch from the control tower. “Hullo,” he exclaimed. “What’s this – mission scrubbed?” he said into the intercom.
Minutes later, with the aircraft on the hardstanding, – he jumped down from the hatch, took off his flying gloves and lit a cigarette, while a jeep came skidding to a halt in front of the now silent bomber.
“Thank God we got to you in time!” puffed Biggles’ CO, Wing Commander Wilkinson.
“What’s the matter sir?” said Biggles coolly, “Is there ten-tenths cloud over Hamburg again?”
“No, the weather is fine,” said Wilks, motioning to a group of erks with paint brushes and ladders disembarking from a Bedford truck behind him. “We couldn’t let you fly over Germany in that aircraft.”
Biggles turned round and examined ‘J for Jane’ with a practiced eye. “I thought we’d seen the last of the gremlins when we changed the prop the other week – what’s wrong with the old girl now?” he said cheerily.
He turned back round to see a ladder placed against the nose of the aircraft and two airmen hurriedly slapping black paint over painted figure of a curvy blonde who had lost items of clothing and seemed to be in no hurry to get them back.
“Hey!” shouted Biggles, “What are you doing with Just Jane? We’ve done 26 ops in this old girl and lost three good men. She’s our good luck charm to bring us home safely every night…”
“Sorry Bigglesworth,” said Wilks, anxiously directing the painting out of pink flesh under the cockpit. “New rules old chap – got to keep up to date and all that. It could be seen as offensive, you know – a scantily clad lady painted on your aircraft.”
“By whom, exactly?” said Biggles, marching towards the ladder, but finding the Wing Co. in his path.
“Well - what if it was spotted by a gay German nightfighter pilot? It could really damage his self esteem,” argued Wilks.
“Just exactly how close would he be to spot this?” inquired Biggles sarcastically. “If he is close enough to see my nose art – self esteem is the least of his worries…”
“Yes, the bomb markings as well,” ordered Wilkinson to the erks. He turned to Biggles thoughtfully. “But what about a group of German ladies – suppose they spotted that nose-art if you had to crash-land the plane – they would think the RAF is comprised of sex-starved monsters… it would be a huge propaganda coup to Goebbels.”
“I see - which is obviously worse than us being portrayed as a bunch of baby-incinerating murderers then?” asked Biggles evenly, his eyebrow cocked.
“Well, you’ll just have to lump it, Squadron Leader,” said Wilks. “By the way was that McKay the New Zealander I saw walking back to dispersal just now?”
“Yes - he’s my navigator – damn good bloke,” said Biggles, looking forlornly as the last bits of the curvy blonde disappeared under gleaming black paint.
Wilks looked over towards the crew over in the distance, “Send him over to me – the MPs need to see him – he’s got to go back to New Zealand.”
“What!” roared Biggles. “He’s the best bloody pathfinder in the squadron!”
“Thats as maybe – but we discovered he’d stowed away on a liner and got to the UK illegally to enlist in the service. He’ll have to be deported immediately.”
Biggles was amazed. “But we are short of aircrew sir! Have you seen the loss rates on the squadron?”
“He’ll still have to be arrested and deported, Bigglesworth,” said Wilks. “After the 1,000 German prisoners that were released last week from the detention centre due to a clerical error, they are cracking down on this sort of thing.”
Biggles looked aghast. SS prisoners on the loose in the countryside due to a paperwork cock-up?
“Anything else before I head off to Merchandising Command for the monthly fashion intelligence update?” said Wilks, looking at his watch.
“There is another thing sir – what’s the deal with this JPA admin system? Ever since we’ve been filling in those forms its coming back as utter garbage. Algy got a transfer order last week to become the Coldstream Guards regimental goat (feed provided), Smyth hasn’t been paid since 1941, and Bertie has been stuck in hold in a never-ending circuit of applications and counter applications for the past two weeks and has now been drafted to KG54, which last time I looked wasn’t exactly under our command. It’s putting us off our flying a bit, to be honest,” opined Biggles testily.
“Look here Bigglesworth – it is highly technical and extremely efficient system – your applications are sent to HQ which then sends then to Bletchley Park where they are fed into a big thinking machine, which sends the results back – its all pretty simple…”
“So it’s not being run by the enemy then?” sneered Biggles.
Wilks looked tired. What had gotten into the pilot that he wanted to question everything these days, he thought. “Look, the thinking machine company we outsourced it to, Enigma AG came highly recommended by the OKW - Sure it has a few teething troubles, but by the time we get up to Windows 1947 I’m sure it will be working fine…”
“It’s ready for you now sir.” shouted an airmen from the top of the ladder. The curvy blonde was no more.
“Well, at least we’ve got leave after a few more hops,” said Biggles, as he pulled his flying gloves back on.
“Did you not get the message about that?” said Wilks, chomping his pipe. “Leave is cancelled. You are to go and take part in a recruitment air display event instead.”
“Not sure the men will like that, sir. We were looking forward to a spot of leave. My boys are getting a bit flak-happy on this tour.”
“This Spirit of Adventure event is for a vital purpose Bigglesworth – we need to recruit more high calibre people”. said Wilks seriously.
“Well sir, I suppose if it’s for the service. Maybe demo a Tiger Moth, do some cutting the ribbon stunting, bit of aerobatics and some nice tight formation work.” said Biggles.
Wilks looked at the pilot “Oh no, you won’t need aircraft – we want you to do a commentary or something.”
“What?” said Biggles, “I’m not sure I fully understand.”
“Think of it a drama – like a radio play.” Wilkinson beamed.
“So,” asked Biggles, “where’s the script for this play then sir?”
Wilks looked cross. “Look - there isn’t one. Oh, I don’t know – make it up – use your imagination – Zeppelins, foo fighters, death rays, anything you think that young folk might like.”
“Couldn’t we just display the aircraft like we used to?” offered Biggles.
“Are you mad?” said Wilks impatiently. “All our market research and focus groups with the key 16-24 age range points to what they really want is a half-assed interactive thingy with some tired stock footage cobbled together while a radio play that would disgrace a sixth formers drama class is yakked over the top. Not watching you and your friends go ‘up tiddly up’ and make loud noises in the sky. Honestly, Biggles, you really must get with the times.”
“Quite sir.”
Wilks jumped into his jeep and sped off.
Biggles stroked his chin and watched the sky as the rest of the bomber stream, bound for the enemy heartland, droned overhead towards their destiny. What on earth was going on? Losses were getting worse, morale was at rock bottom yet the Air Ministry, it seemed, was going out of its way to make things even more appalling…. When would this ever end?
More Biggles action next time chums!
Biggles bribes a Saudi prince
Biggles gets hung out to dry by the ministry
Biggles refuses to hand over his iPOD
(with sincere apologies to Captain WE Johns – again!)
A Squadron Leader Bigglesworth Story
An airbase in Lincolnshire - 1943
The roar of the Avro Lancaster’s four Merlin engines rose to a crescendo as the heavy bomber strained like a wild beast – ready to roll forward.
With a thin smile on his lips the pilot, Squadron Leader James ‘Biggles’ Bigglesworth, RAF, glanced over at his flight engineer and nodded – they were ready for take off.
Suddenly he spotted a bright red flare arch from the control tower. “Hullo,” he exclaimed. “What’s this – mission scrubbed?” he said into the intercom.
Minutes later, with the aircraft on the hardstanding, – he jumped down from the hatch, took off his flying gloves and lit a cigarette, while a jeep came skidding to a halt in front of the now silent bomber.
“Thank God we got to you in time!” puffed Biggles’ CO, Wing Commander Wilkinson.
“What’s the matter sir?” said Biggles coolly, “Is there ten-tenths cloud over Hamburg again?”
“No, the weather is fine,” said Wilks, motioning to a group of erks with paint brushes and ladders disembarking from a Bedford truck behind him. “We couldn’t let you fly over Germany in that aircraft.”
Biggles turned round and examined ‘J for Jane’ with a practiced eye. “I thought we’d seen the last of the gremlins when we changed the prop the other week – what’s wrong with the old girl now?” he said cheerily.
He turned back round to see a ladder placed against the nose of the aircraft and two airmen hurriedly slapping black paint over painted figure of a curvy blonde who had lost items of clothing and seemed to be in no hurry to get them back.
“Hey!” shouted Biggles, “What are you doing with Just Jane? We’ve done 26 ops in this old girl and lost three good men. She’s our good luck charm to bring us home safely every night…”
“Sorry Bigglesworth,” said Wilks, anxiously directing the painting out of pink flesh under the cockpit. “New rules old chap – got to keep up to date and all that. It could be seen as offensive, you know – a scantily clad lady painted on your aircraft.”
“By whom, exactly?” said Biggles, marching towards the ladder, but finding the Wing Co. in his path.
“Well - what if it was spotted by a gay German nightfighter pilot? It could really damage his self esteem,” argued Wilks.
“Just exactly how close would he be to spot this?” inquired Biggles sarcastically. “If he is close enough to see my nose art – self esteem is the least of his worries…”
“Yes, the bomb markings as well,” ordered Wilkinson to the erks. He turned to Biggles thoughtfully. “But what about a group of German ladies – suppose they spotted that nose-art if you had to crash-land the plane – they would think the RAF is comprised of sex-starved monsters… it would be a huge propaganda coup to Goebbels.”
“I see - which is obviously worse than us being portrayed as a bunch of baby-incinerating murderers then?” asked Biggles evenly, his eyebrow cocked.
“Well, you’ll just have to lump it, Squadron Leader,” said Wilks. “By the way was that McKay the New Zealander I saw walking back to dispersal just now?”
“Yes - he’s my navigator – damn good bloke,” said Biggles, looking forlornly as the last bits of the curvy blonde disappeared under gleaming black paint.
Wilks looked over towards the crew over in the distance, “Send him over to me – the MPs need to see him – he’s got to go back to New Zealand.”
“What!” roared Biggles. “He’s the best bloody pathfinder in the squadron!”
“Thats as maybe – but we discovered he’d stowed away on a liner and got to the UK illegally to enlist in the service. He’ll have to be deported immediately.”
Biggles was amazed. “But we are short of aircrew sir! Have you seen the loss rates on the squadron?”
“He’ll still have to be arrested and deported, Bigglesworth,” said Wilks. “After the 1,000 German prisoners that were released last week from the detention centre due to a clerical error, they are cracking down on this sort of thing.”
Biggles looked aghast. SS prisoners on the loose in the countryside due to a paperwork cock-up?
“Anything else before I head off to Merchandising Command for the monthly fashion intelligence update?” said Wilks, looking at his watch.
“There is another thing sir – what’s the deal with this JPA admin system? Ever since we’ve been filling in those forms its coming back as utter garbage. Algy got a transfer order last week to become the Coldstream Guards regimental goat (feed provided), Smyth hasn’t been paid since 1941, and Bertie has been stuck in hold in a never-ending circuit of applications and counter applications for the past two weeks and has now been drafted to KG54, which last time I looked wasn’t exactly under our command. It’s putting us off our flying a bit, to be honest,” opined Biggles testily.
“Look here Bigglesworth – it is highly technical and extremely efficient system – your applications are sent to HQ which then sends then to Bletchley Park where they are fed into a big thinking machine, which sends the results back – its all pretty simple…”
“So it’s not being run by the enemy then?” sneered Biggles.
Wilks looked tired. What had gotten into the pilot that he wanted to question everything these days, he thought. “Look, the thinking machine company we outsourced it to, Enigma AG came highly recommended by the OKW - Sure it has a few teething troubles, but by the time we get up to Windows 1947 I’m sure it will be working fine…”
“It’s ready for you now sir.” shouted an airmen from the top of the ladder. The curvy blonde was no more.
“Well, at least we’ve got leave after a few more hops,” said Biggles, as he pulled his flying gloves back on.
“Did you not get the message about that?” said Wilks, chomping his pipe. “Leave is cancelled. You are to go and take part in a recruitment air display event instead.”
“Not sure the men will like that, sir. We were looking forward to a spot of leave. My boys are getting a bit flak-happy on this tour.”
“This Spirit of Adventure event is for a vital purpose Bigglesworth – we need to recruit more high calibre people”. said Wilks seriously.
“Well sir, I suppose if it’s for the service. Maybe demo a Tiger Moth, do some cutting the ribbon stunting, bit of aerobatics and some nice tight formation work.” said Biggles.
Wilks looked at the pilot “Oh no, you won’t need aircraft – we want you to do a commentary or something.”
“What?” said Biggles, “I’m not sure I fully understand.”
“Think of it a drama – like a radio play.” Wilkinson beamed.
“So,” asked Biggles, “where’s the script for this play then sir?”
Wilks looked cross. “Look - there isn’t one. Oh, I don’t know – make it up – use your imagination – Zeppelins, foo fighters, death rays, anything you think that young folk might like.”
“Couldn’t we just display the aircraft like we used to?” offered Biggles.
“Are you mad?” said Wilks impatiently. “All our market research and focus groups with the key 16-24 age range points to what they really want is a half-assed interactive thingy with some tired stock footage cobbled together while a radio play that would disgrace a sixth formers drama class is yakked over the top. Not watching you and your friends go ‘up tiddly up’ and make loud noises in the sky. Honestly, Biggles, you really must get with the times.”
“Quite sir.”
Wilks jumped into his jeep and sped off.
Biggles stroked his chin and watched the sky as the rest of the bomber stream, bound for the enemy heartland, droned overhead towards their destiny. What on earth was going on? Losses were getting worse, morale was at rock bottom yet the Air Ministry, it seemed, was going out of its way to make things even more appalling…. When would this ever end?
More Biggles action next time chums!
Biggles bribes a Saudi prince
Biggles gets hung out to dry by the ministry
Biggles refuses to hand over his iPOD
Last edited by Lord_Flashheart; 13th Jun 2007 at 23:53.
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Excellent leadership skills shown by OC Wilks though - not upsetting Biggles by not telling him his refresher courses for EO, Diversity Management, H&S, CCS, Food Act, IIP, CRM, and Sea Survival had been arranged for Saturday morning
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I thought this was one area where you were way ahead of us backward Brits
Nose art must be tasteful and non-offensive and approved by stratospheric rank.
The amount of time/money we spend on 'sensitivity training' and 'equal opportunity' as well as the enforcement agencies for said issues- where one is guilty until proven innocent - is staggering.
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