Captain James (Biggles) Bigglesworth peered through the darkening clouds. ‘What Ho! Algy,’ he exclaimed. ‘Those dastardly Hun are up to their tricks again.’
Algy nursed a gigantic hangover: too many whiskies in the mess last night. He had a vague recollection of a young airman: ginger hair, ruby lips, slender hips. He shook the vision of the boy from his mind.
‘A boat full of Hun. Look at those sneaky foreigners,’ Biggles ejaculated, ‘with their guns firing at us. Damn their eyes. That’s not cricket.
‘Hemmel and gotson, flotson, Watson,’ a huge Hun with a walrus moustache and a big round belly shook his fist at Biggles. ‘You Britishers. Bah! Pah! Mah! Ve vill git you!’
‘Up yours Jerry!’ Biggles chuckled and he let fly with his guns. Six shots rang out. Five Hun lay injured and water leaked through a hole in the boat’s side.
‘Hurrah!’ Biggles cheered. ‘That’s British expertise for you. There’s nothing we can’t do better than foreigners.’
Suddenly from behind, a second boat fired on Biggles and Algy. ‘Oh no,’ Algy winced, ‘The swine. They’re not playing fair’
Smoke billowed from the tail-end of Algy’s plane and he went into a dizzying spin, out of control heading for the deep blue sea. ‘Oh no!, oh no!’ Algy exclaimed, ‘There’s nothing I can do. I’m done for.’
‘No way old chap,’ Biggles chortled, ‘Wait and see. We’ll come back next week and see how the writers get you out of this pickle. God save the King.’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 