“I say, sir, are you all right?”
The trumpeting ceased and was replaced by a silence into which crept tendrils of a smell so foul that it was almost impossible to imagine that it had emanated from Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. Algy winced – once again Ginger had reverted to type and his blunt Yorkshire nature had shown itself. Surely, by now, he ought to realise that senior officers, like Royalty, were not subject to the same attributes of the flesh as ordinary mortals. Had Ginger been any sort of gentleman, he would have ignored the matter.
Ginger caught the odour and his apprehension increased. Could it be gangrene?
“I say, sir, if you’re ill, you really ought to see the MO. I mean to say, we need you. England needs you!”
Biggles smiled to himself. Trust Ginger to get straight to the point.
“Well, old chap, I haven’t been getting my share of the thunderbox of late. You know how it is – hours sitting in the cockpit, then a quick refuelling and back to fighting the Hun. Never seem to get the chance…”
Ginger felt a surge of sympathy for this leader of men, this tireless warrior, who was prepared to endure any discomfort in his defence of King and Country.
“If you like, sir, I could cut along to the dispensary and get you some number nines.”
“I’m afraid it’s beyond that stage, old chap. I’ve been swallowing bucketfuls of the wretched things and all they have given me is this blasted wind. Damn bad show, especially in the cockpit. Needs drastic action – only the good old botty pipe will sort it out.”
“Then surely you have to see the MO, sir?”
Ginger winced as the eyes of the other two swivelled to the wall above the fireplace. He didn’t seem to be able to say anything nowadays without putting up a black. And he surely should have remembered about the squadron medic – Flight Lieutenant O’Hara. Ginger had been the first pilot to take a flight medical with the new doctor and he had just lain there in disbelief and terror as the doctor had performed on him an act that every Christian boy knew caused weakness of the limbs and defective eyesight – things that were doubly serious for a fighter pilot!
Good old Biggles had solved the problem when Ginger had managed to blurt out what had transpired. The horsewhip still hung above the fire, coiled elegantly around the joystick from an ME109. The doctor had now accepted that it was none of his business to interfere with the running of the air war – in fact, Biggles had restored old Pappy Hodges to flying duties and the doctor had signed the chit without a word. They had needed to wangle a posthumous DFC for good old Pappy after the crew of a Lancaster had finally needed to shoot him out of the sky as he attacked them with the fervour of a man possessed, but now his name would be inscribed forever in the squadron roll of honour.
“Oh. Yes, I see that, sir. But maybe one of the sick bay attendants could oblige?”
Algy’s face turned purple.
“What on earth are you suggesting, Ginger? That the skipper bares a commissioned arse in front of an other rank? Have a care – that’s verging on socialism!”
Ginger mumbled an apology and fled from the mess, appalled that he could even have thought of a non-commissioned person perpetrating such an indignity on a leader of men. Then he had another of his ideas and headed towards the hangars.
When Ginger burst into the mess again, carrying a strange-looking apparatus, Biggles and Algy sighed – this would not be the first “bright idea” from Flying Officer Hebblethwaite. His last creation, a spinning disk with a hexagonal hole in the centre, designed to unscrew the propellers of enemy aircraft, now served behind the bar as the best bottle opener the steward had ever seen.
“What ho, Ginger! Another secret weapon?”
Ginger held it out to Algy.
“It’s an automatic syringe for the skipper to use.”
Algy inspected it closely.
“I see – a hydraulic cylinder. Very clever. And an oxygen bottle. Is this the actuator?”
The device recoiled as a solid jet of water was ejected. It shot straight upwards, punching a hole in the plaster ceiling and producing ominous flickering from the electrical system together with a series of high pitched emissions of gas from Biggles. Algy looked at the device with admiration.
Note : Algy’s comment was almost prophetic. The device was dropped and then passed to the Luftwaffe research organisation where opinion was divided between it being an aerial poison gas dispenser and some sort of devilish device to project opaque liquid over the windscreens of German fighters. The resulting confusion delayed by several months the introduction of the first jet fighter.“Wizard prang! Nanny would have loved one of these – she could have combined deer shooting with looking after little boy’s bottoms. But don’t you think it’s maybe a little … sudden?”
“It’s not my fault. I was going to bleed off some of the oxygen before using it.”
“Ah – that would make all of the difference. But Skip is only bunged up – he doesn’t need his tonsils out at the same time.”
Biggles finally recovered the power of speech. He was perfectly willing to face Jerry in aerial combat several times a day, but not Ginger’s invention. Besides, it almost certainly violated the Geneva Convention.
Note : Leigh Mallory’s concept of ambushing some German raids with overwhelming firepower whilst ignoring others met with a lot of opposition at first. Once tried, it proved the most successful tactical change of the air war, and cut pilot losses very considerably. Many senior officers felt that it wasn’t quite “cricket”.“Get that damn thing out of here, Algy. Get rid of it.”
Algy turned it over in his hands.
“I know – I’ll take it up to the bomber chappies. They can drop it over Berlin. If it scares Hitler as much as it scares me, they’ll surrender within the week!”
Ginger looked at the floor, covered with shame. Algy slapped him on the back.
“Cheer up, old thing. All the skipper needs is some rubber tubing – see what you can scavenge.”
The results of Ginger’s efforts went unappreciated again. Algy gazed in wonder at the length of tubing – it was more than an inch wide and covered in some sort of woven canvas.
“I say – it’s for the skipper you know, not some bally costive elephant.”
“I know it’s a bit large, but it was the smallest that they had. Flight Sergeant Blake said it can withstand 2000 pounds of hydraulic pressure.”
“I see. We’re back to taking tonsils out again, are we? Or do you really intend to do what the Germans haven’t managed and spread the squadron leader thinly over the countryside?”
“I’ve still got my boy scout knife. I can cut off the canvas and whittle the rest of it down to size.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ginger…..”
“I say, you chaps, what’s the problem, eh?”
They turned to see the newest recruit to the squadron, Flight Lieutenant the Lord “Bertie” Lissie, draped languidly over one of the old armchairs, his Russian cigarette smouldering in the end of its ivory holder. Algy scowled – peer of the realm or not, Bertie was too recent an addition to poke his nose into the skipper’s problems.
Ginger had no such inhibitions. To even be spoken to by a real lord was an honour, and he could not see any reason to conceal things from him.
“Well, your lordship,….”
“Ginger – it’s Bertie, remember. We’re all equal here.”
“Well, the skipper has a problem with his bowels, so we were trying to find some way of relieving it.”
Bertie jumped up.
“What ho, Biggles? Touch of the dreaded bung eh?”
Biggles sighed. He couldn’t handle Bertie, who seemed to think that a peerage absolved him from normal military courtesies like saluting and addressing his commanding officer with respect.
“If you absolutely must know, Bertie, yes – I have a stoppage.”
“Haw haw! Sounds like pay-day, what? Stoppage for damage to quarters, eh?”
Algy grabbed Bertie by the arm.
“I say, keep your voice down. The stewards will hear.”
Bertie looked down his nose at Algy.
“Stewards? What of it? Servants know their place – they won’t talk out of turn.”
“They will, though. Anyway – this is a serious matter. You shouldn’t laugh at the skipper.”
Bertie looked momentarily contrite, then reverted to form.
“I say, Biggles old dear. We’re due to stand down tomorrow – why don’t you take a spot of leave and come up to town with me. I know a little place in the West End – very discreet – that will solve your little problem for you.”
Ginger and Algy looked at each other in surprise, while Biggles scowled his disapproval. Finally Algy spoke.
“Is this true, sir? We stand down? Oh, jolly good – I haven’t seen pater and mater for absolutely ages!”
“It’s not settled yet.”
In his heart, though, Biggles knew that it was. He had fought tooth and nail to keep his squadron in the line because, deep down, he knew that it was what his boys wanted. He was still trying to persuade the AOC that it was a mistake to stand down, particularly since they were due to be replaced by a squadron of Poles who could have nipped this whole thing in the bud if they had really stood up to the Huns. Heavens above – most of them spoke German and it was almost treason to let them dress in the King’s uniform!
The worst thing, though, was that Biggles had been told that they wanted him to take a promotion to Wing Commander and a posting to the Air Ministry. The AOC had been complimentary of course when he said that Biggles had done enough and that the country really could not afford the loss of more skilled pilots – he had even sweetened the deal with a promise of a DSO – but Biggles knew in his heart of hearts that no other commander could inspire so many of his young charges to give their lives so unsparingly for their King and Country.
He sighed deeply.
“I’m afraid it’s true, Algy. I’m sorry – there’s no more I can do to stop it.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. When they see what a mess the next people make of it, they’ll soon have us back in harness!”
Biggles blinked away a stray tear. With men like this, how could England not be victorious?
Bertie was adamant. As soon as the signal to stand down was received, he bundled Biggles into his open-top sports car and they roared towards London, pausing only for Bertie to refresh himself with a few pints of Nutbrown Ale and a large Scotch that he charmed out of the barmaid. They drew up in front of a dignified old building and Bertie started towards the door. Biggles restrained him.
“I’d rather you made yourself scarce, Bertie. This is going to be a somewhat embarrassing experience for me and I would really prefer to do it alone.”
“Fine by me, old bean. Just tell the woman that Lord Bertie sent you and then say exactly what you want.”
It felt like first time in Big School as Biggles tentatively opened the large front door. Inside was considerably more welcoming than the façade – a cheerfully decorated reception area with a well dressed middle aged woman sitting at an antique desk. She rose and smiled at him as he entered.
“Good afternoon, Colonel. What service can we offer you?”
Biggles swallowed hard. It was much easier to face a brace of ME110 than this!
“Lord Bertie suggested that I came to you for treatment. And it’s squadron leader, not colonel.”
The woman’s face was suddenly wreathed in smiles.
“How is his lordship? He was really worried that he was going to be posted to a squadron with a suicidal commander.”
Biggles smiled proudly.
“No, my dear, he was posted to the finest squadron in the entire RAF. I’m his CO.”
“Are you really? Gosh – you must feel really honoured to have Bertie in your lot. He’s really something!”
Biggles smiled condescendingly.
“It’s not quite like that, my dear. Can we get on with it please?”
“Of course, Admiral. What exactly is it that you require?”
Biggles felt himself beginning to redden. Bowels were not something that one discussed in front of the fair sex. He waved vaguely in the direction of his nether regions. The lady smiled.
“Same thing as his lordship then?”
Biggles nodded, relieved at being absolved from the necessity to be anatomical.
“Come along then. Miss Prism is free.”
Biggles blinked as he was ushered into a basement room. In the centre was a wooden contraption like an inverted V and, to his horror, it had substantial leather straps attached to it.
“If you would just disrobe, General. Do you require restraints?”
Biggles bridled. A man who daily risked his life fighting the Hun never needed restraints. Of course, Bertie probably would – his record in the air was pretty dismal. He shook his head firmly.
“Well then, Captain, I’ll leave you to prepare yourself. If you don’t mind, Miss Prism prefers her boys to be in position when she arrives for their treatment.”
It took all of his courage for Biggles to strip to the buff and drape himself over the contraption. At least he wouldn’t need to look the nurse in the eye this way – he could focus on the floor.
“YOU BAD, WICKED BOY!”
Biggles jumped as he heard the female shout, then held on to the wood with a grip of death as a loud cracking noise was immediately followed by a searing pain in his backside. He managed to scramble out of the way of the second blow and retreated from the fearsome spectacle of a leather-clad woman wielding a riding crop.
“MADAM! What on earth do you think you are doing?”
“Thrashing a naughty boy who has not been taking care of his botty!”
Biggles was outraged. He tore the crop from her hands and threw it into the corner. Miss Prism fled as the Squadron Leader advanced towards her, his hands stretched out to grab hold of her. Biggles pursued her, determined to exact vengeance for the insult.
At the sound of a bell, the corridor was suddenly full of women. Obviously foreign spies, thought Biggles, as they gripped him so painfully that he dared not move. No English girl would ever stay in the presence of a naked man, let alone force him to the ground and sit on his head!
“Let him up. What on earth do you think you are playing at, sergeant?”
Biggles blushed at the implication that he was acting like an other rank.
“I’m sorry, madam. I came in here to have my….”
He finally managed to utter the word.
“…constipation relieved, and next thing I knew, that woman assaulted me!”
The lady looked abashed – as well she ought.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. His lordship always likes a little…muscular stimulation beforehand. To tone him up, so to speak. I’m sorry – I thought you wanted the same.”
Biggles felt his anger ebb away. Of course – his muscles would be out of condition. But surely there was a less violent way of restoring it? The lady grasped him firmly by the elbow.
“Come along with me, Major. I’ll escort you to the irrigation suite.”
Biggles inclined his head and walked away with as much dignity as total nudity and a searing stripe across his backside permitted. The irrigation suite looked much more like a hospital – a large, padded leather chair and an array of tubes and taps.
“Take a seat, please.”
Biggles tensed as the chair swung backwards, then blushed as his legs were lifted into supports that rendered him feeling very vulnerable and exposed.
“I’m afraid that I must insist on restraint, Colonel. There must be no repetition of that last incident.”
“I need no restraint, madam. The woman took me by surprise.”
“Nevertheless….”
She deftly trussed Biggles into the chair with thick leather straps. He tried to move, but they held him firmly but gently. He sighed – he would just have to put up with it, however unnecessary.
The woman who entered was wearing a nurse’s uniform, much to his relief – Biggles had been somewhat dreading someone else dressed in leather and metal studs. It was evident that the clothing ration was biting hard – her dress was far too short for her and the front strained against buttons that seemed on the point of bursting free.
“Good afternoon, sir. A nice enema?”
“Nothing nice about it, young lady. Just get on with it, eh?”
His rudeness did not seem to perturb her as she drew on long, thin rubber gloves that slid most of the way up to her elbow.
“Just an examination. Nothing to worry about.”
Biggles eyes opened to their furthest extent and his eyeballs threatened to fall out of his head as she calmly dipped her finger in some sort of unguent and then slid it into his fundament. She pushed hard against him, her finger probing deeply inside his body, her front clearly revealing the fact that she had not enough clothing coupons even to purchase a brassiere. Biggles closed his eyes to conceal his utter horror as his membrum virile responded by standing erect. He started to stammer an apology as the nurse saw his state. Then she stepped back and smiled.
“Oh – I see. You’re a BOY! What’s your name, dearie?”
“Biggles.”
“Well now, young man, you can call me Matron. How long have you had this problem?”
“Long time…Matron.”
“Let’s just have a little look, shall we? Be a good boy and hold still for me.”
The wood of the chair creaked as Biggles strained against the straps when the finger invaded his rectum again. This time the woman let her eyes linger on his shame.
“My, my. We are a big boy, aren’t we?”
“Let me go. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Now then, you know what happens to little boys who don’t do their daily duty, don’t you? They need a dose of Matron’s botty pipe!”
“I don’t want any bloody pipe. Let me out of here.”
“Hush, Biggles. You know you have to have it. Be a good boy and keep quiet whilst I prepare it for you.”
“For god’s sake. LET ME OUT OF HERE. Aaargh….”
His voice was abruptly cut off as she popped some sort of rubber object into his mouth and secured it with tapes.
“Now then, Master Biggles, see what happens to naughty boys when they don’t do what matron tells them? That will keep you quiet.”
Biggles gagged on the taste of the thing, then watched as “matron” produced a length of rubber tube attached to a nozzle of such proportions that Ginger’s homicidal creation looked suddenly to be the favoured option. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears and he could feel his face turning purple as he strained to break free of his bonds, but the nurse just smiled sweetly at him.
“Now then, Biggles, this won’t hurt you. Be a brave boy for Matron.”
Biggles screamed silently as the awful monster pushed against his bottom, then saw a red mist in front of his eyes as it was delicately, but very firmly, forced into position.
“Good boy. Now we need a little warm, soapy water for your bottom.”
Biggles had a vision of a Spitfire on the tarmac, being refuelled as fast as possible as the torrent of liquid suddenly surged into his bowels. It took a few seconds of panic before he realised that he wasn’t going to drown, that it didn’t really hurt and that it was evoking a very strange reaction in him. Even the pain of the stripe was somehow changed into a warm glow that made him feel just like that time when his comrades had taken the newly commissioned and somewhat inebriated Bigglesworth behind the pub and handed him over to the barmaid to break him in to the squadron.
He slowly ceased his struggles as sensations overwhelmed him. For some strange reason, it seemed as though he was pursuing a JU88, walking his tracer down the machine until the crew disintegrated into a red mist…
Biggles opened his eyes, overwhelmed with the shame of it all, to find Matron milking the last drops of semen from him.
“Well now, we really needed that, didn’t we?”
He was suddenly aware of another urge, this time in his bowels. Biggles followed the tube with his eyes and winced when he saw the size of the container, now empty, attached to it. His panic increased as he felt his bowels give way under the unequal strain. Then he relaxed – of course, that damn nozzle thing wouldn’t let anything past it. Didn’t stop it hurting though!
Matron operated some mechanism and the chair moved to an upright position. His legs, still strapped to the supports, were restored to a normal sitting position. Then he felt the nozzle move and closed his eyes to the horror of the fact that he could not hold the liquid.
Then he relaxed. Damn clever of them – the chair was plumbed into the drains! Matron removed his gag and he sighed with satisfaction as the problem of his constipation solved itself. She beamed at him.
“There’s a good boy! Now how about a nice rinse….?”
Biggles walked with a spring in his step as he was finally released. Unorthodox, maybe, but Matron had certainly worked wonders. He felt a few moments of regret that he had aborted the treatment of Miss Prism – the glow his backside was really quite pleasant now.
The lady at the desk waved away his offer to pay.
“Not at all, Squadron Leader. Lord Bertie had given instructions for it to be put on his account. Will you be staying in London?”
“Er…possibly. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I thought you might like to make another appointment. We’re booked for weeks ahead, what with the Household Cavalry and all of those generals on the staff…..”
