“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.” (more…)