Angels One Five Page #6

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Struth, had any luck, sir?

No, not even one.

There were thousands of blighters.

Nearly got bounced, myself.

Thank heavens you weren't, sir.

Don't thank heaven, Wailes.

Thank Squadron Leader Moon.

- Struth.

- Moths.

- Losing my grip, Skipper.

- Baloney.

Every time I think of you flying as my Red Two,

I go into a stall.

Forget it.

You're teaching me a lot.

Now, get inside and get some sleep

or youll lose your beauty.

What you reckon

they're doing up there?

Haven't you heard?

We're getting so perishin' short of aircraft,

they're building that platform ...

... so's Old Man Tiger hisself

can stand up there ...

... and punch the Jerry pilots

in the nose as they fly past.

Go on.

Not perishin' likely.

One of us poor ruddy erks

gotta sit up there like a broody crow ...

... and count the Jerry bombs

as they drop on the airfield.

Cor! Chase me 'round the hangar.

I must say being Senior Controller

hasn't improved your manners, darling.

If you gobble your food like that,

you'll get hiccups in the middle of a raid ...

- ... and we shall lose the war.

- Sorry, darling.

Group seems to think

I live on the end of that phone.

I must get the Emergency Ops Room tested.

- Are the boys still flying?

- One section of Beeswax.

I must turn on the light.

Blast.

Another bulb's gone.

This war's getting expensive!

Now don't you worry, darling.

The government pays.

Bless you.

Name your poison, Septic.

Pipe down, Batchy,

I'm in the chair.

Good evening, Mr. Moon.

Good evening, Mr. Salter.

- Good evening, sir.

- Good evening, Aunt Tabitha.

I trust we find you well.

I can't complain, not for one of my age.

- You'll be taking your usual, I suppose?

- Yes, I will.

- Bitter?

- Yes, rather, please.

What about this gentleman?

This is Pilot Officer Baird, Aunt Tabitha.

"Septic" to his intimates.

What are you drinking, Septic?

Oh, thank you, sir.

Do you think I could have a Drambuie?

I'm sure you could.

Oh, dear. I've only the one bottle.

The one I keep for Mr. Mortimer.

I don't think Mr. Mortimer

will be wanting Drambuie anymore ...

... Aunt Tabitha.

You can never be sure, though, can you, sir?

I'll keep it on one side all the same, sir ...

... just in case Mr. Mortimer calls in.

- You were lucky to get it back, Peter.

- Oh, she'll be all right, sir.

Take more than that to knock out Daisy.

I'm not so worried about the aircraft.

At a pinch, we can go after them

in Tiger Moth armed with hand grenades.

It's the pilots we need so desperately.

Well, the OTU's

are turning out good stuff, sir.

- The last 3 VRs I had are shaping well.

- I'm glad to hear it ...

... but it's not enough, Peter,

it's not enough.

The output isn't making up

for the wastage.

You're six short, Beeswax are four ...

... and the Spitfire boys are almost as bad.

Then what's the answer?

Make better use

of what we've got.

The MO says that Baird will be fit

for operations in a couple of days.

That'll give you one more.

Nice work.

Now, he had an excellent report from his OTU.

When he first joined me in the Hole,

I wanted to kick him in the backside.

Most of us did.

Too much of the walking textbook about him.

You ever owned an Aberdeen Terrier, sir?

No, I can't say that I have.

I don't like small dogs.

I had one once.

Obstinate, independent little hound.

Always ready to answer back,

But full of guts.

Baird reminds me of him.

They even look alike.

I've got an odd soft spot

for that awkward cuss.

I thought the occasion demanded

our last bottle of port.

You shouldn't be wasting it on me, Barry.

Speak for yourself, Septic.

Hear, hear. I've been trying to prise ...

... that bottle of port out of Barry

for the past 6 months.

I raises my glass

and looks toward you, Septic.

May your deeds with Pimpernel Squadron

resound through the halls of fame.

To Septic and the Pimpernels.

Come on, Septic, speech.

I'm no hand at that sort of thing at all.

No funking, Septic.

I just think you should all have your heads tested.

- Shame!

- I mean that.

Makes no sort of sense.

First of all, I plough up your front garden.

Then I make an ass of myself

all over the station.

Barry has to put up with my stupidity

in his Ops Room and now ...

... now you fill me up with beer and ...

... crack open your best bottle of port.

I don't know what you're trying to do to me.

I must say it feels pretty good.

You're being launched, Septic.

I'm only sorry the housekeeping money

didn't run to champagne.

Ha ha.

Before you celebrate too much ...

... don't forget you haven't

got rid of me yet.

Still a couple days to go.

Nine oclock. Time for the news.

Feeling happy now, Septic?

Never knew the world could feel so good.

Heaven occasionally to stop worrying.

Just sit back and accept it all as it comes.

I think sometimes a little laziness

is quite a good thing.

That sounds like

very immoral advice to me.

Does it?

It's true, all the same.

I'm feeling rather pleased

with myself, Barry.

I'll give you credit

for most things, darling ...

... but this time, mother nature

does deserve a small share ...

... don't you think?

You were going to be

a doctor, weren't you?

Well, I still hope I will be.

Yes, of course.

What do you want to be,

a GP or a surgeon?

Neither, as a matter of fact.

My idea was to specialise.

Ear, throat and nose, probably.

I see.

Yes, I think you'd make

a good specialist.

Thanks.

But what makes you say that?

Well, to begin with, you're

the painstaking type, I should think ...

... who comes to very clear

and precise conclusions about things.

All good doctors need to do that.

Yes, I know, but you wouldn't

be so good as a GP.

- Indeed. Why not?

- There you go.

Quite relentless, aren't you?

I don't know why. I just have a feeling

you'd be a bit ...

... too determined, if you know what I mean.

No bedside manner?

Yes, if you like.

Anyway, it's much more

comfortable to be a specialist.

Who wants to be dragged

out of bed at all hours of the night?

Is that some more of your immoral advice?

Very wicked, aren't I?

- I don't think so.

- Oh ...

Betty?

Yes?

Would you come out with me one evening?

Of course I would. I'd love to.

Alone, I mean.

Darling old Septic, I don't go around chained

to a chaperone, you know.

We could go over to Maidstone and have dinner,

just the two of us.

Oh, I'd adore that. When?

Well, not just for a bit, maybe.

Oh. Why not?

Well, you see, I'll need

to settle down with the squadron first.

- They'll expect me to...

- Oh, of course.

Stupid of me not to realise.

You're a grand girl, Betty.

Hostile 7-6, 100 aircraft, 16,000.

Fighter 161, "Q" Queenie, 8740...

Looks as though things are boiling up.

Never a dull moment. A gay life.

And by the look of things, a short one.

- Serial 7-6...

- Yes, here we go, boys.

at 15,000 feet.

Get Beeswax and Nutmeg

into the air, Septic.

Beeswax dispersal?

Good, stand by.

Nutmeg dispersal? Good.

Order for both squadrons ...

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