It is 1948 and the Berlin airlift is about to begin.
Captain Fletcher, a pilot in the RAF, has been coerced into working for the Secret Intelligence Service. Its mission - to stop the Russians getting hold of Britain's nuclear secrets. His mission - to survive at all costs as he samples the most beautiful daughters of the Fatherland.
Pursued by the evil Major Kutuzov and the voluptuous Louise Schoneberg, can our reluctant hero save the day?
A sage once remarked
A sage once remarked how vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live, and for a long time I have heeded his sound advice. However, as fate has seen fit to throw some of the most incredible events of the twentieth century my way, perhaps you will forgive me for putting my memories down on paper. Spoken words fly away; written words remain, as it were.
As luck would have it, Herr Hitler was good enough to kill himself in ’45, with the result that he was worm food and I wouldn’t have to fight for King and Country. Not that I’m any less patriotic than the next chap but, being something of a Bob Acres, I’m rather keen on surviving to see the dawn.
So with the fighting over I joined the RAF to be a transport pilot. Things went well at first and I enjoyed a brief spell in Japan as part of the army of occupation. When I wasn’t delivering cargo from one end of the country to the other, I had time to cater to the needs of a ravishing secretary at our embassy in Tokyo. Unfortunately it wasn’t to last and it was when I got back to Blighty that things really started to go t**s up.
It must have been one of those Egyptian Days, and as I was coming in to land my undercarriage had the bad taste to give way, causing my plane to slide off the runway into a farmer’s field.
He was as mad as hell, what with his vegetable patch being thrown to the four winds, and the red-faced buffoon cursed me something awful. Of all the bloody cheek. There I was, battered and bruised, and this yokel was more worried about his ruddy carrots.
So I told him to bugger off and get back to his daily chores - to wit, fornicating with his livestock. He looked as if he was going to have apoplexy and I thought it politic to take my leave. Adhering to the sound policy of an eye for an eye, I headed back to the mess for a well-earned eau de vie while I planned my revenge.
That night I waited until farmer Giles repaired to the Horse and Hounds - his usual haunt where he troubled everyone with his presence - and I went for a stroll to his beloved farm.
Unfortunately I accidentally spilt a few gallons of aviation fuel around his premises and, to top it all, I chose that moment to have a smoke. I suppose a complete disaster could have been averted if I hadn’t rather carelessly discarded a cigarette on the aforementioned spillage, but what can you do?
The upshot was that by the time the fire crew arrived, the farmhouse was burning nicely. And I must say it was gratifying to see my friendly farmer enjoy a warm welcome home on such a cold night.
The only fly in the ointment was that I’d been spotted conducting my extra-curricular activities by an interfering quidnunc from the WAAF by the name of Sylvia, or Sally, or some other blasted name beginning with an ‘S’.
You see, the vindictive piece of wool had been quietly biding her time, waiting to take revenge on the poor unsuspecting Captain Fletcher - and all because your correspondent had simply seen fit to share his amorous attentions between the spiteful shagbag and her sister.
Well, what did she expect? It would have been damn selfish to waste Fletcher’s carnal artistry on just one woman. Anyway, she’d decided to settle accounts by reporting what she’d witnessed to the squadron leader - and given me conniptions into the bargain. My God, I thought, a court-martial would be the least of it - I could very well end up in Dartmoor for arson at this rate.
When I was hauled into Wing Commander Dobson’s office, the sight of two dour civilians with peeler written all over them seemed to confirm my fears. Dobson’s hard stare made me feel about as welcome as a vicar in a brothel, and he spoke in his usual high-handed manner.
“This is a singular business, Captain. I am struck dumb that a man in my command could be guilty of such a criminal act. For that is what it is, Captain - a crime! That is why your actions have been reported to the proper authorities.”
I began to protest, but he cut me short and stood up to leave before giving me one final disapproving stare, leaving me to wonder what ever happened to the old-fashioned notion of comrades-in-arms.
I turned to look at my new friends from the constabulary and braced myself for more kind words to add to the joys of the day. They wore double-breasted suits and removed their hats, before they seated themselves at the desk to face me. One of the men had close-cropped fair hair, and he proceeded to light a foul-smelling cigarette before he broke into a smile.
“You don’t remember me, Tom, do you?”
I took a moment to look into his dull grey eyes. He had a wide jaw with a cleft in his chin, topped with the flattened nose of a boxer or a rugby player - and suddenly it dawned on me.
“My God … Biggins major. You were in the fifth form when I was at school with your brother, Biggins minor. Well, I never. So, you’re a policeman now?”
“We’re not policemen, Tom, we’re with Military Intelligence.”