The story you are about to read is funny. Real Funny. It is written by Prem Pitts. If you like this story you can get a copy of one of his fabulous books under my links section.
Flight Captain Gormley Plingbatt-Snopes
…….was reading a comic, when the radio crackled into life. Gormley sighed; now he would never know how Little Willy Woozer and His Magic Underpants had overcome his arch-nemesis, Too Much Poo. But it was 1943 and the Jerries would insist on their war.
“Captain, C for Harold calling, C for Harold. Captain, do you read?”
Gormley flipped the switch to reply to “Dyslexic” Jones in the adjacent aircraft. “I was bloody well trying to, Jones. What is it now?”
“Three Fokkers are on your tail, Captain-”
“I’ve told you about that kind of language, Jones.”
“But Captain, they’re coming in at ten o’clock.”
“Idiot!” stormed Gormley, “It’s not even eight yet.”
Suddenly both wings of Gormley’s plane disintegrated and the plane plummeted downwards. Gormley realized he was done for - his parachute was on the other side of the blazing fuselage.
“Oh Lord!” cried Gormley, anguished. “Save me! Not for myself, but an innocent animal. My dear mother suffers from Rabid Halitosis and is unable to feed Tabby, our beloved cat. Should I fail to return, the beast will be dead of starvation within a week.”
The Deity chose to remain silent. However, Gormley’s plea did strike a chord in a most unlikely spot: the bosom of The Author, a miserable, depressive sort of fellow who spent his life denigrating those with more literary talent than himself. Somehow, his stony heart was touched.
“Oh, why not!” he muttered, and, with his usual plethora of typos and misspellings, wrote: “Fortunettly for Gormmley, his faithfull batman, Robin, had pakked a spare parashoot.”
“Thank you, thank you!” cried Gormley. However the parachute was not needed, as at that very moment the plane crashed.
Perhaps the Dieties had heard Gormley. He was in fact returning from bombing the Zonderbaum Feather Mattress Factory. (British Intelligence had ascertained that a sleep-deprived Army is vulnerable; thus, all mattress factories in Germany were Allied targets.) As a result, the field in which Gormley crashed was fifty feet deep in feathers.
The smell of burning feathers was choking. Gormley leapt from the plane to realize it was actually a German Buddhist goose that had doused itself in petrol and set itself alight as a protest against the factory conditions.
“Food, water, shelter," muttered Gormley, retrieving the burnt goose remains. “Travel only by night."
His survival training sprang into operation. By careful reconnaissance he was able to calculate that, due to lack of daylight, it was probably night. Thus, with a heart full of noble purpose, he struck off across the fields.
He was never seen again.
Sixty years later, historians have pieced together Gormley’s last days.
Medical tests conducted by a German doctor in1943 showed indisputably that Gormley had actually died on impact. It was only his steely resolve to save Tabby that had kept him going. However, he had begun to smell so badly that the locals had insisted on giving him a decent burial, handcuffed and shackled, with a stake driven through his heart. The location of his grave is lost.
Sadly, as Gormley predicted, poor Tabby died of starvation, drawing a curtain across one of the most poignant of wartime stories.
Oh, yes, Mrs. Plingbatt-Snopes replaced Tabby with a donkey.
