The Condimental Op

  I decided to use the Blake Edwards cross-dressing romp Victor Victoria (1982), which starred Julie Andrews and James Garner — but I’ve never seen it. Can’t say why. I’m not the biggest fan of Julie Andrews. The Sound of Music makes me writhe, but I do tend to like Blake’s movies from the ‘60s.

  When I wrote the piece I also wasn’t sure about the title and was leaning toward Howard Hughes’ Hell’s Angels, since that’s all about World War I, biplanes, dog-fighting and big dirigibles. Same as my story. The reason I went with Victor Victoria, I think, is because — although the time frame is just after the Edwardian era — there’s something Victorian about the yarn, possibly resulting from the inclusion of Britannia.

  I decided to go for a relatively flippant version of Captain W. E. Johns’ classic Biggles romps. You know, the books about the ace pilot and adventurer written from the 1930s. I’m also poking fun at racial stereotypes: the German officer, Wilhelm Klink, is based on Colonel Klink from Hogan’s Heroes and other sham “German” characters I’ve seen on the telly.

  So it’s an adventure, hopefully amusing, and also a convoluted love story. With a god.

  As it turned out I dug the Britannia character so much I morphed her into Pretty Amazonia (a super-powered, seven-foot human being) in Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?, which was written straight after this.

  Wilks I liked too, since he’s snatched from a fairly two-dimensional, minor character in the Biggles stories (in which he developed a friendly rivalry with James Bigglesworth during First World War air combat, and destroyed his own pyjamas with a machine gun). I’ve thought about doing more with this debonair cad.

  Oh, and I tagged-on the chestnut following this one (An Octopus’s Grotto is His Castle) since they were written round the same period and I just noticed they have very, very similar opening lines. Weird. That one was written for the suave Solarcide anthology Nova Parade (check out solarcide.com).

  Yes, it lovingly takes the piss out of big-ocean-beastie literature from the 19th century (Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Victor Hugo’s Toilers of the Sea, Lewis Carroll’s The Walrus and the Carpenter) and their mid-20th century Hollywood spin-offs.

  “Read the story earlier and I’d definitely like to take that one off you for the collection,” Solarcide’s Martin Garrity said in an email dated April 29, 2012. “Good stuff, man, good stuff indeed. It’s completely different in style to any of the other stories we have so far and that rocks.”

  I’m not sure what the fixation was with octopuses. Cocoa and I sure were eating a lot of them (with lemon juice — yum) at the time.

  Anyway, thought I’d set off the flavour of this old-school section of the book with a lovely picture of a bi-plane, courtesy of French designer Nicolas Gomes.

  Victor Victoria

  I do believe my first bona fide blunder of the war was when I shot a goddess between the eyes.

  Unforced error number two came into play the moment I took note of said mistake. Having yanked up my goggles, I perched in the seat of my plane, stunned. With my head turned around, searching for her descent, I obviously wasn’t looking where I was going, and the next thing I knew I’d collided slap-bang up the arse end of a 530-foot dirigible.

  The propeller of my Sopwith Pup punctured the rubberized cotton fabric, the nose went in, the biplane shuddered, and then we hung there, conjoined in the clouds several thousand feet up. The name L.19 was written in big gothic letters on a ripped flap that waved above my head, and beneath that “Kaiserliche Marine”.

  I’d buggered a bloody zeppelin.

  Hence, it wasn’t long before the Huns on board started taking pot shots at me, having positioned themselves on an iron trellis built into the rear-engine gondola. They were so close I could see the rifles poking out — standard issue 7.92 mm Mauser Gewehr 98s — but the dunderheads were such poor marksmen that I continued to sit there, strapped into my open cockpit, unharmed and reasonably unfussed.

  Eventually I got tired of the fun, games and projectiles. I unholstered my Webley Mk IV revolver to fire off three rounds in return. The soldiers ducked for cover. Then I glanced around, wondering what the devil I should do.

  “You know, that hurt.”

  I peered over the side of my aeroplane, past the words “Sea’s Shame” that my batman McPherson had stenciled onto the canvas fuselage, to the jutting-out wooden wheel frame beneath my Pup. What I discovered alarmed me far more than the pointy-headed fools only yards distant.

  Winged Victory, or whomsoever this was, hung there one-handed. In her other hand, the left one, the woman was armed with a trident and shield, and on top of her head she wore a centurion’s helmet that was at an accidentally jaunty angle — probably because it had a couple of dents in it, courtesy of my machine gun. Golden hair poked out from under the hard hat, and this fluttered in the breeze. Her ocean-blue eyes, however, remained fixed on mine. They were anything but flighty.

  “So, are you going to offer assistance? Or would you prefer to sit there and gawk while those men continue shooting?”

  “Can’t you fly?”

  “Do I look like I have wings?”

  She had a point. There was nary a feather on her body.

  “She’s younger than me, too.”

  “Who is younger?”

  “Your Winged Victory.”

  I certainly hadn’t expected things to turn out in this squalid manner — they’d started out innocuously enough. There had been heavy fog the evening before, when a fleet of zeppelins took advantage of the cover to bomb a string of inconsequential towns in the West Midlands.

  The next afternoon — today — one of the intruders was spotted over the North Sea, which explained away my current mission flying a spot of reconnaissance. Having flown out from Freiston Airfield in Lincolnshire and spent the past frigid, unproductive hour in empty skies, I’d decided to return home to a jolly good cup of warm cocoa, with a shot of Dalmore whisky, when directly ahead in my flight path — in the midst of a bank of clouds and silhouetted by the setting sun — I spied Winged Victory.

  Before I could think, I was triggering my Vickers machine gun, the woman tumbled, and I crashed. This surely smacked of something of a feat.

  “I do wish you would desist with the Winged Victory nonsense,” called out my unwilling passenger, as I unstrapped and leaned over to give her a hand. “She’s Greek,” that voice nattered on, “and, dare I say it, has no arms and lacks a head.”

  A bullet whizzed close by my ear. “Would you stop that?” I yelled, directing my words at a stout sergeant in a greatcoat and a rather dangerous Pickelhaube spiked helmet. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  The man lowered his rifle to act sheepish. “Es tut mir leid!”

  “Not a problem. Be a good fellow and go fetch your commanding officer.”

  At least the gunplay ceased. I encircled the woman’s wrist with my gloved fingers and proceeded to haul, although I had a bugger of a time. I barely managed the exercise, what with the heavy armoured trinkets and her Amazonian stature — at about six feet, she was at least as tall as me, and had broader shoulders.

  Finally, she propped herself up behind the cockpit, powerful, stark naked legs straddling the canvas for balance. While I’m hardly one to gush, the woman’s face was something precious — chiseled, athletic, magnificently bewitching.

  “Is there a way down?” she asked, while I rudely stared.

  “You mean to terra firma?”

  “No, I mean the moon.”

  “Ahh, you’re joking.”

  “Bravo.” She breathed out in loud, overdramatic fashion, apparently annoyed. I suppose I would be too, if I were god-like and recently gunned down by an overzealous aerialist. “Now, about getting off…”

  “I think we’re stuck until this zeppelin lands. I heard the Huns have introduced a device called a parachute, but we haven’t anything like that in the Royal Flying Corps. I suppose you could jump. You are, I t
ake it, some kind of deity?”

  The young lady held up a majestic chin. “I am. I have been worshipped by people since the Pritani, well before the Romans invaded Britain two thousand years ago, and in all that time nobody ever shot at me before.”

  “Hold on. If you really were some kind of patron saint-cum-goddess, why didn’t you kick the Spigs back to Italy?”

  “We choose not to interfere in human affairs.”

  “Well, that’s bloody convenient. Why, then, do you bother lugging about the military gear, and what’s the story with the Roman helmet?”

  “It belonged to Julius Caesar. I liked Gaius. After he invaded, he named the island after me, Britannia. Claudius I loathed — he had no respect for foreign figureheads — but Hadrian was marginally better.”

  “Oh, I see. Britannia. Of course. I do apologize for the Winged Victory bon mot. I’m known as Wilks. Might I call you Brit?”

  Since I was leaning out of the cockpit, I felt something tap my buttocks.

  “Are you forgetting the trident?” the woman reminded me. Thank Heavens; she resisted using the sharp bits. “Britannia shall do nicely. If you’re searching for something earthier, you may call me Frances. I prefer Britannia.”

  “Speaking of earth — given that you’re a god, well, I would venture to guess that jumping will not be a problem.”

  She looked down through the clouds and I would swear I saw a grimace. “How high are we?”

  “About three or four thousand feet, the last time I checked.”

  “Then it’s a problem.”

  “You have height restrictions?”

  “Something of the sort.” Britannia shivered. No wonder, since she was wearing only a light shift of linen material that barely came down to her thighs, and the woman had a lot of cold metal pressing against her.

  After I took off my leather coat, I reached across to place it on her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Attempting to be a gentleman.”

  “Well, stop it. I reside on a completely different plane. I don’t feel the chill. Put the blasted thing back on.”

  “Right you are.” It was my turn to play annoyed as I buttoned up the coat. “Anyway, I thought Britannia was a nymph of some kind.”

  “Hardly.”

  “And aren’t you supposed to have a lion? What were you doing, prancing about on top of a zeppelin?”

  “Trying to help — you looked like you were going to fly straight past, so I decided to intervene.”

  “Against your better nature?”

  “I do that sometimes. These people dropped bombs on my native soil. I was cross.” She smiled. “I left my lion at home.” Touché.

  I resisted a spot of laughter, and again instead looked over the side of the aeroplane. I decided the sea was closer than it had been only a quarter of an hour before. “We’re losing altitude.”

  “Quite possibly it has something to do with the giant hole you ripped in their side. Gas must be escaping.”

  “True — which means we’ll end up in the drink in the North Sea, not the best idea in February. It’s probably around forty degrees Fahrenheit this time of year.”

  I heard somebody discreetly cough nearby.

  There was a new addition to the open window of the gondola. With the monocle, a Luger 9mm in his hand, the soft hat and pencil-thin moustache, this man was a stiff-necked caricature of the German officer class.

  “I say, Englander, my name is Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm Klink.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure. Flying Officer ‘Wilks’ Wilkinson, 287 Squadron, RFC, commanded by Major William E. Johns.”

  I heard him click unseen heels as he bowed. “We are currently throwing excess baggage into the sea in order that we might gain some height and make it to the continent. Your blasted flugzüg — your aeroplane — is not helping matters, Herr Wilkinson.”

  “Sorry, Herr Klink, but the crate is here to stay. Your men shooting at me has not been much fun — it makes it difficult to come up with a viable plan.”

  “Well, you are the enemy.”

  “There is that. But tell you what; I have a woman here with me.”

  Klink adjusted his monocle. “Ja. Quite the fräulein.”

  “Eyes off, Fritz.”

  “My apologies.” While he inclined his head, Klink’s stare remained affixed to my hitchhiker. The man was incorrigible. “You know, I always envied you English your Britannia. The Americans have Columbia, even the Italians have their mundane Italia Turrita, but we Germans…ahhh, we are sadly lacking in the allegorical personifications.”

  “Er…yes.” I frowned. “Once the balloon—”

  “Zeppelin. This is a zeppelin, not a balloon.”

  “All right. Well, once the zeppelin gets lower, Britannia and I will bail out, jumping into the sea and thereby lightening the load up to two hundred and eighty pounds.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the girl behind me grouched, “just how chubby do you presume me to be?”

  “Well, you are six feet and wearing all that armour.”

  “Pfft.”

  Klink rubbed his chin. “To tell the truth, I am more concerned with the aircraft — not that I do not appreciate the gesture.”

  “Every little bit helps, am I correct, Kapitänleutnant?”

  “Ja, Ja, in getting my crew safely home.”

  “Then we have a deal? Toss me a lifesaver, there’s a good fellow.”

  I hadn’t counted on Klink lobbing the contraption so damned hard, and I can’t fault the officer for accuracy — the lifesaver struck me on the forehead and, being unstrapped, I fell straight out of the plane.

  I recall nothing thereafter, until I came to in darkness in the shallow water of a cove. I was saturated, half-drowned and mostly frozen. Flashes of memory — a flapping dirigible, the burlesque German officer, Britannia in a dimpled helmet and very little else — played a merry jig across my mind and I deduced that an aeroplane crash and a bump on the skull must have conjured up the whole fiasco. Since I had no plane, I could only assume I’d ditched at sea.

  Turned out, I was on the coast of northern France.

  A helpful farmwoman named Marianne, who carried a rowdy rooster tucked under her arm, got me safely to British lines. While she spoke no English, this woman was remarkable for her height — she towered over me in her Phrygian cap — and an impressive stamina, since she never tired once during our ninety-mile hike.

  Two weeks later I discovered myself back in Blighty, at company HQ. I was informed by my commanding officer, Major Johns, that a zeppelin earmarked L.19 had in fact gone down in the North Sea, with a loss of all hands, and he was putting the kill on my record sheet.

  “Jolly good show, old chap,” the major decided as he shook my hand.

  So. There was a balloon. But what about the balance of the featherbrained dream? I returned to my quarters and allowed McPherson to mix up a drink. I continued seeing the girl’s face in the sights of my Vickers, right before I pulled the trigger, as I stood first in front of the fireplace and then wandered over to a bay window. It was dusk outside.

  “Restless, sir?” McPherson inquired as he handed me a tumbler.

  “Vaguely.” I bowed my head. Was she dead too? Or was she some figment of an overactive, semi-concussed imagination? “I think I’ll hit the sack, old man,” I decided. “Take the evening off. Sally forth and enjoy yourself.”

  I trudged slowly up the staircase with the drink between my fingers. I felt inconceivably dismal. Probably, it had to do with touching God — or, in this case, a goddess — and losing her. Never good form to do that kind of thing. One might as well try manhandling the sun.

  When I entered my room I switched on a lamp, and straight away noticed the Corinthian helmet on the desk. It had been hammered back into shape. Next to it — slouched unmajestically on my favourite leather armchair, with her feet up, sans armour, and showing far too much leg — was someone I recognized.

  “You.”

>   “Me.” She straightened up, stretched her back, and smiled. “You recall that that my name is not Winged Victory?”

  “I do seem to remember that. It was a Victorian fancy — and, to be honest, I thought you didn’t exist. That you were only up here.” I tapped my right temple, but this acted as the woman’s cue to stand up and slip out of the miserly frock she wore.

  “Perhaps you should put down your glass?”

  I realized I was spilling the drink, and did as suggested.

  Britannia stood before me, without even her shield, her head at an angle, blue eyes close, golden hair framing her face, and I realized she pipped my height by two inches.

  “I like you.”

  “Where’s your trident?” I responded. I had no intention of accidentally sitting on the bugger.

  “It was on extended loan — now returned to its rightful owner.” I could feel her cool breath on my neck.

  “Shield?”

  “Beneath the bed. You’re stalling.”

  “Not at all. I believe you said you didn’t interfere in human affairs.”

  “Nobody ever shot at me before. C’mere.”

  An Octopus’s Grotto is His Castle

  And I presume my big mistake was messing with the witch.

  Admittedly, at the time I didn’t know she was a bona fide, card-carrying sort, though such types of people aren’t going to advertise. It’s the charlatans that put up signage and practice hocus pocus to dazzle the masses.

  The real ones go about their business incognito, or — as in this case — operate from a brothel house.

  Anyhow, it’s never good to piss off a real witch. They tend to go in for things like petty vengeance. It happens in all the fairy tales, am I right?

  This particular tale began on a chilly day at the beginning of November 1872. I was biding my time in New York City, looking for a ride to the Mother Country. I’m a sailor by profession — not a particularly good one, though you wouldn’t know that from my references, most of which are forged.

  Call me Chris Mael.

  I’m a man of few talents. In fact, the only one I can think of is the ability that’s bolstered my purse on odd occasion: I have the knack of holding my breath underwater for over four minutes. The first time I truly appreciated the talent was when a furious skipper had me keel-hauled for attempted mutiny.