Werewolf the Podcast: The Professor and the Wing Commander. (Episode 226)

We go back an episode or two to talk more about what happened on that fateful day when the Professor and the Wing Commander met on a tiny piece of Scottish windblown grass. Seagulls, airships and Haggis. Not a werewolf this week, but it's all leading up to a howlingly funny episode.

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Transcript

Wing Commander Montgomery Fortescue the third. VC GC OBE OM GBE DSO bloody, ETC, ecetra, ecetra.

Oh, you want greater detail about our first meeting, do you? The Professor and I?

Fair enough. I would hate to bore those who have heard this story in short form in another episode, but it adds inherent value to the information. I disperse.

The year was 1913... or was it 1914? So many years have passed that it is often difficult to decipher when things happened. 

It was Montrose Air Station. One of the twelve new air bases that had been proposed by the British government and to be operated by the Royal Flying Corps. 

The First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, himself, had given the go-ahead, and Montrose was the first of these to allow aircraft to protect the Royal Navy bases at Rosyth, Cromarty and Scapa Flow.

Was told that Winnie later went on from us to meet Nessie for a chat. Something about her and the war effort. Found that out in the summer of... 1974. Doing the job. You ken. As they say up in Scotland. 

Montrose. You've never seen the place, have you? 

Most haven't, but this small patch of Blighty has had some of the most amazing things take place on it and above it, that have ever well... You know taken place.

The base at this time was a patch of wind-blown grass, nothing on the Scottish coast. 

The sort of place where the mist comes in sideways and the gulls look like they've been planning something unspeakable for weeks. Evil sods.

I have to say the gulls have got no better. Still take your fish supper out of your hand when promenading down at the harbour.

Back in the day, we could sort that rot out with the Purdeys. A couple of blasts from the old shotties would have made minced Seagul, and a happier populace would have resulted.

Protected species now. What rot. Bloody yoghurt weavers these days. Have you met them, Vegans and the like? 

Vegans... Binky, my old battleaxe, does yoga. No comment on the yoga. I have checked whether it has anything to do with satan, religion or anything magical. 

Turns out no magic. No summoning of demons. Just the disappearance of large sums of cash into the pockets of organic... linen... trousers. 

He's the veganese. The yoga teacher. Thin pale chap. Looks like he's never had a good feed in his life. Without bacon butties, how could he have? Bet he smokes that Mariguana as well.

Met him, had a bun in his hair? Yes, a bun. Binky says it is called a man bun and is very fashionable. I put her straight because I am so Wakened... wokened... woke, that's the biscuit.

I turned to her and said. 'No Binks old girl. That is a hair bun... it would be sexist to refer to it as a man bun.'

Where was I? Oh yes. Montrose Air Base. 

It was the first proper RAF base in the country, though we were still technically the Royal Flying Corps. The RAF came later when the brass at the top recognised how vital the planes were. 

When was that, erm? When was it 1918? Brought the Royal Naval Air Service and the Royal Flying Corps. Together. Great days. 

Oh, I got off track again. Montrose air base, 1913-ish.

The air smelt of oil, sea salt, and fear of the newfangled contraptions built from canvas, string, horse glue and hope. Lots of hope. 

I was there to train men to handle those biplanes. Mainly to stop them from decapitating themselves. 

I didn't do much training. Pointed at the fast-spinning bit at the front and told them not to touch it while it was... well... spinning. 

If they got that, then I would put them on my old... Winchester 6 HP BSA, motorbike. 

If they made it down the runway and back, I would throw them into the pilot's seat and let them take a kite up. Learning on the job is the best way. Any man who could ride the bike could fly a plane.  

Still have the old BSA. Great bike. Don't take it out very much these days, Binky worries. She's a decent old filly that way.

To be completely frank, it has done more miles on the back of a rescue Lorry than it has done on its own tyres. Six horsepower, you know. Disappointing to learn that the average horse has 15 horsepower. How does that work? Bladdy stupid.

Ah, yes, recovery service, that was it?

Marvellous. I still miss the old Automobile Association recovery chappies saluting their badged members on the side of the road. 

Think it was part of the start of the rot of standards when they stopped. I used to polish my badge to a vibrant shine. I was very proud of the AA. I needed them often. (Laugh)

Oh, sorry, back to the story.

It was a quiet posting, Montrose, if you don't count the occasional engine fire and horrendous death in a mangled pile of canvas, wood, wicker and string. 

A quick way to go back in those times. None of those ejector seat thingymies or parachutes to save a chap. Not many injuries back then. Just a sudden stop and a coffin.

It is often said in jest these days, but we did not think it was funny back then, when we genuinely believed that any crash a fellow walked away from, even with a limp, scalds, minor burns, and the seat ripped out of their pants, was just a heavy landing... I went through so many trousers. Mrs Miggins was always stitching them back together. After a good, thorough wash, you understand. Many types of accidents happen when you are falling out of the sky. Ahem.

Anyway. Let's fill you in about moi. No, I'm not French. Just ambidextrous in that language.

You'd be forgiven for thinking I was immortal. I'm not. 

I bruise, bleed, cough, sneeze, and occasionally get indigestion from kippers just like everyone else.

The difference, you see, is that where other men die of those things — I somehow don't.

Now, I wasn't born lucky. No. Born in Surrey, 1895. Nothing particularly fortunate about Surrey. Grey skies, damp cricket pitches, and the looming inevitability of war. 

My luck was actually given to me. Gifted. Stuck to my bones like a burr you can't shake off. Still not sure, I appreciate it. 

Still banned from every Casino in Macau. Can't blame them. Baccarat was my weapon of choice. Fair cleaned them out, you know. Wonderful. 

Got stopped at the border in 51 with several thousand pounds worth of local currency in my luggage. 

Took old Bertie Ailesbury to get me out of that one. Sad way he went... hung himself with stockings. His own stockings. Had a thing for wearing women's underwear. There were rumours, and we had all been to Private school, so it was not a shock. Although I hear his young footman never got over it. Poor chap. Devastated.

Oh, yes. How did I get my luck?

It happened in South Africa, when I was eighteen and the Boer War was doing what wars always do: mincing boys into corpses and villages into ash. 

Mincing... not funny, but Berty did a lot of mincing in the other way. 

I was young, rash, and thought myself rather good with a rifle. 

I wasn't. I nearly shot my own boot off on several occasions. Sadly, I eventually entered the RAF. Good at aiming planes at wotsits, but not so good with the old firesticks. Shotguns yes. But that's cheating in my eyes... Anyway, I digress once more.

One evening, our patrol stumbled across a tribal camp caught in the middle of our and the Boers' crossfire — Xhosa families trapped inside while the bullets of two different forces tore through the air. 

Without thinking, I ran in. I don't remember how — just flashes. A bullet nicked my collar. A shell burst yards away, but the shrapnel bent itself around me like it had better places to be. 

Rescued a bladdy lot of them. In and out I went with as many of the terrified as I could take. 

Finally, I carried the chief's daughter out under one arm, his wife under the other, while his son clung to my belt like a very determined barnacle. And somehow… I walked out of it. Not a scratch. 

The chief man was not there at the time, doing something irksome somewhere to some wildlife. But, he returned the next day as we packed up the camp after sending the Boers off with their tales between their legs, I tell you. Marvellous.

The chief, a man with eyes like old embers, said I had interfered with fate. Not very thankful, to be honest.

Their culture is somewhat different to our own. Not British if you know what I mean. Not knocking other cultures, but it is not British.

Told me off for saving what was meant to be lost. Did have eighteen wives and more children than can be healthy for anyone. So maybe one wife would not be missed. 

Probably a good thing in a strange way. He was getting on. Might have given him a night off if you know what I mean.

He insisted his people repay me, though I told him Englishmen don't accept gifts. (Which is a lie. We'll accept anything if it comes with gin.)

And so, one night, under a sky that looked far too large for an eighteen-year-old boy to stand beneath, I found myself at the centre of a circle of Amagqirha. 

The healers. The diviners. Men and women who spoke with the ancestors, and — I swear to this day — the ancestors bloody well answered back.

The diviners stripped me off, only to my drawers mind. I was not up for any funny business and painted me with ochre, drew patterns on my chest that shifted like smoke, and chanted until the stars themselves seemed to lean closer. 

And then… silence. 

The chief stepped forward, touched my forehead, and whispered a word I couldn't pronounce if you gave me a month to try.

And that was it. Nothing. It was a bit of a let-down, to be honest, at the time.

Or so I thought.

The next morning, our column was ambushed. Every man cut down where they stood. My horse was shot, collapsed beneath me, and crushed me flat — except it didn't. It should have, and it should have trapped me where I lay.

But no. I got up without a bruise, dusted myself off, and legged it as the younger chaps say under heavy gunfire. Every shot missed.

I escaped my pursuers easily, not by my guile but by their inability to notice me. Was ridiculous at times. Once, I pretended to be a tree, and one of the Boerish types relieved himself on me. Didn't notice me while he warmed my leg. Bizarre, I am not that good an actor.

Took me three days to get back to our lines with many run-ins with the enemy. 

Kept bladdy falling into water miraculously in that place. Water is hard to find there, but every time I was thirsty, I tripped up and ended up face down in a stream, well or pond of clean water. 

When hungry, I found sausages in my pocket. I swear they hadn't been there before. British soldiers do not carry cooked sausages in their kit. Although maybe they should. I will suggest it at the next Air Marshal meeting. 

From that day on, it was like the universe had given me a permanent pass of leave in a way. 

Crashed planes — walked away uninjured. Just pride and once singed my moustache off. That hurt, I have to say. Stunk too. Burnt hair. 

Gas attacks — lungs clear as a bell, sudden wind direction change would send the clouds of it back towards the enemy trenches.

Plague in Egypt? I got the sniffles. 

Once, a Black dog charged across no man's land, jumped for my throat? I slipped in a shell-hole, and it sailed right over me, snarling like the devil itself. 

Then the bladdy thing came back and wanted scruffing behind the ears. Can't tell you the dogs' nickname. Not these days. Really not acceptable in polite society.

But here's the thing about luck: it isn't free. It never is. 

Mine has teeth. Everyone around me — well, they aren't so lucky. In fact, I often wonder if I suck the luck from others. I bladdy hope not.

The Spitfire squadron in '40… 

I was the only one to limp home from a raid over Calais.

My Lancaster crew in '43… 

All gone, except me, staggering out of a burning fuselage with nothing worse than a full bladder. 

The wives. 

I've had three. All happy marriages, I have to say. No divorces. Not one. 

Secret to a good marriage is to see each other as little as possible, I find. 

So, as you can imagine, me always being on a war front kept them rock solid, but they age, and I watched them die.

The universe may spare you, but it doesn't spare your friends or family. No, my luck did not work there. Dam it. 

So no, I'm not immortal. I'm just… inconveniently, unfairly alive. A walking accident waiting to happen — except it never quite does... Well, it doesn't happen to me.

And sometimes, late at night, I wonder if that word whispered into my skull at eighteen wasn't a blessing at all but a curse.

Perhaps it was a bargain. 

Perhaps the ancestors, with their old ember eyes, said: Let this boy live… and let him watch everyone else burn around him. Fairly rum of them if so.

That's the trouble with luck, you see. It runs out eventually. It just hasn't run out of me yet.

People also often remark, usually after a few too many sherries, that I don't look my age. Big 130th Birthday just last Tuesday.

'You don't look your age.' A polite way of saying, 'Good lord, why aren't you dead yet?' I take no offence. 

They're right. By the laws of medicine and common sense, I ought to have been a footnote on a cenotaph decades ago. 

But the thing about luck — real, bone-deep, green-eyed Lady Luck — is that she doesn't let the usual rules stick to you.

Coughs clear up. Wounds knit faster than they should. 

Diseases that knock others sideways barely tickle. I was once quarantined in Bangkok during a cholera outbreak and left the hospital fitter than when I went in — put on half a stone, actually, thanks to the rice pudding. Made with proper cream, you see. 

Time itself seems to trip over me, as if it's distracted. 

Where other men stoop, grey, and fold into themselves, I've merely… thinned. 

Weathered, yes, but not crumbled. It seems — and I say this with no scientific evidence beyond my own exasperating existence — that a man may live very much longer than expected, provided Lady Luck has taken a particular shine to him.

Back to the Professor and our first meeting. 

It was a filthy night. Clouds rolling in off the Sea as if aggravated. It was going to blow a hoolly. Belter of a storm. We were busy tying everything that needed tying down to notice much else.

And then he just walked straight past us. I was incredulous at first. 

He was not in a uniform, but was definitely an Englishman. A chap can tell these things from the man's gait, as he walks and the cut of his jib.

He was also not in any... bladdy century I recognised. I know that sounds somewhat odd, but it is the utter truth to boot.

He wore a dark coat that made him look like a shadow that had been sewn into the shape of a man, and his eyes… his eyes.

God help me, they looked like they'd seen every battle since the world was young and hadn't forgiven any of them for the horror they had left him with.

Later found out he had been at most of them and started a few to boot.

He didn't say a word to any of us. He did not engage with us. He did not even see us. Seemed a somewhat rude chap.

He just marched straight past us and onto the airfield, as if the place belonged to him. 

I called after him — something along the lines of 'Oi, you can't just—' — but he ignored me. 

Instead, he slowly walked out into the middle of the field, while I sort of trotted out behind him like a curious Jack Russell at Supper.

'I say...' 

'I say...' I repeated.

Again, he acted the cad and ignored me.

As I got closer, I could see him mumbling something under his breath. I couldn't hear it, though, because of the blasted storm.

As I got within arm's length, he raised a hand signifying for me to wait a moment, as he knelt.

'Sorry, Old chap.' He said.

'I will answer all your questions when I have dealt with those things.'

He now pointed to the sky as lightning lit it, as if on command, ... two giant airships in the sky not so far away from us. The lightning was being created by them as they flew.

I was struck dumb. 

How could they be flying in this storm? 

Why would they be flying in this storm? 

It had to be certain death for the crew. It had to be. 

I have taken some silly chances when taking flights, but this was execution by storm for the poor Fellows aboard.

'They are the storm...' He said. 

'... and there is no one on them.' He continued as if he had read my mind.

I turned back to him to ask a question. Again, that hand raised to make me take pause.

I know, I know, I should have taken charge of the situation, but although the man was without rank or uniform, his confidence and his lack of dismay at what he saw made me believe that he had the authority in this situation. 

Again, luck had allowed me not to make a silly mistake and rugby tackle him for a spy.

He closed his eyes, muttered in some language that tasted like dust and candle smoke.

He then drew a neat circle on the grass with a vial of glowing water. I'd seen the water fluoresce off the coast of India a while back, and the water he poured looked something like that. 

I thought he was mad.

Then he said, 'If you value your aircraft, you'll want this finished before it arrives properly.'

'It?'

I didn't have to wait long to find out what "it" was. It was the storm itself.

The clouds attacked first — not rolling in, but hunting shadows. Thick, black, and moving against the wind. They swept anything they touched into themselves.

Then the lightning. It wasn't regular lightning — it was alive, with claws, teeth, and a hunger for wood, fabric, and flesh. A weather-wolf. It came crashing down, striking the earth with the force of artillery shells. 

Mud and clods of turf were thrown into the air, where they were then hurled as if by something accurately at anything that could be smashed.

'I need you to distract it. I'm afraid I did not get here quick enough. Not finished the counter spell to it.' He told me. 

I must have looked dumbfounded or something. I was. I had no idea how to distract... erm, it. How do you distract an airship created storm?

'Any of your chaps brave enough to throw themselves up and into that?' He asked with resignation and sadness.

'They might not come back, but if I don't get this finished, that... thing is going to hit the Naval bases. I am afraid you are just a low-priority target and very unlucky to be in its path.' 

So I ran back to the pilots huddled in the shelter of what was mostly wreckage of the airfield's buildings.

'Right chaps. I know this sounds inescapably idiotic, but we need to go up and do a bit of shooting at things.' I told them.

Many pairs of concerned and frightened eyes looked back at me. They all knew it would probably be a one-way journey. Then, of course, all the chaps stood up and saluted. Bladdy volunteering every man Jack of them!

We rushed to where the kites should have sat.

Wreckage, only three of the B.E.2cs still seemed whole. All the fighter variant types, thank goodness. Or thank the green-eyed lucky lady.  

Somehow, we got them started. Somehow, we got them airborne, and that is when the true horror of the night began.