Danang Sailor
nullius in verba
During WWII two RAF fighter pilots stationed in Africa had a disagreement over which one was the best big game hunter. After a bit the disagreement escalated into an argument and was well on its way to becoming a fight when their squadron commander intervened.
"Boys, I need every pilot in order to beat back Jerry's advance up in Tunisia. Can't have pilots beating each other bloody, now can I? You blighters need to find another way to settle this; perhaps a hunt for a beastie hard-to-find in these parts?"
The pilots saw the sense in this, and agreed each would separately hunt a lion, which were scarce that far north. To make things even more interesting each man put up a pint of 30 year old Glenlivet Single Malt Scots Whiskey; the squadron commander would hold the stakes and make the decision about the winner. Then, they parted ways for a one week hunt. The first to bag a lion won the Glenlivet and bragging rights; the loser would never mention his hunting skills again.
The first pilot took a native guide and went out in the traditional way. However, the second pilot took a different approach. As soon as his rival was out of sight (and hearing) he loaded his plane with fuel and a full load of ammo for his machine guns, and made sure his wing cameras were working. Then he took off and flew south over the jungle and began to make tree-top level passes. Soon enough he spooked a lion into a clearing and it was a simple matter to dive and strafe the poor beast -- capturing the kill with his wing cameras. He then flew back to base, had the film developed, and presented the photos to the squadron commander. While the commander was appalled at the less-than-sporting method his pilot used, he had to admit that a lion had been bagged, in a manner of speaking, within three hours of the hunt beginning.
At the end of the week the other pilot came dragging back in, completely exhausted and sans lion. He was flabbergasted when he staggered into the Officer's Club only to see his rival, cool, calm, in a crisply pressed uniform, sipping 30 year old Glenlivet. Behind the bar was a picture of the winner's dead lion, signed by the squadron commander. Because of the details of their bet, the loser couldn't even ask about the hunt, which may have been best under the circumstances. And the moral of our story?
The shortest distance between two pints is a strafed lion!
"Boys, I need every pilot in order to beat back Jerry's advance up in Tunisia. Can't have pilots beating each other bloody, now can I? You blighters need to find another way to settle this; perhaps a hunt for a beastie hard-to-find in these parts?"
The pilots saw the sense in this, and agreed each would separately hunt a lion, which were scarce that far north. To make things even more interesting each man put up a pint of 30 year old Glenlivet Single Malt Scots Whiskey; the squadron commander would hold the stakes and make the decision about the winner. Then, they parted ways for a one week hunt. The first to bag a lion won the Glenlivet and bragging rights; the loser would never mention his hunting skills again.
The first pilot took a native guide and went out in the traditional way. However, the second pilot took a different approach. As soon as his rival was out of sight (and hearing) he loaded his plane with fuel and a full load of ammo for his machine guns, and made sure his wing cameras were working. Then he took off and flew south over the jungle and began to make tree-top level passes. Soon enough he spooked a lion into a clearing and it was a simple matter to dive and strafe the poor beast -- capturing the kill with his wing cameras. He then flew back to base, had the film developed, and presented the photos to the squadron commander. While the commander was appalled at the less-than-sporting method his pilot used, he had to admit that a lion had been bagged, in a manner of speaking, within three hours of the hunt beginning.
At the end of the week the other pilot came dragging back in, completely exhausted and sans lion. He was flabbergasted when he staggered into the Officer's Club only to see his rival, cool, calm, in a crisply pressed uniform, sipping 30 year old Glenlivet. Behind the bar was a picture of the winner's dead lion, signed by the squadron commander. Because of the details of their bet, the loser couldn't even ask about the hunt, which may have been best under the circumstances. And the moral of our story?
The shortest distance between two pints is a strafed lion!
