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Group Captain Woldy glanced out the right handside of his cockpit. ‘Messersmichts’ he thought to himself. ‘More like Messertwits’. He howled with laughter. Two years commanding an RAF squadron in the North Sudan had left his mind and sense of humour sharper than a camel’s aim during wet season, and his defiant sense of purpose and dignity lead him far from relying on profanities to make a quick joke. This, if nothing else, was evident.
“Sir, this is hardly the time for gags, over”. The voice of Ayame Croc came over the radio.
Group Captain Woldy resisted the temptation to make a further joke around Acroc’s use of the word ‘over’ and opted instead to do the responsible thing, and issue orders. Two years leading the squad had taught him one thing; although he himself may be an aerial ace, his inferior dependants have never fared well when he’s issued jokes instead of orders. In fact, it is one of the RAF’s best kept secrets that casualties in the Sudan under GC Woldy can be identified in the blips on demographic graphs charting population rate during the 20th century.

“Squadron is to rise above cloud cover, I’ll draw them in and you can double back to flank them from behind”. It was also a best kept secret that GC Woldy was one of the least capable aerial strategists the twentieth century would forget and was about to perform the biggest aeronautical blunder since the Captain of the Hindenberg said ‘lets try and get a closer look at that lightning’. But such was life when a well known family can afford a decent commission. And so it was that GC Woldy cascaded through the skies, ebbing and flowing through the clouds like a duck diving for tiny fish on a wistful summer day lingering in the memory with all the ambiguity of vanilla ice cream. “Tally ho” he roared, as he dipped over a cloud and singlehandedly embraced the claws of the luftwaffe.



‘A minor flirtation with Fritz and I’ll draw them into the clutches of my lads’ he thought. But a warrior, whether on land, sea, or air can often fall victim to their ego, and GC Woldy was no exception to this rule. ‘I’ll give the jerries a tin of my heinz’ he thought, ‘or give heinz a tin of my jerries, I can never remember which’. And with that thought he opened fire, one man and his vision of Queen and Empire facing down the greatest force of evil the world had ever witnessed. Rat tat tat. Bolts of scorching lead flung from his spitfire toward the soft pliable chassis of the enemy craft. One began to arch downwards, and GC Woldy experienced the sense of triumph that only a man engaged in ferocious and lethal combat can be expected to feel. At that precise point GC Woldy felt proud, patriotic and glorious. He knew this was what it meant to be English, a superior race, positioned by grace of civilisation at the top of the food chain, willing and bold, sturdy and strong, and it was by that grace that he was able to confront the German menace, and could never lose. There was something innate about the English that granted them a type of invincibility, the self assuredness of victory through sheer willpower and strength that made the whole war seem trivial due to their inevitable triumph.

It was during this brief reflection that GC Woldy realised the left wing of his otherwise immaculate Spitfire has been inconveniently misplaced during an altercation with some enemy bullets and he himself was entering a spiralling nose dive. “Another bloody reason to leave the EU”, he muttered, as he began to rapidly calculate the best means of at best surviving, or at worst addressing his current situation. ‘Got it’ he thought. He reached for the glove compartment, stretching with all his might as he resisted the G forces pulling his skeleton into his seat. He flicked the handle, and gazed upon his salvation. “There she is” he said (or tried to say) as he removed from the glove compartment a small tumbler, inscribed with his name and family motto ‘Je n'ai pas l'argent que je vous dois’, two small ice cubes, and a bottle of Gordon’s Gin. “Salvation” he muttered. Being an Englishmen, he was able to perfectly pour a quart of gin despite being in a free fall, and sip delicately at his mother's’ ruin. Voices crackled across his radio as his squadron engaged the enemy, and he thought it best to go out with the only thing he was remarkable for; dramatic flair.

“Oh the sweet embrace of the sand!” he proclaimed, “I face thee as a mere mortal, undeterred and unintimidated by your vast expanse. And I say to thee, I am ready! Ready for your warm embrace, as I face my final descent into the dune like apparition and heed your warm enveloping welcome. Consume me now! As you consumed the Pharoahs and Warriors of the classic era! I stand with them, heroes of our time and giants of history!”. This was followed by a large splash. “Eh?” GC Woldy said, still broadcasting across his radio. It dawned upon him that he had crashed into the Red Sea, and he had only thought he was going to hit the desert due to the sandy build up on his cockpit. “Balls” he said. As he slowly began to sink into the depths. Rapidly searching his mind for an aquatic soliloquy to spew out before he met his watery demise, several divers crashed into the sea around him and recovered his person, dragging him into the deck of a small cruiser.

“The heinzes! No… the jerries!”
“Calm down Group Captain” a voice demanded. You’re aboard the HMS Voodoomike. You’ve done it again.
“Done WHAT again?!” GC Woldy, the hero of our story, retorted.
“Managed to down yourself during a training exercise. There are no jerries.”
“I saw them!”
“We have no recorded contacts, sir. We recommend bedrest, your squadron has been withdrawn and an official report will be drawn up in the morning.”

GC Woldy awoke, to a small letter on his bedside table. DISHONOURABLE DISCHARGE, it read. “Dishonowuh Dischar?” Reading had never been his strong point. He thumbed pen the letter, and read it’s contents.

DISHONOURABLE DISCHARGE of GC Woldy, found to be, for the fifth time in a week, drunk whilst on duty. He had scrambled his squadron and flown several feet above the desert before losing his wing in a collision with a palm tree and cart wheeling into a nearby cove.
This is the third such time an accident has occurred costing valuable resources and machinery to HM Armed Forces, see relevant reports on last week's Gin Refinery Explosion and Robbery of outdated Sopwith fighters both concerning GC Woldy.

GC Woldy stood up. Mounted a camel, and galloped off the deck of the ship, never to be seen again.


Where is he now?

Thanks for reading,
Woldy

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Since being appointed King of the eUK I've ran a few charity schemes to encourage newer players to get involved. Feel free to message me for some free stuff if you are level 1-25 and meet any of the following criteria:

Woldy's Urban Achievers - Food and guns rewarded for: Publishing an article; being elected into any position; being awarded any medal; posting on forums.

Royal Writers: 150 GBP for publishing an article and an extra 300 GBP for any article you write that reaches the top 5. Just message me your article links.

Woldy's Warriors: Start up kit of Guns and food for anyone who feels like they don't pack a big enough punch. Simply message and ask for some boomsticks.


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