After returning from a night's "egg-laying" on Jerry's transport lines
and dumps, my brother "intrepid airman" and I decided on tea and toast.
To melt a tin of ration butter which was of the consistency of glue
we placed it close to the still hot engine of the plane. Unknown to
us, owing to the slant of the machine, the tin slipped backwards and
spilled a goodly proportion of its melted contents over the propeller
at the back. (Our planes were of the "pusher" type.)
Next day as we strolled into the hangar to look the bus over we found
our Cockney mechanic, hands on hips, staring at the butter-splattered
propeller.
"Sufferin' smoke, sir," he said to me, with a twinkle, "wherever was
you flyin' lars' night--_through the milky way_?"--_Ralph Plummer (late
102 Squadron R.A.F. Night-Bombers), Granville House, Arundel Street,
Strand._