“The Ottoman will expect us to go West to drop off the civilians, and then into Bosnia. The Hun air force may be alerted, and they won’t understand we’re not an Ottoman warship. If we keep going Southwest, with any luck, we’ll bypass the Hun and the Ottoman and get to the Adriatic. Then we turn South and peddle like billy-oh for EMReC, the East Mediterranean Regional Command. My old chums. Hey, what?” Andeccles beamed.
“Good show, Andeccles. And how do we convince them that we’re not an Ottoman warship?”
“Oh, for that we need to get the wireless thingy working and we shall need to fly my personal flag.”
“You have a personal flag?”
“I should say, old boy. Figured it out during a tarty party. I’ll need five pairs of lady’s bloomers and two large brassieres! Preferably still warm. The bigger the better.”
“Lady’s underwear old boy. Strung together to make the signal. Bum, titty, bum, titty, bum, bum, bum! They’ll know it’s me then.”
“Oh, good grief!”