Ignatius strolled into the hangar, plodding along at a slow pace to cast his eye over the bomber sheltered therein. He sighed, marveling that such a harried-looking thing could still fly. He stopped beside one of her wheels and peered curiously at the mechanic sitting beside it.
"I say Simpkins, what is it you're doing there?" The parrot asked.
"Patchin' the tyre, guv." the mechanic replied.
"'Sir' will do nicely..."
"Right, sorry squire. Like I said, just patchin' the tyre."
"I can see that, but what are you patching it with?"
"Oh, I found these in the canteen. They make craking patches. I'll stop up all the 'oles in the windows next."
"The canteen? Are you using our precious rations to plug up holes in the ship?!"
"Well, sir, 'precious' is sort of a value judgment, innit?" Simpkins held up one of the foodstuffs for Ignatius to inspect.
"Oh," the parrot croaked. "Is it one of those beastly tinned things, which resemble but are altogether unlike a sticky toffee pudding?"
"Right you are sir, that's the one. Craking patches, they are."
"Yes, I've attempted to eat them myself, my skepticism regarding their efficacy as a tyre patch has completely evaporated... Is there any chance of running out of them before supper?"
"Not necessarily, sir. If I leave alone the less serious flak 'oles, there ought to be... Just enough left for the officers' table!" Simpkins grinned.
"N- Now see here!" Ignatius chided, animatedly shaking his wing and elevating his voice. "This is His Majesty's Air Force, and that sort of slipshod workmanship is simply unacceptable! You are to make a thorough inspection of the hull, and if there is a hole to be found, you patch it! I don't want to see a sliver of daylight coming through that hull in the morning."
"Yes, sir!" Simpkins gave a clumsy salute.
"Hrmph. Sticky toffee..." the parrot muttered to himself, turning away to leave. After a moment he turned back around. "Blimey, I almost forgot I came in here to ask you something. Now what was it... Something about the engines; very important... Oh! Are they working again?"
"Oh yes, running just fine, sir!"
"Running just fine..." the parrot looked skeptical again.
"Like a top, sir."
"Are you quite sure? They wouldn't start for love nor money this morning."
"Well they start now."
"Hrm. Well, good work Simpkins."
"I didn't do a thing, sir. They just started up when I tried. It's like she's got a will of 'er own sometimes!"
Ignatius chuckled. "Biggles certainly thinks so. He's quite certain that she is factually alive; speaks to him."
Simpkins furrowed his brow. "'E's cracking up a bit then, is he?"
"Oh, I don't think so. It's not entirely impossible. There's a lot of magic holding this ship together. Not that your efforts aren't invaluable, but if not for the convoluted web of incantations on her, she'd be a pile of rubble. And it's the best sort of magic. That which comes from feelings of honour and humour, and love. That's just what Biggles says. Says she loves us very dearly and wants to protect us."
Simpkins looked up at the underside of the plane, around where her chin would be if she had one, a wondering look on his face.
Ignatius continued: "He tells me that she instructs him on how best to fly her. Shares her feelings with him. He says every time her engines start, her heart breaks, because she has to take us over there again..."
"Strewth..." Simpkins said, awed. "So it's true then? Lady Dover is alive?"
Ignatius shook his head. "No, I don't think so. It may seem as though she is, but that's more likely to be a quirk of the spells Fleming and I used. Emotional feedback, you know. It's his own mind reflected back at him. He is a bit of a softie, Biggles."
"Oh. Well, still, if it's possible, I might like to think she's been brought to life, and does care about us."
"You may if you wish, but I don't fancy the idea."
"Why not?"
"I don't like to imagine I've done something so cruel."