Valkyries I Have Known (And sometimes loved) Chapter the Third

The Legacy of 1959


Well,   here we are again, now in the third volume of the Edda.  After  bodging 
about the world, pretending I knew what I was doing, I was "State-side"  again, 
in central New Jersey just across the Deleware River from Philadelphia,  plying 
my "other" trade as a Technical Illustrator for the same old Whip-Cracker.  How 
very dull and mundane. During my travels, I had contact with neither Morgan nor 
Valkyrie  for almost two years, sad to say. Now with jingly in my  pocket  from 
the  overseas bonuses, I was almost desparate to rectify that  situation  ASAP. 
Unfortunately, the saying was far simpler than the doing. The Morgan allocation 
for the US was bespoke for almost a full year, and there were no used  machines 
to  be  found.  I  searched almost franticly, all  the  while  suffering  acute 
withdrawel  symptoms, but no usable machines could be found.  Sure. There  were 
a  few  examples around, but these were beset with lacy body work,  dry  rotted 
woodwork, rusted out frames and blown engines. I was in no mood for some  trash 
heap I might be able to drive, someday. I wanted NOW! Finally, weeks later, the 
only  fruit  of my labors was a rather folorn and abused  ragamuffin  4/4  with 
chalky  green  paint  and tatty interior, parked in a long unused  stall  of  a 
carriage house near Washington's Crossing, Bucks County. 

How  did I find such a well-secreted artifact? Simple. I was tipped by  a  tree 
pruner, in a tavern not far away. I know it sounds strange to most of you,  but 
for  a genuine car freak, the local watering hole is THE unbeatable  source  of 
disused automobile info for the surrounding countryside. In just such a manner,
I once found an almost "cherry" 1955 Mercedes Benz 300SL "Gullwing", with an 8-
inch maple tree  growing straight up  through the engine compartment. I cut the 
tree,  and rescued a fine high performance GT, the last of the CCCA  registered 
classic  Mercedes,  for pocket change, and I ain't nowhere NEAR  rich.  All  it 
needed to be a VERY nice motorcar was an engine rebuild, superdetailing, paint, 
tires, and registration. Did all the work myself to keep costs within  reason.. 
As  I  said,  I  was on a miserly budget. The  finished  product  was  a  quite 
handsome,  though  not  best in show, about 90 point Benz.  A  very  clean  and 
straight  daily  driver with all matching numbers. It even  had  the  knock-off 
wheels and fitted luggage. (Now there's a restoration project that will  reduce 
you  to  a  gibbering idiot.) I was lucky enough to drive it for  a  couple  of 
years, then foolishly sold it to the owner of a mail-order Yuppie-Gadget  Store 
for a VERY satisfying profit. The new owner promptly paid half a Mil to have it 
restored  down to the last nut, bolt and screw, and another exemplery  driver's 
automobile was removed from the road, never to be driven again. It  languishes, 
traveling  from show to concours in it's own climate-controlled van.  Just  one 
more  example of high velocity art transformed into a static glyph. Wasted   by 
the investment crazed collector's greed. Far too much new-found money, and  far 
too little sensitivity.

I'm  sure  by  now, you all are asking: "What sort of  Valkyrie  did  THAT  one 
harbor?". Actually, it it had none. That one was WOTAN himself... komplete  mit 
Kraken,  und  Donner,  und  Blitzen!!  To drive an SL  in  1955   was  a  major 
happening.  Over  150mph  in  total comfort  and  perfect  safety,  cradled  in 
ultimate, heavy-handed, state of the art Teutonic luxury. Best of all, over the 
years  his  merit  has become ever more appreciated. He's now  worth  over  one 
million dollars at auction. Oh, sigh. 
 
However,  all  is not lost. Perhaps you too can find  your  future  "Gullwing". 
Cruise  the country pubs. All you have to do is park your bum at the corner  of 
the  bar, and engage the nearest person in conversation about cars... ANY  kind 
of  cars,  and  you're  immediatly snowed under  by  a  veritable  blizzard  of 
information from everyone in the taproom. Most, of course totally useless,  but 
once  in a while... "Y'know? Old man Dragimeeroff's flaky son's got some  kinna 
teeny  lil square convertable settin in the carriage house must be 2 - 3  years 
now,  jus gettin' dirty. Dunno whut tis. Sure is cute." BINGO!!! Then you  have 
to look bored, and say something like "..ummmhum, say is that the old man  that 
lives  on  The Old Brekenridge Turnpike?" Your informant will  shake  his  head 
scornfully and proceed to show just what a fool you are, and how knowlegable of 
local  lore  HE  is. "NO! NO! THIS is the doddery ol fudd  what  lives  over..." 
Before he's done, you know everything about Clan Dragimeeroff, from when  Great 
Great  Grandfather  Nikoli  was  Command Colonal in  the  Tsar's  Own  Imperial 
Lancers. Best of all, the more you show how disintrested you are by  pretending 
to  shut the guy up, the more he charges ahead, and the more you  learn.  Handy 
stuff  to know, when you're trying to warm someone up to a deal, cold  off  the 
street.
 
No time to lose. I left the tree guy thinking I was salt of the earth,  warming 
a brandy, courtesy me, and hied myself to the location he had indicated.  Quite 
a  nice place. All white stained brick with copper mansard roof. Making sure to 
look  almost presentable, I  approached the door. The tap of the massive  brass 
knocker  fetched  a Harris Tweed clad individual of advanced years,  who  after 
eyeing me frostily, simply said "Yes"

It was neither an interogation nor statement. It seemed as though the  exchange 
was to be of a formal nature. I tried to look confidantly upper class, and  not 
have  too  much of my childhood hillbilly drawl seep through."I wish  to  speak 
with  Mr.  Dra..." No, dear reader, his name was not Dragimeeroff.  Let's  just 
call it D. Before he could ask, I continued. "I have no appointment, and Mr.  D 
does  not know me. My card." I proffered my business card and looked around  as 
though surprised to not find a card tray. Isn't it amazing how foolish a person 
can become when they think they're about to be put down?

"In   what  capacity  do you repesent your firm? We  do  not  make  unsolicited 
purchases at the door. Good day to you, sir."

Touche' Things were not proceeded as anticipated. "Just a moment. Please inform 
Mr D that I wish to discuss the young Mr. D's motorcar." (I know, Bubba, but ya 
just  CAN'T  go 'round jamming your boot in a man's door like a Narc,  I  don't 
care  how  rude he is. Besides the door was solid oak and a good  three  inches 
thick... just like your head. now let me finish.) 

The frosty expression began to look as if there were sleet in the offing.  "Mr. 
D  is not receiving callers, and if you wish to discuss the motorcar,  you  may 
speak with me. I am the young Mr. D!" 

My  mouth practically fell open. I don't know what I expected, but it certainly 
was  not someone as old as my grandfather. I began to raise my hand  to  shake, 
then  allowed  it  to  slowly drop. His quite obviously was  not  going  to  be 
offered.  The ball was in my court. "Very good, sir. I shall make  this  brief. 
What  sort  of  automobile have  you there. If it meets  my  needs,  would  you 
consider  selling. Would you tell me why it's been laid up for so long. and  if 
it might be for sale, what would be your asking figure?"

He  stood as if expecting more. His eyes defocused momentarily, then came  back 
to the here/now. "Morgan, yes, impossible to drive, twelve hundred dollars."

It took a moment to sort that out. "Very well. May I look it over?...Drive it?

"Won't  start."  He didn't move a muscle. Did he want a witness  to  what  this 
great bearded ruffian might purpetrate in his carriage house?

"I'll get someone."

He  didn't  exactly brighten, but I thought I preceived tiny  fissures  opening                                        
'round the edges of the ice cap. "As you wish."

I took off in my rental Buick and got the kid from the nearest garage. Back  at 
the  carriage house, we removed the ripped canvas cover, and stared. It  was  a 
Morgan  alright  enough, but the poor thing was so FILTHY! We  pushed  her  out 
through  straw  and  road apples, and used the hose to sluice  away  the  major 
debris. 

Inventory  time. The puff-up seat squabs were missing altogether, but the  rest 
seemed to at least be present, and reasoably intact. The once beautiful  walnut 
dash  (oops, fascia.) was as the surface of Mars. That, at least,  being  solid 
instead  of vaneer, could be brought back with a litle gunstock oil and  plenty 
of  elbow grease. The rest of the cockpit just seemed to be mostly  about  five 
years behind on a thorough cleaning.

She was shod with about half life Michelins, and looking under there seemed  to 
be no obvious cancer nor loose tag ends. Lifting the passenger (Right) side  of 
the  bonnet, I near had a stroke. Ford 100E! Almost the identical little  buzz-
bomb  as my ill-fated '47 English Ford Popular. Definately my  most  UNfavorite 
engine  in  the  entire  universe.  I use  the  term  engine  in  its  loosest 
connotation. I've owned model airplanes with more go. The damned thing wouldn't 
even make a decent boat anchor... too light. 

The  so-called  powerplant sat hard abaft the radiator, leaving  about  sixteen 
inches  between it and the firewall. In this grand accomodation resided a  Kent 
Ford three  speed ... yes, three speed gearbox about the size of your  average 
bowler  hat.  The remote linkage was an engineering marvel, not  to  mention  a 
monument to the ingenuity of development chaps at the Morgan Works. Instead  of 
a long, willowy wand, or the expected remote gearchange casting, the stick rose 
verticly  to be intercepted by the clevis end of a long horizontal shaft  which 
disappeared  through  a  tricky sliding ball and socket joint  affixed  to  the 
firewall.  How  curious.  I walked back to check out the business  end  of  the 
artifact.  Lor!  There was no lever at all. The rod simply came back  from  the 
firewall, took a  slight downward jog, progressed rearward another eight or ten 
inches before turning ninety degrees upward like a lazy "L" to be capped with a 
black  Bakelite ball. I leaned over and studied closely. The ball was  engraved 
with the familiar alpha-numerics, 23R1. however, the 2 was on the top left, and 
R  top right with the 1 under. The shift pattern was a mirror image of  normal! 
Well, of course. The rod levered left to right at the firewall, reversing those 
directions,  but  slid fore and aft so there was no such reversal  there.  Some 
engineer I am, to not  intuitively know. Don't know why I was surprised.  After 
all, it WAS a Morgan.

After checking and adding fluids all 'round, I noticed the key was still in the 
ignition. Feeling lucky, I shrugged at the garage kid, hopped over the door (it 
was  back in the days when I could still do wild things like hop.), and sat  on 
the  bare  plywood  seatbase. OK, then. Key on, and a cautious  finger  on  the 
button. I'd like to report that she boomed off and ran perfectly, but I  gladly 
settled  for  what actually happened. The old batteries drug  the  engine  thru 
sloooowly, but wonder of wonders it fired on one cylinder. It hiccoughed  along 
doing a solo for a while before becoming a duet, then a trio, and at long  last 
a  full quartet. The garage kid and I grinned at each other and  simultaniously 
punched  the air. YESSS!!!. A movement off to the side caused us both to  look. 
The "young" Mr. D, with a pinched look of ultimate disgust, was moving away  as 
the blue-black cloud generated by the first few revs drifted his way.

Out  once again, a quick look under was next on the agenda. Good! No  tell-tale 
oozings  of  life-blood, and nothing obvious adrift. A careful look  under  the 
"Gnu-style" nose (that's a joke, haha. I happen to think the new front  styling 
resembles somewhat a Wildebeast. New... Gnu. Get it? Oh well, never mind.  I'll 
get  back  to  the  hardware.  Sorry.) Looking under  the  front  end,  it  was 
comforting  to confirm that all the sliding pillar machinary was still  exactly 
as The Almighty, Her Majesty, and Morgan the Elder intended. In addition, along 
life's highways, the Morgan had accrued (French horn flourish: ta-taaa!)  shock 
absorbers,  (dampers),  and  lo! (French horn  grand  fanfare:  taa-taaa-taaaa-
TAAAAAAA!) DISK BRAKES!

After  ascertaining  all was well, I commenced convincing the  Cretin  who  had 
owned  her  since new to allow me a test drive. Without a word  he  turned  and 
entered the house, to return with two hideous floral print cushions which  were 
casually tossed into the cockpit. Even the garage kid, loading his gear  behind 
the seats, looked a little put off by the huge poppies in garish red.  

Off  we  set, a bit gingerly at first, but by the time the enraptured  boy  was 
delivered  back  to  to his master,  she was sounding fairly  stout,  but  felt 
somewhat  vague compared to what I could remember about Griselda and  Gorm,  my 
previous  Morgans.  I checked the tyre/tire pressures. As  was  expected,  they 
averaged  about  sixteen psi, with one at thirteen. The spare,  of  course  was 
ZERO!  I brought them all to thirty... a compromise, they could be juggled  for 
best  fore and aft if I decided to purchase. After topping up with fresh  fuel, 
it  was back on the road. VOILA! She WAS a Morgan after all, complete with  the 
impeccable  handling,  the  ultra-precise  steering, and  of  course  the  ride 
guaranteed  to loosen the fillings in your molars. I was rapidly  reacquainting 
myself with my beloved Mogs.

A Morgan, yes... but could the sad little almost-derelict example also possibly 
be  that  most admirable of all beings, a Valkyrie? Only time and  miles  would 
tell.  I motored on with a little more spirit. It took very little time on  the 
narrow  meandering lanes of deepest  Bucks County, so very like those in  rural 
England, to answer that critical question. She most assuredly WAS! Though a bit 
elderly in demeanor, and rather on the sedate side, she knew her way 'round the 
twisty bits like a Prima Ballerina. With the miniscule engine up front  leaving 
her  decidedly shy on power, you couldn't pop her bustle out and  drift  'round 
the bends as I had been accustomed with Morgans. Au contraire. With the 4/4 You 
simply  blew  into the corner at a perfectly impossible velocity and  she  just 
raised her skirt-hem and went primly 'round in perfect line, en Pointe' all the 
way.  No effort at all. In no time I felt as though I were a traveler  returned 
home  from a  long absence. The only thing I could possibly think  was  missing 
was  the  Tachometer.  4/4  Morgans of that vintage had  none.  No  matter,  my 
happiness was complete.

Back at his pre-Revolutionary farmhouse, I confronted the the  Philistine/Owner 
and  began  trying to deal. When asked about about  the  missing  seat-cushions 
(squabs)  he  gave his hand a rather diffident brushing  motion,  like  shooing 
flies,  and  commented, "Oh, they were nothing more  than  moth-eaten balloons. 
Threw 'em out." 

OH NO! "What about the leather part?"

The  flies were shooed a bit more vigorously this time. "Oh, GAWD yes. Got  the 
damp  in 'em. Smelt like a wet camel." He gave a deep sigh, and shook his  head 
with  an expression of resigned sadness for having to explain  such  elementary 
subjects  to  an obvious mental defective. I was somehow able to  refrain  from 
asking  just   how he happened to be familiar with how a wet camel  "smelt".  I 
have, in my travels, "smelt" a wet camel, and  must agree. It is a fine sort of 
fetid, organic, nostril wrinkling miasma of such physical presence that it will 
strip  to bare steel best grade battleship primer at a distance of ten  meters. 
Even so, it is not a valid excuse for pitching your Morgan's furniture  in  the 
ash bin. (Garbage can. I think I like US name better. Sounds more vile.)

Trying to use the missing  seats as a bargaining chip meant nothing. That... uh
person was just wealthy enough to let the fine little machine rot to powder  in 
a horse stall before letting it go for one farthing less than his  preconceived 
notion  of its worth. Never the less, I persevered and finally got him down  a 
hundred  dollars, wrote a check for $1100.00 (they're only cheques on the  east 
side  of the pond.), got him to agree to let the Buick sit at the side  of  his 
drive  till the rental people came for it, and drove away, floral  pillows  and 
all, in a state of fearful happiness. I was still a little apprehensive. If  he 
had  let  the OUTside lapse into such a frightful state of neglect,  what  must  
things INside  the  mechanicals  be.  However all went well,  and  my  
confidence  and happiness grew by the mile.

By  the time we got to my flat over the carriage house of a wonderful old  Bank 
Victorian  in  Riverton NJ, we were almost on familiar speaking  terms.  I  was 
begining  to  learn what countless 4/4 owners have doubtless known  for  years. 
That is, going fast does not necessarily make you fast. What kills your time is 
a continual need for braking and acceleration. If you were to approch a  corner 
at  55mph,  slow to 45, then accelerate again to 55 on the exit,  your  average 
speed would be considerably less than if you entered at 50. crossed the apex at 
50, and motored away at the same speed. Of course the Big Secret about a Morgan 
is  that  it makes it possible to do the whole thing at about  70,  or  better, 
depending upon your skill, desire, bravery and/or the condition of your cardio-
vascular system.

After  a  quick wash and a long laborious rubdown, I stood back to  admire  her 
finish. Not too bad, all the abuse considered. Green, but not the overused  BRG 
that  seemed for a while to be squirted on anything smaller than a Caddy  Limo. 
BRG, for British Racing Green, was in itself a misnomer. Technicaly the  proper 
name for that particular hue is Napier Green. Dubbed for the fine old  marque's 
racing  livery when they were almost the sole bearer of the Union Jack  on  the 
international  racing  circuit  in  the early 1900s. My  new  friend  was  much 
lighter.  Jaguar  used  to call it "Suede Green" back in  the  XK120/140  days. 
Actually,  a  rather handsome color and not quite so trite as  BRG.  Coming  up 
close,  I  sopped at an imaginary drop of water on the top  of  the  windscreen 
frame.  I  patted  the  spot and said "Mussa". Why on earth  did  such  a  name 
(pronounced "moosuh") seem to pop out so automaticly? I'm not altogether  sure. 
It  seemed  to be somehow fitting. Mussa...a Scandinavian pet name for  a  very 
dear, elderly, respected, and proper Aunt, who would never-the-less go with you 
out  to  the  bottom of the back garden and thrash everyone  quite  soundly  at 
rounders,  and immediately thereafter without a hair out of place, insist  that 
everyone  be oh-so-proper at High Tea. My new friend had a similar demeanor  on 
the road. Rather than the powerful, thrusting nature of a Plus 4, she was spry, 
nimble, and ultimately neat. In short order we became as an old married couple, 
understanding  and  appreciating  one another's strengths  and  weaknesses.  An 
ultimatly comfortable relationship.

She  was so graceful. Almost inperceptably more so than the more powerful  plus 
4.  With  a slightly taller grille and lower cowl, her bonnet line  was  almost 
horizontal.  The upper cockpit rail was an inch or so lower which  enabled  the 
rear deck to slope upward and forward to meet the cockpit opening in one  span, 
rather  than to have to go vertical an inch or more at the forward end,  as  on 
the plus 4. The micro-engine barely sipped fuel, so a smaller tank was  fitted, 
which  allowed the spare wheel to sink almost flush with the rear  deck  unlike 
the more powerful vehicle's which stood an inch, or more proud. Although ground 
clearance  remained undiminished, the whole stance seemed somewhat lower.  This 
was  in some small part true, and the lack of the "jog" in the rear deck  line, 
the sunken spare, and horizontal bonnet-line accentuated the small  difference. 
That  there  were some measurable differences became obvious when,  even  after 
installing original type seats, I found I could reach out and without  leaning, 
place  my palm flat on the ground. She was simply more delicate than  her  more 
powerful kin. Less Irish Wolfhound and more Whippet in her breeding. There were 
virtually  no  obvious  differences  in design,  yet  the  whole  envelope  was 
descernably more graceful in its surface development than that of the  plus-4, 
though  in  no way less attractive. More like fraternal (or  with  a  Valkyrie, 
should that be sorital) rather than identical twins.

In  continuing  my  instruction  by  Valkyrie,  Mussa  polished  my  sense   of 
refinement.  Prior to our meeting, refinement in an automobile  was  synonimous 
with dull. It took her almost no time to prove my error in logic. The race goes 
not  always  to the powerful. The prize is often taken through  adroit  use  of 
ordinary  and mundane artifacts to make up an harmonous unit. My little  Mussa, 
so  perfect  in her whole, was just such an instance. For the  most  part,  her 
components were a complex collage of depressingly ordinary OEM hardware  herded 
together  from  every  corner of the UK. The engine and  transmission,  as  you 
already  know, from the smallest, most uninspired British Ford. The rear  axle, 
and  brakes from a Bedford van, suspended upon a Commer's springs. Wheels  were 
birthed of a commercial model of Austin. The front brakes were Austin-Healy BN-
2  items. Instruments and lighting were, of course Smiths and Lucas proprietary 
items,  with the Morgan Logotype silkscreened on the former. And on and on.  Of 
course some things, notably the front suspension and frame were manufactured at 
the  Works because they were fairly simple artifacts, and peculiar  the  Morgan 
Motorcar.  So,  why the automotive Scavenger Hunt? (Can't for the  life  of  me 
remember  what  the Brits call a Scavenger Hunt). Actually, Morgans  has  never 
been  a manufactury in the accepted sense of the word. They are much more  akin 
to  an assembly works. A cottage industry consisting of (if memory  serves  me) 
seven,  if  you count the "office complex", low brick buildings  which  bear  a 
striking  resemblance to any row of chicken houses the world 'round. What  sets 
the  Pickersleigh  Road compound apart, of course are the  groups  of  relaxed-
looking  blokes pushing semi-finished Morgans from one hut to another.  No,  of 
course  they  don't just go down the line, 1-2-3. They  criss-cross  the  yard, 
higgly-piggly,  with no appearant rhyme nor reason... unless, of course  you're 
in  on the Grand Design. Then I'm sure it's perfectly logical. Confusing?  Yes. 
BUT  from  birthing Mogs are different. They seem to be almost as much  fun  to 
build as to drive. I met one gent at the works who had the best of both worlds. 
Each day it was his duty to take each and every new Morgan out through the gate 
and up towards Jodrell Bank, he looped 'round through a few miles of back lanes 
whilst  giving all systems a fair workout before returning it to  the  customer 
delivery  building  assured that everything was, as the saying  goes  "In  Ship 
Shape and Bristol fashion." As soon as he alit, he slipped the flannel off  the 
seats,  and  a  couple  of chaps removed the grotty  old  assembly  wheels  and 
installed  sparkling  new  wheels and tyres for the  lucky  customer.  Can  you 
believe it? The fellow actually got PAID for driving Morgans!

The Morgan works, in all kinds of ways, is a singular entity amongst automobile 
manufacturies. With the soft sound and pungent smell of gluepots bubbling  away 
at the laminators benches, (Do they still use horse hide glue?) the tap-tap  of 
metalworker's hammers, and whirr of sewing machines, instead of the  spattering 
hiss  of  computer controlled spotwelders and the whine of U-bots  filling  the 
air. No fog of cutting lube, and no shouting assembly line gally slaves. At the 
Pickersleigh  address  you'll find a much less frenzied group. It's  more  like 
family style  rather than cafeteria-type car building. Possibly because a  fair  
number of  the  men  and  women,  yes women... Morgans was  one  of  the  first  
equal opportunity  employers  anywhere, came on board almost at  birth,  having  
been  brought into the business by their mothers or fathers. Maybe that's  part 
of the Mystique.  There  are some present day craftsmen who "inheirited"  their  
workstation  or  machine  from their elders, and they  from  theirs.  They  are  
obviously  doing  something right. I was told by a lathe operator that "Me  old  
man   run't  'fore  me. T's a bit special. Out o' parallel just  shy  o'  three 
mils,  Only  me ol' man shone me ha' ta' trick it, an' so we know wots up,  an' 
we  can tease 'im a  liddle  here an there an' the ol' ox ploughs right  along,  
cuttin  perfeck." These were the same machines that turned out some of the most 
precise  fittings needed  for the Spitfire aeroplane during WWII. It all sounds  
highly  comical. Peter  Sellers-as-Clouseau. In the UK they call it, I believe, 
"Just  Muddling through".  Hopeless...  until you remember the Brits  conquered  
practicaly   the  entire  known world by "Just muddling through." It  seems  to 
have worked  rather well.  Ask Phillip II. Ask Napoleon.  All I REALY know  for 
sure is that  people at  Morgan's smile quite a lot, very unlike GM, Toyota, or 
even British  Motors (or whatever that's being called these days).

The  use  of proprietary parts brings us to an intresting bit of  trivia.  4/4 
Morgans  of the 1950s and early 1960s had no tachometers because there  was  no 
convenient  way  to  attach the mechanical instruments of  the  period  to  the 
Medieval  little Ford powerplant. The drive and reduction gearbox off the  rear 
of  the  dynamo was an MG patent, and since in those days Morgan was  a  direct 
competitor,  well... too bad Morgan. I attached a Sun electronic tach to  Mussa 
for  a while, but my dainty little Valkyrie never seemed quite comfortable.  It 
was 86ed before long.

My DAINTY Valkyrie? An oxymoron, you say? Perhaps, until you bring to mind what 
Mr  Einstein  proposed  almost  a century ago.  Everything  is  relative...  to 
everything,  including itself. (No, Bubba. We ain't talking 'bout  aunt  Maude, 
and NO I don't understand what he was tryin to say, either. Be Still!) I'll try 
to  explain  if you think you have the time and patience. Just hang  in  there, 
This takes a while. If you're the impatient gear-head type, best jump ahead  to  
the first paragraph of page 21. OK? Going to give it a try? Good.  Here  we go.

Many years ago I was posted by my employer to Kastrup, near Copenhagen, where I 
was to supervise a series of fire control mods to the Danish Air Force  F-104s. 
The  task was more complex than anticipated, and as the weeks wore on. I  began 
to tire of hotel living, even though it was the d'Angleterre. My command of the 
Danish language was fair (my Mother came to the the US from AArhus when she was 
4) but not good enough, I felt to handle the classified ads. True, most younger 
Danes speak excellant English, but I felt I would most likely be speaking  with 
the older generation and their second language was usually German. Then one day 
as  I  was  having  lunch  with a Captain  Preben  sombody  or  other,  my  DAF 
counterpart, at the employees cafe on the civil side of Kastrup, he suggested I 
post  a notice on the bulletin board there. Great suggestion! I neatly  printed 
on  a  leaf  from  my  pocket notebook, then  had  doubts  about  an  outsiders 
eligibility   to  use  the  space..  Preben,  impatient  with  my   rule-bound 
uncertainty, grabbed the 3x5, and was off. At the board, he automaticly started 
to stick it up about level with his nose, then looked hard at me and pinned  it 
about a foot higher... about my eye level.   When he returned, he was  laughing 
and saying something about high altitude work, and how I'd probably get a reply 
from  a  SAS  flight crewmember who spotted it as they  came  by  at   cruising 
altitude.  I  told him he was very amusing, but bought his  lunch  anyway,  for 
helping  me.  That  was in the days when you buy a customer  a  cup  of  coffee 
without being charged with bribery.  

Several days later, there was a message at the hotel asking me to call a  local 
number  regarding  my notice. I sat at the window gathering my  thoughts  while 
gazing out at Kongles Nytorv, and Nyhavn. I wasn't sure how I was going to play 
the  scene,  nor  how  much Danish I was going to need. I  drew  a  breath  and 
straightened  my back. Funny how people do that when they want to make  a  good 
impression, even on the 'phone. I dialed up.

Three  double  rings,  more like UK than US, and  a  pleasant  but  noncommital 
indeterminate female voice spoke. "Ja, Tove." 

Then  I didn't quite know what to say. I had never before had anyone  answer  a 
private line with yes, and their name. Never the less, I managed to tighten  up 
my  courage  a turn or two. "Ja, mig navn er Bil, det  er Bee, eee, el.  Kan ve 
taler Englisk, saa venlig?" (Yes, my name is Bil, that is B, i, l. Can we speak 
English, please?"

There was a split-second hesitation, while something was said off-phone.  "I'll 
be  happy  to  speak English, Bil. Is that really your name?"  She  sounded  as 
though  she were supressing amusement. "Did you know it's the common  word  for 
motorcar  in  Danish."  I  confessed that I did not,  and  could  hear  muffled 
conversation on her end. How many people? . It was impossible to ascertain  the 
number nor gender of the voices. If this were a legit reply to my notice, I had 
better  be  on the cautious side. One could never tell. She came  back  on  the 
line.  "I'm sorry, that was very rude of me. One of my flat-mates is here,  and 
for  some reason she was striken with giggles. You know what a  contagion  they 
can be. All she had to do was look at me."

Stricken? Contagion? Hmmm. The lady had a better handle on the English Language 
than  an  easy third of the people I've tried to communicate with back  in  the 
States. Careful, now. She went on: "It was I who left the message in  reference 
to  your  advert on the employees notice board at Kastrup. My flatmates  and  I 
would  like  to talk with you to see if we're compatible and if so  reach  some 
sort  of an agreement. Is there a place where we can meet? Where are you  now?" 
When  I apparantly spent too much time pondering she barged right ahead.  "How 
does  the  coffee  shop  in  Magasin sound?  It  is  reasonably  close  to  the 
D'Angleterre.  Do  you   know   where   that  is?"  When  I  answered  to   the  
affirmative,  she  sounded pleased. 

I  thought  about the route to the meeting place. At the time of  day,  traffic 
would  be  thick  as  marmalade,  and in those  days  Stroget  was  not  yet  a 
pedestrian-only  way  and would be wall-to-wall  with wheeled  vehicles,  so  i 
would have to walk. Hold on... I knew a way. "Good, the coffee shop sounds like 
a fine idea. Twenty minutes is as soon as I could be there. Ok?" 

"Absolutely. How will we recognize you? The two of us will be wearing dark blue 
suits  with  red, white and blue Liberty Silk scarves. We are both  blond,  and 
quite  tall. My hair is shoulder length, my friend's is quite long but done  up 
in... ah... a la Francoise. Do you know what I mean?" When I said I thought so, 
she went aside again. 

Well  now, that shouldn'tbe too difficult. Contrary to popular belief,  Denmark 
is  not  a  country of tall blonds. That's Sweden. The Danes  are  shorter  and 
darker.  More like the northern Germans. "You shouldn't have any  problem.  I'm 
very  tall,  about  192 cm, weigh around 100kg, have short, dark  hair,  and  a 
medium length moustache and beard. I'll be wearing... let me see... a dark grey 
three-piece pinstripe suit, and ahhh... oh yes, a maroon pin-dot tie. That  ok? 
Oh, and don't let my size put you off. I'm really a very gentle person."

The circuit was silent so long I wondered what I had said that was wrong. I had 
opened  my mouth to speak again when she said, "Ok Bil we will see you  in  the 
Magasin coffee shop on the fourth fl... oh no... that's the FIFTH floor to you. 
The  coffee  shop  is on the fifth floor, but is marked fourth.  OK?  Good.  In 
fifteen minutes then. Good bye"

I  just couldn't stand it. I had to show off my poor Danish again. "Ja, det  er 
diglig.  Farvel, og tak skul de har." (Yes. That's lovely. Good-bye, and  thank 
you.)  Her 'phone went down quickly, but not in time to cut the  beginnings  of 
laughter. Never mind. I was intrigued. 

I  was ready in less than ten minutes and instead of using the  main  elevator, 
and trekking 'round the block to the store's main entrance, I used the  service 
lift,  ducked  through  the  room service pantry, out  the  back  door  of  the 
d'Angleterre,  angled across the allyway, went in over Magasin's  loading  dock 
and  took  the service elevator to the fifth... ah... fourth... ah...  oh  hell 
whateverth.  Anyway  the  PROPER floor. Outside the coffee shop  I  checked  my 
watch. Aha! 1425. total time in transit: 6 minutes to the second. Typical Yank, 
Right?  Well, I wanted to be inside and seated at a secluded table so  I  could 
check  them  out  before they saw me. Why? You KNOW why.  For  the  usual  male 
reasons.

The  hostess  greeted and escorted me to a back table. As we  were  walking,  I 
studied the mirrored rear wall to check the view of the entrance. Excellent!  I 
could easily see without readily being seen. The hostess drew out a chair,  and 
for  the  first time I looked down at the table. Coming to a  sudden  halt,  my 
cheeks began burning. Looking up at me were four polar-sky blue eyes framed  by 
wheaten hair. Red white and blue at two throats, and oh boy, here I was  trying 
to  sneak in early, with the obvious motives. But then, when had they  arrived, 
and  why. I smiled to myself. Three great minds on the same wavelength. We  ALL 
had  intentions of checking one another out. Was I supposed to laugh or not.  I 
settled  for smiling, and the next thing I knew we were all sitting,  having  a 
good  laugh at ourselves, just as if we were old friends. The lady to  whome  I 
had previously spoken, Tove, was leader of the band so to speak, her friend was 
Bjerte.  There  were  two others, Inga, and Jizzle whom  I  would  meet  later. 
Jizzle??? What's Jizzle.    

We  had coffee and discussed the situation. In Denmark the machinery  of  every 
human  endevour,  trivial  to earthshattering, is lubricated  with  gallons  of 
steaming coffee. The waitress kept our mugs brimming with scaulding Mocha-Java, 
and our negotiations progressed apace. Actually it was very straightforward.  I 
wanted out of the hotel, and they needed one more flatmate to help gen up  what 
was  at  the time outrageous rent. Of course now, in Copenhagen,  you  couldn't 
move  into a broom closet for double the price. What they had was a  huge  loft 
sort of place with five tiny, but separate bedrooms. The tariff was 9000 kroner 
(Crowns)  per  month,  about 1200 US dollars, a sizeable  chunk  in  the  early 
sixties.  Their  problem was that though they all had  respectable  jobs,  2250 
Kroner  each  was  a  burden, yet they were loath to give up  the  place  in  a 
building   built  in  1452,  overlooking  the  inner  harbor  and   bridge   on 
Vesterbrogade.  The place had been rehabbed in the 50s and so had all  the  mod 
cons.  Anyway,  if they got another person on the lease, they each  would  only 
need K1800, which was within their reach. Sounded reasonable to me. When  could 
I  see the place? I know that was fast, but the place sounded  intresting,  and 
the  hotel was becoming a very large bore. Of course I'm sure I wasn't  at  all 
influenced by the fact the two of them were collectively a 20! 

They looked at one another, and though I could detect no  sign of communication 
they somehow agreed. Tove turned and asked: "Is now ok?" Wow! Now that's what I 
call  decisive. I thought it over for all of a nano-second (yes, we  had  nano-
seconds  'way back then), and trying to not sound too jubilant said  something 
like "Sure, that's fine."

Unbidden,  the  waitress  brought our tab which Tove  snapped  up  and  studied 
briefly  before dropping some bills on the tray. "Ready?", she asked. I  stood, 
and  true to my upbringing, automaticly reached for her chair, sliding it  back 
as  she rose... and rose... and rose some more. OK, now let's slow down  for  a 
second.  Right about here is where all the hoaky writers start BSing  you  with 
how  the lady rose to her full fourteen feet and started knocking  the  plaster 
from the ceiling. BOSH! Come on now, we're talking real world here, so lets try 
to keep our imaginations in check. OK? Realisticly, the lady was only  slightly 
taller  than  I if you took into consideration her four inch heels.  Still  I'm 
over  six  foot  four in bare feet, and to see a woman stand up  to  about  six 
inches  above me makes her a notibly tall person by anyone's standards.  At  my 
height,  I'm not used to being towered over by many people, and not at  all  by 
ladies.  I know I was gaping open mouthed, 'cause when I looked at Bjerte,  she 
practicly  laughed aloud when my jaw fell yet further. She could have  been  no 
more  than  an  inch shorter than her friend. What was  I  dealing  with.  Drag 
queens?  Careful,  almost  embarassing  scrutiny  revealed  no  sign.  No  pore 
enlargement   from  beard.  No  disporportionate  hip-waist  conformation.   No 
prominent adams apple. Hmmmm.

I suppose I would still be rooted to the spot, with the chars scrubbing  'round 
my  feet  every night, had not the two ladies (yes, I was convenced)  taken  my 
arms as if I were escorting them, and moved me along with a "Come now, Bil.  We 
have a flat to look over." I'm sure we were at the address, out of the taxi and 
into lobby waiting for the lift before I took my next breath. I felt as  though 
I  had  been  exposed  to the hard vacuum of  space.  In  spite  of  cautionary 
thoughts,  I was entirely too stupified to ponder what sort of thugs  might  be 
waiting in the flat above. I, of all persons, should have been more aware.  The 
KGB  was renown for the beauty and skill of the operatives they used as decoys.
At risk of sounding overly dramatic, at the time I was privy to a wide  variety 
of US DoD (Department of Defence) information, and held the no-name,  no-letter 
security clearences to match. Was any of this given even the slightest  flicker 
of thought? Certainly not! Not by me as I stood between the two most  beautiful 
women I had ever seen, waiting for the elevator. The lift sighed to a stop, and 
an elderly couple stepped out, smiled pleasantly at my escorts and offered "Vor 
den  har  du  dag?" (How are you today?). Well. They used  the  familiar  "du," 
instead of the formal "de", for the word "you" when speaking to Tove and Berte. 
It seemed as though the ladies were known and liked around the campus.

I  was  more or less herded me into the car. Damn, wasn't much  larger  than  a 
'phone box. I've always been slightly claustiphobic, and the tiny space  seemed 
to be so packed with the three of us that there wasn't much room left for  air. 
Especially with my overshadowing companions seeming to get first crack at  what 
little  oxygen was available. Must shorter people live with that sensation  all 
their  lives? My appreciation of the routine discomforts of the smaller  people 
of  the  world experienced a dramatic increase in the length  of  one  elevator 
ride.  By the time the mobile coffin decanted us on the third floor,  breathing 
had  become a conscious effort, and even the limited space offered by the  tiny 
hallway was a delightful relief. It had to be the slowest elevator in the known 
universe.

Tove  went to the door directly across the hall, and with much ado, produced  a 
key  which looked as though it fit the front door at Edinborough  Castle,  then 
laughed  and slid a plastic card into a slot in the doorframe.  "Jolly  Joker", 
said  Berte dourly. Hey! I thought it was pretty funny, and told her  so.  Then 
she, appearantly thinking aloud, said "I wonder if the others are here."  Which 
recalled  my uncertainties once again. I felt the hair on the nape of  my  neck 
rise.  She  called out in a voice loud enough to make me jump, "HO, ER  DU  PAA 
HJEMME IKKE?" ("Hey, are you not at home?") There was immediate reply from  two 
voices. Well, I thought,  at least there were no KGB assasins waiting for me... 
the  voices  were feminine. Why I felt that excluded them from  being  such,  I 
truely do not know. Just stereotypical male thinking of the period, I guess. We 
entered  a foryre paneled in something the color of teak, but with a  different 
grain,  and turned left through pocket doors. I was not prepared for the  room. 
My  senses  did  a rapid readjustment. It looked like a garage  for  the  QEII. 
Really,  it had to have been about twenty meters long by ten wide. The  ceiling 
was  four  at least, and four beautiful crystal chandaleirs gave  soft  general 
light.  More contemporary fixtures formed warm pools to help  delineate  useful 
living  areas. Very inviting. It resembled a transparant house. All  the  rooms 
were separate, but you could see them all at once, if you so desired. Along one 
wall  were  four fireplaces easily the size of  generous walk-in  closets,  and 
gigantic porcelain stoves dominated either end. Later, I was told the place had 
originally been the "Gymnasium" (school?, training place?) where King Christian 
X (I think) taught young cadets how to skewer one another with proper grace and 
civility once they had grown to manhood.

To  hell with the trivia. You should have seen the flatmates! I was  introduced 
first to Inge. As she stood, I found myself looking up to her at least as  much 
as  to Tove. Then I involuntarily glanced down. I seem to do that almost  every 
time a meet a tall lady. Well, it beats staring at their breasts as so many do. 
Inge  was wearing nothing more than Nordic Ski stockings. Although  she  easily 
exceeded  2 meters with a generous helping to spare, she did not look  it.  Her 
structure  was that of shorter person. She extended her hand. "I'm  very  happy  
to  met   you  Bil." Her voice gripped me. It was like dark honey  flowing   in  
thick  ropes over a oven-fresh Sally Lun... her long straight hair,  the  same. 
Just   as  our  fingers  touched, I had a momentary second  thought.  She   was  
robust,   and athletic  looking, and had large, sinewy hands. Was she the  sort 
of  person  who would  enjoy  crunching the unwary?. Her grip turned out to  be 
warm,  dry,  and firm, but gentle. The kind of shake I always hope mine is. The 
Complete  Woman! Hazel eyes smiled down at me. Surpressed merriment? 

The  fugue-state was broken by, "And this is Jizzle. Jizzle, this is  Bil,  and 
don't try to take him for a ride, he's not REALLY a car." Was she making fun of 
me?  It wasn't till later I learned it's a good sign Danes like you  when  they 
start teasing you. 

Jizzle!  What  can I say about Jizzle. She was as unlike the first three  as  a 
person  could be. Well, almost. I found myself looking about levelly  into  her 
eyes. Once more, I simply had to look downward. Coppazios! Before I could  open 
my  mouth,  she  practicaly  flung herself upon me, and I  was  treated  to  an 
athletic  and enthusiastic bouche a'deux, French style. "I am so 'appy  we 'ave 
someone  more  normal  size."  she rattled off with   an  accent  I  could  not 
identify. "Neve' allow anyone mak jokes of your name. I am call Jizzle,  'cause 
no  one  in this oncivil' place can say *ng-*a-dwa. (the * was the  sharp  pre-
glottle  "click" common in some African languages.) She laughed with easy  joy. 
Jizzle was from Zaire, and as black as any person I have ever known. 

At this juncture, someone produced a generous tray of smorrebrod (the tiny  but 
oh-so-rich Danish sandwiches), bottles of "Elephant" beer, and a  white-frosted 
bottle  of  Akvavit, obviously straight from the freezer, and a  welcome  party 
immediatly  ensued.  Thank God the following day was  Saturday.  After  several 
hours of Skaaling and heaps of smorrebrod, I announced that it would be best if 
I went home while still vertical.

Big  mistake. The consensus seemed to be that I WAS home. That the whole  thing 
was a done deal. After much commotion, wheedling, and schnaaps-induced locic, I 
finally agreed, at least for the night. Naturally that called for several  more 
"skaals".  Lord,  I thought, these ladies are worse with the  toasting  than  a 
Russian  trade mission, That rekindled my earlier paranoia. OH, STOP IT! I  had 
to  go to bed. I mean I  really HAD to go to bed. "Where are the  bedrooms?"  I 
seemed to be having trouble with my tongue, and the tip of my nose was  numb... 
a sure-fire sign that I was well and truely sloshed. Several fingers pointed to 
the  doors  along one end of the room, which seemed to have grown  to  football 
field  porportions.  I managed to make my way to the target  without  too  many 
enseemly weavings. "Which one is mine?." This elicited fits of laughter.  "Come 
on now. Which one?" They all began giggling helplessly. "HEY!"

Someone: "You pick!", and they practicly fell down with giggles.

I, petulantly: "OK, I WILL!"  I would look for the empty room. Starting next to 
the windows, I opened the first door. Obviously occupied, on to the next.  Same 
results,  and so on to the last room. They were ALL filled with  furniture  and 
clothing.  I  went back and tried again, with the same results. Turning  to  he 
crew,  which had been spectating in strange silence, I yelled "WHAT'S GOING  ON 
HERE?" I was getting a little pissed.

Tove  extracted  herself.  "Here, I'll show you." As she walked  toward  me,  I 
turned  and  once  more studied the doors. Had to make  sure  I  hadn't  missed 
something.  No  use looking the fool. I counted from right to left.  One,  two, 
three,  four...  now wait a minute. One, two, three, four... FOUR?!!!  At  that 
moment she stopped behind me. "Is there a problem?"

"Ah... I hate to sound stupid, but where's the fifth bedroom?"

"You don't sound stupid at all. There isn't one."

"WHAT! You TOLD me there were five bedrooms."

She shrugged. "I lied."

"You  WHAT!  Jus  a minute now! If that's the case jus  where,  pray  tell  m'I 
s'pozed t'sleep?" (DAMNED Akvivit!)

She smiled sweetly. "You'll sleep wherever we tell you to sleep." Tonight,  for 
instance, it will be with me. I'm entitled. I found you. Or at least  Preben... 
your  friend, the Leftenant, told me about you." With that she grabbed my  belt 
in  the rear, lifted HARD, and I was rapidly propelled into the  room  straight 
ahead,  feet barely touching the floor. My inertia sent me  somersaulting  onto 
the  bed.  By  the  time I righted myself, she had locked  the  door,  and  was 
standing  on a chair, stretching up on tiptoe to hang the key on a hook on  the 
wall.  Jumping down, she sat on the edge of the bed. She wrapped her long  arms 
'round my shoulders pulling me close. Holding me uncomfortably tight.  Bringing 
her  lips  close to my ear, she whispered two incredible sentences.  The  first 
was: "We've decided we really like you." That was shock enough, but the  second 
was:  "Welcome  home."  delivered  by whispering  lips  practicly  touching  my 
eardrum. Even the soles of my feet had goosebumps. Looking back, I should  have 
asked the Dustin Hoffman line from "The Graduate". "...are you trying to seduce 
me?", but the movie wasn't out yet, and besides I was sure I knew the answer, 

My already fuddled brain did an outside loop and snaproll. I almost  completely 
sobered. What the hell was the idea? Had to be some kind of joke. Then a clever 
thought  struck  me. "Gotta use bathroom." That would necessitate  opening  the 
door.  She  made  no reply, but pointed to what I had assumed to  be  a  narrow 
closet door. I got to my feet and slid the panel open. Hmmm. Half bath. Well, I 
really needed it anyway, and closed the door. Stepping back out moments  later, 
she  was just as I had left her. She patted the bed in the spot I had  vacated, 
but I headed for the sling chair in the corner. She intercepted me at  midpoint 
and gripping my wrists swung me round like a throwing hammer. Coming to a woozy 
halt,  she ordered "SIT!" and shoved down on top of my head with main force.  I 
sat! She embraced me again... stromg as an ox! 

I have no idea how long we sat. My long day and the Akvavit soon took it's due, 
and I knew no more till the sun was streaming in the window. She was missing. I 
sat  up  gingerly... OW! Akvavit Hangover. (the caps are no typo.)  Better  get 
dressed... wait a minute! Never got UNdressed. A lift of the covers and a quick 
glance down. Whoa, I was REALLY undressed. Shit! I felt my blush starting at my 
toes.  Looking 'round the small room there was no sign of my stuff.  I  checked 
the  bath and armoire. Nada. What had happened during the night? Thinking  more 
seriously gave the obvious answer. Between Tove and me, nothing had happened. I 
had  consumed  far  too much Schnaaps. Whatever, there was  clothing  to  find. 
Wrapping in the sheet, I peeked out into the Great Room. No one in sight. Well, 
at  least  the door was not locked. Casting my gaze further, the  clothing  was 
spied  on hangers on a hall tree next to an ironing board in the kitchen  area. 
For  goodness  sake, how thoughtful of someone. Tove? Flipping the end  of  the 
sheet over my shoulder, I marched over to retrieve my rags looking like a Roman 
Senator, giving scant thought to why everyone was out.

Just  as I passed the Chinese screen marking the dining area, my  toga  was 
rudely snatched away, and four exuberant voices yelled "GOOD MORNING, BIL!  HOW 
DO  YOU  FEEL?" at least thirty db above the threshold of pain.  It  seemed  an 
eternity before my brain function came back on line sufficiently for me to bolt 
for the bedroom door, though all the time I was intellectually aware that I was 
standing as naked as a freshly shucked oyster in the midst of a flock of fully-
clothed  women. Oh, my GAWD! My feet churned madly as I bolted for  privacy.  I 
reached  the room one half stride ahead of Inge. Not quite enough to  slam  the 
door between us. The rest poured through like a tidal bore. Rebounding off  the 
wall, I faced six gleeful blue eyes. The adrenaline rush must have sharpened my 
thought  process. I noticed immediatly the only one I couldn't see was  Jizzle, 
and  if she was locking the door, she was far too short to hang the key on  the 
hook. The area couldn't be secured by her alone. There just might be an outside 
chance to slip away. No sooner had the thought passed, than Jizzle magicly rose 
into  view as if levitated, and at the apex of her arc deftly dropped  the  key 
onto  its  hook.  I suppose the amazement showed, for Bjerte  smiled  and  said 
"Jizzle's  with  the  Royal Ballet Company. She's  considered  something  of  a 
prodigy... she can show almost two meters of air in her best leaps, and if  she 
takes off with a boost from a something like a chair... well who knows."

Meantime,  I  was  craftily  drawing the quilt from the  bed.  It  was  quickly 
snatched away. I was informed in no uncertain terms that I was to stay as I was 
till  told  otherwise.  I felt like a child. I was wrenched  back  to  a  Scout 
encampment  when  I was about nine, and some of the older boys  held  me  down, 
stripped  me,    ran my clothes up the flagpole, and tied the rope  out  of  my 
reach. I was forced to run through almost the entire encampment before reaching 
my tent. Unfortunately, in my new predicament there was no place to run. I made 
a dive for the quilt, and was immediatly at the bottom of a struggling heap  of 
very  athletic women. Jeez, they were strong! Why the melee? I was almost  sure 
any one of them alone could have easily taken me. What was the game? I was also 
becoming  conscious of being pinned and released only to be pinned again  in  a 
series  of  holds of increasing vulnerablity, and further, there were  far  too 
many hands in far too many places than was really necessary to subdue me.  Once 
more I reddened from top to bottom. The more I tried stop of course, the  worse 
it got, eliciting a disporportionate number of pithy comments about how  "cute" 
it  was.  Of course I blushed. The scene was becoming more than just  a  little 
humiliating.

There was an insistant buzzing sound, they piled off and dropped the quilt over 
my  head,  like a tent. Tove let herself out to return  several  minutes  later 
carrying  a  SAS flight bag. This she handed to me with "You  may  wear  this". 
Looking  inside  I found a pair of hiking shorts and a tee  shirt.  Wait,  they 
looked familiar. They were MINE! I looked up questioningly. Bjerte spoke.  "The 
rest  of  your  things  are  in  the  big  room.  My  cousin  is  concierge  at 
d'Angleterre, and owes me several VERY large favors. You have been checked out, 
your mail and 'phone forwarded here, and Conticar has taken away the Volvo.  No 
use spending that much when we have cars here. So as of now you are our  guest. 
I  hope you enjoy your stay. I think we're all going to have great fun". I  sat 
huddled under the quilt and quietly wondered. She continued. "Get dressed now."

I  peeked out at my audience. They were watching with casual intrest.  I  don't 
remember who said "Don't be shy. We are all family here. Drop the cover and get 
dressed." But still I hesitated. The quilt was slipped from limp fingers. I was 
handed my T shirt, and  dressed under everyones amused gaze, and was as red  as 
a  beet... again. Good God. What had I gotten myself into? I almost  thought  I 
could've handled the KGB guys more easily.

By  the time Monday daybreak rolled around, I was a much subdued young  man.  I 
had been enthusiasticly introduced to a lifestyle and it's players the likes of 
which  I  had  never imagined. I lay quietly next to... I craned  my  neck,  to 
Bjerte and tried to get my brain to function logically. I could only guess what 
the  smartest  move  would be. Escape? Surely escape. Just bug  out,  leave  my 
stuff...  buy new. It would be a total surprise. Take just enough  clothing  to 
cover  me.  No-one  would  be prepared for that. Wait!  What  about  my  credit 
cards...  my  passport?  I  had to think. First I had to get  up.  I  tried  to 
stealthily extract myself from within Bjerte's arm. Her immediate reflex was to 
tighten her grip uncomfortably. Damn! She must have been first cousin of a  Boa 
Constrictor.  Claustrophobia  began to whisper its desperate messages.  In  the 
pre-dawn  light, I could see her hip and shoulder rising like a mountain  range 
penning  me  against the wall. Had the bed been against the wall  the  previous 
night? I couldn't remember.

Three loud bangs rattled the door, my nerves, and the dawn's stillness.  "Morn, 
Maed,  Kaffa!" ('morning, breakfast, coffee). My bed mate was instantly on  her 
feet, brushing her hair. I found myself far too fascinated by the sight to make 
a  move. I had never before known how many muscle groups were involved  when  a 
woman  brushes long hair. Especially one who looked as though she were  a  page 
from  Grey's  Anatomy. She drew on her robe, and tossed another to  me.  "Come! 
Coffee  and  rolls. come. Are you still so full of sleep? You  should  be.  You 
snored like a knallart (mo-ped... actually, noise-machine} the whole night."  I 
grinned  sheepishly.  She  was probably not exaggerating.  Sometimes  I  awaken 
myself. I arose, brushed my hair and face, and we went to face the rest of  the 
gang.

After g'mornings, I looked over the rim of the cup and noticed Tove examinng me 
with a strange intensity. "Wake up. Where did you learn to sleep like that?  We 
know you spent two years in Greenland. Did you sleep the winter away? You  look 
just like a bear. A big old sleepy-bear. ...a ...ah... wait! No, no. you're not 
a bear. Bamsa! You're a bamsa. ISbamsa. STORE ISBAMSA!" She wavwd her arms like 
a symphony conductor. "Den store isbamsa", they chorused. Whatever that was, it 
was good for more laughter that I'm able to spare before at least two cups.  It 
translated  to  "The  big... something?" My face must've been as  blank  as  my 
brain.  Bjerte  patted my head and explained. "Ice bear, dear.  Ice  bear.  Den 
means "the", store is "big" is means "ice" and Bamsa is "bear", but not really. 
Oh.  that's  hard. It's a pet name. Like how in English you might  call  a  dog 
"Poochie". You're the Big Ice ...ah..." "Bruin?". suggested Jizzle. "PERFECTO!" 
exclaimed  Tove.  "The  best  I could offer was 'Pooh',  but  that  sounded  so 
childish".

Tove  stood,  striking  a regal pose. I flinched as she  flourished  the  evil-
looking  bread knife, then damn near fainted dead away when she  came  charging 
right at me pointing the business end at my throat. My manly ego hardly  allows 
me  to  recount  that  the  others had to restrain  my  efforts  to  climb  the 
chandeleir.  They  hung  on till she touched the murderous  blade  to  my  each 
shoulder,  and  then to the top of my head, intoning in a  melodramatic  voice. 
"From  this  moment,  Bil  no more! Go forth as  true  man,  Isbamsa.  Sisters, 
proclaim our new brother." They all laid hands upon my head with a force enough 
to  near  buckle  my knees, and chanted  in  unison.  "IS-BAM-SA!,  IS-BAM-SA!, 
IS=BAM-SA!",  and  fell  back into their chairs, eyes rolled back,  as  if  the 
"Solumn"  ritual  had  drained them. There was total silence,  except  for  the 
pounding of my heart, which I'm sure was enough to cause a major pertubation on 
the University  of California's seismometers.

The silence grew protracted. What now? Finally I could bear  it no longer,  and 
drawing  up to my full 192 cms, which no longer seemed all that  impressive,  I 
raised  my  cup  of  tepid coffee, and with all  the  dignity  I  could  muster 
pronounced  "ISBAMSA!" That brought hoots of laughter, and a general rough  and 
rowdy game of shove, tickle, and kiss, with me on the bottom... again. A  voice 
rang out. "WORK!" Indeed it was time. We disentangled and went to dress.

Tove  and Bjerte drove me out to Kastrup in Tove's SAAB Monte Carlo...  scaired 
the  HELL out of me. The woman drove the little three cylinder screamer on  the 
door handles all the way, I distracted my wide eyed attention from the sideways 
slewing scenery by looking 'round the interior of the tiny saloon. That's  when 
I noticed the gold pins on their dark blue suits. Dawn broke on Marblehead, as 
they say in Boston. SAS ground hostesses. 

We slid to a halt in front of the military hanger. "What time?" asked Tove, and 
without  hesitation,  I  don't know why, my mouth came  open  and  "About  half 
seventeen." fell out. Bjerte alit and allowed me to contort from the rear seat. 
As  I depretzeled, she caught my head, fingers in back, thumbs under the  chin, 
pulled  me  up  and  kissed  me  directly  on  the  mouth...  long,  hard,  and 
deep."F'vell  Isbamsa.  Hal'syten.", (Goodbye Isbamsa, 4:30 PM) then  the  door 
banged  and they were away. The SAAB whirred 'round the roundabout  looking  as 
though Eric Carlsson were at the wheel. I stood staring, long after the machine 
was  nothing more than a faint, lingering trail of Castrol 2-stroke  oil.  MAN! 
What  did  we do last night? My calves were killing me. Then I came to.  I  was 
still standing just as the lady had left me at the end of the kiss.  Stretching 
to  my  limit,  on my tiptoes. I slowly "came back to earth"  and  the  charley 
horses faded. I looked around to see if anyone had  noticed what how foolish  I 
looked.  Well..  I  had an excuse. Tiptoeing during a kiss is  not  somethng  I 
generally have to think about. I could only shake my head and walk towards  the 
DAF hanger.

No  sooner was my bum parked behind the desk than Preben Andersen... hey!  that 
was  his name! Flight Leftenant Peter Preben Andersen! Anyway, Preben  strolled 
in,  looking  like a cat overfed on canaries, and as casually  as   you  please 
asked, "How'd you like the ladies? Have a good weekend?"

I  threw an empty styro cup at his head, and snapped a scathing "Knep  Dig"  at 
his smug face. It's a Danish phrase, the equavalant of which is a good ol  all-
purpose US expression which begins with an "F" and ends with "YOU"! He promptly 
began  braying  like  a jackass. I saw red. "You set me up,  you  bastard.  You 
KNEW!"

He managed a strangled "Certainly." Through tears of mirth.

Ill-mannered lout! "Whatever for. That gang could be dangerous."

He  grinned.  "You could be right, but just think. When you get home  you  will 
have  yet  another  wild Danmark story to tell, though, as usual  no  one  will 
believe a word of it."

"You knew about this all along! You knew exactly what was going to happen."

"Of   course.  I  suppose  it was rather ungentlemanly of me,  but   you   were  
so desparately in need of it."

"But, WHY?" I was outraged. "Whatever did I ever do to you?"

"It's  not  just  me." He replied. "It's everyone. You walk  around  like  Your 
Lordship just because you're twice as tall as normal people."

Hey, that was hitting below the belt. I wasn't responsible for my genes. He was 
acting as if I could've chosen different ancestors. I looked across at his five 
feet  and two, or four, and was amazed. He really was quite short, but  I'm  so 
accostomed  to  people shorter than I, it had never  really  registered.  "God, 
Preben.  I  had  no idea..." then didn't know what else to say nor  why  I  was 
apologising.

"No.  Thats ok.You didn't know what you were doing. Besides, I've got you  now. 
It will be most satisfying to see you squirm, or worse."

For  the  first  time  I thought seriously about  both  business  and  personel 
relationships.  I mean dissecting in detail. In virtually every case it  was  I 
that instinctively dominated the scenario. If it weren't force of  personality, 
it  was  physical presence. It seemed to be automatic. I felt  embarassed  that 
while I felt that I was ever conscious of others feelings, appearantly I was in 
actuality,  damn  well casual about them. "DAMN, Preben. I had  no  idea.  What 
now?"

"Hell. I don't know. Whatever the girls say, I guess."

I gave a wry laugh. "What makes you think I'm going back to that zoo?"

He  paused.  "What  else can you do. There are plenty of  surprises  yet.  This 
weekend was but the skin of the onion."

I  sat  wondering. "What are they to you. How long have you  been  pimping  for 
them. What the hell is REALLY going on?"

He  came  back  to the desk, standing his full height. "NO!  Don't  stand."  he 
ordered  "How would you like to have that view of the world every day  of  your 
life?"

"Hold on! What the hell has this..."

"And I am NOT their pimp! Don't be insulting. Inga is my sister, and I want her 
to  be happy... and if at all possible keep her, and her friends occupied  with 
someone  besides  me  for  a change. If at the same time  that  adds  a  little 
humility to someone's life when they are in desparate  need of it, then  better 
and  beter. This is the first time I've done anything like this. Always  before 
it was just to get a good laugh."

Inge?  His sister? The notion was ludicrous. She was over two meters  tall.  He 
smiled  wryly,  and  reached for his wallet. Fanning it open,  he  presented  a 
photograph.  Four people. A woman, head and shoulders taller than the man.  Two 
children, a boy of about fourteen not quite as tall as his father, and a  girl, 
about ten, already as tall as her mother. The childen were unmistakebly  Preben 
and  Inge. AHH, the psycology driving Preben was revealed. His voice  and  face 
were  emotionless  as  he stated, "She got Mother's genes."  then  turned,  and 
marched out the door as stiff as a tin soldier.

He was right about one thing. I DID have to go back to the flat. Why? Engineers 
as  a  tribe  are over inquisitive to the n/th. I HAD to return.  I  MUST  know 
everything.  So, there was no question. I would be outside, waiting,  at  4:30. 
Actually he was right about many things, particularly the skin of the onion.  I 
began  to learn, bit by bit. For instance, I was obviously to be treated  as  a 
closely  supervised  little  brother even outside the flat and  on  all  social 
occasions.  They expected me to do exacly as told. I was to sleep with each  in 
turn,  unless  "bought"  or "rented" for use out of turn. I  must  interject  a 
comment  here.  I'm  sure  this arrangment conjurs up  scenes  of  wild  sexual 
gymnastics.  Save  it for H*st**r, Sc**w, Var**tions and the rest  of  the  rag 
mags. In the real world it just doesn't happen that way. At least it never  has 
for  me. But then I've never seen a UFO, and believe crop circles are  made  by 
idle  college students with not enough hard work in their  curriculi.  However, 
this  is not to say we never made love. Like any group of the two sexes  living 
closely with one another, there were moments when it was simply the right thing 
to  do. BUT, only if, and when and under circumstances they found arousing.  I, 
at first found it frustrating, then bearable, and later emmenently exciting and 
wonderfully satisfying, 

At first the rules were difficult, but it was best to comply. Just our  playful 
wrestling  and  joking  made  it clear that any one  of  them  could  harm  me, 
seriously... though none of them ever did. The Turning point came very quickly. 
The  first  Thursday,  in fact. I emerged from my evening  shower  to  find  my 
clothes missing. After calling out several times and receiving no reply, I came 
out  with a towel wrapped 'round my middle. I was no sooner out the  door  when 
the towel was ripped away, and I was flattened against the wall to be  informed 
that  from that time forward I was to wear no clothing at all around the  flat. 
That  it  would improve my attitude.  I tried with determination  to  grab  the 
towel,  but Inge had rolled it into a ball and was holding it aloft, out of  my 
reach. "YOU STUPID BITCH! GIMME TH' EFFIN' TOWEL!!!" I screached in  frustrated 
humiliation. I couldn't help myself.

Everything  ceased.  It  was like a vacuum. I could hear my  heart  beat.  Inge 
glared  at me soundlessly, and I refused to break the eye lock. Suddenly I  was 
snatched  up  from  behind, spun around, and thrown over a  knee.  Another  leg 
clamped  down hard over my thighs, and steely fingers gripped my neck. My  head 
was forced downward, almost touching the floor. Something... A belt? noosed  my 
flailing arms at the wrists and they were secured by the hand holding my  neck. 
The  whole attack was so violent and unexpected, that my senses went into  the 
same sort of hyper sensitive mode as in a trffic accident. I still remember  as 
clearly  as  if I were this minute lookikg at a color  photograph  three  small 
shards  of mylar confetti clinging to the heel of my assailants left shoe,  and 
how  the  same  heel had the loop pile of the rug bent  over  and  pinned  into 
itself.  I suddenly found myself staring, upside down at close range at a  dark 
ankle.  JIZZLE! She began applying her free hand to my upturned posterior at  a 
slow steady pace with murderous force punctuated by ice-hot words of anger.  "* 
don't * you * EVER * speak * to * ANY * ONE * that * way * EVER * again!!!  Got 
it? I SPOKE TO YOU!!! * GOT ** IT? *** My eyes were splling onto the floor.  It 
HURT!  It was degrading in both position and intent. I gladly said "I got  it", 
and sincerely meant I got it.

I  was  quickly  re-righted. I caught a glimpse of myself  in  the  full-length 
mirror  by the bathroom door. My face was blotchy. My eyes were wet and red.  I 
slumped.  Surrounded  by  my flatmates, I looked not at  intimidating.  When  I 
apologised,  I  snffled like a child. Then they all four hugged me  gently  and 
someone  sponged  my  face. A few gentle kisses and I began to  feel  a  little 
better. Inge spoke. "From now on just do as your told and be more respectful of 
others.  I hate having to do this. I had to do it to my little brother all  the 
time because of his disrepectful atitude."

Poor Preben. I was beginning to understand what made him do what he did. He was 
her "little" elder brother. It must've been hell when they were kids.

She wasn't finished. "And YOU for your disrespectful behavior will remain bare, 
even when guests are in.  And don't worry, they won't be embarrassed. We  Danes 
are very tolerant regarding such things."

Bjerte  took up the narrative. "Take care not to ever make us REALLY angry.  We 
know of a small private hospital where we can have you locked up, sedated,  and 
returned  to  us  as our little SISTER! Don't forget, we  Danes  invented  that 
surgical  procedure."  I  damned near had a gran  mal.  They  wouldn't,  they 
couldn't dare. At the same I had no doubts of their capacity to do such a thing 
if  the  fancy struck them. Well, actually they obviously never  did,  but  the 
standing threat made me a far more circumspect person. I know what you all  are 
thinking. Why didn't I just take off, straight from work? Preben was right... I 
just  couldn't.  I  don't KNOW why. I do know the experience  left  a  gentler, 
kindlier, more thoughtful and helpful me. Without ego, nor fear of contadiction 
I  can candidly aver those are the salient features of my personality  to  this 
day. In spite of what the psycoanalysts say, behavior modification DOES work if 
the subject has the proper inducement.

The  arrangement lasted 13 months. I eschewed clothing, did as I was told,  was 
polite  and considerate, and I did my best to never get another whacking.  Then 
Tove  got an unexpected promotion from clerk supervisor, to Office Manager  for 
the  Director  of  Burmeister and Wien, the huge shipbuilding  firm  where  she 
worked.  Less than two weeks later my employer rather abruptly reposted  me  to 
Mahi,  in  the Seychelle Islands. It stunned me how difficult it was.   I  even 
seriously considered leaving my long time employer and taking a position with a 
Danish  firm  at considerable loss of pay. Eventually reason  prevailed  and  I 
departed.  It  was...IS  the most difficult thing I ever have done  in  a  life 
filled  with crucial, even life and death decisions. I cried, we  all  cried... 
more  than once. Even after being seated on the aircraft, lapstrap fastened,  I 
very  nearly  bolted for the hatch just as it was being secured.  As  we  moved 
away, they were still at the glass waving. Even that wasn't the most  difficult 
part  of the the departure. The SAS DC-8 was airborne, and had made the big  U-
turn  in  the out bound pattern in order to intercept the  flight  corridor  to  
Athens, when I made the mistake of looking out the window. We were in a  gently 
right  turn at about  2000  feet passing over the tide line of  the  Oestesund.  
When   I  spied, there  below,  on the narrow beach four tiny figures,  looking  
upward,   waving.  They   released four helium baloons,  four  blobs  of  color 
against  the grey  sand. One  red,  one  white, one blue, and one  yellow.  The  
wind  whipped  them  away eastward  as  if  they  were trying futiley to  catch 
up.  A  large  salty  tear splashed  on the back of my right hand, followed  by 
another. Something  at  the perifery  of  my vision intruded. It was the flight 
attendant. "Sir?  Are  you alright?" She was pressing a small packet of tissues 
into  my  hand.  "You'll  feel better once we reach the  smoother  air  at  our 
cruising altitude." I thanked her, but  very much doubted it.

Have I heard from them since? Yes, but that is for another place in time.

How does all this hot air demonstrate the constant mobility of the Yan and Ying 
of things. Prior to my stay in Copenhagen  relationships were far simpler.  Men 
were  aggresive,  men were tough, hard, demanding. Men were  the  hunters,  the 
warriors. Men were  muscular, men were the bosses. Men enforced their rule over 
other,  weaker beings. Men engaged in mating activities of every kind at  their 
pleasure. Women, on the other hand were subservient to men in almost every way. 
They were the weak, bore his children, kept his home, depended upon him for her 
safety  and well-being, and were willing recepticals for his sexual urges.  I'm 
not  saying I practiced any of the common beliefs, but in my  formative  years, 
that was the consensus. My four Danish friends taught me what a grave error the 
entire world had fallen victim to. Daintiness and roughness cut a fine diagonal 
line right across both sexes and all conditions. Its true, I promise. 

Those  months in Copenhagen taught me that a large strong man, of about  number 
one  size  can  be made to be as gentle, caring, and yes even as dainty, as any 
small. delicate female, and a woman could easily be as large, as strong, and as 
intimidating  as any male. And further; size, strength, appearance, and  gender 
have nothing what-so-ever to do with sensibilities. These are irrefutable facts 
and I am a far better man for having learned. 

The  whole point of this dissertation was to demostrate that they had not  only 
extreme  physical  power, but on the opposite side of the balance  sheet, other 
less physical attributes that were of equal if not greater importance. Tove and 
Bjerte  were well thought of ground hostesses in the SAS VIP Club  at  Kastrup. 
Positions requiring charm, sensitivity, delicacy, and daintiness. Jizzle was  a 
member  (solo  performer)  of the Royal Ballet.  A  vocation  inseperable  from 
daintiness  itself. And Inge was Office Manager to the Director  of  Burmeister 
and Wein, a member of the Danish Royal Family. A position demanding a person of 
consummate graciousness, delicacy, charm and daintiness. 

I submit that a Valkyrie is in no way limited in her capacity to entertain  ANY 
attribute  including  those  frequently thought  "weak"  such  as  sensitivity, 
graciousness, charm, and yes, even daintiness. I rest my case.

Of course the above discourse begs a question. Could it be that Valkyries  have 
left traces in the mortal gene pool?

So! Here for the first time, after thirty-five years, you know how isbamsa  got 
his  name,  and why the first site he explored on the internet was  that  of  a 
Valkyrie.

Are  there any of you still with "the bear"? Good. Let us rejoin  the  Morgans, 
and the Edda of Mussa. The mighty, but DAINTY Valkyrie.

From  her  list  of equipment there was but one  notible  omission.  The  Lucas 
"Flamethrower"  Driving  Lamp. No doubt caused by the previous owner's  miserly 
failure to turn loose of the extra twenty-five dollers. They were not  standard 
on  the  4/4s. An inadequacy soon corrected by a visit to the  friendly  nearby 
British  Parts  Store.  At the same time I moved the  foot  operated  dipswitch 
(dimmer  switch) to a fascia mounted switch just as found on Old Gorm,  my  '53 
plus  4. The jobs. while not up the technical complexity of Ms  Diana's  blower 
mod,  never-the-less  added immeasurably to my night time driving pleasure. The 
driving  lamp  was  wired  to the old foot  operated  dipswitch.   Not  a  real 
inconvenience.  It wasn't constantly in use. Why anyone (read US  Types)  would 
insist upon the foot operated dipper is beyond me. My feet are vrey  frequently 
almighty   busy  down  there.  What  with  heel-and-toe  braking   and   double 
declutching, there's precious little time, and damned few spare appendages left 
over to dip your lights when you meet some poor soul just short of the apex  of 
a decreasing radius, reverse camber, downhill left bend, on new, unmarked black 
tarmac, on a rainy night. Why do I dial in all the strange conditions?  Because 
just such conditions have happened to me, and it only takes once. At the time I 
would  have  appreciated being able to dip my high beams with the  flick  of  a 
finger.

About  the time all this was going on, I strolled out to go to work  one  rainy 
morning,  and she just would NOT start. Lots of high-speed starter motion,  but 
not  a hiccough. Rather than fight it, I rode with my housemate.  That  evening 
She  fired  immediatly. Looking under the bonnet, nothing seemed  to  be  awry. 
Every  morning thereafter, she was flawless... until one foggy morning. No  Go. 
Again Ben drove me in his old Ford. That night. Perfect start. I had previously 
installed  all  new: plugs, HT cable (spark plug wires). New  distributor  cap, 
points,  condenser,  coil, you name it, but it still failed to  start  on  damp 
mornings.  Even  a  heavy  fog would stymie her. Then one  wet  Saturday  AM  I 
resolved  to  chase the fault to ground. I opened the bonnet  on  the  driver's 
(left) side just a crack and put a small torch to it. (NO! NO! Bubba. I  wasn't 
trying  to collect the insurance. A torch... you know. A  FLASHLIGHT!)  Anyhow, 
the problem revealed itself instantly. Two words. 100E Ford. The distributor on 
the  @#^%$&** little piece of... well. you know what I mean, was offset to  the 
left  by exactly the amount necessary to make it a perfect target for drops  of 
moisture  to  fall  from  the bonnet hinge directly  into  the  distributor  HT 
connector  cups.  What  the... was I the only person in the  US  to  have  that 
problem.  Perhaps  not so rediculous as it at first seemed. About  99%  of  the 
Morgans in the USA are garaged, or at least covered. Many are simply never even 
taken out in inclimate weather. So, how many reports of the problem would there 
be?  The fault, once found was no longer a problem. I procured a thin sheet  of 
aluminum  (aluMINium?), actually I nicked a cookie sheet from the kitchen,  cut 
about an eight by eight chunk, put a slight bend down the center, like a little 
roof.  punched  two small holes straddling each end of the  crease,  and  using 
small "U"-bolts fastened my tiny "roof" to the left radiator stay which  passed 
directly over the distributor. Problem solved, forever. Total cost: Nothing.  I 
had  the  "U"-bolts in the "Hell Box" (every one has one  somewhere),  and  the 
cookie sheet was my oldest and most disreputable. Everyone remember. You  don't 
have  to  be an engineer to be logical, and using ordinary things  cleverly  is 
the way Morgans are built in the first place.

That's  the reason engineers are so in love with Morgans, other than of  course 
my  personal  adoration of the Valkyries so often dwelling therein.  There  are 
just  so  many  damn  places  to practice our  art.  Then  again  they  are  so 
frustrating  when  something surfaces, and you wonder who was in charge  of the 
engineering  department  that  day. For instance: One of  the  first  things  I 
noticed  was  although  all fasteners are  oriented  according  to  engineering 
convention. ie: Nut down, to the rear, or left... there is always three to five 
threads  showing,  instead of the accepted one half to one and  a  half.  After 
living  with  the  machines for a while, I discovered why this  is  so.  It  is 
obviously  done  purposely so that when the vibratory environment  loosens  the 
fastener  (as I promise you it will, sooner or later), the accursed  impossible 
to find Whitworth sized nut doesn't fall onto the roadway before you notice the 
rattle and cinch it tight once again. My fix? Well, clever nob that I am, every 
time something required retorquing, I broke loose all the nearby gubbins  about 
one  and  a half turns, and gave each one a small shot of  thread  lock  before 
bringing  it  all home with the proper torque wrench. It didn't take  too  many 
Saturday  AMs  to work 'round the whole vehicle. Oh! You've not  heard  of  the 
Whitworth standard before? Well, well. Count yourself amongst the blessed.  Had 
you been a Sports Car freak in the not altogether good old days prior to  about 
1965,  you would have been rudely introduced to Lord Whitworths alternative  to 
flaming bamboo splints under the fingernails. The first time your Flying  Stoat 
1350  needed  a  tuneup, you proudly opened the tool kit you  had  so  lovingly 
collected  over  the years, only to find that nothing fit.  NOTHING!  with  the 
possible  exception  of  the screwdrivers,  sparkplug  socket,  and  adjustable 
wrench. (Hell yas, Bubba. Some people DO have more than just that and a roll of 
baling  wire  in their tool kit. And they DON"T call an old greasy  gunny  sack 
their  tool  kit either. Now go away, you're embarassin' me.  These  folks  got 
sensibilities,  y'know). Anyway now you know why so many old MGs  and  Triumphs 
had hoplessly rounded nuts and bolts. I tried callin mine "Spanners". but  that 
didn't help. Everything seemed to be about 9/16ths-and-a-half. The only  anwser 
was to drop by British Autoparts Ltd and pay an unthinkable price for a set  of 
Whitworth  tools.  At least fifty percent of the markup was doubtless  for  the 
"Ltd"  in the name. (An Bubba, whatever you do, DON'T let 'em talk you  into  a 
Whitworth  ADJUSTABLE wrench, Got it?). To make things more interesting, for  a 
while  there  was a small ripple made by yet another standard.  Called  Unified 
Standard  or  something of that nature that would allow  Whitworth  and  Metric 
fastners to mate. Then not long after, the UK went metric altogether, which was 
sensible,  but for a while confusion reigned supreme. Three standards?  Wrong-o 
mate.  Just when you thought it was safe to go into the garage again!  Are  you 
sitting down? Take a deep breath. In the UK there is yet ANOTHER standard!  BA. 
Yes,  BA. Not a comment upon the complexities of the English (American)  system 
of measurement, but for British Admiralty. An ancient naval code, still  active 
on  some ships. Can you believe it? No, BA is not a far throw from lashing  out 
to  ruin your day. For instance, there were some Mogs, built around  1960  that 
I'll swear had BA fitments in the front suspension. How jolly! At one time  you 
could have theoretically owned ONE motorcar, requiring FOUR tool kits. Did that 
horror  show  ever actually occur? Hell, I don't hnow.  Interesting conjecture, 
though. You could have wrenches marked 9/16ths in three wildly differing sizes. 
Isn't that fun. All this and metric too. 

Hold  on.  DO  NOT make fun of metric. Are you aware that there  are  only  two 
major industrial powers in the world holding fast to the  traditional  English 
standard  of inches, feet, yards, rods, chains, furlongs, etc? One is the  good 
ol  (Ready with the band? Cue the fireworks!) United States of  America!  TAAA-
TAAA!!! The other IS... All rise and cheer! Hip! Hip!.. That mighty  industrial 
giant the Republic of MYANMAR!!!...  ?   I said MYANMYR!!!... come on now. Show 
a little respect. Were in this measurment thing together. Myanmyr. You  know... 
used  to be Burma. What I'm tryin' to say is it's time to go Metric.  Even  the 
tradition-bound,  crusty old Brits finally tumbled to the fact that a  standard 
of  measurement based on three randomly picked grains of barley, the length  of 
some  obscure  kings  first thumb joint, and the average length  of  the  first 
sixteen   men   crossing  the  town  common,  is  laughable  not   to   mention 
contraproductive in this day of cut-throat infighting for a slice of the  world 
market  where EVERYTHING is metric. (Bubba, {pant, pant} wouldja put  the  soap 
box away now?)

Geting  back to your tune up... If you had only read the manual,  and  unrolled 
the  little  sausage  shaped  thing  tucked away in  the  far  reaches  of  the 
underbonnet tool box. Inside you would have found tools adequate for  virtually 
every  job,  short of a major engine ovehaul, necessary  to  continue  motoring 
uninterrupted.  Read  the  manual. BUY THE WORKSHOP MANUAL. By  the  way,  does 
anyone  know  why the nasty looking "monkey wrench" in  British  tool-kits  are 
named "King Dick" Spanners, other than to give we rude Yanks a belly laugh?


All jollity aside, Mussa was recovering from hard times very nicely, Her finish 
chrome plating and cadmium plated wire wheels, (extra-cost option) gleamed  and 
even  the crusty facia was refinished with gunstock oil and many idle hours  of 
hand  rubbing, till it exuded a soft rich glow that would have done  the  Works 
proud. A very handsome, mature Valkyrie gracefully aging, but not yet ready for 
retirement.  Valhalla could wait. We were perfectly content to motor  into  the 
sunset  to the hushed, haunting strains of Der Leiberfroid. Weeeel, maybe  just  
a leeettle sideways now and again.

THEN!   (soft,  minor chords of Seigfried echo quietly in  the  background.)  A  
long  absent  friend unexpectedly dropped by to see what kind of Morgan  I  was 
driving.  He knew it had to be a Morgan. He was the Vauxhall owner that  worked 
with me in the UK. He admired for a while, then popped the bonnet. "100E!!"  he 
fell  back  and cried out as if in  pain. Then even  more  incredulously.  "BOX 
STOCK!!!. Well, that does it. You MUST have an Aquaplane head. There's  nothing 
else for it." 

"Aquaplane head? What is..."

"Never  mind.  Trust  me. You're just gonna LOVE it." He blew  from  my  abode, 
shirtail flapping, leaving the door gaping open. Wha...? Had he taken leave  of 
his senses?

He returned in less than half an hour. I quickly let him in to save his kicking 
out  the door panel. Tucked under his arm was a cardboard file box. "What?"  He 
only grinned and swept me aside with a grandeous  gesture. Making straight  for 
the  the  dining  room table he gengerly deposited his burden.  The  cover  was 
removed with a theatrical flourish. I was sure I heard the first few chords  of 
"Hail Britannia" Taa-taa-tat-TAT... 

I  cautiously  peeked  in. Oh, I DO say! There  in  resplendent  silvery  glory 
and  watch-like detail, reposed a tiny jewel of an alloy overhead valve  engine 
head.  It  sparkled.  It  looked brand new. Jon didn't  wait  for  me  to  ask. 
"Aquaplane  Head. Aquaplane usta make all kinda hot rod parts for Limey  Fords. 
Had  ever'thing from high compression flat heads up to  Gawd-amighty  twin-cams 
that  made 'bout  ahunnerd horses. Thissuns inna middle. Makes 'bout  sixtyfive 
if you got th green for twin SU HD4s an' a bottom end that can take it."

I  was instantly entheusiastic. Double the horsepower. That  certainly  sounded 
entertaining. "How much?"

"For  you, a special deal... FREE. Just call it payment for getting me  out  of 
that  jam  with  the Jag." Jam, was right. Jon had a very  fine  Mk  VII  which 
suddenly began running like a bag of nails and emitting cumuli of steamy  white 
smoke  from one exhaust. Luckily He got it home and into his garage,  where  we 
pulled  the  head. It had to be the gasket. Wrong-O,  engineer-man.  Somehow  a 
small  screw  from the starting carburator had come adrift, and  was  ingested. 
Appearantly there was just enough cam overlap for it to be blown back into  the 
intake  manifold to be re-ingested by the next cylinder and the next, where  it 
was  solidly imbedded in the soft metal of the hemispherical alloy head.  As  a 
consequence,  there were multiple smallpox scars in the first  three  chambers, 
including  several which punctured through to the water jacket. Bad  news,  but 
luckily  the piston crowns, being harder were salvagable. The smoke  came  from 
only  one pipe because the dual exhaust system was split 1 2 3 and 4 5  6.  The 
real  horror show was that the lowest bid from the local machine shops was  far 
in excess of one thousand dollars.

Jon sat down with a quadruple Chivas to be sick, and I with the same to  think. 
The disassembled head ended up on the patio, bedded on a slab of one half  inch 
cold rolled steel in an oven constructed of unmortered firebricks. Using a  six 
inch  LP gas fired tar-pot burner, I heated the the head to 800 degrees  F  and 
while  still hot heliarced all the blemishes.  The bricks were  then  restacked 
and  the whole thing was allowed to slowly cool to blood heat. We smoothed  the 
chambers  with a rotary burr and polished everything to a dull burnish. He  did 
the reassembly (Alright Doctor, you may close.) and as far as I know it has run 
as  new ever since. Nice old Bogus Bently... had the 210 hp Gold Head and  4spd 
with  Laycock  deNormanville OD. Most Mk VIIs had 160, and an  almost  hopeless 
American  made  Borg-Warner  2  speed slip and drip. Just  the  thing  a  heavy 
automobile,  with  a  high  revving,  small  displacement,  low  torque  engine 
needed... like the Space Shuttle needs a screen door.

I  never  charged him for my time and expertise. It was far too interesting  an 
exercise  in Empirical Engineering. Besides I felt so insufferably clever  when 
it worked. So I suppose I really did earn the Head.

It  was such an esoteric little gem, I just had to ask where he found  it.  His 
story  was one of the truely mysterious connections that occasonally  occur  to 
completely  confound the odds. He bought it as part of the odd spares  included 
when he acquired a small British Ford for its engine to install in his  Jersey 
Sneak  Box  Duck Boat. The seller was a guy who worked for  our  employer.  His 
original idea, when he brought the car back from the UK, was to build a sort of 
micro-rod  for his son. Then he found what it was going to cost to install  DOT 
approved  glass,  sealed  beam headlamps and to convert  mechanical  brakes  to 
"juice".  The  final straw was when he found it would not pass  the  NJ  safety 
inspection  because,  as Jon put it, "The whole thing was one great  rust  scab 
held together with many coats of first class laquer." 

This  story was beginning to sound awfully familiar. "Jon, was this a  guy  who 
worked in the site manager's office, who looked like a real Red Neck and was an 
altogether insufferable ass?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Don't you remember my '47 Ford Pop? How much did you pay for that rag-bag?"

"Omigawd. Now I remember. I gave him 50 for everything. What did you stick  him 
for?"

"A hundred fifteen... POUNDS!"

"WHEEEE! Can't think of anyone more deserving. You should get a medal. After  I 
got the engine, all I kept was the head... too pretty to give to the junkman." 

Jon snatched up the box and headed for the door. "Hey, where you going." "Let's 
DO it" he flung over his shoulder. Crazy person. One day before I needed it for 
work. Oh well. I went through the garage and picked up the tool kit. 

We  pulled the bonnet, and set to. The longer I looked at the Zenith  carb  and 
"Y"  pipe setup, the more I thought SU. Finally, not able to resist,  I  called 
Ken,  the  local Foreign Car Pro. He claimed to have a set of almost  new  HD4s 
complete   with   fuel lines and "banjos" that I could have for  $45.  SOLD!  I  
went  to pick them up. 

When  I returned, Jon was sitting on the porch waving a bottle of Watney's  Red 
Barrel  at  me. I took the brew and sat. He was unnaturally silent.  "Ok,  Jon. 
What's  the problem." He began to smile. "DONE! Except for those,  anyway."  He 
motioned at the SUs. I couldn't believe it. The whole operation took only about 
four hours, plus the SUs. It was so simple. Once the head was off, the push rod 
guides  were  installed. the new gasket dropped on and the head  torqued  down. 
Then  it was the new intake pushrods, rocker shaft, adjust the valves, and  set 
the  timing. The plugs and distributer came with the head. The  exhaust  didn't 
have to disturbed. This was an "F" head, with intakes over and exhausts to  the 
side so the exhaust system was unchanged. Odd way of doing thngs, but quite  up 
to  date in the thirtys. This was a Morgan. Remember? Oh, yes... and the  carbs 
had NO air cleaners. Not enough room to fit them,

Refill the rad, two squirts of petrol in the intakes and touch the starter. She 
spun a few times then: BRAAPPP! She Ran! Let's see... all gauges in the  normal 
range...  Jon  checked, found no leaks, and vaulted over  the  passenger  door, 
looked  over all grins, and "Well are y'gonna drive, or just sit  here  feeling 
smug?" I eased into the street.

What  a transformation! The heart transplant metamorfed Mussa from   a  Dowager 
Dutchess into a Fleet Street Filly. Her exhaust note, instead of a refined purr  
was suddenly a nice, ripe Bronx Cheer. You know... a Raspberry. Put your tounge 
between   your  lips,  and  blow...  HARD!  Zounds!  The  old  gal   had   real 
possibilities. The aging Valkyrie knocked back a horn of mead, licked her lips, 
dug in her heels, leaned back and let fly a lusty chorus of "The Ride". I could 
tell  already...  this was going to be FUN. It wasn't long before  I  knew  for 
sure.  She  had  come  out of the closet. The  respectable  matronly  dove  was 
suddenly  a feisty old Raven who would without the slightest provorcation  have 
two  fingers  up the nearest copper's nostrils and be off, sprinting  zig,  zag 
through rush hour traffic on Michelin Sneakers to hide 'round the second  sharp 
corner  to  cackel  as the red-faced lawman came smoking by  in  his  wallowing 
Detroit Dinosaur. Her idea of a Friday evening's fun was waylaying unsuspecting 
drivers who thoght they owned quick cars. The twisty back roads of central  New 
Jersey  would never be the same. I guess if you've lived all your life  with  a 
bum  ticker,  and suddenly it's repaired, you're bound to want to catch  up  on 
some  lost  fun.  That  Valkyrie was not  only  brimming  over  with  new-found 
strength, she was SNEAKY, and just loved being uncouth upon the public ways.

Everything  was just about as I had always intended. Mussa and I seemed  to  be 
destined   to motor off into the sunset as happy as two mellowing  heros  could 
be. We understood each other, and that is the cornerstone of real satisfaction. 

Then, just as they say in those horrid daytime telly dramas (Soaps)... Then  IT
happened.  We  were  motoring through the park at Vally  Forge  on  a  Saturday 
morning, in the company of the most wonderously beautiful and refined Main Line 
Philadelphia lady God ever saw fit to create. She made Grace Kelly seem awkward 
and  plain. The tour was at her insistence, as she wanted me to see one of  her 
favorite places. Of course I gladly acceeded. A misty rain was falling.  Enough 
to make one want the hood (top) but not the side curtains. As we grooved 'round 
a sharpish left bend, my attention was drawn to a large Detroit machine rapidly 
approaching  from  our left. Somewhere in the dim recesses  of  the  engineer's 
vector-integrator  part of my brain came an urgent signal, "Attention: He  will 
not  make   it  around  the  curve" followed closely  by  a  second  even  more 
portentious  iteration: "Danger: His vehicle will strike yours directly on  the 
left front corner." 

At that split second, the monster's nose dived. The driver, for whatever  silly 
reason,  had  banged on the brakes, locking all four wheels.  The  Walrusmobile 
instantly swapped ends, and backed into Mussa's left front corner at a velocity 
just  under warp six. The Mog caromed like a smartly struck billiard ball,  and 
we  ended our travels scraping to a halt in a granite cobbled four foot  ditch, 
no  more than six feet from popping into a concrete culvert like a cork into  a 
Champagne botttle. Thereafter  came The Big Quiet. You could have heard a mouse 
change its mind. I turned to my lady and we simultaneously asked "You OK?"  We 
were.  We  had been firmly affixed by competition lapstraps installed  but  the 
week  before, and so were spared the experience of being flung out, or  ratting 
'round  inside like a pea in a whistle. The doors wouldn't open so  we  climbed 
out  over the cutdowns. Regaining the roadway we were just in time to  see  the 
perpetrator disappearing 'round the next bend, blue smoke pouring from where  a 
damaged  body panel was rubbing the right rear tire. My white  faced  companion 
summoned  up all her Mainline, upperclass, gentryfied, Bryn Myr educated,  Bala 
Cynwyd  finished  reserves  and shrieked but one  word  after  the  hit-and-run 
Neanderthal. Only one word, BUT it was a word of such stupifying, fuse  blowing 
crudity,  that  my attention was jolted away from the junkyard  that  had  been 
Mussa  to  stare at the woman in open mouthed wonderment. I  won't  repeat  the 
expletive that exploded from her rage contorted mouth, but it rhymed vey nicely 
with "BROTHER TUCKER!!!", or as it came from her: "BRAAAWTHAAAH TOCKAAAAH!!!

Once my ears stopped burning, I turned my attention back to Mussa. My God!  Her 
whole  left  front wing(fender) was crushed. The front suspension  cross  tubes 
were  spaghetti. I wrenched aside the ruined bonnet. The left front  frame  was  
folded  completely  under the engine,  which was laying on its  side  displaced  
about  a foot  to  the  right.  The steering column was bent about  30  degrees  
at   the  firewall. It was so strange. From the cowl rearward  she  was  almost 
intact,   but  from   that  point forward.. Carnage!  The  whole  scene  lacked 
reality.  One   second  my  lovely  Mussa,  so full of  spirit,   and  I   were  
conducting   a   wonderously  beautiful  lady  along the lanes of  one  of  the 
loveliest  areas in the  US.  The next  she  lay  crushed and broken in a  foot 
of muddy water at  the  bottom  of a drainage ditch.

I unsnapped the hood and slid down into the drivers seat, soon to be joined  by 
my companion. She regarded me closely, and extending a fingernail bled  away my 
a  single tear. "She's ruined, isn't she? " I removed my hands from the  wheel, 
shuddered,  and nodded. Why had Christen said "She"? She never  had  before... 
never did again.

It  all happened so quickly. I didn't have a chance to get a plate number,  and 
the  vehicle was just another amongst thosands of its generic grey  herdmates. 
At  the  Copshop  where  I  reported the  incident  they  weren't  but  vaguely 
interested.  Just  another  of hundreds. Neither vehicle nor  driver  were ever 
found.  Not surprising. Our descriptions went something like...gray,  or  light 
blue  1961  or  2 Oldsmobile or Pontiac, four door, we  think,  no  gender  for 
operator.  No plate numbers. The Smokey Bears really do a fair to middlin  job, 
but  not  with that kind of data. And sadly it all could have  been  so  easily 
avoided. It was caused by lousy engineering and lousy driving. The car, typical 
of  US made at the time had lousy brakes, and lousy suspension. The driver  had 
lousy  driving skills but was still allowed on the public way though he  was  a 
menace. He had absolutely no concept what-so-ever of the meaning of Coefficient 
of Friction.

The  worst news was yet to come. The insurance company called the Morgan  works 
and  was  given the automotive equavalant of the medical  "Do Not  Resuscitate" 
order. Mussa Morgan and Mussa Valkyrie were gone. Forever.

Sad  to say the ultimate damage was not yet done. The Main Line lady,  for  her 
insistance  on the drive through Vally Forge, felt singularly responsible.  She 
could  sense Mussa was more than just another automobile. Nothing I could  seem 
to  say  or  do would relieve her depression. She slowly  ceased  returning  my 
calls,  and when she did, they quickly degenerated into tearful apologia.  The 
relationship soon crumbled and slipped dust-like between our fingers. I saw her 
but  once thereafter, years later, as beautiful as ever. She is  quite  plainly 
one  of those rare, fortunate ladies who, as fine wine, only improve with  age. 
It  was   near Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. But as I saw  the  spark  of 
recognition  on  her face, and began to respond, she quickly hailed a  cab  and 
sped  away. There was  no answer save the machine at her parents number and  no 
listing under her name.

And so it is, I suppose, in an imperfect world run my mortals. It took but one 
brief instant of stupidity by a person of incalculable disregard for fellow 
beings to completely destroy for all eternity a great and manifold happiness.


Joy is Fear...  Fear is Joy.

Sometimes Joy does not win.


                                  -  F I N  -

                                 More to come