Officer: So you want to be a fighter pilot.
Recruit: A Starfighter Pilot, Sir.
O: And why particularly the Starfighter?
R: Because Sir, I am in love with this aircraft. This magnificent engine of steal and gleam.
O: That's very poetic. Please continue.
R: This aerocynamic Delilah. Its uptilted wings and sidewinder rockets.
Its clear curving cockpit cover, the whirling of dials and needles.
The illustrious uniform of the Federal German Airforce. The click of the heels in salute, the flare of the jacket, the wide, long-skirted hang of it, and oh, the low shiny peak of the cap.
O: I think that's enough.
R: But Sir, the danger, and the glory of death.
A young and dashing life gone up in flames. Blonde maidens weeping.
To die for one's country.
To set forth in a silver lance too joust with the forces of darkness.
O: They don't always crash, you know.
R: It would be an honour to crash in such a plane.
O: To be mangled and scorched?
R: To be hideously mutilated beyond the recognition of one's own mother. O: Is that makeup you're wearing?
R: Makeup, Sir?
O: Makeup. Makeup. You know it's what the ladies wear.
R: Not all ladies wear makeup, sir.
O: Well what's that black stuff around your eyes. Is that mascara?
R: All right. I can see it's no good lying to you, sir. I confess.
It is mascara. But... only a little bit.
O: What on Earth for?
R: It's my mother, sir.
O: Your mother?
R: You see my mother was the first woman to fly the Atlantic in a (pause) Gaseo Glider.
O: A Gaseo Glider?
R: A machine of my father's invention. You see he was too much of a professional aeronautical inventor to actually fly it himself, so my mother took it, and tried to fly it singlehanded across the Atlantic.
O: And what happened?
R: She... she crashed. Spun down into the sea and was never seen again. They found only her false eyelashes, floating.
And so, you see, ever since I have worn mascara in her sacred memory.
O: I see.
R: Well sir. Do I get a plane?
O: In view of the confessions you have just made, which must have taken a great deal of courage, I consider you an ideal type for the job.
There's a plane for you waiting on the runway. The sergeant will give you an instruction manual on the way out.
Oh, and by the way, eh, Von Trippenhoff...
R: Sir?
O: Don't let the CO catch you wearing makeup on duty. At least not in uniform, understand?
R: But Sir...
O: Alright then. But very subtly applied, is that clear?
R: I understand, Sir.
O: Right on, Von Trippenhoff.
R: Righty Oh, Sir.