Pilotlog page 13
Goshawk's pilotlog entry:
It started out as one of those mornings ya just hate to spoil by
getting out of bed, ya know what I mean? The powdered eggs were
too runny the whole past week, all you got plenty of was the
cottage cheese, and it was
all the large curd kind, coffee was on the weak side, milk was lukewarm, and even the sausage was rather on the pinkish side,
which would lead most of the guys to the john early on in the
afternoon. It was the kind of morning that Goshawks loved!!
Little vermin were running around everywhere, wisps of cool air
currents were brushing across the grass field, and the earthworms
were retreating to the cool of their sub-surface holes and pits.
It was turning into such a lovely little war!
The still of the morning was broken by the popping to life of
several Merlins and Griffons, and far off in the distance, the
big Wasp radials of the jugs were just breaking into their
throaty resonance.
Goshawk took in a deep lung-full of air, savoring the coolness of
it, and detecting just a hint of exhaust fumes. He closed his
eyes briefly, and pictured himself in the open cockpit of his
trusty Spitfire, with the prop-wash rushing past his windscreen,
drafting the heavy hot exhaust gases into his face as they curled
around the fuselage of the plane. The leather flaps over his ears
beat lightly upon the side of his head, pleasant enough, and the
speed of the flapping was adjusted by slight adjustments of the
throttle.
What a lovely little
bird, this fighter was! "Oops", he thought,
"better come back to reality now, old bird!"
He glanced through the open door of his dallas hut, seeing that
his Spitfire was being tended to be the riggers. He would be
flying soon enough, but he knew he'd better grab some grub first!
Off to the mess, he went, settled for
two dry slices of toast, and a cup of stout tea.
Within the hour, Gos was at 10,000 ft., and coasting over the
eastern coast. He was in a Hurricane this time, to allow some new
armor plate to be thrown in behind the seat of his favorite Spit.
Off in the distance, he spotted a bogie, and turned 10 degrees to
port to investigate it. As he came within visual range he
identified the plane as a Spit 9, but the flashing from the
gunports left no doubt that the pilot of the other craft intended
him harm. After a few close passes, Goshawk's craft edged in a
bit too close on a pass, and the prop of the Hurry sheared off
the vertical stabilizer of the other craft.
Goshawk watched with glee as the other plane drifted to terafirma, but he cared not whether a chute emerged or a crater
resulted from the fate of the Spitfire.
Within moments, another blip came into view on the horizon. A
second spit flew directly at Goshawk, and again, the gun ports
blazed with furious emissions.
"Bloody hell!", he spoke aloud. "Why are these
blokes shooting at me?"
Goshawk watched the spit turn behind him, and it became obvious
that the pilot of this craft intended him some mischief as well.
Before Goshawk was able to defend himself adequately, the pilot
of the Spit expertly maneuvered his craft behind the spiraling
Hurricane. Try as he might, Goshawk was no match for the turning
frenzy his plane was subjected to. The Hurricane dropped from the
sky under a hail of bullets from the Spitfire's guns.
After deciding to swim ashore before Kiki could get her groping
hands upon him inside the restrictive confines of Solar Arrow's
Walrus, Goshawk ripped his chute harness off hastily almost
before he landed in the murky waters. He made it to shore in
record time, and returned with a Spit9.
Upon finding the miscreant who was responsible for the earlier
demise, Goshawk dispatched him with a series of cannon rounds.
Goshawk soared easily across the channel, hoping to find a lone
fighter or bomber somewhere above the French coastal area. A
slight tightening in his stomach made Goshawk realize that the
powdered eggs from previous days were finally taking their toll
on his digestive tract. He began his turn for his home base, to
try out that new outhouse of the Sgt. Major's.
It was not long before a gray outline of a 109K appeared, and
made a threatening pass. Goshawk turned to make a good fight of
it, however, the big guns of the K4 found Goshawk first.
Goshawk saw the big orange flashes from the front of the German
fighter first. "Alright, he's got a stack fire!", he
thought, sure that the round balls of light were backfires from
the opponent's exhaust pipes.
As Goshawk drew a bead with the pipper sight, and began his
squeeze of the trigger, he visualized his 20mm cannon rounds
walking the length of the German fighter, tearing it in two from
the explosive force of the well aimed bullets.
As the big guns of the Spitfire started to pound their resonant
bursts, Goshawk's visualization was suddenly shattered by the
ripping explosions in the front of his plane. The windshield
exploded, and bullets began pounding their way through the
canopy, firewall, cowling, wing roots, fuel tanks, and on through
the dash panel of the British fighter. Goshawk's last act before
his screaming intestines unloaded their "steerage" into
the drawers of his flight suit, was to throw open the canopy and
unfasten his harness. Upon landing with the chute on the coast of
England, he hurriedly grabbed another plane without taking the
time to change.
Goshawk found the German fighter, and dispatched it with several
rounds before the 30mm cannons of the K4 could be brought to
bear.
The last round for this day, was Goshawk's downing of a lone
Spit9 flying near the coast.
Upon landing, he reported directly to the C.O.'s office.
The outhouse would have to wait another day.
Duke's pilotlog entry:
PFC Mechanic Pete
McGillicudy couldn't sit still. He paced the ground in front of
the hangar - back and forth - stopping only to cock an ear to the
east, listening for the sound of aircraft returning home. The
crew cheif yelled over for Pete to stop that foolishness,
"yer makin' me dizzy. Why don't you go over to the mess hall
and grab us a couple of cold Cokes."
"But Sarge, I can't help it. The commander wanted his plane
to be TIP TOP today, or he said he'd have our hides! He's been
having a streak of bad luck lately, and he's counting on getting
out of the rut today!"
"Kid, if you don't settle down and stop pacing, yer gonna
dig a rut in front of the hangar and the planes'll get stuck!
Don't worry kid, he's fine ... I feel it in my bones ... you did
a fine job getting his plane ready."
Meanwhile, somewhere over the channel ...
The roar of engines, the rattling cough of guns, the screeching
PING of bullets ricochetting off wings and fuselages ...
Duke and Beaker are at it tooth and claw, fighting for their
lives ... and their ACES. [ggg]
Three sorties, one in a Hurricane, one in a 109K-4 and a final
round in an E-4 version. All with the same result ... intense,
long drawn out, looping, twisting, stretching for all the planes
have got to offer fights.
Beaker found himself in the drink each time, but the 3-0 score
does not do justice to the intensity of the fight or the
determination of the combatants. MAN OH MAN!!
Pete stops his pacing as Duke flys over the airfield, waggling
his wings in a victory pass. As he taxiis over to the hangar, he
snaps a salute to Pete and the Crew Chief, a big smile on his
face. Suddenly, the nose of the plane drops as the wheels fall
into the rut PFC McGillicudy created, causing the prop to whack
into the dirt, bending into useless ruins. The craft shudders and
the engine grinds to a halt. Duke's smile vanishes. The Crew
Chief
turns and starts laughing into his cupped hands ...
"McGillicudy, you're in for it now boy!" ... Pete just
looks ashen ...
Beaks ... SALUTE!! What a GREAT fight!
Meanwhile,
across the channel:
Dada's pilotlog entry:
27 March *stop*
Ian Alexander Miller successfully ejected from his mother at
12:37 hours *stop*
Was picked up by friendlies *stop*
Unharmed *stop*
Oberleutenet Miller currently encountering moderate resistance
*stop*
however, looking forward to eventual return to the front. *stop*
END TRANSMISSION 28 MARCH 22:27 Hours.
Back in England:
Sabre's pilotlog entry:
Its late in the evening I'm preparing for my match with Jabo. The
talk around the briefing room is he's one hell of a pilot. One of
the elite of the infamous JG26. Man, I have never prepared so
hard and long for an opponent. I hardly ever fly the German
planes, so I work my butt off to master them. From the intel I
was able together the 109 seemed to be his mount of choice. So I
worked with a bunch of pilots to hone my skills.. Beaker,
Goshawk, U6, Kendo and Locutis, thanx alot for sharpening my
blade, and shooting my butt out of the sky. Anyway here's a
debrief.
The first flight Jabo selects the FW190A-8.... oh how I love the
190.. Germany's best. Excellent fighter with very good armament,
rugged, fantastic roll rate and very fast. We line up and both
charge at each other like rams preparing to collide. I off set to
my right just a little and gently bank left as we merge... Jabo
goes vertical.. just as I had been debriefed he would.(Intel was
spot on)
I
transition to the vertical to follow him. I arrive well behind
his 3-9 line. Advantage Sabre, I keep tabs on him with constant
jabs of the padlock view. I cut him off at the turns forcing him
down. I finally work my way
into a firing position and take a quick snap shot. Jabo then goes
into one of the most beautiful scissors.. forcing me to overshoot
I don't know how many times. My brother watching the match said
"man he's good". I nodded and went to work countering
the scissors. I got a few high deflection shots as he would cross
infront of me. Slowly the damage mounted till that 190 just
couldn't stay airborne anymore.
The 2nd flight Jabo chooses the Me 109E(emil), the scourge of the
Battle of Britain. A great plane easily the equal to the Spit..
though turning circle is larger (in the words of one RAF pilot,
"turning don't win battles) in every other respect I give
the nod to the 109E. Its weight of fire from its 2-20mm cannon
and 2-7.62mm
machine guns are much better then the Spits 8-.30 cal.
We merge
and Jabo takes to the vertical once more. I follow and just miss
him at the top of the loop. Jabo starts changing his angles as we
loop around and has just kept himself just out of my sights.
Unable to pull enough lead to get a shot. I patiently settle into
what I know will be a long fight. We continue our turns with both
of us pulling slightly vertical to shorten our raduis of turn,,
each trying to dive for the others tail. Well Jabo has a lot of
time in this bird and it shows. I spin in at low altitude...
damn, the water is cold.
The third flight I get to choose and make him fly the Tempest.
Jabo is a creature of habit and does not change his flying.. I've
pulled some lead pursuit as he passes to go vertical I follow...
I arrive nicely on his 6 at the top of loop. I can't quite pull
enough lead for a shot,, so I just settle in and keep the
pressure on him. I finally get a shot and put several rounds into
his fuselage. I just keep the pressure on him,, he slows trying
to force me into an
over shoot. But, I'm not having any of that. I slow with him
taking,,, my shots. But Jabo ain't exactly makin' this easy, his
defensive flying is the best I have ever seen,, he's rolling,
starting climbs then stopping and then pulling up. It takes
awhile,, but I finally blow his wing off,, man that was so cool
to see his right wing seperate and hit the water and watch him
roll to the right and hit the water (man was I close).
The fourth flight Jabo throws me for a loop.. he picks the
Me-110..man!! I have no flight time in that plane at all.. none,
nada..I'm kaput.. at the merge Jabo comes right at me. I'm unable
to take any angels so as we merge I go vertical with him turning
in the horizontal.. I stall at the top and spin,, but luckly
recover quickly (thank you Goshawk). I've actually stalled right
onto his six. Man, am I lucky or what!!! From there its just a
matter of staying within what the plane will allow me to do.. I
get in a few shots I see a few hit his right nacelle.. Jabo
goes vertical and stalls I try to get a bead on him,, but just
miss the mark.. So I bank to keep my position and set up house on
his six. I just keep working the turns to get a shot at him when
he stalls.. I think and hits the water.
Whew!!!!
Man what a rush. Jabo is a first rate pilot and his defensive flying is
without a doubt the best I have ever seen.. all the kills when I
got them where hard.. and with my hit percentages the lowest they
have ever been. Salute Jabo you are one of the elite.. lady luck
was just smiling on me today!!
Score: Sabre -3, Jabo -1
Seahawk's pilotlog entry:
Somewhere
in England:
" Good God! It's a wonder the Brits don't kick us out of
their country!" Ike cursed at the window overlooking the
countryside. His adjudent winced. His boss was usually soft
spoken and under firm control at all times. The only time he even
seemed rattled was June 5th, 1944. And even then he hadn't raised
his voice.
The adjudent knew what was bothering Ike, and he understood his
Boss's consternation. The 714th Fighter Squadron was trouble.
Pure and simple. Whatever brass hat had come up with the idea of
those flying misfits wasn't playing with a full deck. Mismatched
pilots from all over the European theatre of operations and even
a few from the pacific. And all of them thieves, drunks, insubordinate, and some even certifiable. And all completely out
of control.
He had heard of the unauthorized dogfights, all in the name of training. The drunken brawls, excused by calling them " P.R.
Functions". And the unauthorized use of flying boat as a
brothel! But this! This went to far!
Ike sighed and turned back to his desk. " Send an apology to
Her Majesty. With all the necessary flourishes. Tell her we deplore the behavior of said squadron, and will punish those
responsible, blah, blah, blah." Ike sat down and rubbed at
his temple. " And while your at it, find out how the whole
squadron mooned Her majesty, while flying in formation over her
bedroom window."
The Adjutant saluted and left the room. As he closed the door he
thought he heard a muffled guffaw, quickly covered by a cough.
Round 1: Seahawk FW 190 D-9, Ninja Spit-14
Merged and
parted, merged and parted.
Cannons blazing as they came.
One lucky snapshot departed,
And Ninja Falls in sheets of flame.
Seahawk-1, Ninja-0
Round 2: Seahawk ME109 K-4, Ninja FW 190 D-9
This match was given
not taken, by me
he had a small problem
and gave it, quite freely
Seahawk-2, Ninja-0
Round 3: Seahawk FW 190 D-9, Ninja Spit 14
I'll rhyme poorly no more
And leave your ears offended
For Ninja a perfect score
3-0 thats how it ended.
Seahawk-3, Ninja-0
Thanks Ninja. Next time we'll make it more even. Now I know I
gotta bone up on my T&B.
Seahawk
or, the Perched Bird.
Solar Arrow's pilotlog entry:
I said as an upset Base administrator paced up and down his
Office, deepening the trench he has already made trying to direct
a very good operation.
"But they saw the Borg cube warp in for the kill" Said
Goshawk.
"I dunno. I tell ya, in the last two days I fished out
Taipan as he was "enforced" into the water. I told him
not to worry , to enjoy his "New Freedom" and over all
things to "Stay Free" from the enemy forces.
Then a mummified MaddogF4 was rescued near the underwater
pyramid, another of the S/M hurricanes to the depths of the
channel, I fear. (I already told him that he had to sit in the
lower booth of the S/M outhouse as guard duty for that...) And a
very past Meridian (PM) that was bitten by Maddog F4' mad brother
(Man!!! You
will have to talk to that veterinarian , those fertility pill
experiments that he is doing are producing too many twins, Thank
God he doesn't know how to clone yet imagine: Moose, Moose1,
Moose2, Moose3, Moose4, Moose5......)
Anyway the urk virus apparently was alive and replicating.
BUT NO TUXEDO, I tell you NO TUXEDO!!!!!!!!!!! I got to the burnt
and oily mass of his old tux but no signs of him, I even went to
the PX to see if he had leased another one , NO signs of him!!!!!
Last time I saw him was last week's rescue. Searching through his
papers Goshawk found no record of Tux borgification...
At that moment a knock in the door stopped our conversation ,
Nurse Kiki came to give her report. Sir the last victims of the
borgs have been cured, except for Starwolf's new implant as you
commanded , Tuxedo is doing fine.
!!!!!!!!! Tuxedo!!!!!! What!!!! WHere !!!! WHEN!!!!!!!
Last week.... and yep there he was , still on his heart pattern
Kan kans taking the sun to restore his tan,
(Those Borg never take sun!!!!)
So thinking of time shifts, relativity and transwarp velocities
look at last week report for Tuxedo's rescue...
SA rescue out...
JIAN's pilotlog entry:
My days spent in incarceration had changed me,,, I had returned
home to my wife and son but I had found that the outside world no
longer held a place for me. My wife could not understand my
strange nightmare's and the secluded nature that I had developed.
So again I returned to the killing fields. To the place that I
now call home,,knowing in the depths of my mind that I would
never leave this place. That eventually, I would die here,, the
home I left with my wife and son were as foreign to me now as
this place had been when I arrived. Now roles were reversed and
here I am home and there is a strange land with strange people
who seem at once to be familiar but then in a instant they are
the enemy. She couldn't understand why I was fighting in a war
that even Mr. Roosevelt said in his last speech "we would
never be involved in", and wondered why I love it more than
her
and Tommy, and for that, I had no answer. She filed for divorce
from me and I didn't fight it. No reason to. I would never
return.
I remember this morning
I was in my hotel room in town. I was practicing "Tai'
Chi" to try to erase the shadows that danced upon my soul.
Shadows of a time when this war would end and I would not have a
home any longer. The drunkedness of my movements as I stood
attempting the movements belayed my own flustration at the
futility of my existence. Within a frenzy at the crescendo of my
movements I broke the glass of my hotel mirror cutting
my hand and as I sat there upon the bed amid the broken fragments watching the blood run down my wrist a light erupted within my
vision.
Life is like this the
reflection of one's self lying broken amid where you stand while
you watch your life's essence flow freely and choose not to act
or to act. The decision is based on caring. A knock upon the door
awakened me
from my thoughts and upon answering it it was a Sgt. from base
informing me I had to be geared up for my patrol in 45 minutes. I
thanked him and walked over to my clothes as he left,,,,,, part
of me wished as I walked out upon the streets and I gazed upon
the fragmented ruins of once great buildings that today this
would be the end,,,,,,,,,,,, my end.
FLIGHT 1
I chose the Spit IXC we did the gentleman's pass w/o prior
agreement (man I like a guy who is this courteous) after a
turning fight Muad'dib's wing snag's the water in a spin
FLIGHT 2
He chose the FW-190D we again did the gentleman's pass and rather
than engage in a B&Z I decide to try a turning fight to
surprise him. After much turning and such I see an odd sight I
see Muad'dib jump out of his 190 just before it caught the sea.
Nothing abnormal there apart from my opponents actually beating
me into the sea. But when he dove out I noticed he was wearing a
Pink bikini with a big black swastika on the back with a purple
snorkel in his mouth and bright yellow flipper's on???? I
thought, "wait a minute what the bloody hell is this"
as I spun around for a closer view and sure enough there we was
swimming back to Abbeyville like that. "Hmmmm!" I
thought to myself,,, Must be one of Goebells boys that one.
FLIGHT 3
He Chose the P-51D. Again he displayed true sportsmanship with
the gentleman's pass and again we enter into a combo
B&Z/Turning fight. This time I was scared,,,, not that I
would stall which I had no doubts that I would but now as we
passed I see him in the same suit flying in the cockpit like
that,,,, Bloody Ell did that Bloke just wink at me?????
As I swung around,,,,
well let me rephrase that since everyone who's sat in a 'stang
will attest that there is no swinging around in that beast, as I
slowly made my long and tedious turn in that plane I see him out
side his plane standing on the starboard wing as it's getting
ready to pancake. I swear he did THE most beautiful swan dive
from about 300 ft into the water. He was practicing synchronized swimming when I last flew away.
Final Score JIAN-3
Muad'dib-0
Across the channel, near a small French bordeau:
Dada's pilotlog entry:
*Dada
clears his throat for his weighty public statment*
Gruppen,
After sober consideration of my availability to fly (or really
lack of it) to really remain competitive at a level that is
acceptable to me, I've decided to mosey along into the sunset, as
far as competitive flying is concerned. That is definitely a
compliment to my fellow pilots on the ladder. You guys are just
getting too damn good for me to keep up with doing only part time
flying. (The only online flying I do lately is usually for
matches, and that doesn't cut it). I definitely hope to hook up occasionally with some of you for coops or other fun stuff.
Salute to you all. :)
*Dada leans in, his voice lower for the "off the
record" part*
And to those of you who might suspect some other
reasons...you...ahem...MIGHT be on to something. It does appear
that I was a bit "optimistic" in my comeback attempt.
And furthermore, I can say, for a fact, that the couch is a very
uncomfortable place to sleep. Connect the dots. ;)
Hmmm, if only I could have remembered that new kid's name....
*ggg*
Anyway, even more so than the flying, I will miss the esprit de
corps of this ladder, but hard as it is, I must disengage. It has
been an honor to have been on it with you all.
Good hunting.
Dada out.
(* That woman with the scalpel would be the lovely Mrs.
Dada--crackerjack surgeon by day, minister of domestic tranqulity
by night. *ggg*)
Goshawk's pilotlog entry:
The sun was just
starting to set in the hazy western sky. Shadows were spreading
across the field from the scant growth of trees at the end of the
grassy strip. The reflections of the setting sun on the
windscreens of the Spits and Hurricanes caused the cockpits of
the planes to glow a soft golden aura as they sat clicking, the
heat of the day's flights cooling in the soft breezes of the
evening air.
Goshawk stood at the edge of the strip, watching the sky one last
time for the plane he hoped would see. His ears peaked for any
fine hint of a far away Griffin. Only the distant cries of the
gulls came to him in response. A group of gremlins stood not far
away, also staring into the empty vastness of the darkening sky.
Among them, the Sgt. Major stood at parade-rest, crop taut
between his hands. As much as he hated the officers who borrowed
his planes during the day, he mourned in his own way if one of
them did not return. Most of the pilots felt he likely mourned
the loss of the kite more than the man in the bloody thing. All
but one plane was accounted for.
Goshawk turned and sauntered to the operations shack. Upon
entering, he noticed several of the pilots standing by the roster
board, looking at the names of those pilots who had flown that
day. Each man's name was written in chalk within the lines
painted upon the old blackboard.
To the left of each name on the list was a check mark, indicating
the pilot's safe return. To the right of each name was the tally
of kills for the day's hunting.
Only one name was left unchecked on the board, Dada. The eyes of
the group around the board followed Goshawk as he walked to the
board. With his left hand, he withdrew a small rag from the
pocket of his flight suit.
He spit upon the rag, and reached to the blackboard. Starting at
the edge of the line with Dada, he wiped across the entry. Dada's
name was erased from the board. Beaker was the first to turn
away, not wanting anyone to see that a foreign substance had
sprung from his eyes. He hurriedly wiped them dry, and walked
briskly from the shack.
Seahawk, upon seeing the wet smear where the name used to be,
spoke first. "No, not Dada!" He turned his gaze to the
floor, certain that Goshawk would write the name in again, only
neater this time.
Duke, seated at the desk, went back to his Form 715's, Request
For Replacement Parts/Planes. He erased an entry he had made
earlier, and wrote a higher number into the box on the sheet.
Goshawk looked into the eyes of each man still standing around
the board, and finally spoke. "Sorry, chaps. I don't think
he's foxed us this time. He's much too late to be stooging about.
Dada's bought it."
Goshawk turned from the board and walked from the room.
As he reached the door, a gremlin walked into the room, and
spoke. "Tough day today, sirs! Tomorrow looks to be the
same."
Goshawk looked at the young chap, and replied, "piece o'
cake, son."
He then left the ops shack.
Duke's pilotlog entry:
Strolling past Sabre's
hangar, Duke hears hammering, banging, and not a little bit of
swearing from within. He peers in, light forming brilliant rays
in the dusty gloom ...
"Dag nab'it, get on there you little ... CLANG! rattle
rattle rattle ... ow OW
OOOOWWWWWWWW $#!* &*@% ^&$*#@%%!!!!"
Sticking his head in the door, Duke spies Sabre hopping around on
one foot while sucking
his thumb ... "Hey butterfingers ... whaddya do, drop your
watch?" Duke asks, grinning as
he pokes his head in the door while watching carefully for flying
wrenches, bolts, and what
have you.
"No, damn aileron controls are sticky, and the elevators are
way out of trim, and to top it
off, I just dropped a spanner on my foot after jamming my fingers
in the pulleys ...
OWWWWW!! @#$*%(#$!!!
"Ah, well ... I guess this isn't the best time to ask when
you think we might get our flight in,
is it."
"Damn, I've been so busy ... no, I've got this bird about as
tight as she's gonna get without
a complete overhaul, let's fly now."
"You sure ol' pal?" Duke replies, still grinning as
Sabre is limping over to wash the oil off
his hand so a bandage might stick ... "I hate to take
advantage of you in this, uh, condition."
"Get outta here and go fire up your Tempest, I'll meet you
in the air in five minutes!" Sabre
growls back. Duke sidesteps a flying claw hammer and scoots.
* ROUND 1 *
Tempests at Ten paces ... you wouldn't think these birds could
get into the twisty kind of
fight like this, but there it is. Up, over, round and about.
Sabre's gimp stick and sore toes
must be hurtin' because he's not turning as well as he should. It
doesn't take long to get the
advantage and rip a few rounds through the oil pan. I leave a
little space between the
smokin' Sabre and myself ... enough to watch him spill into the
drink.
* ROUND 2 *
Sabre dries himself off, and grabs a 109-E4 ... or should I say,
it grabs him, as his sore
hand is unable to provide adequate control over the beast and he
spins it into the drink in a
hurry.
* ROUND 3 *
Sabre figures to trade in for speed and grabs a 262 off the back
lot. Oh, but this bird is
even worse! It's not long before Sabre's spinning out of control
and Duke swings in to
shoot it into flames ... hey, if it's gonna land in the water
anyhow ... [hehehe]
Swearing even more loudly than in the hangar, I hear one heck of
a blue streak pealing
across the water from the rescue raft ... I waggle my wings and
make sure to have a cold
one waiting for Sabre when the Navy boys drop him off at the
dock.
Sabre, this match was ugly ... as I said, I hate to take
advantage of your control problems
and would have been happy to delay, or take a void ... but I
SALUTE your perserverance
and your courage to charge in regardless. A TOAST! I'm sure that
when you've got it all
ironed out, I expect I'LL be the one that's toasted. :-)
Duke
No609_Heat's pilotlog entry:
** Pilot Log ** 20th
June 1941 **
After transferring from the RAAF 251 Squadron to the RAF 609
Squadron 3 weeks ago
I'm am yet to see any 'REAL' action in the skies. It seems that
the Germans are reluctant to
send their "aces" over to Hastings where I am based.
Even after reports that "'Comerade_Zed' was sighted over the
channel heading our way I
quickly got in the air awaiting the challenge that was to come.
After been in the air for 7
hours sweeping the skies there was no sign of the Jerrys. I
finally spot a single Jerry by
himself and report to base that bandit was sighted. To my dismay
HQ gave me the call to
return to base as my time in the skies was up. So after my brief
contact with
Comerade_Zed I reluctly headed for home. After I reached base i
was informed that
Comerade_Zed was reported as going down in to the channel and i
was credited with his
kill.
After informing my squadron leader that I did not fire a shot he
ordered me to "He is not in
the skies anymore so shut my face and take what is given",
not wanting to disobey orders
of my new squadron leader I accepted the kill.
Lookout5 was to be my second encounter as he was reported to be
headed towards
Hastings. Once again I headed for the skies and did a sweep of
the surrounding area.
Eager to challenge Lookout5 to a duel in the serene air of
England there was no sign of
Lookout. Not wanting to go home before a before a 'REAL' battle I
stay up in the skies
for an extra 2 hours searching for him but to my dismay I could
not find him. Running on
the vapors of my quite empty fuel tanks I head home thinking to
myself am I ever going to
see any action or am I just a spectator in the Battle of Britain?