Pilotlog page 16

Dr. Bones' pilotlog entry:

It was a beautiful morning at Boxted, judging by the quality of the sunlight streaming in
through the half-open window. Enthusiastically I leaped upright to seize the day and saw
stars as my cranium impacted the bottom of the upper bunk. "#%##%$^&&@$^@!!!," I
grumbled, stumbling off to the mess tent. You'd think after two weeks in the same bunk I'd
quit doing that.

Breakfast completed, I struggled into my flight suit, newly mildew-free and almost devoid
of salt stains from my last expedition over and into the Channel, and headed for my plane.
The order of the day was an experimental fighter sweep over occupied France. It seemed
some new hot Jerry pilot with the odd name of IOMatrix had been responsible for a
number of close calls in the area, and the brass wanted him rooted out. Taking off, I
pointed my plane into the rising sun.

Once I remembered that France is *south* of England, not east, I sheepishly turned that
direction. "Negative, Tower, just wanted to get a look at the sun rising over the mountains
of Wales. I hear they're breathtaking this time of day." I didn't think they believed me.

A few minutes later, I was orbiting over Le Havre. Would the Jerries come out and play?
Only time would tell. I was going to stay until IOMatrix came out or I hit Bingo fuel.
Something told me that second cup of coffee might not have been a good idea . . .

Enforcer's pilotlog entry:

It was a delightful day, one where you smash someones knees for not paying you the Vig
and the "ol boy" screams aloud in anguish.. It's even better when there are no bobies in the
vicinity to chase you back to base..

Thinking of the next guy who means to deprive me of my living I notice as I pass the CO's
posterboard (ocular implant works still) that my name is listed as being involved in a test
flight against a high ranking No609'er.. Kosmik is his name.. He's been shootin up the
ladder like he's real cosmic I hear, well gotta make someone else bleed I think to myself..

Flight 1 Enforcer 1 Kosmik 0
We go for the ol turner (Spit 1).. Catching a high deflection shot on Kosmik I smoke his
engine.. It was just a matter of time till the engine gave up the ghost..

Flight 2 Enforcer 1 Kosmik 1
Landing back at base to rearm and refuel the Sarge points over to a Spit 9 waiting just off
the grassy runway.. Once airborne Kosmik locates me real fast at altitude.. We engage,
maneuver for position and come back in guns blazing.. Kosmik nails my engine and as
much as I try to get some licks in to no avail, Kosmik finishes the job..

Flight 3 Enforcer 2 Kosmik 1
Running from the SAR I jump in the first plane I see (Spit 9).. I track down Kosmik doing
some loops and engage.. Kosmik goes down with a smoking engine..

The next 3 flights were the results of 2 collisions and one badly lagged flight..

Flight 4 Enforcer 3 Kosmik 1 Draws 3
Once again the Sarge is pointing to an aircraft as Im yelling for him to refuel me. This time
he's pointing to the sleek silvery Lightning (P 38J).. Ok I respond jump into the cockpit
and notice it has cup holders.. The Sarge climbes up checks my straps and hands me a
Guiness "for the long flight Sir!" he says smiling as he climbs down and pulls the ladder then
chocks..

Cruising to the last reported site of where I downed Kosmik Im surprised to find that he's
bearing in on me. I evade the head on and drag out the fight a little. Getting inside of
Kosmik Im rewarded with a good firing solution. Letting loose on the guns smokes his right
engine.. Taking shots at him forces him down low where he eventually has to ditch..

I drop my Guiness (empty of course) and roll the wings.. Kosmik gets SAR while I get
Koko.. Good match Kosmik..

No609_OzZiggy's pilotlog entry:

Relent burst into the Nissen hut, the home of C flight, 609; "Its Oz!,
He’s coming in!, …he’s in trouble!"

The hut referred to as little Australia by others , or "the shack" by its
occupants, was a cigarette smoke filled affair, cluttered by all the usual
fighter pilot stuff. There was a small card table(foldable) in one corner ,
and crate of American beer another (thanks to killa and Pero, the AE71 boys),
and flight gear hanging from hooks on the walls. The were even flight suits
tied over the windows to act as temporary blackout curtains. Inscribed ,in
white chalk, on the farthest wall of the hut was the slogan "Australia will
be there!". The center of the room was dominated by a slow burning stove ,
the top piled with metal mugs and a kettle, the stove doubled as inefficient
central heating for the chilly room. Around this soot blackened monstrosity ,
drawn up on cots , absorbing what little heat they could, were the Aussies
of 609 squadron. Destroyer, Munster and Heat looked up as one at Relent as he
stood in the doorway expectantly.

"Shut the flaming door Rel! we aren’t bloody polar bears you know!" ..exclaimed
Heat ..barely looking up from "a technical manual" he was pondering, while
at the same time reaching for his flight boots.

Rel looked at the faces of these men of C flight ..shook his head twice as if
the violent motion would help the lack of response from these guys sink in. As
he did so his combat honed eyes took in those subtle movements that tell the
real story of any given event. Dest, who was holding lucky digger when Rel
made his blitzkrieg like entry , griped the fat rabbit just a little tighter.
Heat was struggling just ever so slightly with the process of putting his
boots on.

"No worries Rel , Oz will be right, lets go and see what all this fuss is about"
said Dest favoring Rel with one of his dead even glances.

"Man!, these guys scare me some days" , said Rel quietly to himself , as the
three Aussies squeezed past him out of the door and into the biting chill wind.
Huddling together for protection from the elements the four men watched as a
lone spitfire mkIX haphazardly made its way over the hedge rows and fence
lines to the grass airstrip that ran parallel to the line of Nissen huts that
was 609’s barracks.

"Hmmm smoking a bit aint he" , stated heat
" Yep,…he will make it though , damn good flying ,…. bringing her in like that"
replied Dest

Huh …how did he know Oz had radioed a victory and then a mayday in, as he came
back from his flight" thought Rel ….As far as he knew destroyer hadn’t left
the shack all morning. He must have know all along and still kept his cool ,
so thats why Dest is a flight leader.

The spit landed with a heavy bump and a simultaneous explosion, as second
stage supercharger gave out and rocketed skyward, leaving a hole the size
of a watermelon in the engine cowling. Damn thing must have got locked on
when the engine was damaged by jerries cannon fire. The girl was a mess,
multiple bullet holes , large fist sized rents in the tail control surfaces
from 20mm cannon shells. The canopy was cracked , and now sludgy half burnt
oil oozed down the fuselage and onto the wing , like blood it discolored the
camouflage paint scheme of the plane.
The valiant lady came to a final stop as her brakes were applied. The field
ambulance, bell racketing, was already streaking across the field towards
the stricken plane just as the canopy was opening. A tall figure was seen to
get out onto the wing of the aircrasft. The man stood up straight, put his
arms out to his sides , and moved such as to imitate the waggling of a planes
wings.

"Heehehehe! , he,s giving us a victory waggle!", "way to go Oz!"..Rel yelled ,
waving his arms back frantically.

"Cheeky bugger" laughed heat.

"Damn Jerry is getting better, I hear NJG 88 have moved into our sector" was
all that Dest said

Goshawk's Pilotlog entry:

"SQWAAAAWK" [CHOP!]

Goshawk woke with a start. The nightmare was horrible! The bird was just a chicken, but the horror
and terror of it's demise left no doubt of the possible outcome of the upcoming match. He nodded off
again. It would be a long time 'til the sun came up, and he would need his rest.

The bird's head stretched out as if to pick up a chunk of food, it's eyes
focused straight ahead, it's neck taut.. a flash of steel,,

"SQWAAAAAAAWKKKKKKK"[CHOP!]

"Damn", he swore as he sat upright in bed, covered with sweat this time.
His eyes were fixed straight ahead and staring fixedly at a space on the
wall across the room. There was nothing on the wall however, and Gos would
not have been able to recognize it anyway. But, the hole in the wood panel
where the knot had beem reminded Gos of the hole at the end of that stretched
neck. He'd heard about the guy he was slated to fly. He was nervous,
knowing that it could just as easily happen to a goshawk as to a chicken.

He had to shake this off and get some rest! He shook his head feverishly,
his hair getting messed in the process.

He droped his head back to the pillow and began thinking of Koko. Thoughts
of her always usually served to either lull him asleep, or rouse him to
wakefullness. He fought for the first. He visioned going to Koko's hut,
tossing Hawkeye out on his ear, and taking his rightful place in the arms
that island enchantress. He pictured the waves of the island lapping onto
the sand, and the warmth of the breezes flooding over him. Sleep was soon to
follow. Never failed!

The eyes bugged out this time, and although Goshawk gave out with a scream to
warn the fowl of the dropping blade, the outcome was the same...

"SQWAAAAWWWKKKK!" [CHOP!]

Goshawk got out of bed, and walked to the flightline. He climbed to a 109-K4
parked on the grass nearby, thankful for it's padded seat due to the parachute
waiting there already. Gos never could understand why the German blokes left
their parachutes sitting in their planes. But, thoughts of that were a far
cry better than the sight of the chicken getting chopped.

He nodded off and as the sun arose, he was again roused,,,

[sqwaaaaawk] "Gauzehawg, trade, angels 10, heading 180, ovah!"

He looked up sleepily to see the engine of the great warbird already turning,
and the prop causing a thunderous roar in his ears. He leaned off to the right
and was met with the hot propwash. The smell of oil and petrol lulled him to
action, and he fingered the throttle forward. The engine responded like a finely
tuned woman, and the blades of grass behind the plane spread in unison with the
force of the thrust of the plane's engine.

Goshawk lifted off, and soared into the bliss of the cold morning air. Thoughts
of the earlier dreams were far away now. There were enemies to slay and
righteousness to win back for mankind.

Goshawk first saw the other plane as it closed fast. The plane was another
109-K4, and as it neared its guns lit up with fire. The bullets passed by, but
were close enough to cause whining in the air at that altitude. As the plane
passed near, Goshawk stretched his head far out of the canopy of his own plane,
his neck taut.

"HEY, YOU BE CAREFUL WITH THOSE BLOODY THINGS! YOU COULD POKE AN EYE
OUT LIKE
THAT!!!", he screamed as loud as possible. The plane roared on by. The pilot
looked back fixedly, death in his eyes.

Goshawk turned to follow, and was surprised to see the plane making a return pass.

As the plane closed, the canopy opened. Out of the rounded orifice came a shiny
silver cleaver, held high in a raised fist. As the planes passed close by again,
the pilot swung the cleaver several times, taking chops out of the wing's edge.

"SHEESH!" screamed Goshawk. "This guy's tryin' to KILL ME!!"

He turned rapidly around and found a spot of the tail of the plane that invitingly appeared to want a
spray of bullets. Goshawk obliged, and pressed the trigger. Cannon rounds exploded inside the tail
section of the plane.

Goshawk returned to base, and waited for the return of Solar Arrow's walrus.
He wanted to find out who that head-hunter was with the cleaver!

As the walrus landed, however, the pilot rushed out and climbed into a waiting
Tempest. Gunning the throttle, the pilot took off again, and Goshawk heard the
call on the loudspeaker:

"Gauzehawg, trade, angels 10, heading 180".

Goshawk rushed to another Tempest waiting nearby, and climbed in. He suspected a
tape recorder gone awry, but headed to the announced position anyway. He spotted
the Tempest coming fast, and as it passed, the cleavered fist again swung madly
at the canopy of Goshawk's plane. The canopy shattered as the cleaver struck home.

Goshawk screamed as the blade chopped the harness of his chute. Two inches
closer, and Goshawk would have been rendered headless. There was no time to waste.

Goshawk looped three times and came down atop the other bird. A series of cannon
rounds brought a column of heavy smoke and flame from the engine. A parachute and body exited
from the opponent's plane.

Goshawk returned, yet a third time, the pilot eluded identification as he took off in a Spit 9.

In rapid course Goshawk flamed the opponent, and hurried back to base. He climbed aboard the
walrus as it departed, and flew to the rescue point.

Butchabird was rapidly dragged into the walrus, and Kiki climbed aboard the screaming, flailing
body of the downed pilot.

"He's in shock! He's in shock!", she screamed as she tore at the pilot's clothing.

The front of the leather coat was ripped off and flung in Goshawk's direction.
The remainder of the pilot's clothing were ripped to pieces, and Kiki climbed aboard the now nude
screaming body. "I'll rouse you! I'll rouse you!" she squealed with glee.

Goshawk was forced to turn away from the sight of the assault. He would have put the man out of
his misery had he found another cleaver or handgun.

As the screams of the downed pilot continued from the anti-shock body warming of the now naked
Kiki, Goshawk looked at the nametag on the ripped section of leather.

"BUTCHABIRD" is what it said.

Spectre's pilotlog entry:

The engine of the 190-A8 was running quite smooth, considering that
the plane was dragged from the shallow waters of the channel and totally
rebuilt with blackmarket parts. It was not the smooth humming of a
Merlin, and as a matter of fact, it reminded Spectre of the big-ass-bastard
thunderous throbbing of those silly P-47 jobs the US pilots all swore
about.

"It'll get ya home with 2 tons of lead in 'em!", they would say. Bloody
sods never seemed to learn that you're not supposed to let the gerri's
shoot two tons of ammo at ya. He preferred the Spits, for although they
were not smacking of armor, they at least allowed one to swerve and spin
away from a stream of cannon rounds.

"All the bloody Germans need to do to take care of the jugs, is to make
their bullets heavier!", he thought outloud.

Spectre was getting lost in his reverie of the nimbleness of the silky
smooth, sensual lines of the Spitfires, when all of a sudden, another
190A-8 whizzed by, casting a furious spray of bullets at the captured
bird of prey.

Spectre responded instinctively, pulling the fighter into a tight high
climb, "Over the top, that's it," he spoke aloud, "BLOODY HELL!!" he
screamed as his German fighter began a death spin. He had forgotten
that he was in a totally different handling bird, and had allowed his
instincts to control the plane rather than his brain. The hard realization
in nature that the instincts of a hunter sometimes far outweigh the brain
mass, resulted in Spectre's pummelling several thousand feet, flopping
from a backwards spin, to an end over end one. In either case, the enemy
plane was on him in a flash, sending pieces of rubble to the waiting
waters below, and removing sufficient body panel parts to render the
A-8 again incapable of flight.

Upon reporting the loss to base before hitting the water, rescue craft
were hurriedly dispatched. Spectre took off again in a Spit, to do justice
to the deadly opponent. The planes met soon after, and Spectre dispatched
the bloke without mercy. A news flash from the Reich revealed that a
pilot from the JG300 was lost and feared dead over the channel.

"The Reich would mourn for "Hartmann", the "Great Arian Hope" for the
furure", it said. Flags were dropped to half-mast as Hartmann was dragging
his scorched bottom out of the channel in a French coast chalet.

As Spectre was returning to base, another call came out: "Spectre, trade,
angels 10, heading 090, ovah."

Spectre turned to grab an angle on the fighter, but his plane was torn
apart by cannon rounds from a speeding 190-D9. As Spec's chute was drifting down, he slapped
himself for not paying closer attention to his surroundings.

Spectre returned to base and grabbed another Spit9. He returned to the
scene, and met Hartmann yet again. With a flurry of trigger pulls, the
enemy was sent to the waters below, yet again.

The radio crackled again, Duke this time: "Spectre, that A-8's ready to
try again. Please be a bit more careful this time, will you?"

Spectre returned, grabbed the A-8, surprised at the speed with which the
recovery crews were able to repair it. Having a new AirCommand Sgt.Major
on board seemed to speed up parts and orders getting received.

As Spectre climbed above 10,000, he spotted Hartmann coming again, in
a fresh A-8 of his own. Spectre paid careful attention not to stall the
bird, but his inexperience in the German plane rendered him at a significant disadvantage. Soon,
Hartmann had pumped enough bullets into Spectre's
plane to render the engine smoking. Spectre realized that there was only
one way to try and win this battle, "cunning".

As Hartmann circled above the greviously wounded Spectre's bird, Spectre
neared down to the water, circling slowly to draw the German down.

High above, the slobbering and lathering of saliva on Hartmann's face
showed that he was keen for the kill. He saw his prey injured and limping
below. The blood pounded within his skull, as the blood-lust built to overflowing pressures within the
cranium. The desire to finish the cocky
old buzzard off grew to an insatiable craving. Finally, the pressure
was too strong, instincts to kill too intense, awareness of the vulnerability
of his prey too keen that he had to strike.

Diving his plane at the smoking, injured victim below, bringing his sights
to bear, pushing the throttle to max allowing the full impact of the bullets,
and judging the correct amount of deflection for a good kill shot, he
let his emotion explode in a fury for death. The senses in Hartmann were
sharpened to a razor's edge, and all of the above considerations were
well thought out. All of the ingredients for a billowing fuel fed explosion
of Spectre's plane were in the making, save one.

As Hartmann's speed increased to 250, 260, 270, 290, to 300, Spectre
turned his laboring bird under the dive of Hartmann, and dove himself
to wavetop heights. Hartmann screamed for two reasons in his dive.

First was for the realization that his bullets had missed their mark.

Second, at the realization that the wavetops were prepared to accept
him at whatever speed.

Hartmann's screams were drowned out by the cold thoughtless waters of
the English Chanel as he augered in, unable to pull out of the dive.

Spectre turned the injured craft towards home, checked the guages and speed. He knew he would
make it.

As he passed over the waters, he saluted the churning foam below.

Taipan's pilotlog entry:

The cold still morning air was broken buy the sound of a lone cricket. I was cold, tired and totally pissed off.
How could I have been so daft! How could I have let that Jerry pig draw me to the French coast?
Of all the stupid things to do. One minute happy as a pig in ##### getting kill after kill the next hanging on the end of a piece of British Government canvas.

The soaking wet wool uniform was not making life easy. I had to find a way out of this tiz waz or I was going to find myself in a right jackpot. I had been walking for nine hours and my legs felt like #####, I was hanging on my
chinstraps and I didn’t feel like the spiffy ace I should of. But as Lord Admiral Nelson signaled on his deathbed, “England expects every man to do his duty”. Well, I’ll be F’d if I’ll be the one to let the side down.

If only I could make it to a port I could skive a ride with a frog boat. If only…. Suddenly the night air was broken by the sound of a 109 engine in the distance. Stone the crows! I wonder,……… bugger it,………… It’s worth a stab..… I legged it towards the sound of the enemy.

Half an hour later and a burning sensation from the ankle to the neck, I broke through the woods to see in the distance, the light of a Jerry airdrome. I slithered down on my belly. It was like bloody daylight and the last thing I needed was to be in the spotlight. Thank christ the S/M had shown me those army tricks. I eyed up the perimeter and noticed a lone guard by a 109K. He didn’t look too enthralled with his lot in life and the fag in his ugly gob and the slack manner in which he was standing confirmed my thoughts.

My hand, numb with the cold slipped down to the dagger the S/M had given me as a present. The poor sod would not see daylight again. I could smell the sausage on his breath as my hand slipped over his forehead. It was
the last thing he ever felt. Poor bloody bastard.

I legged it to the 109 sitting on the side of the runway and slammed my peepers onto the dash. "Sod me pink", I thought, it’s all in kraut. Well it’s got to be the same shit as back home. I dived into the cockpit and fired it up. What a bloody din. It woke up the dead and few Jerry besides. I cranked up the throttle and powered her over the grass verge past a dazed group of krauts.

It was then that I noticed the Huns running from the shacks towards the other 109’s.

Maybe this was not such a good plan after all...

Round 1. Head on. Balls to the wall. No twists no turns just pure guts and tracers filling the air.
Tai 1 FT 0

Round 2. Same dance of death with a different tune! The debris is still being picked up!..
Tai 2 FT 0

Round 3. Head on guts for garters. FT floats with grace to the ground as Tai ascends to the heavens and dips his wings in salute to a fine pilot.
Tai 3 FT 0

My compliments to you FT. As always a distinct pleasure!.
Thank you sir. I salute you!.
Warm regards

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