Pilotlog Page 19
Somewhere in England, early 1940's
Greenbird's pilotlog entry:
EAW (R) GreenBirds
cannons yelps: Yes, yes YES! At Yentl (3-1)
It was dark night in Denmark, when I took off from the danish
mainland in the
crappy P38J Yentl had ordered for me. I met him as expected over
the english
channel... he passed to the left and I tried hitting him with
some casual merge shots
without success... the plane was sluggish and heavy, and I was
sooo carefull in every
movement with the stick.. I think actually I had a good chance in
that round to get a
good start of the match , I followed him closely in his Yoyos but
couldent hit properly
when I had the chance...it went over in a corkscrew turnfight and
soon we were down
at the surface, and I got in trouble .. I lost control over the
plane and stalled right
down in the cold water.. Uhufff!
GreenBird-Yentl 0-1
The next time I chose a Bristish Spit IXC, the engine ran well,
and it felt good to fly..
after a beginning where I startet witha soft modern Immelman to
get above Yentl,
we quickly came into a vertical fight... I got in his tail and
let my cannons say what
they had to say.
GreenBird-Yentl 1-1
The next round was flown in a P47D, and it was not as easy to fly
as the Spit, but it
was okay.. The round was very similar to round 2, after some
verticals I got in his
tail, and gave his plane a good beating.
GreenBird-Yentl 2-1
Fourth round was flown in P47D again.. startet the same way as in
the two previous
rounds but this time I got around quickly in a turnfight, and had
a lucky mergeshot
with an engine hit as the result... I used my energyadvantage to
get high above
Yentl, and when he saw that he couldent follow me, he turned his
plane around and
went for the home base.
GreenBird-Yentl 3-1
Thnx for a good fight Yentl, it was nice meting ya, and flying
with ya. Cya and S!
Request for R&R from Greenbird:
It was late afternoon
on the base... Koko was running from office to office with papers
and letters, when she suddenly noticed a pilot who was sitting on
fuel barrel next to the runway. She approached him and could see
right away what was wrong with him. "This man is suffering
from severe battle fatique", she said to herself. He
had big black marks under his eyes and his hands were shaking
while he tried to get some tobacco in his pipe.
"I dont hope you are planning to light that pipe while you are sitting on that HighOctane gasoline GreenBird?", she said with her mellow voice. GreenBird looked up with a confused expression in his face. "Oh no, of course not!" he said.. "Sorry Koko, I haven't been myself lately.. dunno whats wrong.. Maybe I need to get a vacation to London or something like that.. But Goshawk and the others think that I am a sissy requesting pass and so ...and I dont dare to go ask again.."
Koko sat down beside him put his arm around him and said.. "Dear dear GreenBird, you have had 12 missions in a row, you deserve a pass, I will get you that pass, dont worry about it."
Then she walked away in her usual beautiful style, and GreenBird followed her every move until she disappeared into The SMīs office.
Goshawk puts Greenbird on pass to Mallory's big 12th Group:
"OK!OK! OK! He's
got a pass already! Send the bloke to Mallory's group for a rest!
"Anything, just keep him the bloody hell away from those
petrol barrels. He's likely
to set the whole war in a tailspin and ruin it for us all!"
"Let me know when he's able to fly again."
Goshawk's pilotlog entry:
The pilots were bored to tears. They had been drilling in the
basics of the French, Swedish, and German languages, as well as
their routine exams of the various time zones represented on the
field.
Having several pilots with internal body clocks opposite of the
majority was nice when night missions were required, but
otherwise, was driving several of the younger less temperamental pilots crazy.
"Can't seem to wake him up to fly", would be a familiar
complaint heard by Goshawk, or "too tired to see the bugger
coming at me" was another common malady. Still other pilots
were severely injuring their hands and
wrists in order to satiate a need of the few with extremities
that were already sorely strained from overuse and abuse.
Many had been sent to the big North Group of Leigh Mallory to
rest a spell while the war raged on in the southeast.
Meanwhile, in the room, Goshawk continued to drill the latest
training materials into the ears of the pilots sitting there in
feigned interest.
"So, if Ziggy is busy at 7A, and Hero is befuddling at 8A,
where will that leave Greenbird, who is involved in what likely
activity at his 1A? And, is this the correct code for
Greenbird?"
[THWACK!!] came the report as a spitwad struck the old pilot in
the left cheeek.
Goshawk, rubbing the cheek briskly and wiping the instinctive
pain-tear from the left eye looked round the room.
At a table to his left he spotted Ziggy, Heat, Shap, and Relent
staring intently at a half-eaten carrot sitting on the table in
front of Ziggy's wee white rabbit. No one at that table appeared
to be paying attention, so Goshawk felt comfortable that the
group was not involved with the assault.
He returned to his notes and began to read again.
[Ah-hem]"So, gentlemen, back to work. If Wolf is busy with
dinner, what meal is Duke preparing for, and,,,
[THWACK!!] came the second report as another spitwad struck
Goshawk on the forehead this time.
"Gawd-dammmit!", he shouted, rubbing the searing pain
away from the spot. He bent over and picked up the dripping wad
of paper from the floor. A sliver of carrot stuck out from a fold
of the chewed paper.
"YOU BLOODY BRITS! YA GOTTA SPIT THIS, SPIT THAT, YA EVEN
NAME YOUR BLOODY PLANES AFTER YOUR BODY FLUIDS,," his tirade
was cut short by the raucous laughter emanating from the table of
609 pilots. Shap fell out of his chair from laughing so hard. His
mates reached and helped him back to his chair.
"You think you know this stuff, Shap?" asked Goshawk
angrily. He held his notes up in front of his face, in the
direction of Shap.
"Yup, Gos", came the reply. He continued to laugh along
with the others in the group.
"Well, maybe I need to teach ya a few things about warfare
and courtesy, Shap!", stated the older pilot. He immediately
regretted allowing his fury to get the best of him. Shap picked
his leather cap off the table and strode to the door.
"Let's go, Gos!", he called over his shoulder. All eyes
turned to Goshawk, still standing at the front of the room.
As the sound of a Spit boomed to life on the field, Goshawk
dropped his notes and left the room.
Round 1 found Shap quickly at a disadvantage with position,
Goshawk shooting wildly at his tail. After several short bursts
of cannonfire, Shap's Spit flamed and fell to the ocean below.
Round 2 was in Spit1A's and again, Goshawk was able to bring the
boom upon
Shap's Spit.
Round 3 found Shap trying a different strategy, rolling inverted
as the planes
merged, and as Goshawk twisted furiously to gain position on the
younger
pilot his speed was just too great! Several blackouts occurred
before Shap
smoked Goshawk's engine, sending the flaming Spit to the water
below. Goshawk
again received a facefull of moisture as the Spit augered into a
waiting wave.
Round 4 was a repeat of the previous round, but both pilots were
in Spit 9's.
Round 5 found Goshawk in a firing solution at the merge, and
Shap's motor was left smoking as they passed. Shap was able to
turn, climb and stay with Goshawk, who tried in vain to gain an
advantage in speed, distance, or altitude on
Shap's smoking Spit. Shap matched Gos move for move, and was able
to gain position, close the distance, and outmaneuver the old
pilot's plane.
The greater ability of the younger pilot was clearly evident in
the way that he controlled his stricken craft, and his ability to
gain and hold with the uninjured Spit flown by Gos left the older
pilot no option but to turn and duke it out in close quarters.
After the first blackout-inducing loop back into Shap, Goshawk
was able to gain a position on Shap's six-o'clock. Shap was
finished with a steady stream of 20mm cannon rounds.
As Goshawk returned to base, he realized that he had won that
match by only a small measure. He entered the briefing room,
walked to the front, picked up the papers with the codes and
languages, and quickly tore them to shreds.
"These 609 boys don't need any more training from me",
he mumbled as he strode from the room.
Goshawk's report:
First female fighter
pilot joins the ladder.
The still of the morning air was shattered by the scream of
Stukas overhead
as they dove upon the sleepy airfield. The screach of their
sirens woke
the pilots who ran from their huts to the trenches nearby. As the
first bombs
struck the field, the last of the pilots dove headfirst into an
open area
of the closest trench outside the mess tent. Relent landed head
first upon the
packed clay at the bottom of the trench. Those nearby were
releived that he
had fallen upon the thickest part of his body, and not likely to
have done any
damage.
Nearby, a loud scream of terror filled the air, and the members
of the 609
turned quickly to see who had taken a hit. All eyes fixed upon
OzZiggy,
who stood quickly, still screaming, reaching for handfulls of
grass and
pulling himself out of the trench. BUG grabbed for a pants leg,
as did
Tuxedo, but not in time before OzZiggy had clammored out of the
trench,
and ran arms outstretched to his hut, some 50 yards away. Over
the din of
explosions, the blokes could hear him yelling for
"Digger". The men sat silent,
staring at the hut as OzZiggy fled from the doorway, a small
white bundle of
fur in his hands. As a clap of cheering resounded, a bomb landed
on the hut,
destroying it. OzZiggy was thrown onto the ground, and rolled
instinctively
upon his back to protect the mascot.
Suddenly, there was another sound filling the air, the
unmistakable sound of
a Spitfire's cannons. The pilots in the trench watched as OzZiggy
reached with
his right hand and pointed skyward. All eyes followed his gaze
and pointed finger,
and the men were rendered speechless as they watched a lone
Spitfire tear into the
ranks and file of the bombers and fighters overhead.
In the first fearless pass, the Spitfire poured a stream of
cannon fire into
a Stuka at the apex of its climb out of the diving pass that had
destroyed OzZiggy's
hut. The Stuka exploded into several parts, which fluttered down
onto the field
not far from the crowded trench. The Spitfire turned sharply,
avoiding the fire
from two pursuing 109's. Making a looping roll, the Spit banked
onto the tail
of one of the 109's and flamed it with a quick burp of ammo. The
second 109
bugged out, diving to gain speed and turning for the coast.
The Spitfire climbed again, turning to give chase. A trailing
Stuka was
sent spinning in flames at the hands of another ruthless attack
by the Spit. The
pilots in the trench looked for other Spitfires overhead, sure
that the debris
they saw falling around them must have been created by a whole
squadron of British
fighters. Looking skyward, they were only able to see one
Spitfire, turning back
toward the field. The German planes, fleeing still far out across
the channel,
disappeared from view.
As the pilots climbed out of the trenches, the Spitfire slowly
descended onto
the field, making a three-point landing. After one bounce, it
settled onto the
grass and rolled to a stop near the pilots.
Goshawk walked up to the Spitfire, noticing that there were no
squadron markings
yet painted on the plane. He was astounded! This plane's pilot
must obviously be
a "ferry" pilot, and not accustomed to warfare. As the
pilot stepped from the fighter,
Goshawk strode to meet the man, and insist that he join the
squadron immediately.
Good pilots were hard to come by these days, and finding one who
could shoot and
fly like this one could was a stroke of luck not to be passed up.
As the pilot stepped out of the cockpit, Goshawk called out,
"Good show up there,
mate! What unit you with?"
The pilot stepped aside, clear of the cockpit and removed the
leather helmet. Long
strands of brown hair flowed across the pilot's shoulders. The
goggles were
removed and the face of the first female fighter pilot on the
field was revealed.
"No609, sir! MrsSSGF's the name." She stepped from the
wing of the plane as the
boys of the 609 sprang to cheering.
The "missus" had arrived at the field!
AirCommandSgt.Major welcomes the newest pilot:
"STAND STILL
GOLDIELOCKS!."
"YOU WITH THE GOLDIE BLOODY LOCKS!. COME ERE. YOU LOOK
LOVELY DARLING!. BUT THIS IS A BLOODY AIR FORCE BASE NOT A SODDIN
NAVY BASE!."
"GET THAT KIT STOWED IN A LOCKER, GET A SODDIN HAIR CUT SO
THAT IT ONLY TOUCHES YOUR NAPE OF YOUR NECK, PUT SOME POLISH ON
THOSE THINGS YOU MAY CALL BOOTS AND GET THE WRINKELS OUT OF THAT
UNIFORM. "
"WHEN YOU GET DONE WITH THAT LOT I"LL BE OVER TO
INSPECT AND
YOU HAD BETTER HAVE THE BRASS POPPING ON THE BOOTS AND
TUNIC!. IF NOT YOU"RE ON #####E OUSE DUTY FOR A MONTH!.
WELCOME TO HELL!."
"NOW MOVE YOU'RE ARSE!."
Spectre's pilotlog entry:
EAW(R) Spectre
outshines the glowing orbs of the Grimmreaper
The beer was only cool, and the bottom half off the glass wasn't
going
down as smoothly as the top half had. Spectre knew that he was
about at
his tolerance limit as soon as his right eye began following KoKo
as she
strolled past behind the bar. His left eye remained on the glass
of beer
in front of him. He tried to raise his head to peer into the
mirror
behind the bar. If he could only look at a fixed point somewhere,
he'd
be able regain the correct focus of his vision. He then spotted a
blurry
cross in the reflection of the windowpane behind him on the wall.
The
four panes were still intact inside the plaster and wood frame.
Most of
the windows on the base were still blown out from that last
air-raid when
the "missus" showed up. This one, however, was blessed
with some strange
power, since there were no cracks in the panes even.
He stared fixedly at the center of the cross, as his pupils
slowly began
to return to their normal position. The blurred image began to
clear.
Spectre then noticed what appeared to be two reddish marbles
floating in
the panes, just above the cross, and on the other side of the
glass. He
forced his eyes to clear, even rubbing them. He stared again at
the
vision of the glass orbs floating there.
"Damn", he whispered, hoping that he could clear this
image before Dr.Bones
heard about it. He decided to swear off the lukewarm beer at the
O-Club.
He then looked again at the window, and the reddish orbs then
came into focus.
They glowed in the blackness around them. Spectre blinked, then
looked yet
again.
He could see clearly now. The reddish balls were eyes staring at
him through
the window. He then saw them blink once, and glow even brighter
as they
opened again. Spectre turned around fast, and saw the red orbs
turn away
from the window.
Spectre stumbled off his stool, and shuffled to the door of the
club. As
he opened the door, he spotted a shadow moving rapidly toward the
field.
The image was that of a figure in a long black hooded cloak. The
figure ran
to a parked Tempest, the turned and looked at Spectre again. It
extended a
bony hand and pointed at the older pilot. The ghoul then gestured
for Spectre
to "come", and pointed the other hand at the Tempest.
In a swing of his hand, the ghoul whirled into a twisting cloud,
and glowed
softly as it whirled to another parked Tempest. It drifted
cloudily into
the cockpit, and the engine started. Spectre climbed into his own
Tempest,
and both fighters soon climbed into the waiting sky.
As the Tempest merged into range, the air surrounding the
fighters seemed to
be illuminated as if daytime. Both planes were clearly visible as
the ghoul's
Tempest fired its bank of cannons at Spectre. As the planes
passed, Spectre
caught a good look at the pilot, recognizing him as Grimmreaper.
Spectre
sobered momentarily and turned hard to avoid taking a facefull of bullets
from the ghoul's guns. The hard turn paid off, and although the
pilot of
the other plane seemed to have a magic-endowed pilot, the engines
were still
of metal and oil. A column of heavy black smoke poured forth and
the Tempest
soon lost the battle against lift and gravity. It plunged into
the channel.
As if by a sleigh of hand, Spectre closed his eyes to regain more
focus, and
they opened, he found himself in a P-38 fighter, high over the
channel. He
began to realize that he should probably return to the club, and
have a few
more of the brews to enable him to fall over and sleep as he
should, impervious
to the world around him. He was lost in the reverie of this
dream, as the
bullets of an opposing P-38 tore into his plane, sending him to
the waiting
waters below.
Spectre found himself again in a plane, a Spit 9 this time, and
involved in a
tight turning fight. Bullets from Grimmreaper's plane tore into
the Spit, and
Spectre found himself swimming in a clouded dreamscape yet again.
Soon, another Spit was beconning at his command, and
Grimmreaper's red glare
lit up Spectre's face as the planes passed close by. Spectre was
able to gain
a good position on the ghoul's plane, and he let loose with a
flurry of cannon
fire. Grimmreaper's plane augured into the channel below.
Spectre closed his eyes tightly, keeping them closed momentarily
as he vowed
to make his eyes clear up. He knew that he must be in a horrible
dream, and
was thankful at this thought. He must have already finished a
couple more
brews and already have fallen off the stool and ended up in a
sleeping heap on
the club's floor. He began to smile as the bullets of another
P-38 tore through
the air around his own P-38.
Both planes began twisting and turning in a tight spin-wraught
battle from 10,000
feet to only a few hundred feet above the waters.
As Spectre spotted Grimmreaper's plane spiraling above his own
momentarily, he
poured cannon and machinegun fire at the flailing fighter.
Several rounds tore
into the tail section of Grimmreaper's plane as Spectre's own
went into an upside
down spin, flailing hopelessly toward the waters waiting
patiently below.
Spectre closed his eyes yet a final time, willing them to cause
him to either
gain full focus to fight the spin, or enable him to awaken on the
floor of the
club so he could drag himself off to his hut and needed sleep.
He opened his eyes at a distance of 200 feet over the water,
still spinning. He
focused on the instruments, and saw that he was still in control
of the engines
and other controls. He gently fed input into the rudders,
returning the throttle
to idle, centering the stick to allow the plane to turn right side up, then he
gingerly countered the spin. As the bottom of his plane skipped across the tips
of the waves, the airflow caught the wings, and the wings were
grasped by the
welcomed force of lift. Spectre's P-38 pulled out of the spin
immediately above
the waves. They climbed into the air in defiance of their denial,
yet the P-38
gently lifted away.
Spectre turned to see the splash of Grimmreaper's P-38, and
watched as two
small red orbs glowed at him from the cockpit of the plane as it
began to sink.
He shuddered at the thought and realization that this ghoulish
pilot, Grimmreaper,
would return.
Tough battle Grimmreaper. Well fought. S!
Hotshot's Incident Report / Return to active duty:
What I just overheard
made me worry about the S/M!!
I was taking the morning stroll out past the S/M's Loo For Two
when I heard the
S/M's BOOMING voice carry out ".....DON'T PULL IT, YOU
'ORRIBLE LITTLE
MAN, SQUEEEEEZE IT!!!!!!" Well! To say the least I ws
SHOCKED to hear such
a thing coming from the Loo and I felt as a Officer Candidate it
was my duty to
investigate! So as I approached I assumed a stealthy stature (bent
over like a
wallowing duck!) I was worried that perhaps the S/M had gotten
ahold of Windigo
again and was doing GOD KNOWS WHAT!....Slowly I crept up the the
loo for
two(2 weeks at Commando School you know!) and Jerked the Door
OPEN!!....And
what did I see but AN EMPTY LOO!!!!....Again right then I head
the S/M Booming
again.." NO NO SQUEEEEEZE!!..... DON'T JERK IT! WERE YOU
BLOODY
BORN IN A BARN?!?!?!"....I was almost afraid to peer around
the back side of the
S/M's LOO!!...What would I do if there was something Horrible
going on here? I
was a Combat READY Candidate.... But the IMAGE of the S/M and his
crop
slapping against his thigh with his Inhuman STARE and his
TOWERING voice
scared me more then the JERRIES!! I was about to turn tale when
It Suddenly hit
me like a smack! Flight Officer Goshawk had always instructed me
to "DO it for
the Squadron Laddy!!!!"...His words ringing in my ear I
JUMPED around the
backside of the LOO! READY FOR ANYTHING! And what did I
see!?!?!?!.........The S/M giving Gunnery Instruction to one of
the new ack ack boys
at the field of course!!! I stood there IMMOBILE.... a STUPID
grin on my face when
the S/M turned to me...the Spit dribbling out of his tight
lips!...."YOU
THERE!!!....GET YOUR ARSE TO THE FLIGHT LINE BOY!!!!!.....IT IS
ABOUT
TIME WE TAUGHT YOU TO BE A MAN!!!!!!!"...Needless to say I
ran straight
there with the S/M in hot pursuit Slapping his crop!!!
"Officer Candidate Hotshot
Reporting for Duty SIR!" I exclaimed to Flight Officer
Goshawk.... "I am ready to
be assigned duty again SIR!".....Please take me off pass!
Goshawk's logbook entry:
Goshawk
watched as the distant smoke trail twisted its way to the water's
surface.
Only one pilot was slated to fly patrol this afternoon, Taipan.
He knew that he shouldn't have allowed that pilot to fly today,
and argued feverishly
with Taipan about his condition. But, Taipan would have nothing
to do with it. He
insisted on the mission, convincing Goshawk that the Huns were on
a break from
normal activities, since their getting spanked by the 609'ers in
the war recently.
The smoke from the falling Spitfire blackened as it got lower to
the water. Goshawk
searched for a chute to open, but the plane's distance from the
shore made it
impossible to see one had it been present.
"Come on, Taipan, bail out", he cried. He raised his
hand to his brow to shade his
eyes from the afternoon sun, and in so doing stood as in salute
to a fallen comrade.
The spitfire lowered yet closer, beginning to break up with the
speed of descent. No
other planes were visible in the slightly overcast sky. After
several seconds of
watching the plane's spiral, and not seeing a chute, Goshawk
closed his eyes to avoid
the splash made by the plane as it augured into the channel
waters. The splash would
not have been visible to Goshawk in any event, being so far out
to sea, and the
whitecaps of the waters blending in with any churning action of
aircraft wreckage
entry.
Goshawk opened his eyes to see the faint traces of the smoke
spiral fading and
dissipating in the winds over the channel. He turned and walked
back to the hut.
The others inside were familiar with this litany as Goshawk
entered. They could tell
by the look on his face that there should be complete silence.
All talking stopped and
all eyes watched yet again as Goshawk walked slowly to the
blackboard and licked
across his right thumb.
Goshawk reached to the blackboard where the pilot's names were
posted. The thumb
extended to Taipan's name, and swiped across the name. Only a
trace smudge
remained as Taipan's name was wiped from the board.
Across the room, Wolf watched and stopped breathing as he
witnessed his friend's
name removed from the board. "NO!", he yelled.
"Not Taipan!" He turned and left
the hut.
A tear ran down Goshawk's cheek as he recalled all of the efforts
that the fine pilot
had shown to teaching the new pilots at the field. Taipan would
be sorely missed. He
was an excellent pilot who often gave up the glamour of victories
in order to train
someone else to be better.
Goshawk stepped lively from the hut before others could spot the
leak of emotion. He
walked to a waiting Spitfire, climbed aboard and took off.
Passing over the site where Taipan went down, Goshawk searched
for a raft, chute, or
body. None were found as the sun began to set.
Farewell Taipan.
[Salute]
Goshawk's pilotlog entry:
As soon as Goshawk left the hut, he swiped across his face,
removing any trace of the
wetness that had somehow accumulated there. His sorrow turned to
anger, and
determination to make things right in the topsy-turvy world that
he had grown so
accustomed to. He realized that the only thing that made things
right under situations
such as these was an intense release, a willingness to surrender
completely to the
forces of nature that were bigger than himself. There was only
one thing he could
think of that served a purpose such as this, and he must have it,
now. He must find
her and take her, have his way with her, even if by force. He
would not be denied her
usefullness in this time of need. He was fully engulfed now in
the emotional turmoil of
his desire and determination to dominate her. She served well in
times like these, and
he WOULD NOT be denied!!!!
"I GOTTA HAVE HER!", demanded Goshawk at the side door
of the walrus. "I
GOTTA HAVE HER NOW!"
"Sorry, Gos, but there's a protocol that must be followed,
you know that", responded
Solar Arrow. "She's not just anybody's for the taking, ya
know. There's standards to
be upheld here, ya know." he whined.
Inside the cramped walrus, KiKi was all a tither, checking
herself in the mirror to
make sure her makeup was not smeared from her earlier escapade
practice with Solar
Arrow ("My Mastiff" as she had become accustomed to
calling the search and rescue
pilot). "I'm almost ready", she coo'ed musically from
inside, sounding strangely
similar to a distant relative-to-be "Aunt Bee". The
fact that two men were arguing for
her availability was splendidly erotic to her, and she made extra
special efforts to
prepare herself for the upcoming hubbub of activity. She sniffed
her armpits to make
sure there were no surprises lurking there either. A quick splash
of medicinal brandy
to freshen up, and she felt ready. She began looking around
through the plane and out
the various windows to locate her courtesans.
"GIVE HER TO ME!", ordered Goshawk. Furious now, and
grabbing the S&R pilot.
"I MUST HAVE HER!!" He flung Solar Arrow out of the
way, and pushed inside the
starboard side of the walrus fuselage just as KiKi leaned over to
peer out the port
side window access. Goshawk's head bumped hard against KiKi's
posterior, causing
the flight nurse to squeal with glee and jump in surprise. As
KiKi flew out of the
window onto the grass below, Goshawk clamored into the plane's
cockpit.
Solar Arrow regained his balance, but not before Goshawk had
started the engines
and began taxiing across the field, gaining speed rapidly. KiKi
arose also, and began
running after the plane as well. "I'm here! I'm here! Come
back! Come back!
Yoo-Hoooo!", as she realized her fondest dream passing away
from her.
Goshawk pulled back gently on the stick of the amphibian. He'd
never flown one of
these before, but this was an emergency and he'd have to make do.
He turned toward
the waiting winds and waters of the cold English Channel. He flew
low, looking for any
sign of the downed pilot, Taipan.
The icy waters of the channel would not support life for long,
and since he saw no
chute opening from Taipan's spiraling fighter, he realized that
his success would hinge
largely on luck and fortune.
His past experiences as a police officer in the states were
brought back to the fore of
his mental acuity. He went into search mode, looking for signs
of anything out of
place. Memories of the long dark nights of checking doors,
windows, searching the
shadowy places for lurkers and "bad-Oscars" came
flooding back to him. In addition,
recollections of the foot-patrols of the parks and shops of
afternoon boardwalks
flooded into his conscious awareness. He recalled the big day of
the street-fair. The
crowd was friendly all save one. He recalled how it had occurred.
Looking at the
crowd at chest-height, mesmerized by the mounds of crowning
crests, seemed
strangely familiar to the sight of the cresting waves with the
nipples of white foam
flipping from their tops, and dripping into the wind.
He looked closely at a particularly large set of waves, when his
vision was distracted
by a large fist sticking into his line of sight with one extended
appendage. His attention was riveted to the image, and as was
his past practice
he immediately responded.
"Hello, Taipan", Goshawk mumbled aloud. He spotted the
raised hand and finger of
the downed pilot and turned to land the walrus.
Several minutes later, both pilots were winging their way back to
the field.
"Ain't gonna be able to fly again against these hard-nosed
blokes with this thing",
Taipan mentioned, sticking the fist and extended finger in
Goshawk's direction.
Goshawk fought the impulse to grab the appendage and snap it in
two.
"That's alright, Taipan, there are other things we need you
for. You're the King's
High Prosecutor, after all. These 609'ers are creating enough
turmoil around here
that I'm sure you'll be needed plenty."
The pilots returned to the field, and Taipan walked toward the
mash tent. He stopped
short and turned to Goshawk. "Thanks buddy!", he called
out.
At an assembly the following day, Goshawk called the men to order
and the following
announcement was made.
"Gentlemen, Taipan has been rescued, and although he is
unable to fly and fight at his
past capacity, he will continue on as the High Prosecutor for our
field. Be warned, any
infraction of rules, may be prosecuted to the fullest extent of
British law. Ant no-one
knows British law like Taipan knows British law. Just ask that
No609 bloke, SSGF,
he'll tell ya. If Windigo/JIAM ever gets found, he'll affirm it
as well. So, behave!"
"In recognition of the bravery displayed by Taipan in flying
the perilous mission
yesterday, he has been promoted to Squadron Leader. In addition,
Taipan has been awarded the Purple Heart for the injuries he
sustained from combat.
Although his appendage may never be the same, he will benefit
from one thing that
many of us can no longer seem to manage. Perpetual erection. He
shall serve as High
Prosecutor for the duration of the war. That is all!"
Congratulations, Taipan!
[Salute]
Spectre's pilotlog entry:
Sitting on the beach,
Spectre waited for his cut-offs to dry. His swim back to the
coast was fairly uneventful, except for his spotting the catfish
lolling around in the shallow waters near the shore.
Being from Holebottom, Missouri had left him somewhat culturally
challenged, but what he lacked in the refinements of the
upper-class he more than made up for in his uncanny ability to
catch catfish in his teeth while fishing in the murky waters of
"Muddy Creek".
The remains of the catfish lay nearby, the white bones and skin
being all that was left of the big channel cat was testament as
to the ruthless efficiency of the Ozark-bred fish-eater. The
flesh and guts of the Aquarian had been devoured by Spectre, who
smacked the fish upon the nearby rocks to mash it into an edible
mush that was easily squeezed from the skin like a vacuum-pack.
All that had been required was to bite a small hole in the belly
of
the craniate's vertebrate.
As Spectre produced a stomach-spraining belch with a gutsy
robustness loud enough to echo off of the white cliffs behind
him, he eased back against a rock, pulled a frond of weed from a
nearby clump of shore grass, stuck the hard strand between his
front teeth, and cockily propped one bare foot upon the raised
knee in pure Ozark mountain style! He began spreading his toes apart, working the tiny muscles
in the phalanges in preparation of toe-pinching his girlfriend
back home. He smiled at the thought of the last time he grasped
her big toe between his own toes, then squeezed with enough force
to bring the woman to squeals of surrender and sensual release.
The smile on his face was short-lived, however, as he spotted a
Spitfire approaching, filling the space between the phalanges.
There was no doubt that the plane belonged to that
"Beef" guy who had shot him down days earlier.
Anger and a desire for revenge filled the lad, pressing thoughts
of anything else into oblivion. Space for specific thinking was
already at a limit, and his ability to comprehend more than one
thought within the confines of his restricted Missouri grit and
critter-fed cranium was sorely at a loss.
He wanted Beef now more than ever. He followed Beef's plane with
his eyes as the Spit flew overhead on its way to the field after
a successful match against Slapphead.
The image of anyone named Slapphead passed ever so briefly across
the tucks of tissue inside Spectre's brain. He very briefly
wondered if anyone with a name like "Slapphead" was
either related, or maybe at least had an available sister, or
both. That thought then also went into oblivion. The desire for
revenge returned.
Spectre returned to the field and looked upon the flight board.
He noticed that No609_Beef was available for another match.
Thanks to that Goshawk guy, the icon images next to the pilot's
names made it possible for the illiterate pilot to identify others
on the board. He hastily drew a line from his icon of a star to
the icon of a t-bone steak.
The rematch of Spectre and Beef was about to begin!
No609_Beef's reply to challenge:
Are you sure that
wasn't blowfish you devoured? It has a toxin that can cause
hallucinations and deranged thoughts. (Lol!) I'm sorry you had to
swim back to the channel. You should have done like Slapphead and
tied the floating wing sections to the PJ's tailbooms and rafted
in. Or even better I have a captured German inflatable
that I can loan you for tomorrow's rematch. Just be on the watch
for German U-Boats!
Spectre's pilotlog entry:
"RRRAAAAAALLLLLLLFFFFFFF!!",
he belched. He then smiled, knowing that the longer he could say
his pappy's name in a burp the greater the chance his pap would
let him use the shotgun the next time they went squirrel huntin'.
He continued to watch Beef's plane pass overhead, and listened as
it landed, the popping of the big Merlins slowing to idle speed.
By the time Spectre returned to the ops shack, Beef had headed to
the mash tent, hoping the nurses there could be convinced that he
was so homesick that they would hug him against their voluminous bosoms, and let him coo himself back to cheeriness. It always
seemed to work somehow. They never knew why that was, nor did
they know that he would always get more from it than they did.
In any event, Spectre wanted the Beef guy more'n anything, and he
aimed to have his way with the lad.
"Ain't gunna shoot dun a' Ozahk mountun bo'ay n' git away
wuth it!" he complained as he caught up with Beef in the way
to the showers behind the mash tent. "Beef, we gut a scower
tuh seddle!", he called out.
Beef, feeling no pain now from the win against Slapphead and
having his face suckled between the mounds of WuWu to pert'near
the point of suffocation, turned and smiled at the lanky man with
cut-off flightsuit, bare feet, straw hat, and grass sticking out
between his teeth.
"Well, I usually try to freshen up a bit after a good kill
and all, Spec ol' boy, but maybe I'll make a difference this
time, eh?" He tossed his towel aside, and headed to the
field.
"Show me!", replied Spectre.
Once Beef arrived amidst the planes, he stood between a P-38 and
a 109-E. Looking back and forth between the two planes, he
decided on the 109, assuming that this backwoods snake-eater did
not have the sophistication to fly a classy German plane.
Round 1 found the 109's pitted in a fight of extend, turn, shoot
like hell, and extend again. In one timely pass, Spectre saw the
109 of Beef sauntering across his path. Taking good ol' Kentucky
windage into account, Spectre let loose with a volley of gunfire,
tearing into the opponent's 109 engine compartment.
Round 2 found Beef choosing another fine German craft, the
FW-190A8. Hoping that Spectre's win in the previous round was
nothing more than an abomination, he fought his way into a firing
solution on the Missourian, smoking the engine of the
rotary-equipped bird.
Round 3 found Spectre selecting his favorite Spit 9. After
several near passes, Spectre selected two cannons to fire, then
planned his next shot. He waited for just the right moment when
Beef passed in front and squeezed the trigger allowing only one
round to slip from the barrel. Windage caught the round and
passed it into the cockpit
of Beef's Spit. The plane rolled into a death spiral into the
channel.
Round 4, and surprisingly the Beef selected a P-47. The longest
of all four rounds found Spectre finally on Beef's six, and
preparing to skewer the loin! With several squeezes of the
trigger, Spectre's guns expectorated all over the side of beef,
grounding the roundness of the cowling, racking the ribs in the
47's back, peppering the meat inside the works of the craft,
merinading the back with gas from the now open wing-tanks,
skirting the flesh of skin from the belly, chunking the tips of
the wings, and stewing the innerds of the plane.
Revenge was sweet for the Missourian as he watched the puree'd
opponent plummet to the waiting waters below.
[Salute]
Great match, Beef. You'll be back!!
Spectre's pilotlog entry:
[Fodder, you asked for it dirty, so here it is!]
He figger'd he'd better get it right this time. Messin' up in
front of the Wing Commander was dangerous for one's success,
besides, ya piss the guy off too badly, he might just post ya to
a Kingfisher squadron huntin' battleships. Worse yet, he might
have to take a co-pilot assignment with that crazy Solar Arrow
guy and his horney beast of a
flight nurse.
"Lemme take this here guy with the pile of grass by his
name, ok, sir?", Spectre asked of the W.C.
"Fodder, huh?", replied Goshawk.
"Ay'uh, that be thuh one, ah reckin'." smiled Spectre.
Goshawk chalked Spectre's name next to Fodder's.
"Now, where would I find this Fodder feller?", Spectre
asked himself. He stuck a blade of grass between his teeth, in
the space that th' good Lord musta intended for such things with
that 1/8" gap betwixt the front ones. He donned the straw
hat pulling low over his eyes to keep the sun out. He turned to
the small field near the ACSM's outhouse, knowing that the sheep
farmer living there would probably use some kind of fodder to
feed his stock.
As Spectre neared the barn where the sheep were kept, he heard
loud ooooooh's and ahhhhhh's coming from the inside of the barn.
Spectre stopped in his tracks, and recalled a similar scenario
years earlier, in a small farmyard outside of a field in
Janesland Arizona where he once vacationed. He decided to turn
and walk away from this place where bad things were likely to
occur if he continued. As he returned toward the base, he walked
past a small pond and overheard a thrashing about unlike anything
he ever heard before. He crept up a small mound of
dirt and peeked over the top. He spotted a pond, with a muddy
shore and the two figures wallowing therein.
Both figures were clad only in mud, and rolling around in a
manner that Spectre recalled trying with Sally-Mae back home in
Holebottom. The way the muddy woman, obviously WuWu, was
cavorting with the muddy man,
left no doubt that this man was Fodder!
"Come'ere beefcakes! Come'ere Beefcakes!", she would
cry. "Not him, WuWu, take me, take me!", Fodder
replied. He then screamed as she grabbed him with muddy paws.
Spectre hated to interrupt the man, but a mission was in need of
flying, and Fodder needed to get this done. It would be a dirty
job, but necessary!
As Fodder spotted Spectre approaching, he rose and turned to the
mud and dirt-caked woman. "Be right back!", he called
to her. "Don't leave!"
He rushed from the mud, and ran to the field. Not taking the time
to dress in a flight suit of boots, Fodder started the engine of
a ME109G6 and took off. Spectre followed closely after. As the
planes passed close-by, Spectre spotted the inside of Fodder's
canopy to be covered with dirt and smeared with mud. Spectre let
loose with a
volley of cannon rounds and fodder'd Fodder smartly.
Round two, in Spit 14's found Fodder feeding the fishes after
getting his engine smoked, proving that fish need fodder too!
Round three found Fodder in a clean 109E, and he smartly put the
Spectre guy away.
Round 4 was a long furious battle in Spits again, and Spectre was
able to get a firing position behind Fodder's Spit. As he was
nearing a firing solution, he spotted the same mudhole down
below, with WuWu laying
on the shore still covered with mud.
Upon spotting Fodder's plane, she stood up, and dove into the
water with an ear-splitting splash, then rose to the surface
again.
Fodder, watching in desirous amazement, augured his plane into a
nearby grass clump, then jumped from the cockpit and joined the
woman in the hollow, where there they would wallow, in that
glorious mud!
S! Fodder, great match!
Where's the Beef?????
Spectre landed, grabbed his bamboo pole, walked to the channel
shore and tossd his line in. He'd wait now for a bite, or the
Beef, whichever came first!
No609_Beef's pilotlog entry:
"Well boss, I made it back in one piece (as he piles the backbacon on his mess-hall plate), sure is cold up that high though eh? Good thing I was wearing my Canada Flag toque to keep them ears from freezing. This Hero guy was no hoser though, he was giving me fits trying to get shot on him."
(pulls chair out for boss to sit)
"And just when I'd get him in sight, he'd jink and laugh as I wasted another precious burst of ammo!"
(pulls a Molson Canadian out of army jacket pocket and pours on top of Corn Flakes)
"Well thats how it went for three rounds, getting him in a FW190, Spit9 and finally the Spit1A," Beef concludes.
"Hey hoser!Get a haircut ya bum!" (Beef turns to face the familiar voice and spots his brother Doug Macenzie at the other end of the mess hall)
"Well, it was really close and I wasted a lot of ammo but I brought back all three planes for my next mission."
"You'd better challenge on ahead before that Spectre guy gets wind that you are available," says the Boss, "I heard he was seen in the freezer sparring with a side of beef!"
"Really? Jeeze, that's too bad." Beef replies.
"Yeah, not only that, but he made off with a box of cod filets too!"says boss...
"Hey Beef!"
shouts the familiar voice from across the hall. He looks over and
outta the corner of his eye catches Doug launching a Pancake,
frisby style, at him. He ducks just in time but hears a splatting
sound followed
by low rumbling noise.. "mmmmmmMMMMMMMMACENZIE!!!!!
Beef notices the syrup
soaked pancake stuck to the CO's face slowly lose it's grip and
fall to the table. His brother bolts for the door while the CO
struggles to gain composure and balance as he makes afer him with
speed unbeknown to this portly man. "Whose gettin' the
haircut now! Hehe..", Beef says to himself as he scoops into
his bowl of foamy flakes...
Salutes to Hero!That was fun bud!