Dedicated to those sobering souls who fly for the Queen and country!
('course, we'll take the not-so-sober ones who fly for Koko, too!)
Somewhere over England, 1940's (or thereabouts!)
Muad'dib's pilot log:
Muad'dib
is sitting in his Falcon 3.0 office, going through his old filing
cabinets and sorting through the manuals for the viper that was
about to be replaced. I come across my old log book, and as I
flip through the pages, I see entries that refer to Corsairs,
Zeros, Lightings, Hellcats, etc. "What's this?", I
think to myself. I close the log book and sit back in my chair,
trying to remember how those entries got into the log book....
As I am leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes and kick up my
feet onto my desk. As I do so, I inadvertantly kick a hidden
switch under the desk. With a LOUD screaching sound (like a cat
getting sucked up into an F110 engine) a hidden panel opens in
the wall on the far side of my office. I get up from my chair and
walk over to where the door appeared, and step inside. There is a
large ring upon a pedistal. Hanging on the side of the ring are a
grass skirt, a tropical shirt, and an old leather flying helmet.
I look around some more and spot a tech manual sitting on what
looks like a futuristic control panel. I pick it up and blow off
the dust. "Technical Operation Manual for Temporal
Displacement Equipment".
"Temporal Displacement?"....I sit down hard as the
memories come flooding back to me....Coconut Island? Hawkeye??
Duke?? Vertigo sitting on that stupid crate with a beanie on his
head...propeller spinning as he drank heavily. OH MY GUN GODS!!!!
I FORGOT my time machine that allowed me to fly in World War
II!!!
I open the manual and proceed to find out of the equipment still
works. I twist the dials, flip the switches, twiddle with the
thingies...and the lights dim...suddenly a shimmer appears in the
ring...it looks like water being suspended between the circle. I
approach with care and look it over. All readings are in the
green. I grab the retreival device (as it's the only way to get
back to present), change into the Tropical Shirt and Grass Skirt,
grab
the leather flight helment off it's peg and step into the
ring....
Suddenly, I'm standing on a grass runway. P-51 Mustangs, and P-47
Thunderbolts are taxiing for take-off. I look around...there are
no tropical Palm Trees. No grass huts. No crystal-like sand.
Nope...as I look around I see some trees in the distance (look
like maples from here) and bunch of cinder block buildings. As
I'm looking around a P-51 vears off from the runway and pulls up
short. Someone jumps out from the polished chrome bird and comes
running up to me. "HOLY GUN GODS...MUAD'DIB....IS THAT
YOU?!?!?", he crys out over the drone of the mulitple Merlin
engines reaving on the flight line.
"Duke? That you Duke???" I cry out, as I recognize my
old boss. "Where the heck am I?? THIS isn't Coconut
Island!!" I state firmly.
"Nah...The war in the Pacific is over. You're in Europe
now...and looking mighty silly in those duds. I think I'd better
skip this mission and get you some decent flight
gear...geez...you'll not be taken seriously around hear if you
look like that...gods!! Come on!", Duke responds.
Duke leads me over the barracks and as we enter he directs me
toward a bunk...that has a footlocker with my name on it.
"Figured you'd be coming back sooner or later. Glad to see
it was sooner :) Brought this stuff over on transport from
Coconut Island when we were transfered here. Lot of guys thought
you'd bought it from a Zeke...but I knew the truth, and told them
to bring it along. New flight suit is hanging in the wardrobe.
Try it on
and come on out to the fight line when you're ready."
I try on the flight suit...a little tight around the middle (too
good a living in the future), but otherwise a perfect fit. I head
out to the flight line where Duke is waiting...."Okay
boss...what's up now?" I ask.
Duke points to a lineup of aircraft. A P-51, a P-47, a P-38, a
Huricane, a Typhoon and a Spitfire. "These are for you Dib,
wasn't sure which you'd like more...so we just got them all. Some
are a little beaten up, as pilots have 'barrowed' them from time
to time as their birds were under repairs. But...well...I've been
expecting you. Welcome back!" Duke says with a smile.
My eyes well with tears...it's good to be back! "Duke, get
them prepped. As much as I regret having to wait...I've got to go
back to the future for now. I've got a move that requires 110% of
my attention...to get back to my old hangar in Atlanta (I really
am moving from Nashville to Atlanta), but when I get done...I'll
be ready to take to the air here and kick some German
bootie!"
"Take your time...because when you travel through
time...it's not that long at all" he says with a smile.
"Thanks Duke...I'll see you in about two weeks." I
reach into my new flight suit and press the retrieval key
sequence and a circle of glowing water appears. I look back to
Duke...salute...and walk through the portal. I return to my
office and change back into my regular flight gear, carefully
hanging up my new flight suit. "Man...it is good to be
back!" I say to myself as I sit back into my
chair...."Yeah...it really is good to be back!!"
Goshawk's pilot's log: Challenge
Seahag,
how's about you and me seeing what we can do to reduce the
numbers of meat-eaters hanging around in these top rungs?? There
seems to be a lack of foodstuffs around here for both of us! Time
to sharpen yer talons, SH, see you at altitude!
"Goshawk"
--------> Mr. Congeniality!
Seahawk's pilot's Log: Response
"
Shit!", Seahawk expoded as he stubbed his toe on the way to
what the brits so quaintly called the " Loo".
"Cold, cold cold. Wet, wet, wet. Couldn't they have come up
with INDOOR plumbing?", he grumbled as he made his way
through the mud. A dark and sinister form followed him, just
close enough not to be observed by the otherwise occupied
Seahawk. He opened the door, after a prefunctory knock. The
grumbling became muffled as he closed the door behind him.
The figure waited for a few seconds, then furtively made his way to the back of the outhouse. He placed a small object near the jucture of the concrete flooring and the clapboards that did little to keep out the wind. He flipped a switch, then stifling a maniacal giggle made his way back towards the officers quarters.
Seahawk was just finishing his second article in the latest Life magazine, when........WHOOM!!!! there was a terrific exposion. The force of the blast lifted the whole outhouse straight into the air and it came down with a CRASH 10 yards way.
Duke was
just finishing up his second morning cup of tea when his door
burst open and Seahawk, underwear singed and blackened, his hair
smoking on the back of his head screamed; " WHERE IS
HE???????"
" Who?", Duke asked with that 'o so unflappable,
officer like tone.
" Goshawk, that dirty, two bit, scum-sucking,
four-flushing........TRUANCY OFFICER!", Seahawk sputtered,
spittle dripping down his beard.
" No idea, old man. Although I think he was scheduled to
take up one of the crates this morning." Duke answered,
pouring himself another cup of tea.
Seahawk wiped the spittle from his beard and turned to go.
" By
the by," Duke said. " Do try to stay in uniform. For
the enlisted men, don't you know."
Seahawk stalked away, toilet paper strewn in his wake.
Challenge Accepted!!!!!!!
Seahawk
aka RKK
Seahawk's pilot log: After-action report
The tech
Sgt. Joe Parrish, was scrounging around in one of the many
lockers lining the wall of the main hanger. Looking for a
replacement gasket for the cooling system on Beakers Spit 14.
Seems the Beakster had been pushing his engine a little to hard,
a little too long and had blown the seal for the third time. His
head and upper torsoe were completely engulfed in the seemingly
bottomless locker.
He had been in this mans Army long enough to realize that
anything over the age of 22 was a liar, and anyone with any brass
on their shoulders incompetent. He had been nursing his birds (
and don't you believe he thought of them as anything else BUT
his) back to health everytime one of the " flying
Idiots", brought it back. Being from the south, he either
had a wad of chew in his mouth, or the business end of a cigar.
Today it was chew. Seems like Beak's Bird had been leaking a
little high octane fuel as well, from the hole that a 7.9 mm had
put in the main tank.
" There you are!", he murmered to himself, reaching to
the bottom of the locker.
" JOE!!!! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!!!!", the bellow made
him drop the gasket and bang his head on the side of the locker.
Cursing his head and the lost gasket he pulled himself out of the
locker.
" There you are!", Seahawk said as he spied the Tech
Sgt. and made his way through workbenches to the back of the
hanger.
" Great! All I need now is THIS screwup in my shop.",
he thought to himself as he turned the rubbing of his bruised
scalp into a half-assed salute.
" What can I do for you, Lieutenant?", he said,
audibly.
" Joe, I need that Tempest you been workin on, and I need it
soonest." Seahawk said.
Joe looked at the lieutenant for a moment. Not only was he out of
uniform ( Strictly against the C.O.'s orders), but he was badly
out of uniform. He was wearing what looked to be a very singed
G.I. undershirt, and a pair of kakhi's with some toilet paper
sticking out the back. Not only that but the back and one side of
his head were singed down to the scalp. His neatly trimmed beard
was sticking out in all directions and there was this
strange and not quite sane gleam in his eye.
" Beggin the liutenant's pardon," he said, shifting his
chew to the other cheek, " but you know what the Old Man
said aginst drinkin and flyin." Thrusting his chin towards
the dis-sheveled pilot.
" Joe, I have not been drinking. As a matter of fact I
haven't even had a chance to take my morning.......Never
mind.", Seahawk began to turn a lighter shade of pink.
" What I need is to give a certain pilot a lesson in
military curtesy. And I need you to sign off on that Tempest for
me to do it."
Joe spit to one side as he eyed the lieutenant. He knew the
score. These pilots had been going hot and heavy at each other
since they had opened up the new base. Ever since they got here
they had been trying their skills at each other and not a few
unfriendly jokes had been played at the expense of the more
trusting souls. He had been that way too until a german 20mm
cannon shell had shattered his knee over Wilhelmshaven.
" Alright Lieutenant, I'll give you the tempest. But I'd
like to know how you got yer head like that first."
Seahawk turned even redder, then with a wave of his head gestured
him farther into the hanger.
A loud laugh reverberated through the hanger moments latter.
" Shit, Sir! Why didn't ya tell me in the first place! I'll
give you that Bird, and when you come back I got an idea how you
can get back at that Damn Yankee.", he gave the lieutenant a
tobacco stained smile......
Match 1, TempestV vs TempestV
Seahawk grinned as he gunned the big Napier. Goshawk was in for
it now. Joe had workeed on this Tempest himself. The cigar smoke
still hung in the air of the cockpit. Knowing his opponent had
been flying the spit and was not used to the bigger tempest, he
was confident that he had his hash. Down and down they went.
Spiraling ever lower, until the 20mm from Seahawks cannons caught
the engine of Gos's bird. Watching the
smoke pour out he let his nemesis take his 1st bath of the day.
Seahawk-1 Goshawk-0
Match 2, Spit 9 vs Spit 9
This was a more ferocious attempt at mayhem. The blazed at each
other on the 1st pass, then scissored until they collided.
Seahawk wing seperated, and Gos' tail was crunched, but since
Seahawk dove in 1st it was officially Gos's win.
Seahawk-1 Goshawk-1
Match 3, Hurricane vs Hurricane
This one was more about the envelope. Who could keep it just
above stalling the longest. IAR speeds got below 100mph and even
hit the alltime low of 87mph. Seahawk could swear he saw the
channels waves disturbed by the wake from his planes passing.
Finally able to zero in, Seahawk filled Goshawks Hurri with all 8
of his machine guns bullets.
Seahawk-2 Goshawk-1
Match 4, Spit 9 vs Spit 9
" Damn, I hate these spins!" Seahawk mumbled to himself
as he fought to get his plane under control. He extended to get
away, not knowing his opponent had suffered the same fate.
Fighting for altitude he turned once more into Gos' spit and
split-s'ed onto his tail. They turned a bit then Seahawk flamed
Gos' spit and watched him plunge into the sea.
Seahawk-3 Goshawk-1
Goshawk came too, after an extended period unconscious. He had
struck the sight with his forehead when his spit had hit the
drink after the last match with Seahawk. He realized almost
immediately that something was not quite right. The world was
upside-down! His head was spitting, his knees were aching and the
world was swinging from side to side. He was hanging, upside-down
from the bases flagpole. And when he realized that, he also
realized that he was cold, I mean really cold! He looked up, and
there flapping in the breeze with him was his wanker. Naked as a
jaybird, he swung.
" GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!!!!", he yelled at the top (or
bottom)of his lungs. Koko, sat at the bottom of the flagpole
drooling and panting.
He stopped his yelling, once he spied Duke striding from his
office towards him, his wanker, and Koko.
" Goshawk! In my office. NOW!", he turned to leave.
Then he stopped. " And for God's sake, man. Put on a
uniform!" He left him, swinging in the breeze.
Thanks Gos! Great fight!
Seahawk
aka RKK
or the Vengeful Bird!
Duke's pilot log: After-action report
"Didn't
you hear me?? GO AWAY!!" Duke barked at the door to the
office, then turned his attention back to 'Liz, the lovely young
WAAF perched on the desk, having just arrived from 8th AAF HQ in
London. "Now, as I was saying..." The pounding
interrupts once more. "You'll excuse me a moment?" Duke
asks as he gets up and storms towards the door, mumbling under
his breath. Yanking the door open, catching Lt. Johnson in
mid-pound unawares who tumbles, off-balance into the room.
Duke grabs the young Lt. by the collar, drags him up off his feet
and growls "Can't you see I'm BUSY!" The Lt. starts to
answer "Sir... yes .... but..." as he squirms in Duke's
grip trying to catch a glimpse of the Liz's legs draped over the
edge of the desk. "Eyes FRONT son!" barks Duke.
"This had BETTER be damn well important!"
"Sir," Lt. Johnson sputters, "we've just gotten a
desperate call from the Jim Beam. Seems Seahawk
fouled their decks while trying to shuttle Greywolf back over to
pick up his trunk - you remember GW left it behind when he swam
in - well, anyhow, they've spotted a squadron of 109's and
bombers heading our way, but with the deck fouled and all, they
can't launch ... " Johnson crashes to the floor as Duke
throws up his arms and shouts "Gerries! We're under
attack!" Pushing Johnson out of the room with his boot, Duke
slams the door turns back to Liz ... "I'll be right back
love, why don't you make yourself more comfortable."
Grabbing his flight suit from the locker, Duke yanks open the
door and bowls over Lt. Johnson, who was crouched at the keyhole.
"Johnson! I'll strap you to a bomb rack one of these days, I
swear!!!" Shaking his head while tossing a wink back towards
the desk, Duke closes the door and makes a beeline for the
hangar.
The Sgt. Major hops down from Duke's Spit XIV, having just fired
up the engine and made the final checks. Helping Duke get
strapped in, he offers up a wish for "good hunting" and
snaps a salute. "Good hunting indeed!" replies Duke,
"we've been practicing amongst ourselves for weeks, it's
about time we see some REAL action!" The Griffon's roar
builds to a crescendo as the pilot taxiis to the end of the
runway and takes off.
"There they are" Duke shouts into the radio, "a
group of 109's! With a couple of Junkers in tow!" As he
blasts through the formation, one peels off to try and engage.
"Big mistake buddy!" Duke grunts as he pulls hard to
bring the Spit around. "You want to fight on MY terms? Come
and get it!" The 109 wheels into a spiraling fight but the
Spit is just too maneuverable and quickly converts onto the 109's
tail. He tries taking Duke into a
looping fight, but he's loosing angles fast. Duke squeezes off a
series of shots with the cannon ... ping, ping, PING! Smoke and
flames start spewing off of the 109 as it spirals into the
channel.
* ROUND 1 * DUKE - 1 * DADA - 0
Pushing his Spit to the max, Duke pursues the rest of the flight.
Another 109 peels off to try and intercept him, this one
obviously a bit more experienced at engaging a Spit makes several
high speed passes. Duke's not biting tho, and continues to pursue
the inbound raiding party. The 109 has no choice but to draw Duke
into a turning fight. "Ha HA! Guess your buddy didn't warn
you, eh?!" Once again, Duke is able to get his Spit saddled
firmly on the 109's tail, and once the sound of the cannon shakes
the cockpit. The 109 loses a wingtip and it too spirals into the
drink.
* ROUND 2 * DUKE - 2 * DADA - 0
With the coast almost in sight, Duke catches up to the remaining
pair of 109's and bombers. Again, a 109 tries to delay Duke and
keep him from downing the strike package, and again, he has to
get into a turning fight to hold Duke up ... a fight the 109
can't win. The radio crackles with calls from other planes coming
up to join the fray, and
the strike flight turns away and tries to hustle back to German
lines. Duke chases one of the fleeing 109's at wavetop height for
a while, but the little fighter is slipping farther away.
Suddenly, the 109 loops up into a turn BACK AT DUKE! "Aha!
You're MINE now!" It doesn't take long for Duke to send hot
lead streaming into the little fighter ... SPLASH!
* ROUND 3 * DUKE - 3 * DADA - 0
The radio is humming with calls as the other pilots engage the
fleeing planes. Duke turns back towards base, and smiles in
anticipation of an appointment with one VERY nice lovely limey...
!!
Dada, thanks for the great fights! I'm sure we'll be meeting
again in the skies! Until then ...
SALUTE!
Meanwhile, on the other side of the channel, in a dark musty hangar,
Dada's pilot log:
Dada stood
ramrod straight in front the tribunal, clicking his heels.
"Hauptman Miller reporting as ordered, sir."
"Very good, Hauptman. We have received some very troubling
information regarding your last engagement. Would you care to
enlighten us?" the chief examiner asked.
"Sir I was at 10,000 feet when I observed the schweinhund
Anglander approach in one of those blasted Shpitfires. I
immediatley engaged by taking my FW 190 over the top and trying
to gain a good angle on him. Imagine my surpise as I saw him rise
to meet me. In spite of what Grofaz Goering assures us, this was
no tea-totalling, crumpet cruncher. From what I've seen, we have
only weeded out their green ones--"
"--Watch you tongue, Hauptman."
Dada nodded, "Yawoul. Any way, I became momentarily
disoriented in our ensuing combat, and lost sight of the
Schweinhund Anglander. By the time I tallied him again, I was at
low speed, and committed to a turning engagement. I could not
deny him the advatage at this point."
"Go on."
"My next engagement with the Schweinhund Anglander was
similar, however more protracted. I took my 190 vertical while he
matched me move for move. Despite what intelligence reports,
those blasted Shpitfires do not bleed speed like a stuck
Anglander prime minister."
"Our intelligence is second to none."
"Of course. Anyway, this one was able to recover speed very
quickly and menace me more than enough to throw off my vertical
maneuvering. After a protracted period of maneuvers and
countermanuevers, I found myself at a disadvantage again--"
"That's all very good, Hauptman. However, we would like to
know about what happened with Feldwebel Messner upon your
return," the chief examiner asked.
"Messner, sir?"
"Messner. Your crew chief...broken jaw. Broken kneecap.
Broken collar bone. Three and a half broken teeth. That ring a
bell, Hauptman?"
"Yawoul sir. Well, on my last engagement with the Schweihund
Anglander, I attempted to adopt a new tactic of spiraling and
forcing an overshoot. However, I could by no means get my flaps
to deploy despite my furious attempts. Consequently, I could not
slow the aircraft abruptly and consistently enough for the tactic
to be effective. To put it shortly sir, Herr Messner signed off
on the fitness of this aircraft and I rewarded him appropriately
upon my return."
To the muffled laughter in the room, Dada concluded his
explanation. The three examiners conferred momentarily, and then
the chief examiner, (known to Dada as an damn good Albatross
pilot in his own day), addressed Dada with a wry smile.
"Seems perfectly understandable to me. Charges
dismissed."
Dada nodded to the examiners, clicked his heels, and spun around
to exit.
"And Hauptman..."
Dada spun back around, "Sir?"
"Do try to win one next time."
"Yawoul, sir."
Pilot log: "Chit-chat"
RoadRunner:
Clutter
Clean up your hanger "Clutter" I'm a comin to whup ya.
"RoadRunner"
Feet That Freaking Scream"
Seahawk:
RR,
Welcome back! Lookin forward to seeing you up above the channel!
Seahawk
RoadRunner:
Thanks for
the Hollywood welcome Seahawk. Hope to see you to soon.
Preferrably in a chute or at least clawing for the ring.
"RR"
Hawkeye:
RR!!!!
Never thought you'd make it out from underneath Koko's love
hut!!! Now you take it easy on Clutter. And keep Koko away from
him the night before your little tango. Good luck Road Kill!!
Hawkeye
Hawkeye:
Goshawk,
RoadRunner, Hawkeye, Chickenhawk, Seahawk, Beaker, and any other
birds of prey out there,
Too many birds on this wire! We got a Goshawk (whatever the heck
that is), a Chickenhawk (best stay away from RoadRunner), a
Seahawk (obviously took the wrong turn out of Seattle),
RoadRunner (until it's recent numerous sightings off various
English country roadsides, usually found on the endangered
species list in the South Pacific)
Beaker (involved in one too many science experiments) and of
course mooaw, Hawkeye.
So here it is chickies: I will be hosting the first annual
"Too Many Curs-ed Birds Around Here EAW Beak to Beak
Chickenfight". As we are all properly raised and of fine
feathered heritage, all other specimens of this great and proud
EAW community are invited to ravenge, caw, scratch and claw along
with the rest of us. If you should find yourself flying about the
London, Manchester area say around 7:00 PACIFIC Greenwich
Time this Friday the 18th (and heck any other Friday for that
matter), make your challenge known via ICQ and we'll duke it out.
Be sure to take care of any OFFICIAL challenges you might already
have pending on the ladder FIRST, then get your beak in the
fight!
And remember when your feathers are all ruffled, you're all out
of ammo, guns are smoking, engine has seized:
"Aerodynamically a bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but
the bumblebee doesn't know that so it goes on flying
anyway."
Give me a cry at: 24767187, Hawkeye
Goshawk:
Thems's
fightin' words!! Lamentin's over!! It's time to work the
"killing toes" boys!! Those of us with any tail
feathers that haven't been singed off already, best do yer
preening now, 'cuz ya ain't gonna preen no more after Friday!!
As fer me, alls I gots is a bunch of left over scar tissue on my
arse anyways from past excursions in the skies with these other
hawk-types! I got nothin' more to lose!!
Count me in! The losers of this tournament should be required to
take handles of such ferocious species as "buzzard",
"vulcher", "yella-bellied sap-sucker", or the
"common flicker".
See ya then!!!!
"Goshawk"
RoadRunner:
Yo
Hawk-Boy,
Hey I loved your Beak-to-Beak challenge. Sounds like a great
idea. As for Clutter and Koko. My plan is to send her on over to
Clutters corrogated tin hut and "Love'em" to death. By
the time she leaves in the morning that boy won't be able to
straddle a bar stool much less the harness of his chute. Koko's
really excited about this. She's at the PX now shopping for a
patterned smock that'll match the hemp nose ring she got from the
south pacific.
"RR"
"Feet That Scream"