"To the victor, go the spoils!!"
Fresh from the Eastern front, a lone German pilot recounts his story:
Dada's pilot log entry:
To: Field
Marshal Von Gos
FR: Hauptman Miller
Subject: Contact Report, English Channel
While flying my customary patrol in my FW 190 over the Channel, I
encountered the most peculiar situation regarding the schweinhund
Anglanders. I spotted another Focke in the distance fying
absurdly, weaving rather drunkenly. Curious, I immediately closed
to investigate. I observed the pilot of this aircraft to be
flying with one hand, and wiping vomit from his windscreen with
the other. As if this in itself was not most unusual, I suddenly
determined this pilot to be, of all things, an Anglander! While
attempting to form up on him, he suddenly turned on me with his
guns and I found myself quite defensive. Several successful
maneuvers put us at a stalemate down low. However, while craning
my neck to indeed verify that an Anglander was in one of our
birds, I inadvertantly
exceeded my stall envelope.
Fortunately I was able to swim back to our field and recover my
spare FW 190. I immediately took to the air again, exhilerated by
my evening swim. I found this Anglander again and closed with
him. We traded shots as we passed a few times, and due to my
lingering shock of this situation, I found this cursed Anglander
once again at my six. However, this time I kept my wits about me
and lured him in close. A well timed break and throttle reduction
and he flew out in front of me. I firewalled the throttle and
began pecking away at him. I finally had the pleasure of
observing him go down.
Imagine my surprise, some time later, while test flying one of
our captured Spits when I came across this same, damn,
drunkenly-flying, ill Anglander, vomit-stained windscreen and
all. We broke our Spits toward each other in a classic fight
which spiraled to the wavetops. I finally pulled around to an
advantageous postition when I observed the plane spin in.
Little did I realize that in my distraction, another Spit had
broken onto the scene and had set upon me. To my surprise,
another puking Anglander--vomit-stained windscreen and all! So it
was not the same one I keep meeting. Perhaps all these Anglanders
are ill. I lost sight of this one, gave him my six, and suddenly
felt cannon rounds ripping through my fuselage. Suddenly, as the
flames tickled my windscreen and smoke filled the cockpit, I
regretfully accepted that I could not save the plane and bailed
out. Curse these damn puking Anglanders.
Another short swim later, I found myself back at the field so
exhilerated that I could not rest. Consequently, I found myself
again patrolling in my beloved 190. Unbelievable, I came across
yet another puking Anglander in one of our aircraft. Haved
thoroughly tired of these blasted puking Anglanders, I
immediately attacked him. This one fought me valiantly for at
least a half hour as we swirled around at wave top level. My
engine overheated several times, causing me to back off on the
throttle. This allowed this pilot some minor angles on me as we
turned. After resting my engine, I firewalled the throttle again
and made up the angles I had lost and then some. Seeing that the
jig was up, this Anglander attempted a Split S, however, the
vomit must have obscured his windshield because the plane glided
to a gentle stop on the waves.
Passing to observe this at low level, what do I see, but this
Anglander climbing onto his life raft. I rocked my wings to him
as he suddenly lurched toward the edge of his raft and hung his
head over the side. I slid back my canopy and carefully tossed
him down some Vicks Vapo rub and my personal flask of Schnapps.
Puker or not, this was a damned fine pilot.
Conclusion: These damn Anglanders are up to something. Perhaps
some sort of biological testing that we have not heard about.
Despite these apparent side effects, they are certainly doing
something to greatly enhance their flying ability. I do not wish
to make a habit of regularly meeting such as these.
Respectfully Submitted,
Hauptman Dieter "Dada" Miller
Meanwhile, across the English Channel, at a small airstrip in Sussex County:
Wolf's pilot log entry:
Awakened by a hand on the sholder, Wolf opened one eye to see who dared disturb his sleep.
With an apologetic grin, Reginald, his crew chief, told him it was time to get up.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, it's time to get up? IT'S 4 OCLOCK IN THE BLOODY MORNING."
"Well Sir..., you have to fly HAWKEYE in about half an hour..."
"JESUS, I had hoped that was the product of my imagination, brought on by large quantities of that awful English Ale.", responded Wolf sleepily.
"No Sir. I'm afraid not. I took the liberty of having the fitters check your guns again, their about as good as they're going to get."
Now the
thing you have to know about Reginald is that after the Eagle
Squadrons transfered to the USAAC he was part of the liason group
from the RAF that helped with the transition. Because we were
using RAF equipment and flying from an RAF field, he requested
and was granted a permanent posting to our squadron. He's very
polite, a perfect "English gentleman" as it were.
Saying that was his way of telling me in his own way "that I
can't shoot worth a damn". After a breakfast that consisted
of a cup of very strong, very hot tea and two cigarettes I made
my way to the flight line. The crew had done a pretty good job of
patching the holes from the last fight I got into, but I was more
than a little concerned by the fuel, oil and hydraulic fluid that
had leaked out onto the tarmac. Reggie assured me it was nothing
to worry about,but even he didn't look like he believed what he
was saying.
From the other end of the flightline I heard a Merlin fire up and
shortly, Hawkeye taxied by, with a sharp salute I followed him to
the active runway. After take-off we flew out over the Channel,
after executing a 90 degree turn the fight was on...
Round 1. A long, drawn out series of loops, turns, rolls and several headon passes that ended with a mid-air crash, while we were floating around in the Channel waiting on Air-Sea Rescue to pick us up, Hawkeye told me that the round was mine, I disagreed, but he said that I tore his plane up with cannon fire before we collided.
Round 2. After aquiring new airplanes we had at it again. Another long round, very similar to the first, except this time I got a little impatient and spun the plane, a few seconds after I recovered, Hawkeye did me the courtesy of filling my engine full of holes.
Round 3. This one didn't last quite as long as the last, but it ended the same way. An engine full of holes and a nice long swim.
Round 4. Another long one, but Hawkeye got just a bit impatient and the laws of aerodynamics caught up with him.
Round 5. Had trouble with this one and after many false starts,we had a nice long flight around the Channel, unfortunately for Hawkeye, the laws of aerodynamics did not get repealed while we were in flight, and he got another swimming trip.
It was an
honor flying with you and against you,I'm more than certain we
will meet
again.Untill we do...SALUTE
Sabre's pilot log entry:
Well its
my first match since Gos honed my sharp shooting skills. I'm
beaming with confidence...ready to skin poor Starwolf. Well, to
say the least, things did not go as planned and I may have his
skin, but he took my arm and leg to chew on.
The first flight I choose the Tempest... so I'm thinking I'll
blast him those 4-20 mm cannon and get a quick "W".
Only thing, Starwolf was thinking the same thing and we meet head
on like 2 moutain goats fighting for the hand of
"KOKO". Well we both loose.. seems Temps dont like head
on collisions.
Sabre -0, StarWolf -0
Next flight... well we ani't doing that again. At merge we
break.. Starwolf pulls up first I follow. I'm grinning...he's
mine.... I take aim... DAMN!!! I missed... I'm rattled.. I get
another snap shot. ditto.... then we just keep looping and
looping with me pulling a lead but just missing. Then Statwolf
points that big heavy nose of the Temp.. bad idea and runs out of
altitude.... and goes for a swim.
Sabre -1, StarWolf -0
Well now that I have come to grips with the fact that I can't
shoot, I settle in for what I know is going to be a long match.
This next fight starts the same as last and transitions to a
series of loops, with me missing and looping. I then pull real
hard in the vertical and take a snap shot. I see rounds hit...
but OH NO!!! I pulled to hard.. I'm in a vertical flat spin...
I'm dead. Burrr!! That water be cold!!
Sabre -1, Starwolf -1
Flight 4 was the fastest match... unfortunately it went badly for
me. StarWolf pulls to the vertical at merge, I follow closely
behind... and I pull to hard.. Dang!!!! I spin and spin..
StarWolf pulls in behind me and shoots my tail off!!!! Well so
much for pulling out of the spin. Damn, that water is cold.
Sabre -1, StarWolf -2
Flight 5 is a long drawn out fight... me and StarWolf trading
punches.. his motor is smoking badly... I see him smack a wave..
my brother, who is cheering me on, says "He smacked a wave
he's gone." Indeed, I saw Stars' wing dip into the icy
waters... I pull up waiting for the scoring.. but wait.. it
doesn't score it as a kill. HE'S STILL FLYING! So I turn to
finish him off. Then StarWolf asks if I had crashed, I type back
no. He then informs me he saw me go into the drink. Well me and
my brother are dumb founded. I reply "no, I didn't" and
pull off to line up for the kill. StarWolf is smoking badly and
barely staying up. Everything is fine no lag any where. Then
StarWolf says "lets restart"... NO,NO,NO.. [bam]. I'm
at the score menu. Well after much discussion StarWolf sees the
error of his ways and like the true sportsman he is, concedes and
rightfully grants me the W!!
Sabre -2, StarWolf -2
As you can tell, we both are sweating. Now its sudden death,we
are 2-2... man this has been a GREAT MATCH. No quater given or
taken!! All matches save 1 have been long drawn out affairs. I
wish StarWolf GOOD LUCK and he does the same for me. I do not
look foward to this last match . At the merge we both go
verticle.. I get a shot off at the top and do some wingtip damge.
I then pull in behind him but I'm not able to pull enough lead to
get a shot. So I wait and wait.. finally he's coming around, I
pull but not too hard... I get a quick shot off.. it hits home.
I try to finish him off.. but Star's not having any of that. He
rolls away I try to follow.. dang!! So back to square 1.. he is
smoking now.. so I just sit at his 6 eating away at him till I
can pull lead and take a shot. He goes verticle and I get my
chance... I blast his engine and he hits the drink.
Sabre -3, StarWolf -2
StarWolf put up one hell of a fight. In all fairness to StarWolf
the 5th match was a confusing affair and I don't think he was
trying to alter the score by ending match early. But I think it
worth noting... do not ever end a match while both pilots are
still flying.. unless you both agree to!! StarWolf is a great
sport and hell of a pilot. Hopefully it will be a while before I
have to fly him again.. I don't think I could take the
gnawing!!!!
Salute
StarWolf.... here's a bone, go chase someone else PLEASE!!!!!!
Charles Sabre Gardner
VMFT-257 WildBunch
Vapors' pilot log entry:
Well U6
tried to take my spot from me tonight. Didn't happen. I wish I
had the strength for a clever debrief but the flu has hit me
pretty hard. In fact the flight surgeon grounded me but I flew
anyway. U6 is a very good pilot. Since he challenged dissimilar,
it turned out that the planes beat him more than I did.
It went something like this:
Round 1
He chooses Spit IX, I choose Spit I
He zooms, I boom - u6 1 Vapors 0
Round 2
I choose Spit IX, He chooses Spit 14
Hey U6 where's Vapors? on U6! Bad joke but good guns. u6 1 Vapors
1
Round 3
U6 Chooses Tempest, Vapors choose Spit 14
Long drawn out fight that has u6 diving into water with vapors
pulling trigger and following him right in! DRAW
Round 4
Same Planes. I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.
u6 -1 Vapors 2
Round 5
Same planes as in first round. Spit I turns pretty damn good,
water is hard on a Spit 9.
u6 -1 Vapors 3
Salute U6!
Vapors
U6's pilot
log entry:
My Hats off to Vapors A most gifted pilot and strategist. Many
lessons learned tonight including the following:
1) "Dont mess with a delerious sick man in a Spit :)
2) Dont use the Tempest in a dogfight with a Spit, lol!
3) other secrets too holy to mention in mere print.
Now u6 has learned some of the most sensitive and holy secrets of
our most highly gifted EAW aces in the
ladder.
I shall keep these secrets safe and will summon you to battle
again, my new found friend very soon I hope :-)
Get well fast!
BTW Great Connect Vapors. We have good internet geography there.
Hard to find a good connect these cyber days.
uggggugugugugugug!
whoooahhhh!
ugggugugugug!
u6
RoadRunner's
pilot log entry:
CONGRATS oh Vaporous one. You da man!! Koko heard you had the
flu, but insists it has something to do with her. So she's
packing her chem lab and heading to your flat. We had a little
tiff after I said, "If it has anything to do with you, then
forget all that crap! Just bring the penicillin!" Clapping
her hands rather sarcasticly, she reached for a bar of medicated
soap and a finger brush replying; "I know exactly what
Veepers needs."
Send her on home after ya hose down will ya?
Seahawk's pilot log entry: (as related by E. Murrow)
Somewhere in England:
This is Edward R. Morrow, speaking to you from a fighter base
somewhere in England. The date is sometime before Christmas and
the spirit of the men who dare the skies is undiminished after 4
years of war.
I left London by rail this morning after recieving a summons from
Ike's headquarters. I did not know where I was going nor did I
ask. I have become accustomed to the secretive nature of the
military mind, and I agree with the necessity to keep jerry in
the dark as to what is going on in this unsinkable carrier.
The country side sparkles with frost and the people exude a cheer
that is untouched by the depridations and hardships they have
suffered since Hitler and his henchmen decided to "
Smash" these plucky people to the ground so many years ago.
I pass through towns and villages that are bedecked with signs
that the spirit of Christmas lives on. A hearty "Merry
Christmas" met me at every platform, and the smiles of young
and old bear tidings that things are getting better at last.
We made our final stop at a village that could be anywhere in
this picturesque land. A church steeple, a pub, and stone
dwellings preside over the small road that leads north out of
town. Trees are festuned with paper cutout birds and stars, and
even the occasional paper Spitfire sways gently in the wind.
Wreaths hang from doors, and the comforting smell of peatsmoke
hangs in the air.
As we passed the pub you could hear the muffled sound of early
cheer through the door, and as we rode north through the town in
the ever present army jeep children ran, chasing each other
making the sounds of imaginary machine guns, fighting off the
dreaded Hun.
The Captain that had met me at the station was a dour sort. Too
young for the responsibilities thrust on him in this time of war,
and trying too hard to be stern and authoritative. I must have
shocked him, in my rumpled civvies. You could brush your teeth in
the reflection of his boots.
The ride to the base was uneventful, and the questions that came
unbidden to my lips were brushed aside with "The Major will
speak with you at the base." I could tell that talking to a
reporter was more than this newly minted Captain could handle. I
would have looked further down my nose at him had I not noticed
the DFC attached to his blouse. At some time this boy-Captain had
done something outstanding in the air, something to
remember when he became gray and grandfathered. Besides merely
surviving of course.
I knew we were close when the throaty growl of Packard Merlins
filled the air. As we entered the gate I saw a lone '51 returning
from a mission, trailing smoke and glycol. Ambulances waited at
the edge of the field and fire trucks hung about, hoping for
nothing to do.
Even at Christmas the fight goes on, undiminished in its
ferocity. In the skies, "goodwill towards men" will
have to wait for another year.
The jeep pulled in front of the OPS shack and I was greeted by
"The Major". Duke was his last name. He didn't offer
his first. We shook hands and entered the shack.
Grateful to get in out of the cold I gladly accepted the hot tea
offered and we retired to the Majors office. After closing the
door and offering me a seat he asked me what I knew about this
"operation". I told him that I knew nothing and was
ready to be filled in as to why I was here. He smiled as he sat
and reached into his bottom drawer. Pulling out a flask he said,
"Need a little anti-freeze in that tea?", I smiled my
thanks and poured some
into the cup.
I sputtered and weezed after one small sip. "Good God! What
is that stuff?", I managed to croak. The major laughed
softly. "Something else we brought from the Pacific."
he said.
I leaned back in my chair, gathering my thoughts. I had heard
that the brass had transfered some pilots from the Pacific
theatre. The official reason was that they could bring their hard
earned knowledge to the greener pilots of this theatre of war.
The rumors said it was a "disciplinary action". They
were too lax and wild and had upset some of the more primitive
cultures of the islands. And Mac Arthur himself had specifically
requested that they be "Transferred the hell away from
here!"
I couldn't quite grasp why I had been sent here, and the Major
could not, or would not, enlighten me. But I am a reporter and I
went ahead with what I do best; asking questions.
The Major held up his hands. " Why don't I introduce you to
some of the men" he said as he stood up. I got up and
followed.
The thing about this conglomeration of British and American
personnel is the disparity and the similarities. They wear
different uniforms, they walk differently, they salute
differently, they talk differently, but when you come down to it
they are the same. Young men asked to do a grim job. Their boyish
faces belie the age in their eyes. The ribbons and medals
adorning their chests give some indication to the battles they
have fought and won. And
they have none of the bravado associated with the unblooded. They
have a confidence, an assurance in themselves and their machines.
But still the devilishness of youth comes peeking out of hiding,
flashes of merriment and puckishness are evident everywhere.
Mostly in their call-signs; Dada and Clutter, Yogi and
Roadrunner, Vapors and Freight Train, Beaker and Thog.
Discipline
was something of a misnomer here. The one called Thog, a great
bear of a man, bearded and hulking was off to one side of the
main hanger. Near naked in the cold he was swinging a great war
axe. His arms bunching with muscles as he swung it to and fro.
Only a gust of air, through a gap toothed grin was any indication
that he was straining at all.
The others were of a more mundane sort. Short and tall, quick and
plodding, smiling or frowning they went about their day,
oblivious to the reporter gawking at them. Some drank, others
snored. They all had the look of predators though. Flashes of
instinct leapt into their eyes at an unexpected sound or gesture.
Killers all.
I was amazed at these boy-men. So far from home. I am sure
missing their families and friends at Christmas, yet all
seemingly at ease with their surroundings and task. These were
the best of the best. And "Goerings Eagles" were in for
it.
Finally the Major took me back to the shack and gave me some
flight gear. " Whats this for?" I ask. "We are
going to observe a little match that was arranged for you. Two of
our best. Goshawk, the old hand. A teacher of a sorts, and a man
we all look to for guidance and advice. And Seahawk. One of our
younger pilots, but not as young as some. Both old Pacific hands.
They are working on some new tactics. Thought we'd show
you." He turned and headed out the door.
10,000 ft above the channel and I am plastered to the window of a
Hudson we borrowed from the Brits. The two men face off and the
Major speaks into his throat mike: " Feather Flight you are
go!"
Match 1
Seahawk Spit 14
Goshawk Spit 9
Afterwards it was explained to me that this was the classic Boom
and Zoom vs Turn and Burn. I have very little idea what that
meant, but B&Z won.
Seahawk-1 Goshawk-0
Match 2
Seahawk Folke-wolf 190 D-9
Goshawk Spit 14
We even have captured some of jerries planes! I am amazed.(
Delete before printing. USAAC censor) Aparently Goshawk turned
too hard and redded out into the sea.
(Authors note: Future story on effects of flying on the brain)
Seahawk-2 Goshawk-0
Match 3
Seahawk Me-109K-4
Goshawk Spit 9
Boom and Zoom is great until you run out of bullets. Seahawk
loosed his last 13 mm at Goshawk, and then Gos catches Seahawks
tail.
Seahawk-2 Goshawk-1
Match 4
Seahawk Spit 14
Goshawk Spit 9
Boom and Zoom wins.
Seahawk-3 Goshawk-1
After returning to base I was anxious to meet these two intrepid
pilots. But unfortunately just as I walked towards them, they
were scooped up in the arms of what looked to be a Cannibal
Priestess! She caterwalled something about "
Beefcakeses!" and dragged them into one of the Smaller
Quonsat huts.
And that is another story!
This is Edward R. Morrow. Goodnight and Merry Christmas!
Thanks Gos. Great Fight.
Goshawk's pilot log entry:
"To
The Victor Go The Spoils", or, "What to do with an
unresponsive stick!"
A pilot friend came up to me one day,
said "Come on, ol' buddy, let's go out and play!"
We grabs us two Spits and took off to fly
those great Griffon'd steeds way up in the sky.
We looped and we rolled, we twisted with verve,
and swooped and we split-S'ed, with bundles of nerve.
I broke through some clouds and was shocked to see,
my good buddy Ninja, was shooting at me.
My tail blew apart, my engine did seize,
my stick it froze solid right 'twixt my two knees.
My wings they did flutter, I started to roll.
For Ol Ninja's Spitfire had exacted it's toll.
Later that day, I'd spent so much time,
swimmin and gaggin on green channel brine.
I dragged my wet arse back to my gray tent,
my good buddy "Wolf" allowed me to vent.
I griped and I swore, I cussed up a storm.
I changed my wet flightsuit to help me get warm.
He offered to help me to get back into shape
and fly with me while I became again "great".
We spun, and we twirled, we flew and we sailed.
Like spaghetti, the sky we left vapor trailed.
When all of a sudden right outta the blue
I spot good ol' Wolfie, a shootin' me too!
This stuff rarely happened to a nice guy like me!
As I swam back to England, my buddy Yogi, I see.
"Those buggers!", said Yogi, "They are not very
nice,
come fly with ol' Yogi, for I'll treat you right!"
So once more I did listen to a mentor for me
and took off for heavens in Spit number three.
We flew side by side, easy stuff that's for sure.
I regained my lost confidence. My fears had been cured.
We Immelman'd, side-slipped, and Thatch-weaved a while,
and my once quite strained face, soon happened a smile.
We split up and scissored and turned back again
then I watched as Yogi shot me again and again.
Well third time's the charm, and as I swam back to shore
I was gladdened to see "Koko" standing by my tent door.
I said "Hey ya, Koko, can I please bend your ear?
I've just had three buddies take chunks outta my rear!"
She perked right on up, and a big smile she did show.
"I luff to take cayuh off you Gos, dah'nt choo know?"
Her eyes they grew wide, she threw me onto the bed
"How ya gonna help my ol' stick to respond?", I had
said.