European Air War
Dedicated to those courageous pilots who fought the good fight!
Farewell, Coconut Island!!!
Goshawk stood at the end of the dirt airstrip. It seemed
like years had passed since he was here last. The distant thunder
of the big Wasp radials, and melodious well-timed hum of the
Reisen's still lingered in the air. The warm breezes of the
Pacific continued to drift into the doorway of the
"O-Club".
The other pilots had long since left the island, timed with the
end of the Pacific campaign.
The "comfy crate" lay off to the side of the door, its
wooden slats now pocked with holes from the various species of
island insects. Goshawk slapped at the feeling of an insect
biting the back of his neck. The action was automatic, and
although there had been no insect there to strike, the pain of a
long since forgotten bite returned. He would even find himself
scratching at an imagined red welt there after a while. He had
developed so many mannerisms from the haunted huts, coconut
trees, and the countless deadly forays against the best pilots
that the Pacific Air War had to offer.
From old "Hawkeye's Lament" to good ol'"Vapors'
Vaporization", the memories returned.
As he stared into the dark interior of the long abandoned
"O-Club", he was almost able to hear the raucous
laughter of Calabs and FM Jump, as they made fun of Goshawk's
clumbsiness. He could almost still see Vertigo seated at the end
of the bar, toothpick in his teeth, beanie cap on his head, with
its tiny propeller still turning.
He glanced at Grizzly's old lean-to, and recalled the long nights
of endless revelry from the young upstart of a pilot. Grizzly had
been too young then to have been emmersed in the "Hell of
War", but even the young ones were being called, to fly,
fight, and die.
The sounds of Grizzly's frenzied passion plays with Koko began to
return. Goshawk recalled the scene one evening as Grizzly sat
before the kneeling Koko. The tassles suspended from her bulbous
breasts swayed back and forth in unison, in preparation for the
sensual foreplay that she enjoyed most with the island's youngest
warrior. Slowly, she would rock her hips and waist, watching
Grizzly's eyes fixed upon the bare tassle-pasted breasts of the
island sex goddess. As the speed of Koko's rocking increased, so
did the spinning action of the tassles. Grizzly began his sounds
of propellers, with long drawn out wet raspberries.
"PPtttttttttttttt pptttttttt ppptttttttttttttttt" he
would spray into the night. The tassles moved faster and faster,
and Grizzly sprayed louder and louder, totally immersed was he in
his own sensual version of "P-38's" with Koko. He loved
that plane. Almost as much as the Corsair. If Koko had only one
breast, he would have had her pretend to be a Corsair. She would
not have cared. She wanted only to please her "boys" at
the airstrip.
As thoughts of Hawkeye and "Beefcakes" began returning
to the old pilot, he heard the faint tattletale sounds of an
airplane in the distance. Imagining it to be another
reminiscence, he passed it off.
He began walking through the pathways between the huts, kicking
aside the empty beer and root beer bottles scattered about. He
recalled the famous "Iced Brew" runs that FM Jump made
with Grizzly's Corsair.
The drone of engines grew louder. Goshawk looked in the direction
of the noise and saw a DC-3 on a final approach to the strip. He
walked to the battered old tarmac, and stood at the entrance to
the taxiway as the plane rolled to a stop.
The door of the craft opened, and out stepped an orderly.
"Goshawk?", called the freshly graduated Army pilot
"grape".
"That's me, Lt., what's on yer mind?", he replied.
"New orders, sir.", advised the young aviator.
"You're ordered to Europe, sir. New squad's forming, and
they're looking for some vets to help head it up."
"What for, Lt.?", asked Goshawk.
"War, sir. European Air War, sir. Supposed to be the
"Big One, sir."
"Hmmm, sounds pretty challenging. Got any good planes over
there?", asked Goshawk.
"The best, sir. 'Stangs, Jugs, Lightnings, Spits, Hurri's,
you name it, sir.", replied the young cargo pilot.
"You able to locate any of the old crew?", asked
Goshawk.
"Got a line on FM Jump, Grizzly, Vertigo, Ninja, Calabs, and
a bunch of others so far."
Goshawk turned and ran to a tree. He picked up his tattered old
leather jacket. As an after-thought, he raced to Hawkeye's old
hut, dashed inside, and exited with an armfull of silken gowns
and sequined attire. Silk scarves dragged across the ground.
Goshawk raced into the open door of the DC3. The door promptly
closed behind him, and the engines started. The plane made a
brisk 180 degree turn, and rolled back in the direction it had
come.
As the plane lifted off, Goshawk looked back upon "Coconut
Island", now getting smaller and smaller as it faded from
view behind the plane.
Just as a tear of sadness was about to break out from the corner
of the old pilot's eye, he heard a familiar rustling noise. He
glanced around, and saw Koko standing at the end of the cargo
bay. She wore her customary grass skirt with her PAW halter top.
Her elubrious smile and sensuous stance left no doubt in the
veteran's mind that the flight to the European theater would be
an enjoyable one.
"Ohhh, Goffhawg, I alway luz you the moft!", she
swooned as she approached and wrapped her arms around the
veteran.
Both bodies lowered to the floor of the plane.
In the cockpit, the pilot began adjusting the trim tabs for the
plane, surprised at the sudden turbulence in the seemingly calm
Pacific air.
The turbulence would last for the duration of the flight.
"Let the battles begin!"
Somewhere in England, 1940's
Seahawk's pilot log:
Early
morning, somewhere in the English countryside:
The mist was heavy and dank and it brought a chill that would
dampen the most ebulent of hearts. If you were a thousand feet in
the air you would see the starry sky gracefully surrenduring to
the dawn. Quonset huts littered the fields surrounding the
runways, and all but one had coalsmoke billowing out the metal
chimney. The Sergeant-Major, an old India veteren stalked towards
the hut a cloud furrowing his brow. Many a sepoy had quailed at
the sight of that stern forbiding forhead, those unwholesome
beady eyes, and that carefully trimmed yet ratty mustache. He
parade marched to the door and began to pound with a vengeance
that many have read about but very rarely heard. The din was
terrific. Those in the other huts awoke with a start and then a
slow grin spread across their sleep fogged faces; " Thank
God! He's off somewhere else this morning." They gratefully
began to get up, knowing a cup of hot tea awaited them, not the
ire of that dreaded noncom. Those inside that lone quonsot hut
were not so grateful, nor as fortunate. They were the transfers.
Those luckless souls who had screwed up so badly on the other
side of the world that the brass had decided they were better
served getting a little more discipline and and lot less tan.
They were not all met however, Goshawk was there, and FM too.
Vapors had put in an appearence the night before, and as was his
wont, had disappeared soon thereafter, in search of who knows
what. The rest had not made it to their quarters as yet.
And the pounding went on and on. If you have never heard the
sound of an angry Sergeant-Major pounding his fist on corrugated
steel, trust me, you have not missed anything. And the pounding
was in their heads as well. Goshawk had brought with him that
infamous juice, made in the jungle by boiling unspeakable things,
adding bits and pieces of who know whats, left to ferment for who
cares how long. And they had drunk.
Drunk to the memory of those long ago days when men were men and
all of them scared of KOKO.
Then it
stopped. As inexplicably as it had started. But it was to late
they were up, and with a vengeance. The groaned their way to
their feet and prepared to do bodily injury to those responsible
for that awful din before they had had hair of the dog. Then they
heard another noise, not so loud but twice as strange. It sounded
like strangling. They made their way to the front door, threw it
open and there standing in front of them was the
dreaded Sergeant-Major. Blue in the face, almost as if he had
swollowed his tongue. His beedy eyes starting out of his head.
And what was he staring at? What had made this hard as nails man
so bereft of language and breath?
In front of him was an army jeep. But not just a company jeep.
The Colonels jeep ( you could tell by the fancy flags on each
corner). And half in that jeep was a Looker, and wow! What a
Looker! Blonde hair, blue eyes, red nails that could scratch the
back of a turtle. Legs for days, and a a figure that would make
Vargas mumble in his beard and break out in a sweat. Even
disheveled she looked like a million bucks. And the cause of her
dishevelment? A tall dark haired man, devil may care beard on his
face, tropical worsted uniform thrown hastily on his lean form.
And they were locked in an embrace that could only mean the end
of a most intimate evening spent horizontally.
" Seahawk?", Goshawk groaned.
Seahawk glanced over the blondes shoulder and winked then went
back to his goodbyes.
The Sergeant-Major began to quiver with restrained anger.
Finally, the lip lock ended and the Colonels wife crawled behind
the wheel, flashing a bit of garter as she did. " Good
Morning Sergeant-Major," she said, as she pulled away.
" Ma'am!" He saluted as she passed.
" Oh, God," Goshawk shook his head.
Welcome to Europe!
-Seahawk
aka RKK
or, the Acting Bird
Hawkeye's pilot log:
As I
rolled out of bed this morning everything looked just a bit awry.
No more hut, no straw, the bourbon bottles were still there but
instead of the bright pacific warm sunshine, I was greeted with a
cold early morning fog.
And what is this? My Corsair has been replaced by what looks like
a single seat Cadillac with wings? Apparently, HQ has messed
things up big time and I've been re-assigned. It's up to you
gentlemen to throw me into the throws
of battle asap!
-Andy "Hawkeye" Hawes
Goshawk's
pilot log:
The clerks at the base-ex are besides themselves!! The price of
make-up has trebbled, and all of the shelves have been rendered
void of nylons and other "frilly things". This can mean
only one thing!!
EGAD!!! It's gotta be Hawkeye! Where's that damned P-40, I know
it's here somewhere. Didn't even hear it come in.
There's definitely mischief a'brew in the ladder now boys. Good
to have you aboard, Hawkeye. Long time no shoot-at-you!
-Goshawk
Duke's
pilot log:
Hawkeye,
Pretty frightening, eh? The weather is sure a lot nastier than on
KoKo's Island, but I'm sure you'll find some way to generate a
bit of warmth ... and if you can't we've got a Lorry-full of
pilots just waiting to light a fire in your parachute.
Welcome aboard!
-Duke
Wolf's
pilot's log:
The not so
young pilot awoke to the most Godawful sound he had ever heard.
As he stumbled out of bed,barking his shin and ramming his toes
into some unidentified object, in the pitch black room he knew
something was not right. Yesterday's mission to hit a chemical
plant deep in Iraq had been gruelling, almost as gruelling as the
party at the O-Club later that night but it still wouldn't
account for the fact that it was colder than a well diggers but
in Montana in the room, "if that crazy crew chief of mine
has been "fine tuning" the air conditioner
again....". Finally finding the light switch,the pilot
stopped dead in his tracks. A quanset hut????
"If those worthless bastards waited on me to passout and took me to one for a little ride I'm gonna kill em."
Then his alcohol-fogged senses were again assaulted by that awful noise. A spitting, crackling, screaming drone that met the vibration coming up through his feet and meeting somewhere in the middle..."what the hell is that? Jeez, sounds like someone is trying to stuff a full grown tiger into a food processor..."
As he opened the door certain things immediatly and completely overloaded his "situational awareness"...it wascold, raining, foggy and he was looking straight into a sandbagged blast pen containing what looked like...."naw couldn't be"...as he looked around trying to figure out where Rod Serling was hiding, a loud hairy nuisance wearing old fashioned Sargent Majors stripes came up and started raising hell about the fact that he was not only out of uniform, but obviously drunk too.
Unmoved by this ranting Neandrathal the pilot stumbled out into the, for want of a better discription, "light of day".
"Where the hell am I...? Where is my hangar? Where the hell did all these antiques come from? Where is my F-15...?"
Horror mounted as he looked around... Nothing was familiar... There were trees for Christs sake... Just then, a jeep pulled up and behind the wheel sat Goshawk,,, a cynical air about him, and a knowing grin...
"Get
in, son! Have a drink of this and relax, we're gonna have us a
long talk........"
-"Wolf"
Goshawk's pilot log:
As Wolf
slowly drew from the canister, he choked a cough. The fiery hot
liquid initially deadened the nerve endings in the mouth and
throat, but carried an aftershock of searing pain and a
horehoundish aftertaste.
"Jeez, Wolf, you ain't supposed to gulp it like that
white-lightnin' you're used to back home, fer chrissake!"
instructed Goshawk.
"What th' hell [haack-haack] is this [haack-haack] shit
Gos?", sputtered the younger pilot. Wolf leaned over the
side of the jeep and spat forcibly onto the ground. He handed the
canister back to Goshawk, and stared
angrily at his oftimes co-pilot.
"This, is England, Wolf!", said Goshawk waving his arms
wide about him. "This is our new home for a while. Ain't it
the loveliest shade of gray ya ever seen?", he asked with a
beaming smile.
Wolf was still leaning out the side of the vehicle, clearing his
throat and spitting profusely onto the concrete strip.
"Not that, Gos, the stuff in the thermos! What is
that?" he repeated with somewhat reduced physiological
effusions.
"Oh that, that's tea, Wolf!" responded
Goshawk."Coffee hasn't arrived here yet. Godawful stuff,
that! Eh?"
As soon as Wolf sat upright in the seat, Goshawk popped the
clutch, turned, and sped off in the direction of the Rols-Royce
Merlin and Griffon engines. Wolf grabbed the side of the jeep to
keep from falling out, and gave a terror filled shout.
"JEEZ, GOS!!!!"
"AHHHH, GOTTA LOVE IT, WOLF!", shouted Goshawk above
the roar and popping of the warming engines. "SMELL THAT
PETROL? SMELL THAT EXHAUST? LET'S GO SEE WHAT THESE SPITS ARE ALL
ABOUT!", he shouted. "THIS IS OUR
WAR, WOLF, AND AIN'T NOBODY GONNA SPOIL IT FOR US!!!"
The jeep sped down the flightline to a group of awaiting
fighters.
Calabs' pilot log entry:
My EAWsome virginal
experience was a winning one, by the slim margin of 3-2.
I took the first three, got cocky, got cold cocked!!
In all fairness, Mr. Enforcer (I'm being respectful for the first
and last time on the ladder here) did a very fanciful stall/spin
move that served me very well the first three battles. Downright
graceful in his Spit was he, as I spit cannon shells upon him.
His backstroke wasn't bad either.
The last two fights were two different animals. In the first I
extended for altitude but never achieved that lofty goal before
Mr. E (as in energy management) overtook me. In the second, I
took a head on and bent into him hard, trying to surprise. Hadn't
done that previously. He took the bait as quickly as my child
eats broccoli, and had an energy advantage in the angles fight
that led to the devirgination of a very sensitive area behind
my 3-9 line.
There you have it. Now, I gotta go have a cigarette.
Calabs (That's pronounced KAH-LABS)
FM Jump's pilot log entry:
To CALABS goes
congratulations
for his continued obliterations
of his comrades and their permutations.
With his bullets in recapitulation
he classically succeeds in decapitations
and certainly without hesitation
he will embark upon a migration
to ascend without fluctuation
to the pinnicals of inspiration
for all of our admiration...
but beware, there is no hallucination,
when behind him he sees an apparition,
of a pilot on a mission
to orchestrate his deflation!
-<ggg> flip
Calabs' pilot log entry:
You all heard of An American Werewolf in London. Pass the salt.
I Spit out the bones as
I tell the tail of a wicked licking.
Four to one, my flavor.
We tried spaghetti, we created it. Moves served beautifully by
sunlight. A delectable
pasta creation in the sky. But in the end it
was...well..basically....dog meat was on the
menu.
He was a gentlemen though. Took it well, Wolverine did.
Paid the bill.
Dada's pilot log entry:
Whew. Forgive any
typos, but my hands are still shaking. What a hell of a match.
The first sortie began rather..unceremoniously. After the first
pass, I mistimed my initial break. No prob. I had Vapors just
where I wanted him, right at my 6 o'clock. So altitude and
airspeed dropped and I decided to impress Vap with my defensive
flying skills--just to show him what he was really up against.
Hehe. I did a pretty decent job of keeping him stuck in lag, but
I can't believe what happened next. Do you believe he ACTUALLY
SHOT AT ME? That certainly wasn't very neighborly of him. In
fact, although his bullets came nowhere near me, it startled the
hell out of me. So I did what any pilot would do: completely
spazzed and yanked back on my joystick. You know something?
That's not a very good idea in a Spit at 140 mph. You know
something else? You absolutely can not recover from a spin at 200
feet. I figured I'd just better demonstrate that for Vapors in
case he'd ever wondered about it. :-) Vap 1 Da 0
For the second sortie, I got a very good bite on Vapors at the
pass and swooped down and around on him from a little high. Again
we descended an slowed (gotta love that Spit). This time I was
stuck in lag but managed to get tiny angular gains as I followed
Vapors around. I finally got a brief snapshot at wavetop level,
which was enough to damage his engine. I got a couple more shots
at him and he went down. I believe his engine finally overheated.
Vap 1 Da 1
The next sortie followed the same basic pattern, and let me tell
you, this guy can put his plane all over the place. Not only does
he shoot at me, but he won't even fly straight so I can nail him.
The nerve of some people. *ggg* I finally wound up overshooting
him slightly, but enough to force us back to a head on pass. We
continued to pass nose to nose and scored some hits on each
other, but nothing critical. Finally, a well-timed hi yo-yo gave
me enough of an angle to get a good shot into him. Ahh, flames.
:-) Vap 1 Da 2
Sortie 4 was a prolonged affair which again ended up low and
slow, each of us getting and blowing advantages. :-) After a near
mid air, I believe we both managed to stall out and spin in.
Wonderful aerial ballet. :-) Draw.
The next sortie again ended up with us at 200 feet and very slow,
essentially in a Lufberry. However, by hanging on the absolute
edge of a stall, as well the tiniest of hi and lo yo yo's, I
managed to creep around to Vap's six. I patiently waited as we
went around and around endlessly, or so it seemed. Finally, I had
inched up enough for a perfect lead shot. I let loose with all
guns. I pulled off high to the left as his plane broke apart,
spewing flames. Vap 1 Da 3
Our final sortie proceeded just as the previous ones. Luckily for
me, however, Vap was the one who exceeded his stall envelope and
splashed himself. Vap 1 Da 4
Thanks to Vapors for 1.5 hours of sheer, nerve-wracking torture.
Don't let the score mislead you. He had me on the very edge of
the stall envelope throughout our entire fight. I have rarely
experienced anything so nerve-wracking. Any one of those sorties
could have gone the other way if I hadn't payed intense attention
to my airspeed, with little diversions such as my altitude and
keeping my eye on where the heck he was! Vapors is
the very definition of flying on the edge.
Salute, buddy. :-)
Dada out.
Duke's pilot log entry:
The O'Club's door
slammed shut and Duke collapsed on nearest barstool.
Unfortunately, the nearest barstool was occupied. Stumbling over
a spot, Duke collapses in a heap, barely managing to squawk out
his order to the barmaid. A long, deep draught of ale ...
"ahhhh, that's better - what a night!" Pulling a
haddock out of his pocket, Duke drops the still-flapping fish on
the bar ... "... be a dear and bring another love. Oh, and
here's a souvenier of my latest trip to the channel." The
beer arrives, and Duke mumbles out the tale of a long night to
his drunken stool-mate while some RAF chap tries to make headway
with Liz ...
"Spent more time in the drink than in the plane tonight! Ah,
but things got better they did. Coming home, I got jumped by some
banshee from hell ... Seahawk I think the name was. I'll tell ya,
I saw more SEA than HAWK! That's for sure!
"Well, when I finally got back to the base, I told the crew
chief that if he EVER gives me a rusted old bucket to fly again
... at which point the chief grunted something unintelligible to
me - as is his wont by the way - and pulled me into the hangar.
As I wrung out my flight jacket, I looked up and, well, to say I
was in love with the freshly painted sweety in front of me would
be, well, would be another story! Suffice to say, that I hopped
right in
and took off. Eager to see how she responded, shake some of the
water out of my ears, and mainly just fly to loosen up and relax.
"All of a sudden, out of the sun ... BLAM BLAM BLAM ...
tracers shoot past my nose as some lunatic with a death wish
charges at me ... guns blazing! I pushed throttle to the stops,
pulled hard over to follow, when all of a sudden I heard a
terrible sound coming out of the Griffon followed by the smell of
burning oil.
"DAMN! He's pierced one of the cylinders with a lucky shot!
Although I tried gamely, and even got a piece of him, I finally
ended up in the drink ... AGAIN!
* Round 1 * Gos-1 * Duke-0
"Well, I don't need to tell you that after the soaking I'd
gotten from Seahawk, this wasn't going to go unpunished! As soon
as I could get airborne again, I found my nemisis flying north
over the channel. This time, he can't shake me as I nibble
steadily away at his tail between bouts of incredibly close
passes and feints. A close call with a spin, and the next thing I
know, he's high-tailing it back to base, trailing smoke and
limping badly.
The radio crackles ... "Duke, this is Gos! That was fun! I'm
winchestered, are you?"
"I just chuckled, slid in behind Gos, and quietly answered
... 'no.' Followed by a rather noisy report from the 20mm's!
* Round 2 * Gos-1 * Duke-1
"Well, this 'hawk' was just as ornery and tenacious as the
other one I'd run into this evening as all of a sudden, we're at
it again! After a long turning battle, Gos gains the upper hand
and slices off Duke's wingtip ...
* Round 3 * Gos-2 * Duke-1
"Well, I can be as stubborn as the next guy, and soon I'm
chasing Gos around the sky. Gos pulls just a LITTLE BIT too hard
and goes spinning ...
* Round 4 * Gos-2 * Duke-2
"So there we were, you see? Tied, two to two. So, I kept a
careful watch on the skies this time, and sure enough, there he
was ... GOS! We went round and round what must've been dozens of
times. Loops, diving turns, you name it. I manage to wing Gos, or
at least scare him into pulling too hard ... SPIN! ... I rudder
in for the strafing pass - cannons blazing - and cut Gos' left
wing off at the root. Guess he won't be pulling out of THIS spin.
* Round 5 * Gos-2 * Duke-3
Gos, GREAT match! Long, hard fought rounds, the sign of many more
like it come I'm sure!!
Duke's pilot log entry:
... The last mission of
my first rotation, then some well-deserved R&R! I tell you, I
was looking forward to going in to London and visiting some old
friends ... and some new ones.
I spot my target, the elusive "Wolf" about 2 miles out
and closing fast. We rush past each other and engage in a long,
and I mean LONG twisting, turning and looping fight. Wolf's stall
fighting techniques are spot on! I manage to get a number of
small hits and am finally rewarded with seeing his bird start
spewing black smoke. Does this slow Wolf down? Not on your life!
We must've mixed it up for another 10 minutes before he finally
seized
the engine for lack of oil!!
* Round 1 * Duke-1 * Wolf-0
We're back at it, and it's a replay ... damn he's tough to pin
down!! I get several small hits again and in my greed to put an
end to this once and for all, my reach exceeds my grasp ...
STALL! SPIN! SPALSH!
* Round 2 * Duke-1 * Wolf-1
Another long fight, my arms are getting tired! I plink and plink,
but no smoke or flames. Patience Duke, patience! The shot finally
comes and I clip his elevator controls. Wolf does a graceful
arcing dive into the channel!
* Round 3 * Duke-2 * Wolf-1
Can you say "Round Two" ??? Argh but I hate it when I
make stupid mistakes. I'm tired, I'm frustrated at scoring
ineffective hits on Wolf, only to watch him keep on flying and
flying and flying ... I'm thinking of renaming him "The
Energizer Bunny!" ... just a LITTLE more lead ... come'on
... COME'ON DAMNIT! ....ARRRRGH!!!! ... splash!
* Round 4 * Duke-2 * Wolf-2
True to form, we get into a long series of loops, diving spirals,
and circling knife fights. Damn but he IS good at hanging on by
the skin of his teeth at stall speeds! Just doesn't give me any
room to close the angles on him! Despite the ache in my arm from
gripping the stick, I hang in and just follow ... taking my shots
where and when I can ... plink ... plunk ... kaBLAM! ... ah,
there was a good one! ... sure enough, smoke starts billowing out
and thankfully, this time I didn't have to wait as long before
Wolf sought out the cool waters of the Channel to put out the
fires!
* Round 5 * Duke-3 * Wolf-2 * MATCH!
Wolf, SALUTE!! You flew a great match and I am sure we're going
to have many more of these fights on the ladder in days to come!!