Pilotlog Entries, Page 8
Over the icy English Channel
Hawkeye's pilotlog entry:
Fight 1:
Spit 14's
Hawkeye 1
The vintage tight turnin' Spitfire brawl. My guns seemed to be
surprisingly accurate after a dry spell there for a while. We
both admitted to not having been around the base in a while. Dada
took her in the drink with a battered smokin' plane and I claimed
victory. Great fight Dada.
Fight 2: 190D's
Hawkeye 2
Wow. Now there is some speed. However, not knowing what the heck
to do with it all, we somehow managed to squirm into a tight
little bear hug. I had some decent deflection shots score hits on
Dada's fuselage. Big D fought the good fight all the way in.
Fight 3: 190E (or whatever that model is with the E in it.)
Dada 1
Crap!!! Thought I outflew the old fart again, but just when I'm
all cocky, there goes the old stick and rudder folly and I'm
cross controlled and low and slow. That spells relief, and into
the shower I go.
Fight 4: Spit 9's
Dada 2
OK, great fight. Dada pulls some serious g's and we take it down
low and slow again. I'm trying to get a shot off, and there goes
all that training. Blammo! The world is spinning and I can't do
anything about it!
Fight 5: Spit 14's
Hawkeye 3
Great fight again. We keep this one vertical for a while there.
Really tight circles again. I manage to work it in to the inside
for a couple squirts and draw some smoke. Dada takes it down low
and maybe there was just a bit too much damage to his spit, and
it's all over.
Thanks again Dada for the great fights.
Later, somewhere east of the English Channel
Dada's pilotlog entry:
"Ze
matter is closed," the Kommander said, closing the file on
his desk, "and perhaps you should consider spending less of
your time at Madame LaCrops’s. Schnapps and spankings do
tend to weaken a man, you know."
Ignoring that, for what did that old fossil know of a
knight’s pleasures, Dada continued, "And what of all
these aces? If you scored half my probables, I’d be an
experten twice over—"
The Kommander silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Zat
will be all, Oberleutnant." Dada spun around and headed for
the door without a further word.
"Ober-leutnant," Dada muttered. The very words soured
his tongue.
"Oberleutnant," Dada muttered again, regaining
consciousness, momentarily panicked by the darkness and trees
around him. The wrenching pain in his lower left leg brought back
his memory. That was the price of bailing out at 500 feet.
He’d managed to set it with a tree limb and his shoelaces
just before passing out. At least the Schweinhund Anglanders had
not come upon him yet, and now he’d made it to their foul
coastline. Now, to slip
into the bosom of the channel and swim far enough out to be found
by one of those heroic patrol boats.
The water froze Dada, but that provided two benefits. Firstly, it
numbed the fiery ache in his cracked leg, and secondly, it forced
the knife of clarity back into his thinking. Stroking carefully
to conserve as much energy as possible, Dada begrudgingly
admitted to himself that perhaps the old fossil had been right
after all. This never would have happened had he not let his
skills rust so obviously. Meinn Gott, he had actually spun his
aircraft. Dada tried to remember the last time that had happened.
Perhaps in primary flight training, certainly not after. What had
happened to him? This war was taking things out of him that he
hadn’t even realized were gone. No wonder he’d lost his
flight Kommand.
Dada floated momentarily to rest and to glance back at the shore,
now a safe distance away. He suddenly remembered the boots
he’d had to leave behind. Those beautiful calf-skins had
been a gift from Katrine at Madame LaCrops. No one knew how to
swing the leather like she. "Ah, what beautiful, glorious
shpankings."
But Dada knew those boots perhaps best symbolized his current
state…soft…unlaced. And he would have to leave behind
what they stood for also, not matter how he’d miss it. Dada
began swimming again, fondly reminiscing over the warm schnapps
and even warmer shpankings, and steeling himself to the fact that
they could be no more.
"Well, perhaps one more," Dada conceded. After all,
discipline was important to a good German officer. And he had
been a bad kinder.
Muad'dib's pilotlog entry:
"Sir,
I'm not sure I like this P-38. She's pure boom-and-zoom...there's
no knife in her." I comm over to my wingman Grey Wolf.
"Well, that's true Dib...I mean, that's how Bong did it in
the Pacific. You just got to get used to it", Grey Wolf
replies.
"Well, let's ring 'em out and see what they'll do." I
comm back. "I'll circle, while you advance about 5 miles
out, then circle back and we'll have some fun."
"Roger that...on my way" and GW taps his throttle
forward to separate us and I circle around.
Round 1: (P38 vs P38)
We merge and I take her up...I mean, hey...she's got two
engines...right? As I'm coming down on Grey Wolf, I spin...right
through the cloud layer. I pull her out below the layer and Grey
Wolf pursues. I yank on the stick to get some angles...and spin
her again. I recover, and decide that this bird maneuvers like
battleship. So, with that thought in mind...I do a power dive to
get some slam and extend away. I then circle back and start
the boom-and-zoom on GW. He does the same, and we continue this
for a while... always working closer to the mud. I nick him up a
couple times, and as I'm laying into him on one pass, he yanks
the stick to pull out of plane and proceeds to spin into the
ground.
Muad'dib - 1, Grey Wolf - 0
"GW, let's go trade in these birds...I'm just not very
pleased with their maneuverability. I like knife fighting."
I comm over to Grey Wolf.
"Roger that Dib....will follow you back to base." GW
comms back.
We return to base where we swap out with a pair of FW190A's that
were captured recently after Normandy. We figured we'd test out
the maneuverabiltiy of the Jerry's new toy.
Round 2: (FW190A vs FW190A)
Grey Wolf and I merge with guns a-blazing. We scratch paint on
each other, but nothing serious. I go over the top as he pulls a
high slice. I come down on him and lure him into a vertical
fight. I'm able to manage my "E" better than GW, and he
begins a spin...where I climb on his tail...right down to the
mud. I got more slam than him and he's about 200 feet below my
nose. GW tries to scissor to get me to overshoot,
but...hey...I've been doing
this a while, so I pull nose up and scissor while bleeding speed
to where I can drop flaps. I get slower than GW, and he advances
forward...far enough where I can pump lead into him merclessly.
His FW190 was a piece of burning swiss cheese by the time it hit
water.
Muad'dib - 2, Grey Wolf - 0
"Dib...I'm not sure I like this FW190...let's go trade 'em
in for a Tempest. I like them...those 20mm's are alot of
punch." Grey Wolf comms over, and I acknowledge. We return
to base where we swap out our birds again, and jump into a pair
of Tempests.
Round 3: (Tempest vs Tempest)
Nice bird...nice handling characteristics. We merge and get into
a nice little luffberry. Grey Wolf starts in on a Boom-and-Zoom
tactic, and I play along. We start taking repeated snot shots,
and on one pass...I would have swore we collided, but GW was
still flying great while my tail section landed on Terra-Firma
before the rest of the bird. Nice Shot, GW!!
Muad'dib - 2, Grey Wolf - 1
"GW, sorry guy...just don't like the feel of this Brit
bird...let's go test out the FW190D that was landing while we
were taking off....that long nosed Fokke Wolfe looked like a fun
bird to fly." I comm over, to whit GW acknowledges.
Round 4: (FW190D vs FW190D)
We head straight for each other for the initial merge...guns just
a-blazing. I rake his bird from nose to tail on the initial
pass...damaging his engine (and he mine), but more
importantly...I hit his cockpit. Bummer! He never knew what
happened.
Muad'dib - 3, Grey Wolf - 1
GREAT MATCH GREY WOLF!! To all those interested...Grey Wolf took
his name from the gray color of the mud that he likes to play in.
I mean...we got down in the mud in EVERY round but the last
one...right down to 26 feet for me on one round. Nice flying GW!!
Back over England's coastal waters:
Windigo's pilotlog entry:
Please
excuse me if my report is fuzzy i was busy sweating the whole
match :^)
Flight one we both took off in P-38J's and Screw got a wee bit to
close to the sea and took a drink.
Flight Two We took Spitfires IA ,,,,This time I took the Bath
Flight three We took Tempests V and in this flight which lasted
all of 25 minutes I, we, both ended up in the drink almost at the
exact same instant so we called it a draw.
Flight four we again took the Tempest to continue the same encounter,,,, This encounter took (if you will believe) 45 minutes to eventually finish with neither of us being able to gain a clear advantage when Screw finally had my engine knocking so loud I thought I was at a Tommy Dorsey concert. So, I rode the silk skyline.
Flight
Five,,,, Sudden Death,,, after our last flight I thought that
this was gonna be another marathon when, on the first pass, I
stuffed his engine and it registered a kill,,, after that it was
a simple matter of just turning and plugging him at will.
Final Score Windigo 3, Screw 2, Mr. Draw 1
I must say that I am astounded by Screw's aviation abilities and his general good sportsmanship. He is a first class gentleman and a fantastic pilot. I would be proud to fly with or against him anytime, anywhere. As wingman or opponent I am assured that with him it will be exhilerating and educational.
Salute!!!!
Goshawk's pilotlog entry:
The fish
was one that many sport anglers would talk about for years to
come, if they had ever had a chance to hook into it. It was a big
Atlantic salmon, and had swan around in the North Atlantic for a
considerable time.
Many school of herring had been thinned by it's voracious
appetite as it made the trek across the northern waters from
Greenland to the coast of England. It hunted the herring
incessantly, and once the salmon focused
upon it's prey, the silvery herring were not able to avoid the
jaws of death.
Not far away, but at a much different altitude, another type of
deadly hunt was taking place. Duke, hunting "herring"
too, had shot several hundred rounds at the Hurricane being flown
by "Goshawk". Several had connected, but other than
snatching bits of paint and fabric, no serious damage had
occurred. The planes got lower and lower to the water, as they
spiraled down in their deadly match. Goshawk's guns too had made
connections, but none of any consequence.
The battle for victory between the fliers was no less severe than
the constant hunt for the bright silvery fish was for the salmon.
They both meant survival, of a kind. The salmon was fighting for
it's very existence in the
world of cold water and quick death, should one happen upon a
hungry orca, seal, or net. The pilots were battling for the very
essence of human life, the one thing that pitted men against
other men from the beginning of time,
the prize of valor and honor pased down from generation upon
generation since prehistoric times, the ultimate award of victory
in battle, shogging Koko!
The men were aware that Koko had been spending more time with the
squaaf's on base, and had been taking to such bad habits and
comments as making reference to being "more respectable
now", and other unsuitable tosh. The time left for her
remaining her good ol' maternally-insatiable self threatened to
be passing, and the pilots of the base hoped that she never
developed the vocabulary to understand what the term
"respectable" meant. Because of the hint of fear of
possible "comprehension" of the anti-male terms,
however, the pilots had increased their frequency of flights and
hopes for victory.
Both pilots were completely focused upon the task at hand, and
intent upon destroying the other.
The Hurricane fighters swoped, looped, dashed and darted around
the clear blue sky. Occassional bursts of Browning machinegun
fire erupted from each plane, as they maneuvered for an advantage
or clear shot. Both planes were at a dangerously low altitude,
with touches of wave spray spotting the windscreens occasionally.
A lone herring swan briskly along in the choppy waves of the
channel, impervious to the battles of survival going on above and
below.
Then, he saw it. It was a quick flash of silver, a mere speck of
a blink of reflection just below the surface of the water. It was
just enough, though, to attract the attention of the hunter.
Short, quick, deadly thoughts coursed
through the hunter's brain. Survival! Destruction! Consummation!
The hunters flashed across the wave top at the same time. Duke
decided that he was not going to let this one get away, while the
salmon was merely following it's instinct of survival! They had
only one tool at their disposal to make the catch. The fighter
was not armed with bombs and Duke absolutely forbade the men to
carry grenades in the planes. He would have to spear it! The
salmon simply used it's jaws.
Duke spotted it, he could do it, he was certain. All he needed
was a spot of luck, a short wave, and a good steady hand. He
would also have to time it just right, before the guns on
Goshawk's plane were brought to bear. He knew
he was capable of it, though. He had never heard of it being
done, and would probably ground any pilot who he learned had ever
tried it, but "he" was special. He was in tune with the
plane. This magnificent fish would not
"get away" like so many had in the past.
The pitot tube was long enough, and far enough out at the end of
the wing. He would have to time it just right.
"That's it, that's it ol' boy! Little more, that's it."
he whispered as he lowered the wing of the plane ever closer to
the surface. The pitot tube skipped across the tops of two waves
before reaching the target wave where the flash was rising to the
surface.
The salmon was more visible now as it approached the surface just
below the unsuspecting herring.
A third hunter yet below would surely be able to take this
formidable salmon now, having spotted it raising quickly through
the water. It mattered not that the salmon was close to the
surface. He would surely breach if need be after the kill. The
darkness of it's mass kept it hidden in the murky depths of the
icy waters.
"There you are, you big bugger." he continued to
whisper, dipping ever closer to the water's surface. He spotted
the salmon clearly now.
"What the hell?" thought Goshawk, turning to bring his
eight Brownings to bear upon the opponent, "has he gone
absolutely tiddly?" His pulse quickened as he watched the
left wing of Duke's craft touch the surface of the water.
"NOW!!" "STRIKE!!" "KILL!!" passed
through the minds of the hunters. At the same moment, it seemed
to Goshawk anyway, he spotted the flash of a silvery fish spring
from the tip of a wave, followed briskly by a large silverish
salmon. The wing of Duke's plane dipped into the water's surface,
with the salmon being speared upon the pitot tube of the plane.
The vision of this all was somehow immediately minimized by the
sensation of the water swelling beneath the surface just ahead of
Duke's plane. The head of an orca killer whale breached
the waves at the same time, with the whale colliding with the
wing of Duke's plane. The whale snapped the salmon from the pitot
tube, tearing off a section of wing, and dragging Duke's plane
quickly into the cold churning waters of the channel. Goshawk's
plane was washed with a towering geiser of water from the splash
created by the collision of the savage beasts.
As Goshawk passed overhead of the swirling watery grave of all
three creatures, he spotted a silvery herring fluttering along
the surface of the water, shake itself limber, and swim away.
Goshawk levelled the wings of his Hurricane, and sputtered away
toward the base.
He was unable to fully comprehend the significance of his being
the "one that got away".
Round two, consisted of Duke selecting P-47's, and much to the
dismay of Goshawk, did not turn out as well. Goshawk was
dispatched with reckless abandon by the damp but still
full-of-fight opponent, Duke.
Round 3 resulted in a draw round with Spit 14's being the chosen
fare.
A rematch pitted the two opponents in a time-tested battle of the
same plane
that Goshawk had used years before in deposing the then king, of
his throne.
After several passes, Goshawk was able to get a few well placed
(luckier than hell)
rounds into Duke's engine compartment.
Round five was another dispicable round of P-47's. What does this
man see in these
fighters?? The ever-spinning Goshawk flew like a plonk into the
waters.
Round six brought the pilots back to the mainstay of the British
forces. Spit 9's
were on the menu. In a close first pass, both pilots opened up
with head-on shots.
Goshawk watched the tracers from his cannons walk across the
front edge of the wings
of Duke's plane, and into the engine area. Smoke and flame
erupted immediately,
and Duke was smoking heavily after the first pass. Several
minutes and numerous close passes later, Goshawk watched as again
his opponent was consumed by the waters of the English Channel.
Duke, this match was the epitome of that old saying: "Ya
should'a seen the one that got away!"
[Salute]
Wolf's pilotlog entry:
..."Do you have any idea how much you've cost the British and the American Governments?" Duke asked in a deceptively quite and calm voice.
"UH OH" I thought, here it comes, the only time he does this is when he's about to blow a head gasket. I had a pretty good idea how much money but I'd been on the carpet before so I said, "No Sir... I don't know." I could already tell this was going to be a good roasting, he'd remained too calm for too long. I could see the color starting to flush his face.
"Then allow me to enlighten you... 6 aircraft, several hundred gallons of aviation fuel, several thousand rounds of ammo... MOST OF WHICH MISSED, I might add... wear and tear on a Navy torpedo boat to fish you out of the Channel... the cost of the salvage crew to retrieve what was left of your planes... add all that to the cost of training you and the 10 cents you're actually worth and it comes up to almost half a million dollars!"
The rant
went on in this vien for quite some time with the volumn
increasing at a slow but steady rate. He then discussed all of my
physical, mental, moral and genetic short-comings in great and
insulting detail. When he
speculated that my parents might not have been married and that
my mother might actually be of the canine species I got pissed,
and delivered a rant of my own. It ended with, "I'm doing
the best I can so I don't want to hear it".
The standoff lasted about 5 minutes and then he said, "Get your sorry ass out of my office. You're dripping water on the carpet... again!"
Stopping by the bulletin board on my way out, I left a note... I walked back down the perimeter track to B-Flight dispersal, and as I passed the Ops Building, I saw Goshawk stretched out in a deck chair, drinking tea and reading a magazine.
As I drew even with him, he looked at me over the top of the magazine and said, "Sounded like the 'Old Man' tried to tear you a new one."
"You heard that all the way down here?", I replied.
"Sure" he said "it's only a hundred yards...so what you going to do? Lay low for a few days till it blows over?"
"...HELL NO!", came my reply. "I challenged Seahawk, what's the 'Old Man' gonna do, send me to England to fly Spitfires???"
Windigo's pilotlog entry:
"Man the sky is so clear and blue today.", I thought
while walking down Bowles Street. I was heading back to base
after a day spent with Claris. You see, she is this wonderful
nurse I met in the Hospital after Maddog "accidentally"
popped me in my cockpit during a "friendly" flight.
Well she is gorgeous, and smart, and well, basically everything!
Everything this gangly yankee isn't! The amazing thing is, she
actually like's me. God figure taste.
As I get to the front gate the MP stops me. "Sir, you are to report to the flight line immediately!", he says with a stiff salute.
No sooner do I get to the flight line than my trusty old Spitfire XIVE is waiting for me. I start to climb into the cockpit when a strange unsettling feeling catches me and I break out into a cold sweat. I swear you won't believe me but i heard a voice on the wind say "not today,,,,not today,,,,,".
Well let me tell you, I have never been so scared in my life. So, I slowly backed away from the plane. As I was walking backwards staring in disbelief I cracked my head on the ladder steps to a shiney Tempest. Hmmm, well I guess I can try this.
Flight one we both ran out of ammo so we called it a draw.
Flight Two-After landing and rearming (restarting the game) I headed up again in my Tempest to find the bandit. Luckily I found him real quick. As we closed on the initial pass, I see it's Greywolf's Spitfire IA. What the heck?? That crazy Chi-town boy just popped me. Well he wants to play we can do it!!! I spun my Tempest's nose around and took advantage of its better turning capabilities and after a twisting tight circle fight with lots of fancy maneuvers that those guys who write flight manuals desribe. I finally got him down.
Flight
Three - This time my engine was knocking when I landed so I ran
to the closest plane I could find an UGLY pea green P-47D
Thunderbolt. I taxied to the runway and zoom, I was gone. Off to
my 2 o'clock I see a spot getting closer,,,, oh great it's
Greywolf AGAIN!,,, And WHAT? ,,, he's flying a Tempest!!! Oh
great googely moogely,,if I try a turning fight with him in this
I am dead time for boom and zoom. So seperating I turn and
fire. After several exchanges like this I finally wound his
Tempest so bad I can safely get on his six and fill it full of
.50 cal before he hits the dirt.
Flight Four - Should have listened to that voice earlier because when I took my Spit XIVE this time Greywolf made short work of me in his Spit IA.
Flight Five - Ok now I am mad,,, those chute harnesses pull in VERY tender areas and I HATE that! So, this time I take "Wacko the waitress",, my P-51 Mustang. On the second pass I manage to get a cockpit shot and get him good. Windigo 3, Greywolf 1, Draw 1
Great game Greywolf. You are a fantastic pilot and a heck of a gentleman,,,, till we meet again bud c ya!!!!
Wolf's pilotlog entry:
...I circled the aerodrome after a rough show over the Channel. As I waited for a crippled Hurricane to land I thought about the roasting I got from the CO after my last combat. "Well, he can't say too much now... or at least I hope not!", I said outloud.
The "Hurrie" pilot looked like he had his hands full, the plane was shot to hell, I hoped the pilot wasn't in worse shape than the plane. After some breath holding, the cripple touched down hard but the pilot held it and taxied to his pen. I landed and rolled to a stop at my revetment.
Reginald and Stewart (my crew chief and rigger) walked out to meet me.
"'ow'd it go Sir?", asked Stewart.
"It was a rough one, Kieth", I answered. Reggie did a walk around and said, "Not too many holes to patch but looking at you I'd say that doesn't tell the story".
"Not
by bloody half, it don't Reg", I said. We walked back under
the camo netting while the rest of the crew
pushed the Spit back into the blast pen.
"OK, give Sir, lets hear the gory details... you don't usually look this beat."
"Well I was doing the normal patrol south of Dover. Control vectored us down toward Beachy Head to intercept some of those damned hit and run 110's", I explained, Reg nodded then said, "I heard most of it on the R/T in Cunningham's plane, Godfree was working on the set and happened to catch it". "I got seperated from the rest of the flight, had to avoid the flak over Southampton, decided to swing out over the Channel and see if I could catch the 110's as they headed home."I said."About 10 miles north of Beachy I spotted a glint of sunlight at about my altitude and went in for a closer look"...
ROUND 1,MK IXC SPITFIRE:
After the
merge it was a long looping ,turning fight that rapidly went from
10,000 ft. down to about 10 ft.Seahawk pulled a little too hard
and stalled. Unfortunatly he didn't have enough altitude to
recover.
WOLF-1, SEAHAWK-0
ROUND 2,Me 109E-4:
Another
long fight. I finally got his engine to smoking but made a
serious mistake. He wasn't hurt as bad as I thought, and he
pointed out the mistake by shooting the tail of my plane off.
WOLF-1, SEAHAWK-1
ROUND 3,MkIXC SPITFIRE:
These long
fights are starting to be a habit, caught him coming down the
backside of a loop and got a snap shot at him that got his engine
smoking, did not repeat my earlier mistake. His plane finally
gave up the ghost after a
considerable amout of time.
WOLF-2, SEAHAWK-1
ROUND 4,FW 190A-8:
Got him on
the merge, got lucky and hit him harder than he hit me. He lost a
wing.
WOLF-3, SEAHAWK-1
Great
match buddy, it was an honor to fly with you, SIR. I'm sure we
will meet again.
Till then...
SALUTE