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#1714171 - 01/03/02 04:22 AM Here's what happened (Continued) ****  
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All,

To begin, thanks to all of you who have taken time to visit the Here's what happened thread which started in late April 2001. The stories, mission accounts and fine discussion was a part of my online time since that time.

It appears that the software has been stressed to the maximum with the shear size of HWH and as such further posts to it are apparently not possible. Jolly Roger Too among others has suggested that I start a new thread to keep the idea of HWH intact. I sincerely am honored to be allowed to begin the new thread and hope it brings you as much fun and enjoyment as the old one did for me. It is after all, BoB and the BoB that bring us together.

So without further delay (or bs) I hereby begin with one of my favorites from the original thread.

By Jolly Roger Too


On the Last Day, Episode One

On the last day of his life, Maj. Hans Gootentag, son of Martha and Carl, husband of Edda and father of two, is flying a mottled, gray BF109E high in the sun over England.
It always seemed a miracle to Hans if they got the bombers through at all. As group commander he had made sure to follow all the precepts that so far had ensured him minimal losses.
One fighter group flew as direct protection, covering the bombers on every flank, all the way through to the target. A second batch moved in to relieve them, escorting the bombers from the target back to the channel.
A third group on a free hunt combed the sky for British fighters. And yet a fourth took over at the Channel shepherding the bombers back to France.
Hans, as flight leader, had flown the full length of this formation and now he had serious doubts. How could 120 fighters protect a formation of bombers 40 miles long?
His fighters tactical flying time was 8 minutes and their operational radius was 125 miles. This left just 10 scant minutes, if the RAF came up to play. Hans smiled to himself, for the RAF always was in the mood for a good scrap.
As his keen eyes scanned the sky ahead he now saw the Spitfires and Hurricanes begin rising through the low cloud layer toward the bomber stream. Calling out his warning he turned into the oncoming attack.
Flying into that same shining orb my flight of Spitfires passes through a brief layer of cloud as we search for Hans, his fighters and their deadly charges.
Our airfield had been showered with bombs and 30 Do 17s were, even now, reported over Rochester.
I use a little rudder, a bit of right stick and adjust my throttle as we make a course change. Now we can see ugly, black palls of smoke burgeoning skyward.
Suddenly, the date is September 5, 1965 and a bevy of historians, scientific experts and war enthusiasts including hundreds of English school children, are gathered respectfully around the shattered, mud and slime encrusted remains of an old WW2 vintage Spitfire.
The aircraft has just been raised from its watery grave in a British farmers pond where it had augured in during the Battle of Britain.
As I closely observe the proceedings, totally captivated, it becomes obvious that the pilot did not get out before the crash.
Slowly, his pitiful remains are reverently removed from the shattered cockpit and they are placed upon a large, white sheet. The RAF uniform just recognizable to me as that of a flight Leader hangs about the corpse in tatters and rags.
Wait. Someone examining the skeleton has noticed a large, metallic object adhering to the grizzly remains of the pilots left wrist.
I draw even closer just to see what they have found. My God! Oh my dear God! I recognize it. Its my watch...
It is at times like these, climbing swiftly into a sun possibly filled with death, the Spit's engine screaming, my goggles and oxygen mask on and adjusted, throttle wide open, my hair on fire, that I often find myself thinking of the ridiculously macabre.
I take a second to look at my watch. No time for further reflection, the 109s have seen us and are coming down.

On the Last Day, Episode 2

On the last day of his life, Flight Lieutenant, Peter Goodfeller-Smythe, son of Sir Percival and Lady Beverley, and just turned 19 years of age, awakened early.
His sleepy eyes opened instantly at the soft touch of his devoted Batman, Felix. There was just time enough now to don his perfectly tailored flight dress, collect his flying kit and then walk the short distance to grab a quick breakfast at the informal mess hut.
As the cold, gray dawn began to break over a besieged England, Peter wolfed down what was to be his last meal.
He must have known, as we all surely knew, that at this precise moment other pilots were also preparing in a similar fashion across the Channel for another day of combat over Britain.
These were the brave pilots who wore the uniform of our enemy. They would be coming again in droves to shower our homes, factories and airfields with deadly bombs.
It had only recently become Peter's job and that of just a few others to stop this obscene onslaught of terror and death.
As we climb now toward the bomber stream and the falling fighters, Peter is flying close on his wingman. With all the busy work attendant to keeping a tight formation, he now knew a moment of sweating terror. For his task was to protect the two men ahead, Wallace and Wing Leader, Jolly Roger 2.
The thought just struck him like a 20-mm shell bursting at his ear. In this rigid display formation that the RAF still flew, made up of tight, V- shaped formations of three planes. there was no one to protect Arse-end Charlie, except Charlie himself.
What was it that wag Canadian had said? You are either promoted from that spot, mate, or buried. Peter silently prayed he would be promoted first. The prayer would, sadly, go unanswered.
Eyes dilated, his neck muscles stiff as steel bands, he craned frantically to see where the fighters were now. They were coming down fast between his flight and the bombers. They were not there yet. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves (it was to be one of his last)... he had a few more seconds.
Then it all happened so fast that I found it difficult to register it all for this combat report. The fighters were on us. As the jolly Hurris grimly continued after the bombers Acorn flight bit into the 109s and 110s with a vengeance.
They must not stop the gallant Hurris led by the stone brave if slightly arrogant Bader. I peeled away after a mottled, gray 109E and a hasty glance showed Wallace was close along with me.
Peter saw Jolly peel away, and then Wallace followed. He too was howling down behind them. In seconds Peter had somehow lost them both.
All he saw was a Me110 that instantly went into a tight, climbing turn to shake him. Then he was firing, giving the Me110 all he was worth. As he fired, the glittering paper-chain of tracers showed him that his shells were going as wide as the 110s-rear gunners.
Nose up. Pull your nose up. Get ahead of him. It was his last thought...

On the Last Day, Final Episode
Spiraling down in a veritable shower of fighters, I found myself in a position to fire upon a 109 that was just beginning to climb again.
Back a bit on the throttle. I actually stand on the rudders as I take merciless aim just ahead and to the left. My shells spark as they rake along the gray beast from its yellow spinner to its tail. Great pieces of cowl and metal fly off as the wounded bird shudders.
Oily smoke billows from what was the engine. I barely saw it flip over and the lucky pilot fall into space. A moment of envy is my last thought of him. For this man the war is now over.
A check of my six and a call to my wingman encourages me to climb back up into the maelstrom of death that fills the sky above us. Where is Peter? Throttle to the pins and the Spits nose again points upwards.
Ahead, there is a battle between one of ours and one of their 110s. The 110 seems to be a dead pigeon as the Spitfire has it dead on a plate. A few seconds more and it will be all over. A look back, a quick look to my left.
Break,Red 3! I have a bogey high and above, and hes firing, I shout! From out of the thin cloud layer above has fallen a sleek and deadly, gray bird with black crosses.
One pass with machine guns and cannons firing and the unwary Spit driver finds himself wrapped in nothing but shreds, shards and flames.
He has no hope of getting out as his proud British coffin with broad wings begins its short, graceless fall to earth. It is that frightful moment that we are close enough to recognize the falling hero is our Peter.
The Me110 is now gone. The 109 will not be so lucky. We are on him like jam on a hot biscuit. My first shots are too wide. Reacting to my tracers the 109 begins a zoom. My next shots are too far behind and to the left. This fellow is good. Or lucky.
The 109 rolls as it climbs and I am like his shadow following every desperate move, every attempt to trick me off his tail. This fellow is really good. But his tail is mine as sure as if Mars himself has willed it to be so.
On we climb. My shells begin to cover the engine and then the cockpit and wing roots. My Spit is nigh onto stalling and yet on and upward the mortally wounded 109 climbs.
I will not let go as the constant buffeting of the oncoming stall begins to gain more of my attention. My .303 shells crash mercilessly into my now luckless enemy. The 109 begins to waver. First left, then right it wobbles. There is a loud CRACK and another more muffled explosion.
As the Spit begins to roll into a spin I see greasy clouds of smoke and flame erupt like the fingers of doom itself from the little enemy fighter. It flips over on its back and precedes me back down through the cloud. I gain control of my spin and follow it down. Ill see if I can get quite close.
Most of the canopy is missing. Flames lick at the shattered windscreen. The pilot sits strapped dead in the cockpit. The wind is tugging at his powder blue flight suit as if in an attempt to wake him from what will surely be a long slumber.
The markings that are still discernable on his withered craft are those of a squadron leader. There are many hash marks painted proudly upon the tail. That was for you Peter...and, all the others.
The date is September 5, 1965 and a bevy of historians, scientific experts and war enthusiasts including hundreds of school children, are gathered respectfully around the shattered, mud and slime encrusted remains of an old WW2 vintage Spitfire.
The aircraft has just been raised from its watery grave in a British farmers pond where it had augured in during the Battle of Britain.
As I closely observe the proceedings, totally captivated, it becomes obvious that the pilot did not get out before the crash.
Slowly, his pitiful remains are reverently removed from the shattered cockpit and they are placed upon a large, white sheet. Wait. Someone has noticed something metallic adhering to the grizzly remains of the pilots left wrist.
I draw closer to see what they have found. My God! Oh my dear God! I recognize it. Its Peters watch.

Your Turn.....

TALLY HO!

Inline advert (2nd and 3rd post)

#1714172 - 01/03/02 05:25 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

SNAFU:

I am underwhelmed...wait, that doesn't sound right...no, I'm overwhelmed that you honor me with the first story posted in this continuation of your fine thread. So many others are more deserving, Bader, Greif1, Pijlie...and er, SNAFU to name a few. SALUTE!

You have made my day by starting this thread and made the year start off right with your friendly gesture. Thank you.

As the snow drifts accumulate across unaccustomed eastern Carolina I know that we are shut-ins for some time to come. Perhaps if there is no ice to pull down power lines I can play BOB and write a story soon.

You will shortly receive an e-mail from me that includes a title screen I, this day, rendered for the new thread. If you are of a mind to post it and cannot do so yourself, perhaps friend Bader will do so for us?

Does anyone else miss the darn spe**, spel**, spell checker?

BTW if you do miss it, just use your e-mail client (I use Express)to compose you post, run the client's spell check, then cut and paste into the forum without even closing your browser.

Happy New Year


------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714173 - 01/03/02 09:11 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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All,

SNAFU.. Great idea to start a new thread.
I prepare a story (have to translate it)

JR2.. Spell checker?? well, mine is only in french, sorry for the misstakes

#1714174 - 01/03/02 08:27 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

Drakho:

Traduire,vous? Non, mes ami.

I am always a bit humbled and truly impressed with how well written and translated the stories are from those of you who so painstakingly and thoughtfully post on this thread in other than your native language.

The greatest compliment I can think of to give is to say that the translations are usually so well done that they are often not recognized (by me) as translations at all.

Drakho, I am looking forward to your story.

This reminds me to again thank you all for the courtesy you show and for some very well translated and well written yarns.

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714175 - 01/04/02 09:54 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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First fight:
____________

18 July 1940.
This morning, reading the flight board, I saw that I'll be, once again in patrol.
Those patrols are boring, nothing happens. But John McIntire continues saying to keep an eye open. What for?! It's always the same quiet flight:
Take off, take a heading, hide in the clouds and RTB. At least, the met. is quite good.
It's when I was watching over my right shoulder, to look at a funny cloud, that I saw them.
...Four black dots, rapidly growing. Single engines!
I scream: "109! 4 O'Clock level. They're closing in!"
"Break right, Now!" says John.
I slightly push my Yoke and, in the same time, I hardly bank my bird. I must have rolled of about 100 degres before I pull back on the yoke.
I "unscrew" my head to locate the other planes and find myself right behind one of the Emils.
I try to reduce, or at least keep, the distance but my poor Hawker is too slow.
I hear that Peter Brighton, number 3, has just shot a gerri down but now, he is in a bad position. I look for him.
"2. Break! He's behind you!" My arm and my leg instantly push on the controls and I hear the german's bullet screaming around my canopy.
After a tight split "S", I see my leader engaging the bandit. An instant later, I hear a huge explosion and John saying "I got one".
My last movement placed me Just behind and above Peter's menace but the german pilot must have seen me and, after a short burst, he dives and John calls for return and we reform the vic
On our way back, I sweat and tremble. The fight has been extremely short in time. I'm not sure to understand what happened.
The only thing that I know is that patrols aren't holidays flight and may be deadly.

#1714176 - 01/04/02 03:46 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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All,

Drakho, Very good account. I think you captured quite well the element of unknown when we set out on those patrol missions. You never know whether it will be a quiet ride across the English countryside or a hair raising violent action. That's another reason I love the BoB campaign. There is enough of the unknown element to keep one from knowing what to expect on each mission.


TALLY HO!
#1714177 - 01/04/02 06:57 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

Drakho:

Nothing quite chills the blood like the first sight of a number of growing balck dots over your trembling shoulder.

The successful fighter pilot's best weapon was/is a keen eyesight. You used that well and thus you survived to fight another day.

I believe that most air kills in both World Wars came as a complete and thus a fatal surprise to at least one of the combatants. Keep your eyes peeled and check six!

Thank you for your story, Write another soon.

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714178 - 01/04/02 09:17 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Quote:
Originally posted by Jolly Roger Too:
Thank you for your story, Write another soon.


Copy

#1714179 - 01/04/02 10:36 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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What a pity we won't be seeing the magic 1000 on SNAFU's original thread.


'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'

Manfred von Richtofen
---------------------------



#1714180 - 01/05/02 02:46 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

Old Dux:

'Tis a pity to be sure and no mistake. That may be why SNAFU titled this thread HWH..continued. That way the count can go on unofficially. For those of us like you and me who have been here from the start and those who have invested many hours reading and writing...we will know in about 400 more posts that the magic number has been reached.

We will know, and we will suitably celebrate. Who is in charge of the early celebration plans? SNAFU?

I wish that something might have been done to save the previous 600 posts and to somehow maintain the continuity of SNAFU's super numerical attainment. The admin. says not. Such is life mon ami.

Also, how kind of you to offer to send me that book, sir. I have left you a message on that thread and I hope that you have gone back there to read it?

Well, we're going out now to watch the moon glisten on the new fallen snow and to do a little night sledding near our frozen pond with the grandkid.

We don't get to see this much snow that often in the Carolinas so we take advantage of it when we can.



------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714181 - 01/05/02 03:37 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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All,

Old Dux, fear not my friend, BoB has plenty more stories to fill many more pages here. I look forward to that but also I hope that we can all celebrate the release of an uber patch from our wingmen from the BDG squadron. Then we shall really have something.

JR2, Do be so kind as to forwad some of that southern snow up here to Maryland wont you. We have seen zero thus far. Pity actually.

I had a client in today from your neck of the woods who could not wait to get back home to play in the stuff. Hope you have a blast.

TALLY HO!


TALLY HO!
#1714182 - 01/05/02 05:21 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

SNAFU:

I thought it was all headed up your way? If it missed you then you should call just about anyone listed in the Buffalo NY phone directory. With seven feet of snow stuffed down their chimneys and up their exhaust pipes, I'll bet they would be more than happy to give you enough snow to hide a tall giraffe in.

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714183 - 01/05/02 09:59 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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JRT,

Yes, I got your message! It's just that I have been short on forum time just lately. Grandchildren always seem to gain priority over one's best laid plans.

I omitted to mention that there are two copies of the book and I would be delighted to send you one. I'm sure you would enjoy it.
If you wish to e-mail your streetmail address, in strictest confidence of course, I will despatch by return.

danesway@freenetname.co.uk


'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'

Manfred von Richtofen
---------------------------



#1714184 - 01/05/02 10:44 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

OldDux:

You are a gentleman and a scholar. An e-mail will shortly be speeding your way across the big blue pond.

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714185 - 01/06/02 04:08 AM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

All over eastern NC the snowmen are melting but more freezing rain is predicted for the morning. While shut in, I penned this little tribute to one of our own.

To the Rescue

Major Paul Gootennacht was the most recent issue of a long line of fine German soldiers. Paul had always considered himself to be an excellent military aviator and a Prussian-like stickler for discipline. To use an American term for it, he favored spit and polish. As a flight cadet the shine on his boots was said to rival that of the sun itself.

And yet, today, as he looks down at his boots he notices that they are dull and scorched. His usually pristine uniform hangs around him in tatters. Long strips of his powder blue flight suit billow out as the rushing air toys with them and tries to tear them away.

The Majors keen blue eyes follow the burning hulk of his bullet riddled BF 109E as it leaves a oily smirch across the sky in a long, final arc that ends in a powerful splash and a plume of water a hundred feet high.

He too falls toward the waiting depths of the cold English Channel. Paul falls more slowly though, swinging to and fro under a snapping, popping, full canopy of smoothest silk.

Poor Paul feels every jerk, tug and every pop. The fresh sea air vibrates through the shroud lines and causes them to whistle and sing. Looking down, the decorated German flyer sees that he can make out individual white caps now. Soon he will feel the Channels icy grasp in a freezing spray of salty bubbles.

At 16,000 feet a battle still rages through the towering sun lined mountains and dark cumulus canyons of an August afternoon. It is a battle in which no quarter is asked or offered as pilots of fighter and bomber alike twist and turn to save their own lives or to purposely snuff out that of others.

Higher still, long threads of twisted, knotted contrails witness other layers of the deadly conflict. Hundreds risk their lives today for their country. Many will give their lives and all their tomorrows.

Here and there long, greasy, black streaks rip across puffy cloud and blue sky. These are the final scratches made on the canvas of a world at war by far too many fine men on both sides. These ugly streaks hang for a time and point, like the angry, accusing fingers of God toward the watery graves, newly filled, that will never be visited.

It is now, and unknown to me, that one of the greatest names in the illustrious history of the RAF is busy just trying to keep me alive. Not knowing that help is at hand, I find myself and my Spitfire Mk1 upside down and falling steeply toward a dense cloud.

That in itself is not bad. What is bad is that I am not alone. I am being followed all too closely by a pair of the generally unsociable Luftwaffes most grouchy members. They have already shot away much of my airplane, my confidence and my pride. Did I mention that Id spotted two more yellow nosed devils rushing to the aid of their outnumbered comrades?

It is at this pregnant moment when life hangs by a thread of a thread and feverishly teeters in the balance that I am mentally checking off things like: Is my insurance paid up? Have I signed that last copy of the will? Who will feed my goldfish?

It is also at this moment that the stout fellow I've mentioned finally is able to even the odds somewhat by pinging a few unfriendly but well placed .303s into and around the cockpit area of my two pursuers.

The yellow-nosed boys are suddenly and inhospitably reminded of pressing engagements that require their immediate attention and return to mainland France. In a moment, I am free of all torment and safe within the dark bosom of a friendly cloud.

At last, I am streaking for home with another kill to my credit and my lovely Spit in tatters but still airworthy. As I break from the darkness of cloud into a low but blinding sun I am startled to see a shadow fall slowly between my glistening Perspex canopy and the sun. It is a jolly Spit and I instantly recognize the markings. So this was the brave fellow who dropped by in a timely fashion to save my goldfish from starving.

The blizzard of chatter on the R/T has quieted now and I hear the dulcet tones of Wing Leader Old Dux as he calmly reports the damage to my ride home. Into the setting sun we glide over the Channel while gradually losing altitude on a certain course toward home and a hot meal.

Below, on a course toward France a fast motor launch is swiftly thumping along through the spray and over the waves.

Seated comfortably out of the wind and spray, wrapped in warm blankets, one large snapps already warming his gizzard, Major Paul Gootennacht bounces wearily along toward what passes for home these days. His eyes are closed and a smile warms his lips as he thinks of the hot bath and warm bed waiting for him.

The shivering man opens his heavy eyes to ask for another snapps. The major only glances up from the shadows momentarily to see the waning sunlight glint upon the wings of two British Spitfires as they pass high overhead and completely unnoticing.

Old Dux, Salute!




------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 01-05-2002).]

[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 01-05-2002).]

[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 01-05-2002).]

[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 01-05-2002).]

#1714186 - 01/06/02 04:23 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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Chaps,


What a great pleasure it gives me to have been immortalized in imperishable print by our distinguished forum scribe!


Poor old Gootennacht, I just had to smirk despite his pitiful condition. He must have looked a right state. Jolly well written...as usual!

I have received your e-mail and attachment JRT. My wife and I were quite impressed with your graphics montage.....and 20 kills for Old Dux eh? Hope I can live up to it if we get online. Is that a shot of yourself as temporarily MIA? If so, you look a real buccaneer of the sky!

Parcel already made up and ready for despatch first thing tomorrow.


'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'

Manfred von Richtofen
---------------------------



#1714187 - 01/06/02 08:13 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Quote:
Originally posted by Jolly Roger Too:
..................Here and there long, greasy, black streaks rip across puffy cloud and blue sky. These are the final scratches made on the canvas of a world at war by far too many fine men on both sides. These ugly streaks hang for a time and point, like the angry, accusing fingers of God toward the watery graves, newly filled, that will never be visited.


Poetic writing Jolly Rogr Too, great read.

#1714188 - 01/06/02 08:23 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

Old Dux:

Thank you for your kind words. I am pleased that you and your wife read and enjoyed the story and that you liked the illustrated e-mail that I sent to you. I look forward to receiving the book.

You kindly call me scribe, well I suppose all of us writing here are that. Am I distinguished? Well....

Come now. I prefer the term that my precocious 5 year old niece ascribed to me many years ago.

She sat there squirming in my lap one day, looked up as if she had just seen me for the very first time and while pulling on my beard, she loudly proclaimed for all in the room to hear, "Uncle Roger you sure do look extinguished!"

There was much snickering and scrunchy, snide, facial expressions to follow, I assure you. And yet, when I looked in the mirror about five seconds later, I had to agree with her.

I know that you also have grand kids so you must know how Children have an innocent way of letting the hot wind out of the pompus. With a well placed word they can bring one soundly down to earth, sometimes with a resounding thud.

Thank you for the compiment though it is yet undeserved. Salute!

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714189 - 01/06/02 08:34 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  

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Folks,

Arch:

Ahem! A poet? Moi? Were it only true. I do have the heart of a poet. I think I do. Bader calls me a romantic.

Anyway, I attempt to do what we all do, fly a mission and then write down what happened (with some ebellishment), how I feel about it, and in simple words as if I were speaking to you personally.

Hey, give much credit to Old Dux who inspired this tale.

Thank you for reading my story and for the kind words of encouragement.

------------------
"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"

#1714190 - 01/07/02 07:47 PM Re: Here's what happened (Continued)  
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All,

Superb JRT, as we have grown accoustomed to whenever you put keyboard to notepad. I particularily liked the part Arch qoutes.

I havent had much stick time in the past week but hope to correct that problem and get a mission account out soon.

I was reading over a few of my favorite accounts the other day and in so doing realized that I really miss Grief1 and his accounts from the other side of the channel. I wonder what has become of our German friend who so skillfully flew for Germany and wrote of his exploits. The viewpoint is sorely missed.


TALLY HO!
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