Old Dux, the 110's do not seem nearly as "unearthly" as before. They seem to fly more reasonably and do not hit my damned engine every time I get near one.

I havent flown or even attacked a Stuka yet. Breezed by a few mind you but was after more attractive fare.

The Spit is an absolute dream to fly now. I am really enjoying flying that lovely aircraft across the nicely reworked English countryside

Folks,

SNAFU:

It is great to have you posting such authentic action reports once more. It sounds like you are a convert to WOV in spite of all your worries. This augers well for everyone.

Dux:
I am sending you a rather large but well optimized graphic that will give you an idea of how Ms. Ferris might take on the role of your femme fatal Olga. Look for it appearing now in a rusty mailbox near you.

JRT,

Thanks for the pics. That is getting quite close but just lacking the sadistic sneer and facial hair.
Just remember that she had an Armed Forces contract with Gillette advertising and appeared with Barnum & Bailey's circus as 'The Ogre Woman From Siberia.'

Folks,

Dux:

Olga is of course incomparable and her indescribable likeness (dare I compare her with Helen of Troy)will be different in the mind of every man who reads of her nefarious exploits and imagines himself writhing, helpless in her clutche.... er, odoriferous embrace.

Note: A higher res. photo might have shown the 5-O-clock shadow more clearly. As for the sadistic sneer, considering what she is probably about to do to that poor young lad in the photo with her perhaps a sardonic smile can be forgiven?

I had forgotten the contract with Gillette. When I was growing up in the fifties Gillette sponsored the "Friday Night Fights". I do seem to remember a peculiar looking red bearded Russian boxing the all-time champ Rocky Marciano to a bloody draw in an exhibition bout under the now more obvious pseudonym of "Ivan the Furry". Could that have been Olga?

JRT,

Mmmm...I suppose that could very well have been her except for the fact that it was a draw.

Remember that early story when she flattened the Crimean welter-weight champion and seven Mongolian martial arts experts in the vodka promotions lounge? I think she would have bested Marciano.

Folks,

Dux:

I stand (OK then I just lean) corrected. That may have been Ilsa or Ophelia instead. They were all in the states at one time or another.

On first blush it might indeed seem likely that Olga could have single-handedly flattened that crowd of inebriated pugilists. However it brings to mind that delightful passage of dialog in "The Scalp Hunters" where the Burt Lancaster character (Joe Bass), in an incredulous reply to the dubious assertion that he could easily take on 12 Indians simply because they were drunk, asks the Ossie Davis character (Joseph Lee) something like "Lee have you ever had a fight with 12 drunken Indians?"

On further reflection I also know better than to assume that Olga is restricted by the same limits as are we mere mortals. If I had to bet the farm on it I would have to, in the end, bet on her.

LOL!!!

Old Dux, you sir are one funny human being. I mean that in the highest regard.

JR2, I will never again think of Marciano in quite the same way.

All,

July 12:

Day 3 since posting here to Six Ten squadron. Most of the chaps seem so eager to fight. I want to do my duty sure enough, but I want to live. I'm going about everything in life with that outcome in mind. Jerry is clearly paying much of his attention to shipping. Convoys named Arena, Bread, Midget have been taking it on the chin. A dozen or more ships were sunk yesterday in one raid alone. The ports will be ghost towns soon. I scored my second victory this morning. Damned strange thing. I was behind and high on a bf109. I fired a long burst but saw no hits on my target. The German curled left and downward rather agressively. I struggled to follow him and I wondered how the hell he was diving and turning so swiftly without blacking out. As he dropped from the sky I continued to follow. My engine lost the flow of fuel and began to spit and cough. Carberated rubbish!
I didnt realize the pilot had been killed in my initial attack until he rolled over on his back and corkscrewed straight into the ground. I god damned almost smashed into the ground myself. Imagine it. Lured into the ground by a dead man. A horrid ending I should think. But it was not my ending thank goodness. It's dark and raining now. Everyone made it home. Dinner was splendid tonight.

Folks,

SNAFU:

Bravo! One more for our side. Well written, brief and to the point. By the way, it is considered somewhat dangerous to follow one of those wicked chaps all the way down for their well deserved dirt sandwich. It is of course a relative thing since just being in the battle in the first place is more than dangerous enough.

I quite agree that Dux is a devilishly clever fellow and absolutely loaded with cheek.

Speaking of Rocky, my high school principal swore that he grew up next door to the Marcianos. On the odd occasion when I was fortunate enough to have to spend some quality time with the old guy due to some minor infraction of the rules he used to tell me all about it.

He also claimed that when he attended UNC he roomed with the wonderful movie actor/dancer/TV detective Buddy Ebson. This was not too long after Ebson had co-starred in the Davy Crockett TV series with Fess Parker... and that really did impress 16-year-old me. Let's see now, I still have that old moth eaten coonskin cap around here somewhere. Maybe I should send it to Olga. She could boil it in a little goat stock and have it for lunch.

1940/Aug/10


What I’ve got to say could be done with more finesse, but I have no time for such niceties. My wingman, Karl Schmidt knows I’m pissed, and rightfully so. As soon as our wheels touch down I crawl out of the cockpit, totally exhausted. The number of sorties seems to have increased daily and it’s taking its toll on me, both physically and mentally. As I approach him, he hangs his head down and awaits the inevitable.

Pulling him off to the side we walk over behind the supply hut, what I have to say should be said in private. “Karl, if you ever pull a move like that again, I’m going to leave your ass out there to get shot off! When I say stay with me, that’s what I mean. Giving up that much altitude and going after that Hurricane on your own is suicide. If you want to get your ass killed that’s one thing, but I want to make it out of this hell and back home.” There is fatigue in his eyes and I sense an air of resentment in his face.

“You can forget all that Hitler Youth crap about being a super human and invincible. When those 303’s bite into your ass you’ll find out the hard way that those were all lies. Now if you have something to prove, if you really think that your above all this and you want to give your life for the Fatherland in a blaze of glory, go ahead and do it. But when you do, don’t you dare start screaming for help. I’ve managed to stay alive this long by being smart and I don’t need to be a wet nurse to some kid whose trying to prove something.”

Karl’s look begins to change and I can tell that I’ve struck a nerve. “There’s no real glory up there in all that hell. Sure I guess most of us started out like you, thinking that our cause was just, and that this battle would be over in a few months. But I’m telling you, we are here for the long haul, and if you have any desire to make it out of this in one piece, you’ve got to listen to us older pilots.

What would you have done if I couldn’t have broken away and come down there to bail your tail out? I tell you what you would have done, you would have been out turned and out gunned by two Hurricanes. That and the fact that more enemy aircraft were headed your way, no altitude, no cloud cover, and you would have been one dead Nazi.” These Tommies would love to paint another kill on their crates.

There is a hint of anger in his face, but he holds his remarks. Maybe there’s hope for this kid yet. Shaking out a couple of cigarettes, I hand him one and we both light up. I pat him on the back as we walk over to the debriefing shed.

On the way over we are greeting by Hans Bertrand. Hans is one of our better fighter pilots, having survived the Spanish Civil War and the early campaigns of Poland and France, he is well respected and has chalked up some impressive kills. Smiling he walks over to Karl and embraces him. “Damn Karl, thanks a lot for coming down there and clearing my tail this afternoon.” Karl grins, and makes a point of looking me in the eyes, “No problem Sir, I’d do it again if I had too.”

If there is such a thing as being shot down and still on the ground, then I’ve just experienced it. Damn, I need a drink and a hot bath. This is going to be a long summer.