Folks,

Dux:

No indeed. By that you must mean the unusual individual SNAFU was meeting under those RADAR antennas? Seems to me 'she' was recently struck off the roll and mustered out for some medical abnormality (possibly an extra appendage) and as I heard it 'she' is now a practicing 'lady' wrestler somewhere in Kent. I believe that she wrestles under the pseudonym "Mildred the Bearded Marvel". I'm told she is rather good at it. Pay me that fiver and I can probably get you tickets...

By claiming to be an officer and a 110 pilot no less, Fritz will doubtless receive better treatment as a POW than he might expect as a Stuka gunner. Yes, I sold him his fake credentials...No, Dux, you most certainly DO NOT deserve a cut. Calm down, you didn't miss anything. Turns out he paid me in Marks. For some reason attempting to cash those raises a few eyebrows. They will not even recognize them as legal tender at the post exchange. Looks like Fritzy actually got the better of me. Oh well, he should have looked more closely at those papers, he might have noticed they were for a pastry cook last class in the Waffen SS....

We shall all miss Fritz. His night vision was extraordinary and he certainly was a very good caretaker once he got over his fear of the crocks and beaver sized rats. In another week or two he might even have grown accustomed to those thirsty and rather all too anthropomorphic vampire bats.

Who knows, Australia is a long way off and much can happen along the way. He may pop up again some time in the future. But that of course would be another story and that story is not mine to tell, nor is it my place to speculate upon. We can however hope.

Folks,

Dux:

In the light of C51 being repatriated I will try once again to reach SNAFU. Who knows, he may answer my e-mail this time? Cross your eyes, fingers and toes.

Folks,

We have heard more than enough from the Colonies and something well written from the Commonwealth. I suppose it is therefore high time that we heard from the Motherland, namely something typed by that randy Derbyshire lad who keeps our HWH beermaids either on their back or on their toes...

ACCOUNT SQUARED
By: Old Dux
HWH (continued)
Pg.15
07-04-2002


I shouldn't really be here - more over to the west really, and if it wasn't for the fact that I know the area well, I could be over Abbeville for all that bloody idiot Sergeant Farquarharson cares. Don't know why I keep him on really. It's just one thing after another. He really is a liability.

Well, no....of course I know why. His father served with mine in the RFC nearly 25 years ago. Just a pity he isn't half the mechanic that his father was. I only keep him on out of a sense of loyalty. Call that a compass swing? I'll make sure he bloody well swings when I get my hands on him. London is cloaked in a great cocoon of filthy depressing greyness and the few shafts of sunlight that manage to penetrate fail to impart any animation into the leaden Thames as it meanders eastward towards the Medway.

Moving out from the fringe of this Stygian muck, the sunlit fields and woods offer a more cheerful aspect. As I cross a railway line, sighting the village of Great Hampton causes my heart to leap and my pulse to quicken. Down there reside the reasons for this strictly unofficial sortie - the two people who I hate more than Goering, and only a few miles lie between them. Soon I have located one of my targets with no difficulty and then throttle back while easing the stick forward...
Some 3,000feet below, the village street teems with folk going about their daily business and despite the restrictions placed upon a wartime Britain, there was a generally confident and businesslike air among the sunlit shops.

At the doorway of Messrs., Hunt, Lunt and Cunningham there appeared an imposing and ample, nay gross figure in the shape of Clarence Flashmore de Groyne. He had just completed a most satisfactory mornings business with his solicitors and was now fully confident that he would be able to evict the three destitute war widows from their alms houses which he had only recently purchased.
These unfortunate ladies had been reduced to penury, mainly because their husbands had all been killed fighting for their country at Paschendaele, Loos and Ypres. Like many other heroes of war widows, they were forced to accept whatever charity was available, but in their case were now at the mercy of this bloated ogre.
De Groyne alighted from the office steps and paused as a group of nuns hurried past. Bracing himself against the marble portals of the Doric entrance he discharged a rumbling belch complimented by a thunderous breaking of wind.
This latter was fuelled by an early lunch of pickled eggs, Guinness, and a double helping of 'spotted dick' drowned in custard. The nuns recoiled and scurried on, their finer senses violated by such coarse conduct. He leered lecherously and swung his capacious gut towards the parked Lanchester. This movement was perfectly counter-balanced by the sheer mass of his broad posterior.

As the deadly green gasses began to dissolve the stitching of his knee length flannel underpants he lowered his vast bulk into the driver's seat.
The chassis groaned and sagged just that little bit more, depositing another shower of rust fragments on to the road. Driving home, he mused on a successful mornings business which had seen the preparation of the eviction order. All that remained now was for the final legal technicalities to be completed on the morrow.

He began laughing to himself again as he considered the curious terms attached to the order in respect of these particular alms houses. Apparently, if the purchaser of such property were to 'snuff it' during the procedure of transferring the deeds, then the threatened occupiers would become outright owners!
'Fat chance of that!' he exclaimed aloud and then laughed even louder.
Within the half hour he had returned to his home and after changing, was about to enter his greenhouse to treat his prize-winning fuschias for whitefly, when he heard the familiar cough of a Merlin engine as the throttle was chopped to a minimum. 'Ah! Another of those Spitfire show-off Brylcreem boys', he idly thought. But his aircraft recognition ability was as much use as his diet sheet, and then the nose of the Hurricane dropped....
At this point, as I started to dive, I noted that my arrival had been timed to perfection and de Groyne was out in the garden where I knew he would be at this hour of the day. Now the moment was at hand when I could exact retribution from this rotter. Fondle my fiancée at the Annual Banker's Dinner would he? Refuse my application for an overdraft eh? Defame and impune the reputation of our glorious Squadron indeed! Well, let's see how he likes this...

Gathering momentum, the Hurricane responded beautifully as I controlled lateral alignment. With my thumb on the 'tit' I could now plainly see his sweaty, florid features gaping upward in astonishment as he dropped his spraycan. Then the whole scenario dissolved into a myriad of crystalline fragments under the impact of my bullets. Upward I rolled to bleed off extra speed and then became settled onto the course that would take me to my next target.

Now, gently banking right, I slid back the hood and looking straight down over the wing, was able to take in the magnificent pre-reformation architecture of St. Bedwell's Finishing School for Young Ladies.

A game of hockey had just bullied off and was in full swing until both teams stopped to wave with threshing hockey sticks, much to the disapproval I suspect, of their Principal; Dame Pullmore-Masters.

I afforded them a cheery greeting with gloved hand before levelling off in the direction of Lardbutt Magna, the village of she who had become the bane of my life - my intended mother-in-law.

She had shown me some time before, a picture of her Russian pen-friend, a one Olga Krutchlegova. I had been struck by the uncanny similarity between these two wart-hogs in human form.

Once again, I was exactly where I wanted to be and at precisely the right time.
The large detached rectory with its blue slated roof, cappings and tall red spiral chimneys was quite unmistakable.

I had planned to circle the house at low altitude and the pick her off as she waddled out to investigate. But now that would not be necessary because I could plainly see her caught out in the open at her washing line as she hung out a pair of massively oversize, wash resistant knickers that had begun life as a sail on a Grimsby trawler but stunk twice as bad.

Speeding in on a carbon copy of my previous attack, I had time to savour the moment as she dropped her washing basket and lurched for the imagined sanctuary of the outside blitzbox.

But there could be no escape! My eight harbingers of doom roared in unison, and flashing through the fine spray that had just been her lunch, I regretted that the original Hurricane specification had not include a windscreen wiper.
Now, despite the war, the world seemed a better place. In a surprisingly short time I was back in the circuit and passing over the well known local landmark of Eli Shadrach's jockstrap, truss and surgical appliance factory, popped the flaps and undercarriage for my usual perfect three-pointer.

I jump off the wing and stretched exultantly. The air had never smelled so sweet! While removing a few smouldering fragments of underwear from various parts of the Hurricane, I became aware of teacups being rattled in the nearby dispersal hut. Just in time for tea and bikkys!
But that had to wait for the moment because I had just spotted Farquarharson buggering about near the WAAF block dormitory, and his trousers appeared to be in disarray...

JRT,

Clarence Flashmore de Groyne...what a beastly rotter he was. Miss Pullmore-Masters...I wonder if she is still hawking her mutton around the cloisters. Poor old Eli Shadrach. He was modelling one of his latest jockstrap creations when a 500kg bomb hit the camera studio and took him and half a dozen of his boyfriends with it.

However, I was appalled by by my bad punctuation and grammatical blunders when re-reading this epic of revenge. I would like to think that since then, due to my association with you, my writing has improved and I have made up for a little of that which has been lost since I left school.

Folks,

Dux:

You went to school? I wish I had.

I hesitate to edit any stories other than my own. Particularly since it is painfully clear that I myself haven't a clue as to what constitutes proper grammar or correct spelling.

As I recall it now, that particular story was penned under less than ideal circumstances. Think back, you were holed- up in a corner booth nursing a bucket of best bitter and writing whilst in the midst of a night long debauchery that would have put Bacchus himself to shame. Looking back myself, I believe C51 lost a few teeth, the publican lost his license for six weeks, and to top it off, his eldest daughter lost her virginity pretty much forever before that night was over. IMHO you should therefore not fret much over a few spelling errors or misplaced commas.

None of us can read anyway.

JRT,

You are too kind.

I think the word truant could have been coined especially for me. I clearly remember the first day I played 'wag' when at Seymour Park School near Old Trafford - that's where you'll find the best football club in the world. While waiting for the magic hour of four o' clock I became very thirsty and drank from a puddle - God knows how many dogs had pissed in it but needs must. It was about 1945 and I got a good arm slapping from the headmistress Miss Buttons. Mum went to the school to complain but I deserved it.

Folks,

Dux:

To my certain and profound knowledge, you sir have drunk things, if not more foul, surely more dangerous to your health since then, and you smacked your lips afterward. You were a model student compared to me.

Look up the word 'truant' in the dictionary. That is my handsome portrait staring back at you. For a brief time I went to school so seldom they didn't call me a drop out....they called me a drop in. Twas my dear old daddy and a kindly but experienced application of Grand Pa's old razor strop that finally set me tip-toeing smartly between the ditches and upon the straight and narrow. Although I promptly returned to school, it was several days before I could take my seat. Fortunately for me, my usual location was standing in a corner anyway. Yes, indeed, the fifth grade was darned near the happiest five years of my life... I'd have stayed even longer but they kicked me out for not shaving.

Eventually, due in large part to the many extra curricular activities available to me, I found University life far more satisfying and appealing. When my photo somehow slipped into the hometown newspaper for some minor academic achievement, I understand that the editor received several troubled queries from my old teachers regarding a possible typo.

Imagine my feelings of triumph when the day actually came that I, of all people, was asked to speak to the graduating class of my old high school. Sadly, this came long after all my teachers had either been committed, died or were forcibly retired. I understand that the caretaker of the local cemetery complained that several graves had to be repaired right after the speaking engagement. According to the paper he stated that the soil was very disturbed and it looked to him as if the coffins had been spinning around and around. Was it vandalism? I wonder? It wouldn't surprise me in the least to hear the graves in question each held an old teacher of mine.

And it won't surprise you regular readers much if reading the following story causes some spinning of your own stomachs as well. Sadly, because no one else is posting a story, it is the least I could do...if I could have done less I would have.

A Duel of Egos
By: JRT
HWH Continued
Page 12
5/13/02

JRT flinched as dust and rust, particles of mud, flecks of paint and most anything else not glued down fell onto his wrinkled face from the cockpit floor. Now, as the cockpit came into shadow, he found himself in level but inverted flight. His Spitfire was sailing along fairly smoothly thought he, considering it had several new and very large holes in each of its broad wings.

The tail plane had one neat perforation through it as well although JRT was mercifully unaware of that. Slowly he scanned the sky below him for signs of the mortally wounded enemy fighter. There was nothing to be seen of the ME 110. Only a pair of dark smears that contrasted sharply with the blue-white clouds was visible. Two streaks of oily, black smoke twisted down hundreds of feet into the nearest cloud. That was two for the day.

Off to the East and high over the Channel, another fighter pilot was also having an excellent day. Major Von SNAFU, one of the Luftwaffe’s highest scoring pilots, watched as the Hurricane he had just finished off fell out of control toward a watery grave. To his disappointment there was no parachute. He banked his brand new Emil toward the sunny West and thought he noticed a slight sluggishness in his controls.

Referring to all the newly painted hash marks on his tail plane, the successful Major laughingly thought to himself that perhaps the sheer weight of all that extra paint might be slowing him down. Actually the sluggishness he noticed was due to a few well-placed hits by .303 shells from the doomed Hurricane. Scanning the skies ahead, the alert Major noticed a streak of black smoke and then a small glint of light higher up. He gave his 109 full throttle and began to climb toward that spot in the sky in a well-calculated manner that would soon bring him somewhat above the spot and right out of the sun. Momentarily, he lost sight of his quarry.

Seeing nothing below him, JRT rolled his Spit over and turned his attention to the darkening clouds to the East. Just as he was about to relax and turn toward home his straining eyes locked upon a small speck climbing toward him. Instantly alert, JRT pushed his throttle forward to the stops and climbed into the sun. Having reached what he considered to be the perfect location between his climbing adversary and the sun; JRT rolled his purring Spit into a dive toward what he’d recognized as a swiftly climbing BF109E.

There seemed to be some imbalance in the wings of his Spit. This most likely was due to the battle damage. JRT thought no more about it because he seemed to have good enough control for this easy slaughter. Apparently unaware of the danger falling upon him, the 109 pilot made no attempt to alter his course as JRT fell out of the sun with blood in both eyes and certain victory clinched in his teeth.

Just before he was sure he was going to crash right into the German fighter, JRT began to fire. As he fired he rolled his Spitfire and passed inverted under the 109. One shell from each gun had been fired and that was all there was. He found himself pressed down in his seat as he zoomed up again with the 109 right on his tail. This fellow was good and JRT knew he was in for the fight of his life. The sticky part was that he was totally out of ammunition. What a stupid, dangerous, deadly mistake to make he admonished himself mercilessly as he side-slipped left and then right looking over his shoulder at the yellow nose that was gaining on him. It was time to think about that backup plan.

Major Von SNAFU just had time to scream in surprise and then he snap rolled his 109 to follow the attacking Spitfire as it passed close underneath his fighter. The RAF fighter had completely surprised him coming right out of the blinding rays of the sun. What a stupid, dangerous mistake, he chided himself. He should have been easy meat. The Gods were with him today for as far as he could tell, only one shell had struck his precious new Emil. Just one .303 shell had struck his radio mast, completely carrying it away.

Now he was in hot pursuit of the audacious RAF fighter and there was absolutely no doubt what-so-ever in the German Pilot’s mind as to the outcome of this duel. Slowly, even though the Spitfire was making well-timed evasive maneuvers, he was gaining on it. Unable to beat the 109 in a dive or a climb, the Spitfire pilot had wisely chosen a climbing turn as his defense. Each time Von SNAFU pulled his nose around to get his sights on the tail of the Spitfire the agile RAF fighter slowly turned a bit more sharply. They were going round and round.

JRT was flying as if his very life depended on it, and it did. He could not shake this blasted 109 off his tail. This fellow couldn’t have much fuel left; perhaps he would give up and go back to France? No such luck, JRT had to admit that it looked like he would be doing a swan dive into the Channel long before then. Pulling harder he began to feel signs of a blackout coming and as he turned tighter and tighter the Gs increased beyond the limits of his endurance and his head sagged to one side as he slumped down in his seat. Almost at once, the Spitfire eased off its sharp curve to the left. As the G load decreased, JRT slowly began to regain consciousness. His clouded mind began to ask questions his darkened eyes could not yet answer.

Suddenly, as Von SNAFU held in his stomach and fought hard against the fierce G forces created in his tight turn behind the Spitfire, he noticed he was gaining again. Slowly he was pulling right in behind the fleeing Spitfire. At last the Spitfire fell right into his sights and he now had a perfect shot. The excited German Major selected both guns and cannon and then pressed down hard on the firing button.

Coming around at last, JRT knew he was about to die. Before he could react, there were several hard bangs as cannon shells began to inch their way toward his cockpit. Something snapped and he found that he had no rudder. His controls were shot through and useless. JRT was completely at the mercy of his German rival who was showing no mercy. The RAF pilot reached for the hood release just when something unbelievable happened. The shelling suddenly stopped.

As a hail of his machine gun and cannon fire began to chew up the stricken RAF fighter ahead of him, Von SNAFU began to smile. This duel should have had a different ending my friend, it should be you who flies home the victor tonight, he thought. Then something happened that he was unprepared for, he too ran completely out of ammunition. The Spitfire continued along in spite of missing much of its tail and part of a wing. It was not maneuvering at all. Perhaps the pilot was injured or dead? Unable to continue the fight Von SNAFU pulled his 109 up alongside the battered and obviously helpless Spitfire.

Although he seemed to be in no immediate danger and his ride was still flying straight and level, JRT was just about to try for the hood release again when a movement off his port wing caught his attention. A BF109 sporting a bright yellow nose and an unbelievable number of hash marks on its tail had pulled abreast and the pilot was eyeing him with interest across the broad wings of their two fighters. The German was a big man, and fair-haired. He had on a blue flight suit and brown goggles. As the two enemy pilots eyed one another across a gulf that was far more distant than just the two wings, there was somehow an understanding between the two flyers that they would fight no more today.

With a half-salute the Axis pilot banked away and disappeared from JRT’s view. Now that the RAF pilot knew he wasn’t going to be shot to pieces he had more important things on his mind. Things like getting over land and getting out of this death trap while it still had two wings. He would do so and consequently live to fly and fight again. The crash of JRT’s Spitfire would go unseen and uncounted by the Germans. Thus probably saving Von SNAFU an extra ounce or two of paint on the tail of his fighter.

About half way across the channel Major Von SNAFU noticed something serious was wrong with his Emil. His controls were mushy and he was losing speed. Losing speed meant he was also losing altitude. One of the few .303 shells sprayed by JRT had damaged the 109’s engine. Quickly estimating that he would not reach France at the rate he was descending, Major Von SNAFU pulled the hood latch release and standing in his seat, the stick held tightly between his legs, he rolled his fighter on her back and fell into space. All this happened well out of sight of any RAF observers, therefore, no claim was ever made for a kill by JRT. Major Von SNAFU was in the cold water less than an hour. His dye marker had spread around him only a few yards before he was picked up, completely uninjured, by a fast motor launch.

So ended the duel of egos. The high scoring RAF pilot, JRT, so sure of victory in the beginning that he carelessly forgot a very basic rule of combat that almost cost him his life. The German aristocrat, Von SNAFU, undefeated in battle and so confident of triumph that he also overlooked the same basic rule of combat that also nearly forced him to pay the supreme price.

Thus you the reader are and I am the only witnesses to how the duel of egos really ended. It ended with both men having their arrogance shattered when forced to bail out of their destroyed fighters. All the while they are thinking they have lost the fight, when, as we alone now know, ironically, they had fought an almost even battle that ended in, at worst, a mutually victorious tie. As the French say “Such is War”.

Folks,

I see that in spite of that mess of mine you were forced to read, no one is willing or able to post their own story, even in self-defense. Pity.

Nevertheless you are in luck. Fortunately for you I am loaded with empathy (Yes Dux, I am also loaded with something else). Despite that dear readers, I could not bring myself to make you suffer more. Here then is a delightful and very interesting biography of a real-life Luftwaffe ace posted here by his grandson Greif1. It is one of the most unique stories ever posted on these pages. There were several chapters and a few wartime photos.

Stop complaining. If you would like to see the photos Chums, feel free to light a torch and tramp down those 3000 crumbling steps under HWH Hall. Then if your torch isn't already blown out by the hot breath of those man-sized vampire bats whizzing around, look under "G" for Grief1. You may have to dig them out from under a few hungry gators and one or two beaver-sized rats. Still interested? Then by all means, provided you've had all your vaccinations, do enjoy yourself....

Wilhelm Ernst Roth
Biography
By Greif1
HWH Continued
page 101
3/5/05

My Grandfather, Wilhelm Ernst Roth, was born in the town Erding, which is about 15 kilometers northeast of Munich in 1917. He joined the luftwaffe as an enlisted pilot in 1937. During the war he was credited with 20 victories while flying with II/JG26 from 1 September 1939 to 14 November 1943. After that date he was in instructor pilot until January 1945 when he returned to active operations with JG7. He scored no victories while flying with JG7, but managed to keep from getting shot down himself. He never served on the Eastern Front, but his two brothers did. His older brother was in the artillery and was listed as missing in action on 04 September 1942. His younger brother served in a reconnaissance battalion and was killed in action on 29 October 1943, after which my grandfather was withdrawn from active frontline flying as the only surviving son. My Grandfather was shot down only once during the war, on 03 June 1940, by a Bloch 152 of all things. He was released from captivity after the fall of France.

Incidentally, he was credited with three victories during The Battle of Britain. His first was a Spitfire from 72 Squadron on 01.09.40 at 2:50pm CET. Most likely the aircraft was flown by SGT N.R. Norfolk who managed to crash land his plane at Croydon with a badly damaged tail. The plane was later repaired. The second was a Hurricane claimed over Ingatestone on 03.09.40 at 11:40am CET. The Hurricane belonged to 257 Squadron and was flown by PO C.R. Bon Seigneur who baled out but was killed when his chute failed to open. The last victory Grandfather claimed during the battle period was a Spitfire belonging to 603 Squadron on 07.10.40 at 11:40am CET. The plane was flown by FO H.K.F. Matthews who was killed in the crash near Hurst Farm, Tenterden.

Chapter 2
By: Greif1
HWH Continued
Page 102
March 12, 2005

Hello all! Well, I’m posting a picture of Grandfather's German Cross in Gold. My cousin did a pretty good job editing the picture as it did not look as good in original form. JRT, Grandfather flew with both of the younger Galland brothers as they were in the same Gruppe as he was. Paul was a pilot in several Staffeln if I remember correctly, and Wilhelm was flew in 6th Staffel, then was the Staffel Kapitän of Grandfather's Staffel, and finally the Kommandeur of the II Gruppe. I guess I will pick up the narrative at the start of II/JG26 involvement in the Battle of Britain.

After recovering from his wound, Grandfather returned to 4/JG26 on 29 July 1940. The next several days saw little flying as the weather as poor. On 11 and 12 August several mission were flown and Grandfather engaged in inconclusive dogfights both days. On Adler Tag, II Gruppe was part of a Geschwader strength freie Jagd. He saw his good friend Unteroffizer Hans Wemhöner be shot down over Maidstone, probably by Hurricanes of 56 Squadron. Wemhöner parachuted to safety and spent the rest of the war in Canada.

The day ended on a bad note. Grandfather was one of several pilots who got lost in very cloudy conditions. He barely made it back to the French coast, crashlanding on the beach, out of fuel, near Gravelines. On 15 August, Grandfather got to meet a British pilot. The pilot, who was assigned to 54 Squadron, unwisely chased some Stukas over France and was shot down by a II Gruppe pilot. He made a good forced landing in a field and was taken prisonner.

That night he had dinner with the pilots of II Gruppe who made sure he got a good meal - and plenty to drink, according to Grandfather - before he was driven into captivity. Grandfather said the pilots of the Gruppe took up a collection of cigarettes and gave them to the pilot so he would have enough for a few months as a POW. The remainder of August passed in a blur as Grandfather took part in up to four missions a day. He was involved in many air battles but never was able to gain position. He always said how frustrating that was, but then would smile and say, "Of course no one got position on me either."

On 01 September, Grandfather did get into position and did not miss his chance. JG26 flew as escort for KG76 during an afternoon bombing raid on Kenley airfield. No contact was made until after the airfield was bombed, then Hurricanes from both 79 and 85 Squadrons, as well as Spitfires from 72 Squadron engaged the formation. Normally in such a large confused engagement the claims of all pilots involved are hard to verify. But Grandfather's victim was positively a Spitfire from 72 Squadron, because he told me the markings on the fuselage were RN D, which was the aircraft flown by Sergeant N.R. Norfolk that day.

It landed at Croydon with a badly damaged tail and was later repaired. Two days later, on 03 September, Grandfather scored again, shooting down a 257 Squadron Hurricane over Ingatestone for his sixth victory of the war. On 07 October, Grandfather scored his third, and last, victory of the Battle of Britain. He was taking part in a freie Jagd and shot down a Spitfire from 603 Squadron at 11:20 am over Tenterdon. By that time he stated that the pilots of the Geschwader were very tired and the strain was hard to take. He confided that sometimes before a mission he threw up just thinking about another flight over the channel. He said he was not at all disappointed when missions began to taper off due to the weather.

But he and the other pilots continued to fly missions over England. On 01 November, Grandfather was promoted to Oberfeldwebel and was one of ten original pilots assigned to the Staffel at the beginning of the war. Six pilots had been lost either KIA or POW. On 08 November Grandfather claimed two victories. The first was a Spitfire over Tonbridge at 11:35 am. The aircraft belonged to 615 Squadron, which had transitioned to Spitfires during October. His second victory was again a Spitfire, this time from either 302 or 501 Squadron, both of which had also transitioned to the Spitfire in October. The plane went down over Dover during an afternoon sortie at 2:50 pm, his ninth victory of the war.

Grandfather flew less as the weather worsened and scored not more victories during 1940. Shortly before Christmas he went on a well deserved leave for a month.

Well that brings us to the end of 1940.

Chapter 3, 1942
BY: Greif1
HWH Continued Page 103
March 17, 2005

The year began quietly enough, with poor flying weather and limited air activity during the entire month of January and the first week of February. On 12 February, Operation Donnerkeil was carried out. This was the operation that saw the Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and the Prinz Eugen sail from Brest to Kiel through the English Channel. Grandfather's Staffel took off from Abbeville-Drucat shortly before 10:00 am. They made no contact and landed back at the airbase about 1115 am. Shortly after 1:00 pm the Staffel took off again.

During the mission Grandfather observered several Swordfish Torpedo Bombers attempt to close with the ships. They were all shot down by a combination of fighters and ship anti-aircraft. At 3:00 pm the Staffel lands again. At 5:00 pm Grandfather takes off for his third mission of the day. Between 5:10 and 5:20 pm the Staffel engages elements of 118 and 234 Squadrons. Grandfather claimed a Spitfire shot down in the channel, but the RLM does not confirm it. Another pilot also claimed a Spitfire which was confirmed. 118 Squadron lost a Spitfire on this mission, and 234 had two Spirfires return with damage, one was quite possibly the claim my Grandfather made.

Poor weather in for the remainder of February and most of March kept air activity to a minimum. On 04 April 1942, the first big air attack of the year took place. A squadron of medium bombers escorted by up to 14 fighter squadrons was sent to bomb St. Omar. The entire Geschwader intercepted at various times. Grandfather's II Gruppe attacked in mass, bouncing the Spitfires from out of the sun. Grandfather got behind one of the British planes and fired a burst that went just over the left wing of the Spitfire. Its pilots rolled to the left and dove, in following Grandfather said he underestimated his closing speed and nearly collided with his erstwhile target. He said as he yanked the stick right to roll away from the Spitfire his left wingtip barely brushed the right side of the latter's fuselage. The Spitfire flew on and Grandfather immediately landed his FW190. On inspecting the wing, he saw it was missing about 5 cm from the tip, very close indeed!

April passed with several scrambles to intercept. However, Grandfather never could get into position to finish an attack. Between 05 April and the beginning of May he fired three times. He only scored light hits on the targets according to him, and therefore did not claim any aircraft. I have done alot of research on the three engagements in question, which took place on 12, 24, and 27 April. Grandfather was undoubtly correct not to claim any aircraft on 12 and 27 April, but on 24 April he might have "shortchanged" himself. He was involved in a large dogfight near Berck sur Mer with 234 Squadron. Four of that squadron's aircraft were claimed, and in fact four were shot down out right. One however was damaged and struggled back across the channel to crash land were it was assessed a total write off. I reseached this several years ago and proudly presented my findings to Grandfather, after which I stated something to the effect, "So you actually shot down 21." He looked at me smiled and said, "No 20!" And that was that!

On 09 May 1942, Grandfather scored his first confirmed victory of the year. During the early afternoon a large "Circus" was intercepted in the Gravelines - Le Touquet area. Grandfather conducted a slashing attack from out of the sun and got behind a 118 Squadron Spitfire. This time he made no mistakes and fired a two second burst from between 75 and 100 meters. The Spitfire lost its right wing and spun down to crash near Le Touquet shortly before 2:00 pm. I have been unable to date to find out the possible name of the pilot.

On 02 June 1942 Grandfather scored again. II Gruppe, along with I Gruppe was ordered into the air to intercept a British formation. Just past the coast the Gruppe bounced 403 Squadron, which was flying top cover, from out of the clouds while 403 was maneuvering to meet an attack from the rear by I Gruppe. The British squadron never saw what hit them, losing seven Spitfires in rapid succession, with two more landing damaged, one of them a write off. Grandfather again conducted a slashing attack firing at his victim from behind and above while diving. He fired a two to three second burst and the must have hit either the fuel or the oxygen tank as the Spitfire blew up. Pieces of it came down in the English Channel.

The latter part of June and the month of July found Grandfather again stationed in the Paris area teaching new pilots the ins and outs of fighting on the Kanalfront. He said that as he was now married, Paris was not nearly as exciting; except for the week he managed to spend with his new wife. I have to say here that Grandfather made a tactical error, because he made the above statement in my Grandmother's presence and she became very interested in his exploits the first time he was in Paris. Afterwards, when my Father and I spoke with him he smiled a bit and said now he knew how it felt to be shot down in flames!

Upon returning to 4/JG26 in mid August Grandfather was successful once more. On 19 August 1942, Grandfather was involved in the extremely heavy air fighting over Dieppe. During the day he flew a total of six missions and engaged enemy aircraft twice. The first time during a mid day action was unsuccessful. He came in at too high of speed and could not get properly lined up, missing his target which promptly disappeared into some clouds. During his final mission of the day around 5:45 pm, he took part in a bounce of several Spitfires and shot one down roughly 10 kms northeast of Dieppe. He dove from out of the clouds and hit his opponent with a short burst, after which the Spitfire spun down in a flat spin.

On 06 September 1942 Grandfather shot down his fourth aircraft of the year and his 17th overall. Late in the day II Gruppe was scrambled to intercept a bombing raid that was heading for the Amiens. This force contained a much more formidable bomber then the Bostons and Blenheims, the B17 Flying Fortress. Grandfather's Gruppe caught up with the raiding near Amiens and a while part of the JG2 and a few JG26 fighters kept the escort busy, between 35 and 45 FW190s dove from out of the sun into the bomber formation. Grandfather was one of several pilots who attacked a B17 of 92nd Bomb Group. He made two firing passes, one from the beam and one while diving from the rear. During his second attack he scored several hits with his 2 cm cannon, walking the hits up the fuselage from just in front of the tail to the top turret which dissolved into a spray of plexiglass. Grandfather said that immediately after that attack the B17 dove straight down into the sea. It crashed near Le Treport.

On 07 September 1942, Grandfather was notified that his older brother had been missing in action on the Eastern Front. He was granted a two week leave to be with his family. (My Great Uncle is still listed as missing, as are several thousand soldiers who fought during from all countries.) After returning grandfather did not fly regularly for the remainder of 1942, and scored no more victories. And that concludes 1942.

Folks,

I'm surprised that no one posted their thoughts on this last one. Unlike the mess that I write, I actually expected several favorable comments. Ah well, the ticker on the main forum page keeps counting upwards so I know a lot of you are reading. Hmmmm. I suppose it might be Dux reading everything a hundred times but, at his advanced age, I doubt his eyes could squint for that long. Mine can't.

After Grief1's tribute to his grandpa, this seems a good time to post a couple of remembrances written by our very good pal Zerosan2. Here is a tribute to his Uncle Jake. Tomorrow I plan to post his tribute to his dad. Or I may post something grating on the nerves that I wrote myself....OK just teasing, you deserve better than that and anything penned by Zerosan2 is very good indeed.

A Tribute to Uncle Jake
By: Zerosan2
HWH (continued)
Pg.42
06-29-2003


Sadly, my uncle Jake passed away last week, after many months of illness. He was a true character, full of stories and yarns of the glorious days we seek to portray in these pages.

He had the most wonderful way of holding your attention, incredible descriptive powers and a sense of humour that shone thru to his last days.
Jake was born in 1931, near the farming village of Pewsey, Wiltshire, on the edge of Salisbury plain.

Like most of the men in my family, he was expected to do his service, though National Service got him anyway. He went on to serve in Korea where he was badly wounded, losing an eye.

I only mention this on here because one story he told was what kicked off my interest in the Battle of Britain and the dark days of 1940.

Farming in Wiltshire is par for the course. If you weren't in the Army yet, you were on the farm. It says much for the county that with so many men who could have stuck to their reserved occupation, huge numbers volunteered to join the forces instead, large numbers of West Country boys ending up in Burcorps or the 14th Army in Burma. Their names appear on hundreds of war memorials in hundreds of small towns and villages from Bridport to Devizes.

Jake of course, being only 8 and a bit, was too young for all this in 1940. And with so many men leaving the fields to join up, all help on the land was appreciated. During the school holidays that year, he went with my Gran to her families farm near Bransgore, Ringwood, on the edge of the New Forest.

That summer was like no other he could remember since. Long, hot days, sultry still nights, dramatic broadcasts on the BBC world service that all the adults tut-tutted about, lemonade and sandwiches in the wheat and barley fields at harvest time, riding on horse and carts and climbing about the stooks when he was supposed to be working for a 6d. (That’s a sixpence, BTW)

All the men wore hats and leather braces, the ladies wore dresses and ribbons on Sundays and the vicar always rode a bike. The LDV (as they were then) were only just forming and everyone laughed, even themselves, as they marched around, stepping on each others heels with old hunting rifles, 12 gauge shotguns, metal poles, sticks and even golf clubs.

The bit that stuck in my mind though, was this.

One afternoon, around about 4 o'clock on a very hot still day, the threshing machine had been moved up to "14 acre and nine" (I asked why it wasn't simpler to call it "Twenty Three acre", but he said he was telling the story and I was to shut up) He couldn't remember the date, but it was probably late August or thereabouts. He was only 8 and a bit, after all. 14 & 9 was on a slight rise, with a belt of broad old Oaks and Elms that ran the length of its highest border.

Before the engine had arrived, they were drinking cold tea and from bottles when some-one heard a sound.
A distant, sort of popping sound. There were half a dozen adults and three boys. Everyone knew instinctively something was up. But nothing was to be seen.
The sound, first seeming to be behind them rapidly became louder, beginning to sound like an approaching siren.

"Its something moving fast" Jake remembered one of the old men saying.
In no more than 10 seconds since they heard it, the sound became like a banshee, a vicious, snarling, cacophony of super high speed areo-engine as a fighter aeroplane flashed past obliquely from right to left, the flames trailing from the exhaust stubs clearly visible even in the bright sunshine. It was barely 30 feet off the ground, they all dropped to their knees instinctively as the Bf109 screamed past not more than 50 yards from where they stood.

Jake, being a young boy and having a natural disrespect for fear as young boys do, watched eyes wide, catching a fleeting glimpse of a pilot, the yellow nose, the mottled green and grey fuselage, the large black iron cross and clearly remembered the red arrowhead in the perhaps 1 second that the aircraft had been visible.

The adults were on the ground, but Jake was still watching open mouthed as the not yet diminished roar of the engine was displaced by another howling engine, and another as first one then another Spitfire, one clearly visible, the other only half seen through the trees, shot past in pursuit of the Messerschmitt. He remembered that they were all travelling at an incredible speed, that the noise of the engines, obviously at maximum load, seemed to bore right through the body, making the chest and ears hurt.

There had been no gun fire. In no more than 15 seconds the aircraft had come, gone and disappeared. All that was left was a ringing in the ears and the pounding heart.

The adults jumped up and run down the field shouting and waving their sticks.
Jake said it was one of the things he would always remember with crystal clarity. It was a moment of realisation for him, a moment when the world changed forever.
Even in his 8 year old mind, he knew what it meant. Though from that moment on he would always hanker after being a pilot, he would be destined never to make it. He would end up what all farm boys become in time of war. A grunt, a squaddie.

So I say so long Jake. Whether you were in the field or in the cockpit, you were there.

Folks,

It is quite warm these days in sunny Carolina. We expect temps up around 90F or 32 C. by early next week. That's a bit toasty for this time of year even down here. It is enough to remind one to keep his promises lest he one day find himself in hell wishing for a pair of asbestos drawers.

I've been paging through my well worn copy of the poems of Robert Frost today and since he lived in North Carolina I think it might be nice to post a little of his work just to show you that not all Carolinians are afflicted with terminal writer's block as am I. After that I will fulfill my promise of yesterday and post Zerosan2s follow-up tribute to his father.

...The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

JAKE”S BROTHER: A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER
By: Zerosan2
HWH (continued)
Pg.43
06-30-2003

“Jake’s Brother”

On a similar note, that got me thinking about my Father. He died in 1996 but also grew up in that same period, Jakes younger brother. He was quieter than Jake, and went on to serve 11 years in the British Army, most of that with the Parachute Regiment. I remember him telling me about the things he remembered, predominantly from the later war years. One of the things I remember him telling me was something that may be of particular interest to you American boyz.

A good portion of "The Mighty Eighth" was based in that part of the world in those days, on obscure strips like Ramsbury and Membury. (The runway at Ramsbury is still there, along with some derelict period buildings. I learnt to drive like an idiot on that runway in the early 70s)

His recollections of Boeing B17 Fortresses returning from daylight raids over Germany and occupied France enthralled me also. I will say this with no feeling of guilt or favour. Having read a bit about it and watched some small scenes grittily replayed on gun camera footage, I know it to be true.

The men that flew in those aeroplanes, in daylight, into hugely dangerous and hostile sky, are in my opinion, some of the bravest men that ever went into battle. There is one particular record which shows in slow motion from the cameras of an Fw190 (I think) making a sustained rear attack on a Fortress. Even with those low resolution images, it is not hard to imagine the fate of the crew inside. There are other images from GC movies like "Fortress without a roof" which are too upsetting to write down.

Those men went back day after day. It must have taken extraordinary courage.
My Father remembered often seeing the bombers returning usually in the late evening. He remembered that by the time they had reached that far home they had pulled into extended line astern as they followed the wide inward circuit in those crowded skies. They came usually at about 2 minute intervals and it was often getting dark by the time they had all come in.
Lots came in on 3 engines, many on 2, most had combat damage and they were usually low enough for it to be seen.

Tailplanes with holes or chunks missing, wheels hanging down, ailerons and elevators trailing in slipstreams and chunks of superstructure shot away. I would have admired those Yankee fliers if I had been alive then too, just as he did. To the local kids they were all heroes. To me they still are, every one of them.

Folks,

There was supposed to be a lesson learned here. Contrary to plans, I have learned a lesson and you have not. You were supposed to start typing stories of your own so that I won't post any more trash of mine. You have not learned. You are all gluttons for punishment. It does not seem to matter what I post. I may post the Lizard Lick phone directory next...all 3 pages of it. No one commented on Greif1s masterful bio or that of the talented Zerosan2. If I have the nerve to post another rotten story by me, no one types a jot even to complain or to beg for mercy. Perhaps yet another aimless string of words from my keyboard will spur you into activity? How much can you take?

Dux must be away on that delightful holiday to the shores of that renowned garden spot Wales he was talking about the other day. After reading the mess below you will probably wish that you had gone with him....

Learning the Hard Way
BY: Jolly Roger Too
HWH_Cont_Page
3/24/03

As my flight of Spitfires cleared the pattern and began climbing toward the enemy bomber streams, I was still hot under the collar. I had had another blistering row with my competent but lazy ground crew. These fellows were inefficient, drunken chaps the whole lot of them. And I had frankly told them so.

As we reached altitude and turned to greet the oncoming enemy from a favorable position out of the sun, I had pause to reflect upon my nasty quarrel with the crew. The engine was skipping a bit now. Perhaps I had been a bit hasty? I had noticed that after receiving my rocket, with uncharacteristic good humor I might add, the lads had put away their bottles of beer and their girlie magazines to go right to work making what the rigger had cheerfully called certain special “adjustments” to my Spitfire just to make it up to me. And as the throttle lever came off in my glove I wondered if I might have gone a bit too far in stating my doubts about my riggers legitimacy at birth.

As we bravely approached the enemy horde I drew a good lead on a lumbering He111 and watched as my gunsight spun round several times before falling under the seat. Hmmmm. Could I have over done my chastisement of my mechanic a wee tad? Passing through the enemy formations I was pressing the firing button hard. So hard in fact that it came off the control column and skipped off somewhere behind the firewall. The loss of the button made absolutely no difference anyway since someone had "forgotten" to put any ammunition on board. I might have been wiser, thought I, had I taken just a moment or two to be nice to the armourer instead of curtly suggesting that he instantly proceed to the traditional Christian place of eternal punishment. I was having a bad day...I meant no disrespect.

Having learnt my lesson, I earnestly vowed never to chastise my wonderful ground crew ever again. This epiphany came to me the very instant that the engine stopped skipping and began sputtering ominously. I hastily dove for home shedding part of a wing here, part of the fuselage there. The canopy blew off as I was rolling in on final.

I must hand it to those filthy blighters for they had figured it perfectly for there was just enough fuel on board to get me ‘round the pattern once and allow me to uneasily set her down on the one remaining wheel before the prop spun off and everything went totally black. Lesson learned the hard way.

Folks,

Note to Dux:
When you return, please go down into the archives and take Olga some bathroom tissue. She broke into the paper files last night and has made a real mess down there. For some reason she only used my stories. It might be the softer paper or, yes, C51 I suppose it might be her way of giving my writing a less than subtle critique. That was rude of you to suggest.

Also, while you are down there Dux be a good lad and try and get her to leave. All that snoring and wind breaking is disturbing the vampire bats rest cycle. I have to go down there every day and, trust me, they are more than trouble enough when they've had all their sleep. Perhaps she might get a job? I hear there is a recent vacancy over at Madame Gelder's House of Pain.

I for one am thoroughly enjoying the stories I missed the first time round so keep digging them out .

Folks,

T_K:

Good Morning.

Oh good grief! You actually like my stories too? If you mean to include my writing in your friendly comment then I can only conclude that masochism is alive and flourishing in SW Ontario.;)

I do however thank you profusely for posting your kind comments and most of all for reading our stories. Our contributing authors (me being the exception) deserve your appreciation. Some stories are from the original HWH and some are from previous years of the present incarnation, HWH Cont.

Over these many years, I have been continuously and most pleasantly surprised by the writing talent of so many that have become interested in both BoBs. There may well be some sort of connection here. It has long been claimed by many that the members of this forum and the old one were a more mature and intelligent group. Perhaps. But I have no idea against whom we were being measured. They must have been a rowdy bunch.

This forum has always been an international gathering place. That allows for so many interesting and varied points of view. Having splintered as it has after the release of WOV, I am delighted to see so many are still popping in here. You and your Shockwave brethren are more than welcome here anytime. Think of HWH Hall as a second home. The conversation is always interesting and lively, the drinks flow freely and the threat of a horny Olga breaking out of the archives at most any moment adds a tingly sense of adventure.

I recently read that many Europeans don't care much for Americans. OK, some of us I can agree with, but all of us? Even my dear old gray haired mommy? Give us a break! The author did not however indicate any prejudice against American money, just against those who tote bags of it over there.

One reason postulated for this prejudice jumped right out and attacked me personally. The author claimed that we Americans are looked upon as raving idiots because we are so friendly to strangers. According to the article most reserved Europeans consider that to be both stupid and maybe even dangerous. Is this true mon ami, mon Cher? OK shoot us, we're a friendly crowd. I've never met a stranger. Perhaps it is our system of laws that influences us? Here in the US a person is presumed innocent until proven guilty. Many of us assume the best of a stranger until we find out differently. Naturally we expect this in return.

I have no personal experience with this presumed prejudice against Americans. Everyone I've met here has been exceptionally helpful and friendly. All the Europeans I've met over the years have been perfect in manners and friendliness. All save one. My wife and I once tried to befriend a young German girl who was new here in the US. She was from the city of Cologne; I cannot recall her name. The young woman had no family here and no friends.

She was here on some sort of work exchange program and did not know a soul. We did all we could to be helpful and friendly but the young woman never seemed to quite appreciate or understand our efforts. I recall that once one of our friends mentioned that since she had no transport she might buy their used Volkswagon Beetle cheap. The young German girl piped up indignantly, "Who would want to drive a...Volkswagon?" The generous offer was never made to her again.

One fine day, after we had spent our entire Saturday morning driving her about on her personal errands, she actually claimed that all Americans tried way too hard to impress anyone who was German. This she said was simply because we all had a well deserved inferiority complex. Oh, yeah?

OK. We had ignored her surliness and aloofness up to now but that finally got our Underoos in a twist. We put her parcels on the doorstep, said goodbye forever, and took our complexes and went home. Later that month we heard that she had lost her job, apparently due to her poor attitude. She was sent home. Yes, we are idiots for we actually felt sorry for her. And no, that was 30 years ago and I do not think that all Germans felt that way then or do now. You can make generalized statements about a few people but you get into big trouble when you make them about a whole people, IMHO.

I thank everyone who pauses here to read. Whether you post anything or not, you are always welcome. We do cordially encourage you to post a word of greeting, your constructive comments on a story, or a story of your own adventures in WOV. We are all interested in what you have to say...remember however that, according to our Fearless Founder SNAFU's wishes, this has been, is now, and always shall be a "Flame-Free Zone". This is especially good for me as I have somehow misplaced my asbestos britches.

Gentlemen,

JRT,

O.K. - I've been down there again much against my better judgement. Mercifully, Olga was nowhere to be seen so I left a dozen sheets of coarse grade emery paper in the area where she usually takes a dump. There are a few half eaten bats and manky sporrans still lying about and the place could do with a good clear-out. I have concluded that the old bag, having no key, comes and goes through that drain because the grill has been moved aside yet again. Furthermore, if you think I'm going down there at any time in the future just for a few sheets of crumbling parchment - you can think again pal.

Perhaps we should detail that young Pilot Officer Tako-Kichi DFC to take an inventory and weld up the grill while he's at it. I'm sure he would be willing to help - being such a keen type.

Much as I would love to assist I am afraid I have to report that I am currently unable to make an inventory as all my pens seem to have sprung leaks simultaneously, the end fell off my pencil and I can't find a piece of paper anywhere (including the WAAFs latrine....ask no questions and I'll tell no lies ). With regard to the grill, it has been so long since I did any welding it would probably look like dollops of bird poop hurled over arm from forty feet away if I attempted it and it certainly wouldn't hold back a horny Olga (but then again from all I've read I doubt a nuclear bunker is built strong enough for that task!)

Gentlemen,

TK,

Those are all sound reasons why you should feel unable to accept this suici...er...important undertaking and you can rest assured that the Squadron will sympathize with your disappointment. So...to look elsewhere...

Folks,
Gentlemen:

Please, do you want to live forever?

We simply must get that work done. Olga stealing out to find a new battery for her Zappit 2000 combination dildo, wand mixer and cattle prod is one thing, if those vampire bats get into the base blood bank again I am going to get a rocket from the CO that might well rival what TK thinks might be too little to take out Olga. C51 has promised to drop by again soon. He is handy with tools. We'll get him to do the welding. After that, one or both of you fellows will simply have to help me with that inventory. Slow down, I can run faster than either of you lads! Now I have you cornered. Calm yourselves. I promise we will start by counting the wooden stakes, garlic and silver crosses just to be safe.

It sounds as if the archives could use a good airing out. Let's see if someone can jury rig some sort of drainige pipe or other large connection from the wind tunnel testing area to that ventilation shaft. Yes, we did try that once before Dux. As i recall they were testing one of those new P&W Wasp raiials that day. Was it you or SNAFU who hooked it up backwards and blew our roof up a good three feet into the air? There were pigeon feathers and pigeon dung raining down on us for days. We will not make that mistake again.

Speaking of mistakes, I fear that here is an all to obvious error of my own.

A Stranger in Paradise
BY:JRT
HWH_Cont_Page 33
3/12/03

It is summer 1940 and we are gliding along in a patrol boat across an unbelievably choppy English Channel. The crew diligently searches the horizon for parachutes or any sign of other survivors like us. Look yonder. Point your glass near the distant horizon. No, over a degree or two to the right and just by that little coral colored cloud. Do you see it now? A dark speck? It looks to me like a smudge or something darkish against the blue sky. Right, something unusual is going on over there. Let’s go over to investigate.

The closer we approach the higher in the sky and the broader the dark thing actually appears to be. Finally we are nearly under what now takes on a recognizable form. We realize that what we saw from a distance is in fact a long, greasy trail of black smoke that stretches out of sight above us and across most of the sky. We smell it now. Burnt rubber like burnt flesh is so distinctive a smell. Once you’ve experienced it, your squinched up nostrils never forget it. The darkest portion of smoke trails off into the sea and disappears just out of our range of vision.

Following the long trail of dispersing smoke we eventually reach the very spot where it seems to dip right into the sea. There is an enlarging oil slick spreading in the choppy sea and little else out of the ordinary that we can see. A plane has gone down here for sure. We wonder, was it one of ours or one of theirs? No matter, it makes no difference, we’re here to save the life of any downed pilot. There is no sign of the pilot. Perhaps he didn't get out? We will continue the search becase he may well have landed some distance from the crash.

Just two miles east from the patrol boat and the widening oil slick, a small rubber dinghy is being tossed mercilessly by the waves. Lying across the heaving, gas-filled bladder, one man is clinging desperately onto his whole world. A world that shrunk in minutes to just a few feet of rubberized fabric. The poor man seems more dead than alive right now as he continues to heave his guts out. His poor eyes, when he can manage to open them, sting miserably from salt and from the smoke.

Oh God in Heaven, that stifling smoke. His body convulses as he remembers so recently choking for just a tiny gulp of fresh air, struggling, fighting desperately just to scratch his way out of and away from the blistering fire and that terrible smoke filling the destroyed cockpit of his stricken fighter. Every time he tries to get a good breath now he gets a face full of salt spray. He sputters and gags out more salt water. At least the little air he breathes is clean.

Swift ocean currents and a strong wind drive the tiny yellow craft and its exhausted occupant toward a drifting fog bank. Soon the desperate man and his tiny rubber world are swallowed up and entirely lost from sight. He is also lost in a mental fog of pain and suffering so all encompassing that the poor distracted man does not even notice the dense fog around him and the temperature drop of several degrees.

Were he to revive he would certainly notice that he has been swept into a dense yet luminescent fog that is strange, indeed, almost eerie in appearance. It is filled with a misty, purplish color. Yellow-green lightning flashes all around with no thunder but this also goes unnoticed. Huddled into a fetal position, his burns and wounds overcome him at last. Shivering from cold and shock the man has now lost all conscious connection to this world or to any other.

Onward the raft is carried by wind and current. For days perhaps for weeks, the little yellow craft carries its precious cargo across a vast expanse of water yet not once does the puplish fog lift or dissipate. As the raft drifts on the poor man inside drifts into and out of a pain soaked reality.

Finally, and although it has actually been hours since the heavy tossing of the waves have subsided, a perfect consciousness returns to the injured man once more. Somewhere deep in his most inner sanctum the poor fellow wonders what has changed? His consciousness further arouses. What is that soft lapping, rasping sound nearby? Listening intently, he now wonders about the more distant roaring coming to his ears? From a reserve held deep down inside the poor man finds the courage to somehow move his stiff, painful body just enough to raise his salt encrusted eyes slightly above the rim of the dingy.

At first eyes unaccustomed of late to focusing beyond a few inches gaze upon only a blur of stark white fringed with a brilliant green. He notices the sun shining across his raw back now for the first time since the crash. It is hot, but somehow comforting after being so long in the cold embrace of the open sea. He shrugs his shoulders luxuriantly and tries to focus again. At last his eyes function well enough to bring a picture of such beauty that it forces a hoarse gasp from his parched throat.

He is safe!! He has somehow landed upon a tropical island. There is pure white sand stretching brightly for miles in two directions. Beyond the broad expanse of sand he can make out a lush growth of green grass and tall coconut palms. A glittering stream of sweet water gushes from a cut in the dense foliage to his right. It swirls over smooth moss covered stones to disappear behind a boulder in a shower of gurgling mist crowned by a dancing rainbow.

How can this be? He had not excelled in Geography yet even he was absolutely certain that there were no tropical islands in the English Channel. He thinks he must be dreaming, hallucinating for sure. But after rubbing his swollen eyes more than once the vision remains exactly the same. The man rises from what has been his small, cold, pain filled world for what seems like many, many days and steps awkwardly into a new world of warmth, brightness and unbelievable beauty.

The hot sun caressing his back, the happy pilot stiffly places first one bare foot after the other into the soft, wet sand near the water’s edge and then after several steps his feet sink into sand that is dry, very warm, too warm at first. To avoid the heat he finds himself actually running across the hot sand. He is astonished at his obvious rejuvenation. Every step seems to bring new vigor to his spent body, and a renewed calm to his frayed nerves. As he reaches the edge of the tall grass near the little stream, he turns and surveys the ocean.

The roaring is from the waves crashing against a distant reef. Beyond that he can see nothing for there is a strange purplish fog clinging to the open ocean beyond a small cut in the coral. He must have been washed through that small "gate" in the razor sharp reef. How lucky was that? The distant fog was weird for sure however if he could accept the reality of a tropical isle right in the middle of the Channel the purple mist was relatively easy to accept. He had lived in Hawaii for many years before the war. Hawaii was certainly beautiful but it was getting too commercial and just too crowded, he thought.

It was time to sit down and take stock of some things and to get a grip. He desperately needed to get his mind around all this. Why was he no longer tired hungry or thirsty, he wondered? Where exactly was he? A thousand questions flooded in. Suddenly, as he sat there leaning against and in the shade of a towering palm he became aware that he was not alone. Looking down at his own feet he counted two extras.

There, ringed by white sand were two sandled feet not 12 inches from his own. Looking up with a start the pilot found his new companion was a tall, gray headed, dark man. The old man wore a frazzled yellow straw hat, a multicolored shirt and a pair of white short pants with seriously frayed edges ’round the legs. He had silly bony knees, and a bronzed complexion on which he wore a broad, toothy smile. The twinkle in his eyes spoke volumes and instantly set the pilot at ease.

The pilot stood at once and grasped the outstretched hand of the old man whose name he learned was Peter. He was welcomed warmly in his own language with a voice that had only the slightest tinge of accent. Relating his recent adventures to an attentive ear he was swiftly taken to the old man’s spacious dwelling which was conveniently located no more than one hundred meters from the beach. Arriving there, the fast reviving pilot was offered bread, fruit, berries and a cold alcoholic-like beverage.

Although the fruit was delicious and the bread delightful and fresh it was the drink that overwhelmed the pilot with its smoothness, wonderful flavor and relaxing effect. With each drink he took he felt better and better and yet no matter how much he drank he never lost the slightest control of his faculties. He should drink his fill without fear, for there would be no unpleasant after effects in the morning he was assured.

Finally, after sitting on the old man’s front porch for hours the sun had begun to dip into the purple fog far out to sea. Leaning back against the wall of the well constructed dwelling the pilot steadied his chair petted Pete's huge mongerl cat's grizzled head and drained another pleasing cup of golden liquid. Offered more he could only put his fingers to his lips and burp outrageously to the delight of his companion. He waved his hand signifying he could not down another drop.

The old man had just told him that the drink he enjoyed was his own original recipe from a secret passed down through the ages. As it often does at such comfortable times an idea came into the pilot’s head like lightning. Why this drink was so damned unusual, so remarkable in its taste and effect that it should be sold to the public! It was so smooth and tasted so great that in his opinion they could set up roadside stands all over the island and sit back and sell the highly drinkable stuff to the tourists at huge profits. The old man laughed at this idea as though he had heard it before but knew secrets way beyond just the recipe for his wonderful liquid concoction. The incredulous pilot was totally stunned to hear that in this place of unparalleled beauty there were no roads and absolutely no tourists.

Well this sure ain’t Hawaii. A paradise with no roads and no tourists, could that actually exist he wondered? It was only at this precise moment that Von Stickman AKA Vadenstick, Luftwaffe multiple ace and recent recipient of the Swords and Diamonds to his Knight’s Cross, truly began to suspect where he actually was. An imperfect life lived notwithstanding he had made it after all. He was forced to admit the impossible. He did not survive the crash of his 109 after all.

He was, in fact, now in Heaven drinking with Saint Peter.

JRT,
A very good story and one which reminds me of one of our erstwhile regular visitors now seemingly lost in action. Well...not really because we know that stickman is one of those tireless contributors to the continuing development of Rowan/Shockwave BoB.

The merrie olde month of May arrives tomorrow and we still haven't taken that break. Must act soon or the months will just slip away with nothing done.

Some of our new recruits have been signed up by Olga to take part in the annual maypole and morris dancing. This will take place immediately after she has forced them to imbibe in the usual copious intake of her mead home brew. They are also required to wear her specially designed Johnny Weissmuller and Lex Barker type fertility jungle wear after she has personally anointed them with scented oils which she prepared at midnight within the confines of Stonehenge - with the assistance of a number of learned Druids who have not been seen since. God help the poor buggers.

Folks,

Dux:

May Day is still being observed in Derbyshire? Wait, of course it is, this is virtual 1940, what am I thinking? Uncle Joe is our valued ally. I wouldn't say no to a drop of honey-like mead myself...but not that fearful smelling swill that Olga concocts in her cauldron out of grain alcohol, boiled gym socks, jock straps and mandrake root. I'll pass rather than pass out on that. Does she still stir that mess with a well-used plumber's friend?

Actually I can clearly remember a time when May Day was celebrated here in the southern states. As a very young lad I wore a lovely costume sewn by my maternal grandmother and I, along with many others my age, cavorted around a very tall May Pole in front of a large crowd of folks. What a sight that must have been. It was a part of a rather large annual pageant held by that school on the first day of May.

There was a big stage covered with grass-like mats set up on the spacious playground. There were huge loud speakers hung on tall poles so the crowd could enjoy the music and hear the speeches. The miles of wire and cable coiled about under the stage sent showers of sparks into the nether portions of those above from time to time. It is not known if this was planned as part of the show or not. It certainly added to my enjoyment. The Governor and Mayor were there.

There were bleachers erected for the minor dignitaries, faculty and our parents. I believe I was in second grade that year. I was somehow chosen to hold one of the international flags in the pageant. And I was very proud of this for some odd reason. I mainly recall standing in that field under a blistering sun holding my flag and dancing a little gig. Although a lot of the sun-burnt skin would eventually slough off the top of my crew-cut head, I remember it as a mostly rewarding, and unusual, but very hot day. The chocolate bar I had forgotten was in my pocket melted and made a rather suspicious, brown stain on the back of my pants. The other kids seemed to think that humorous. I did not. That was the area facing the audience and I could hear snickers.

That auspicious event turned out to be the last such celebration held. This was due, for the most part, to the onset of the cold war. Not until the visit of Emperor Hailee Solace two years later would we students be called upon to perform out of doors. All we had to do in that instance was line our street behind the school and wave the flags of Ethiopia and the US as the emporer's motorcade passed by. This was a big deal for our small southern town of much less than 50,000 people. It seems he was especially interested in touring our cotton mill. The one Sherman burned to the ground at the end of the un-Civil war. It was as big a deal then as it was when Presidents Truman and Johnson paid us visits.

As I recall it was an amazingly hot day in NC on that particular May 1st. Tomorrow will be no exception. Today and tomorrow are expected to be record breakers. We expect temps up near or exceeding 35 C. or 95 F. That is July weather around here but mercifully we will not have the humidity of July to contend with.

Indeed brother Stickman, who comprises the entire membership of our Hawaiian branch, has been missing for some time from our happy group. I should send him an e-mail inviting his immediate return to us. Next time I venture down those 3,000 crumbling steps into the archives I will look for something written by him. I'm sure he has written a few stories.

The brave C51 says he has finished the welding on that iron grate so it should be a good time for us to start that inventory. Hey, where did everybody go?

Lord, I do hope Olga was caught outside when he did that. Of course if she was, she'll probably just gnaw her way back in by midnight. And C51 will have to weld it again.