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 Major’s 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 Channel’s 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 Luftwaffe’s most grouchy members. They have already shot away much of my airplane, my confidence and my pride. Did I mention that I’d 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).]
