Folks,

Old Dux:

You are more than welcome. Your news continues to be wonderfully encouraging. All is also well here.

I believe you folks had a hotter than usual summer and ours was as hot as usual but a good deal wetter. I have been out every morning lately dog by my side and camera in hand enjoying the colorful display our little grove of deciduous trees are putting on for us. Ain't nature grand? It takes away just a tiny tad of chlorophyll and you've got instant Technicolor!

Yes there is the chore of raking and blowing those leaves away once they've fallen several feet deep. I'd gladly buy a drum or two of super glue and pay someone with a ladder and a sense of adventure to slap it on our trees if they would remain as colorful as they are now and not turn a ghastly brown.

Looks like I'll be out there with everyone else and the leaf blower again this weekend. Good grief it's summer already, temps expected to be in the high 70's tomorrow. Of coarse it will be winter again in just a few days then it will invariably turn warm again. It is the fall cycle. We can have shirt-sleeve weather here on Christmas day. Then winter usually gets serious after Christmas or as serious as it ever gets at Lat. 35 long. 77. In no time at all the freezing cold will be back and we'll have to build a fire on bitter cold mornings to thaw out our peculiar dog who just refuses to go inside and sometimes gets covered in snow.

Help me inveigle the crap out of C51 and SNAFU or shame them, or threaten them, or coax them....whatever it takes to get them to post another story. :rolleyes:

Here's one of my earlier attempts. One or two may remember it favorably and all the others who missed it will be greatly relieved to see that as they reasonably suspected they haven't missed much.

Just One Drop….. Episode One
Originally posted May 2001

It had been a hot, muggy week across the length and breadth of modern Britain. Today, a welcome cold front began edging its way across the sceptered isle.

High over one small village, near an air base made famous during the Battle of Britain, raindrops are beginning to form. From molecules to specs, from specs to droplets, then from droplets to small drops they form. The tiny drops of moisture begin to grow and grow, getting heavier and larger, until they can no longer remain suspended in the cooler air.

Some drops now begin to fall. Many will continue to fall all the long way to earth as rain. Some drops will not. Nature will determine the outcome.

Look there. One particular drop has formed and is beginning its rapid journey earthward. If we watch this, glistening, tear shaped drop, and follow its progress it would just now be descending out of cloud and we might begin to see the crazy-quilt design of rural England come sharply into view. Shortly, there are towns and villages, large farms, secondary roads and big houses discernable. The giant airbase, now mostly in disuse, sprawls broadly to our left.

Below, and to our right, we see the little village taking more distinct shape. First, we recognize the spire of a church. Then, as we continue to plummet, some smaller houses with brownish roofs come into focus. Directly below us we notice a little park-like area. There is something large and stark white at its grassy-green center. It is this big, white shape that our little raindrop is speeding directly toward.

The single drop of moisture strikes a huge, marble head at terminal velocity and bursts into smaller drops. The separated drops come together in a groove carved in the cold stone and begin to trickle down what we will recognize as the pure-white forehead of a young man. The statue is fashioned entirely from one huge block of marble and depicts someone in old wartime flying gear. There is a pair of old-style flying goggles poised upon the snow-white forehead and they rest forever just above the deeply furrowed brow.

It is this feature that our raindrop follows to drip quickly from each furrow of the cold, hard brow to another. Then on it runs along a four-inch eyebrow and finally it curves around the lid of the eye to the very edge of the eye itself. There we see it pause in the corner of an eye that will always gaze skyward. The little drop begins to tremble and then it drips over the edge.

For one brief moment, if you and I were watching closely, we might well have sworn that we saw the young aviator shed one pure, crystal, clear tear. Then the little drop was gone.

Just One Drop… Episode 2
Originally posted May 2001

A brilliant dawn is just breaking through high, thin mare's tails clouds streaked with gold. It casts a wondrous glow over the quiet British countryside. A lone figure, a young woman, has paused for a moment along a country road. She stands quietly watching as the sun rises over the spires of a distant church. The spires turn from brown to yellow to almost blinding gold. The young woman stands there in awe still astride her bicycle. She is a nurse on her way to work.

There is a small pond just between her and the spellbinding view. The still waters reflect and seem to magnify the beauty radiating across the sky. Her blue eyes are fixed, reflecting only the surrounding scene. Her mind is grappling with a paradox. She wonders, out loud, how such irresistible beauty can co-exist in a world so filled with the cold, bloody, brutality of war.

The grass along the dusty road is long and luxuriant. There is a sweet scent of earthiness clinging to the air. As the young woman watches something unseen disturbs the waters of the pond. This sends ripples through the golden reflections to lap at the grassy bank. The dew glistens on the tall grass round the pond's edge. To Jenny they sparkle like the rhinestones on her mother's party dress.

A light breeze begins to stir a young oak that has volunteered to grow its rough branches just ahead near a bend in the road. There, the rutted, narrow road runs in an easy arc to the right, around the pond and on toward a cottage she can clearly see in the distance just to the left of the church and across the pond now filled with gold. She can stay only a moment. There are many waiting; too many.

Jenny feels the air tickle her cheek and ruffle her kerchief. It makes her think once again of Johnny. The kerchief she wears was a gift from him. She treasures it so much that she usually wears it only on special occasions. As she tenderly caresses its soft, silkiness she remembers.

Jenny and Johnny were planning a September wedding. Then the war reared its ugly head to cast a shadow over just about everything that was wonderful in her life. How she hated this bloody war! Johnny was seldom able to see her now. The wedding had been postponed. If Johnny knew her secret, she wondered if that might have made a difference? Probably not in wartime. No matter.

What the PM had called the Battle of Britain is now in full swing and her Johnny is a brave Spitfire pilot posted to the nearby airfield. He has already been wounded twice. How much more would he, they, have to endure before this hateful mess was over?

She is doing her bit as a trained nurse. All the women all over England are doing their bit. They stand defiant in the rubble of their lives as it crashes down around them and they shake their frail little fists at the enemy filled skies above as it continues raining death all about them. Then they quietly go about the sometimes grizzly business of putting it all back together again. They are women that are in every sense worthy of their men. “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Just then, there is a rumbling, whirring, rushing sound as if all the bees in the world were coming her way. Looking up and to her left she sees them coming just above the trees they are climbing toward the sun in three vics of three each. Nine Spitfires flew toward her and swept hurriedly across her peaceful sky rending the air with a horrible noise. They did not tarry; they did not seem to notice the lone figure looking up at them. They droned onward and upward climbing as if drawn to some distant appointment. On into the sun they flew.

Jenny wondered if Johnny might be in one of those planes. She prayed that he was not. If he was, she prayed he would come home again safely. With a sigh and before the fighters were out of sight her chilly left foot was already on the bicycle pedal and pushing it down hard.

Just One Drop Episode 3
Originally posted May 2001

The sky to the East is just beginning to turn a smoky-gold as we nine Spitfire pilots sit in our open cockpits. I hardly notice the drops of dew that have begun to form upon the perspex hood. Although they say that each drop is somehow unique, there is little need or desire to watch, they will soon vanish in the rush of cold air when the Spit's engine roars to life and the mighty prop begins to turn.

I do notice one drop begin to arc through my field of vision. I watch it run its course as it follows the curve of the windscreen leaving a clear, continuos streak behind to mark its progress. I watch it slide its long way down. Down to where the windscreen fits the cowl and then it is gone forever from view and from my cluttered mind. Where have I seen that little scene before? My mind turns to the important task at hand.

I am very busy now, as are the other pilots. Now is the time to make very certain that this sortie will not end in a heap of twisted, bloody rags and metal at the long end of the field. This has happened far too often now and it has fallen my lot to notify next of kin. I would write, “Sorry, Sir or Madam, but your son, Rodney, was a complete idiot and not only killed himself today and pranged a good kite but seriously endangered our mission and the pilots flying it.” Well, perhaps, I wasn't that blunt or candid. Those very thoughts crossed my mind at the time. How callous you can become when one sees death every day. Yes, every single day....

Undercarriage check: Ok. Green light: Check. Set both fuel cocks levers to on: Check. Throttle: 20% open. Check. Airscrew pitch control fully forward. Check.

I glance over at my wingman; Johnny Nobleman whom I know is proceeding with his pre-flight, as always, by the book. He looks over my way, grins and gives me the “thumbs up”. We will soon be on our way.

Prime the engine. One, two, three. Ignition switch on. I reach over and push the starter. I hold it as the engine coughs and barks to life. The big prop starts to rev. and the blades are no longer visible. The whole ship shakes as if held by the tail in the teeth of a huge rat terrier. There is some black, oily, smoke as the cylinders clear themselves. There are flames.

Looking around, it is the same for all. The engines will now settle down and begin the warming-up process so important if you expect to clear the tall grass much less those greedy oaks at the end of our grassy field.

Adjust the airscrew pitch control. Check the gauges. Temperatures, pressures, controls. I pump my rudder pedals. I move the control yoke left and then right, forward, then back into my lap. I move the airscrew pitch control back then fully forward.

The wind laced with the smells of petrol and oil from my prop blasts past the open cockpit like a screaming tornado. It slaps me in the goggled face hard as I lean out to see past the huge Spit's snout. I begin opening the throttle to max boost for cruising while checking each magneto in turn. Watch the drop in r.p.m.s., old man. I know this must not go below 150. I open the throttle fully to check static r.p.m. , boost and oil pressure.

I look around once more to determine if everyone else is ready. There are five, six, eight eager thumbs raised above the practically useless, little rear-view mirrors perched atop their respective Spit's windscreens. We are ready to taxi. I glance at my radiator heat to make certain it has not exceeded 100 degrees Centigrade. At my signal the well-practiced ground crew pull the chocks from beneath the wheels. They give me a comforting wave. We could not survive without them.

Throttle fully forward I begin to taxi out fishtailing the Spit using the brakes. The long nose moves in an agile arc from side to side so I am able see what is directly in front. I gain clearance over the R/T and we are off once more to fame and glory.... or perhaps to a heroic death and complete destruction. As we roll toward our point of takeoff, we all fully expect the former. Not one of us would ever admit that he could ever even briefly consider the latter.

The damp, late-summer grass is nearly blown from the ground, roots and all, as we pass over it to turn purposely into the early morning breeze. Throttles to the pins we begin the bumpy ride toward the hungry, oaks that will reach up to pluck us from the sky as we hopefully pass well overhead. I feel every dip, every jostle as it is magnified by my ever-increasing speed. There are squeaks and creaks as pressures come to bear on strategic points. Then, the bouncing has stopped.
Gear up with a thrruump, thrruump.

In three vics of three kites each we are now airborne. It is as though my Spitfire is suddenly alive. I feel the aircraft rise beneath the seat of my flight pants as it lifts me carefully, forcing me up along with it toward the rising dawn toward those mare's tail clouds brushed out by strong winds higher up. My stomach tightens. We are free of the cares of the earth. The cares of a sky filled with war are about to commence, but not yet. For one of us, however, it will be prove to be a final flight.

The Spit is in its element now. It soars easily above those ever-reaching, jealous oaks. They are jealous, I suppose, because, unlike us, they are forever tethered to the green earth. Forming up, we proceed into the golden sun just above the trees now but climbing. Our shadows running over the tilled earth below show our great speed.

Ahead, I see the little golden pond with the tiny village beyond and the spires of the church. We roar across the quiet English countryside waking all but the dead who are mercifully indifferent to war. Below, I notice a small figure looking upward. Then she is gone forever.

Soon, we will be vectored to a target or simply continue our patrol to return home with our gun-covers still intact. I now have time to notice that the sky is really gorgeous this morning. I pity those creatures below, dulled with sleep and unnoticing. They are the less fortunate who will miss this wondrous display of God's grandeur. And those comrades who can never again be with us as we witness such beauty. They have fallen like drops of rain to nourish the unseeing earth.

Just One Drop...Final Episode
Originally posted May 2001

At 6 AM the JU-88 dive-bomber unit Lehrgeschwader 1 commanded by Maj. Erich Von Wonderkind with 2 JU-87 Stuka wings, plus their anxious escort, neared the English coast. The sky was resplendent in cloth of gold and high, pferdschwanz clouds. He did not have the time to notice. He did not, in fact, have long to live.

Already British radar stations were plotting their height and range to perfection. The German force was now known for what it was, a formation of 200 plus...and 170 British fighters and their angry pilots were waiting patiently.

Climbing into the golden sun of dawn, we nine had been suddenly vectored to join with what was now a large wave of about 160 other British fighters moving quickly to intercept a 200 plus mixed bomber and fighter raid nearing the English coast.

“Cowslip flight this is Tiger. We have some trade for you.” “This is Cowslip flight, roger, Tiger”, said I into the R/T. They proceeded to give us a vector that would have us rendezvous with the larger fighter group coming out of the sun toward the oncoming foe. My eyes looked back for my wingman, Johnny. I needn't have bothered, he was there and there he would be as if he were a photo stuck on my rear-view mirror. We began an easy turn to starboard toward the fight of our lives.

For the Germans now came the worst bit of fighting in their entire assault upon southern England. To Hauptmann Joachim Jung leading the First Training Group's 4th Wing it seemed he had barely sighted the coastline when eighty Spitfires were howling down at him from 23,000 feet. A firepower of 600-plus machine-guns matched against Jung's one rear gunner.

In the moment the lone machine-gun opened up, dealing death to one Spitfire, Jung heeled sharply to port, a turn so sheer that the Spitfires over-shot, then he jinked to a lower altitude. His Ju 88 was already sieved with 130 bullets as he turned for Orleans Airfield. Already five of his wing were lost. He would not make it home he would not even make it to the relative safety of the clouds.

We had gathered in several tight layers for the attack. How do they expect us to fight using these tight formations, I wondered? Nevertheless, Tiger has expertly vectored us between the coming enemy and their target. Before their shadows of death have crossed our coastline we fall mercilessly upon them.

There are JU-88s and Ju-87s with a large fighter escort of BF-109s. First, we single out the 88s. As our flight struck into the enemy formations they began to scatter. I took a quick shot at the nearest 88. My tracers sparkled along his black fuselage as I plunged by. I could plainly see that my shells had riddled him from stern to wing.

The brave rear-gunner fired away as I passed, his tracers were now falling in a long arc past me. His shells were a danger only to my faithful wingman, Johnny who trailed just yards behind me. I continued my sharp plunge firing on several other enemy craft and zoomed in a tight turn for more altitude.

As I leveled off and began searching for another target my number three called out that Johnny was missing. “Cowslip leader, I think Johnny has bought it…I saw him go down in flames. That bloody 88 got him, Jolly.” I did not happen to see Johnny fall but I was forced to watch many more brave young men, friend and foe, fall that day. They fell like little drops of rain lost into that immense, cold sea known as the Channel.

I sat there for only an instant of grief for there was no time for tears. There was only time for more killing. “Cowslip flight, follow me down, and let's get the bastids, now.”

It is now the year 2001 and as we look down on our little, English park, we see two small figures approach the marble statue that stands at its center. The huge, stone statue is that of an airman from the Battle of Britain. The young flyer is in full battle dress and gazes forever upward. Whether he is gazing upward in supplication or in envy as a Spitfire and Hurricane, also fashioned of marble passes over his head is not known.

Jenny and her son, John, now in his sixties, move reverently toward the stone memorial. John carries a wreath of green in his arms as he helps his aged mother along the well-worn path. They have made this pilgrimage every year of his life on Remberance Day, John silently recalls. He will probably be coming here alone next year. His mother is terminally ill and is barely able to be here today.

As they place the wreath with several others, Jenny peers up into that brave face she has seen every night and day since the day Johnny did not come home. It is said that the sculptor used a picture of Johnny to fashion this monument to all those brave lads who fought and died. Jenny believed the story because there was such a striking resemblance. Almost heart rending at this proximity.

She stepped back as she felt a drop of rain upon her hand. They had better leave. She could not walk very fast now. She remembered that as a young woman she had once owned a bicycle. She had taken long rides every day. Riding a bicycle was out of the question now. She looked up one more time into that perfect face and knew she would not see it again....not here...not on this earth anyway. Touching her son's arm first she and then they turned and began to walk away.

Just then, a single drop of rain began to drip slowly over the edge of a stone-carved eye. Anyone who saw would have sworn that the young flyer had wept a tear.