Folks,

Dux:

We continue to be separated by a common language. English, unlike Latin is a living, dynamic language. It is continuously evolving. It gobbles up slang like a honey bear with his snout in a bee hive. One need only listen to a few bars of the latest Rap music to see the direction in which that evolution is taking us. Soon the elder generation will no longer be able to communicate with the younger without drawing pictures.

You forgot the most colorful English word of all...namely color,colour etc. If I had the audacity I'd probably reply that we heathens in the southern colonies may have made up in modesty and good manners for what the better educated in the old country have on us in better speech and grammer... And as for my grammer....she spoke perfect English...on the unusual occasions when she was sober.

Havin' said dat, I do 'ppreciate your color-ful comment. It seems Greif1's father was an executive with BMW. His dad was transferred to the States where he eventually brought his family to the state of Georgia. When a new BMW automotive plant was built down the dusty dirt road from here in South Carolina the family came to live here. Not to put too fine a point on it mind you, as I understand it, his dad preferred the US to Old Blighty because he so wisely wanted his son to be able to pronounce his "H"s. Imagine that? Ummmm. I heard that comment. Yes, way too late, Greif1's papa leraned that we in the south cannot pronounce our "R"s. No Suh, nodda one.

To be brutally frank, I for one have always envied that beautiful British accent of the well educated and not always the upper classes. If I may be so bold, HM the Queen's speech is a good example of what I think is proper 'British' English. Maurice Evans, the great Shakespearian actor was a delight to listen to.

With good grammar and speech in mind, here is the first post from someone over there whom, not unlike yourself, not only speaks well but always writes with perfection. Our long time Pal, Bader. Here are his first two posts.

Scrambled
By: Bader
Original HWH
Page 1
4-26-01

August 17th 1940.
Plt Off Stevens. 1930 Hours.

We have scrambled 4 times in seven hours today and I'm exhausted. I know we are losing aircraft and I know we are losing our men - my friends- but somehow it all seems so mechanical. Our last 3 sorties have been frustrating. No contact, but on each we have chased shadows through the clouds for forty five minutes before being vectored home, despondent.

I was so keen to give the Hun a good kicking. It was why I volunteered so fast, despite having hardly any experience in the air. But since arriving at Warmwell two weeks ago I have contributed very little. And here we are again. It's late- a quarter past eight now and the sun is setting over the Solent. Pre-war it was beautiful from the air, and for a moment, with the sun glinting from the water it is again.

We climb and I slip into a mild trance. Thank Goodness I'm not leading a flight. Stick to my flight leaders tail, that's all. I watch a single small boat as it lazily wanders into Southampton and a flock of gulls five thousand feet below. It all seems so peaceful. There is even a warm glow on the horizon as the land starts to cool. It was hot today. I should have liked to have made a little of it. The countryside near the station is surprisingly beautiful, more so than my former life in Kent would have me admit.

Suddenly I am startled as if by a shot:
"Hello Cowslip leader. We have some trade for you. One hundred plus bandits, fourteen thousand feet, bearing two one zero"

The shock is acute and suddenly I am alive. I am now aware of the engine noise, the wind rushing past my ears and the dreadful proximity of my closest wingman. I can see him brace visibly. I do too. I am now very cold and my stomach is knotted tight.

The clouds are thick as we climb and after five more minutes with the nameless dread eating me I start to believe that we are going to be let off. Yes, that's it, we are going to be set free. We can turn back and return to our beds and their warmth. A pint. Two pints. Oh yes. That's it. We're going to turn back and everything will be fine. Yes.

As I dream I start to feel my heart slow and the familiar warmth return.

And then the clouds part. I don’t even have the strength to breathe.
TO Be Continued

Scrambled Part 2
By: Bader
Original HWH
Page 1
4/28/01

P/O Stevens 17th August 1940 Part II..

To tell the truth, I had never cared for my flight leader, Gregory Beaumont. A brash, self-confident Harrovian, as he would constantly remind me, he seemed to seek to demonstrate his superiority at every turn. He discovered the name of my grammar school, in Kent and from then on persisted in loud comments about the ability for men to learn in the right environments. I had actually won a scholarship to Tonbridge Public school, though was unable to take up the place, and should have been delighted to have told him that.

I don't really think it would have mattered a jot to him though. We were not equals. He was born to it. I'm convinced that he sneered as the CO told him I was his number two this afternoon. It really didn't help that he had three confirmed kills and several probables to his name. He was a bloody hero. And now my life was in his hands...

As we go into a shallow dive the squadron leaves the sunset behind and moves towards the most beautiful yet terrifying spectacle of my life. The panic and activity is overwhelming.

Beaumont is weaving. I can't see why. I follow. Yellow section is drifting away from us. Why? Three distinct groups of small aircraft seem to be stationary and locked as swarms of bees behind and above the main mass. I can see the bombers gliding forwards, slowly. We are closing right on the middle of the largest group. They're coming. Faster, faster, faster.. and then Beaumont breaks away.

Hard. Upwards. Damn! Pull on the stick for all my strength. It won't bloody well move! Pull. Pull. And then we are climbing vertically. Where is he? Damn. There he is. Too much throttle. Ease off. But now I'm falling back and he is pulling away again. Damnit slow down you #%&*$# Beaumont. 200, 300, 400 yards. How did he do that? "Stay with me or you're dead" he had smirked.

I'm gaining. Nearly there. The radio chatter is incessant. And then there is German. Is it German? I never heard anything like it before. And they are blocking our transmissions. Surely it isn't German. On and on it goes. A scream cuts through all else. The chatter stops for an instant. It resumes. I'm nearly up with Beaumont now.

We have obviously pulled a complete loop as we are closing on the rear of a formation of 5 bombers. Two engines, that's all I can see. We are closing, closing fast and I'm sure I'm going to get to pay Gerry back now. 600 yards, 500, … damnit I'm losing Beaumont again. He's off. I pull hard on the stick and we climb. This time he flips his hurricane onto its back at the top of the turn and we pull downwards into a spiralling corkscrew. What the hell is he playing at?

My eardrums are shattered. Bloody Hell! A yellow blur flashes past me and the percussion as it passes is amazing. It's firing. I can hear it above all the din and it's going for Beaumont 500 yards ahead. I find myself firing, no time to aim. I'm firing wildly.

The chatter of my guns is incessant. The brakes have been put on, it seems, as the enemy appears to rocket away from me. I must have hit him. I must have. Surely. What happened to Beaumont? I search and I can see nothing. The noise is dying down and I see no-one.
Where the hell are they? What happened to everybody? I am alone for long moments.

Finally I hear him "Green 2. Close it up. We're going home". I still don't see him, but suddenly he's there right alongside. I'm sure I see him smile. Maybe it's that smirk again.
The return is uneventful. My heart has been pounding so fast that I feel anti-climax after the intensity of that few minutes, seconds. I'm not really aware of landing and climbing down from the hurricane. I stumble into Beaumont as I enter the mess room. No hint of emotion. He holds out his hand, shakes mine stiffly and walks away. I'm confused.

I stare at the floor and I don't see the pat on the back coming. "You saved his bacon old chap. That 109..seen limping home after your deflection shot. You should come out with us next week and show us how to bag a couple of hares". I smile weakly.
If only they knew.