Folks,

Dux:

Posted below is the only story that I was able to find in our archives written by Stickman. It is somewhat off topic in nature and yet appropriate if one knows Stickman. Following that interesting offering is the second story ever posted by our amateur welder C51.

While I was groping around down there in the gloomy HWH archives, I noticed that most of the man-sized vampire bats seemed to be more agitated than usual. I threw on another garland of garlic just to be safe and raised my torch. I moved it about so that I could see into the darkest corners. Hordes of the nasty things were cowering in the farthest corners of the dank ceiling, just hanging by their feet behind all those drippy stalactites. Such trembling and shaking you have never seen this side of the paint mixing area of your hardware store. I was at a loss as to why they were cringing so until I noticed a faint but continuous gnawing sound over by that newly welded ventilation shaft.....


A Good Day to Die
By: Vadenstick AKA Stickman
HWH Cont. Page 9
4/8/02

My eyes open to the sound of the meadowlark.

Throwing off the skin, I stand and walk to my horse.
She is there, head to the wind, waiting for what? Me? Does She know?

I call, "EAGLE!" She turns her head my way, and back to the wind. After reaching her, I run my hand over her rump. She stomps her hind legs, moves away from my touch.
"EAGLE!" She snorts! Looks at me. I reach my hand to tickle her nose. I stroke her cheek and move my hand to her back, brushing the flies away. She snorts and stomps her feet again. I grab her mane and leap onto her back, she moves in a circle as I stoke her neck and say "EAGLE"

I kick her toward the Lodge. She knows where!
As we reach the lodge at a trot, I pull her mane, She slows to allow my son to hand me our lance. I salute him, and hit EAGLE on the butt with it. hoka hey!!

"It's A Good Day to Die!"

FAVERSHAM
By: Canuck51
HWH (continued)
Pg.45
07-24-2003

…the party is over, the enemy is threatening once more, and the bell is calling us to take to the air once again. The allies are depending on us (they must be a desperate lot!)

August 15th, we and two other squadrons scrambled in four vics each to intercept an afternoon raid over Faversham. I was flying Green one in Hurricane SDJ number P2865. We were all numb with fatigue, having been up once already today as we had been several times a day for as long as I could recall, having lost track of the days.

After flying at angels 16 for about ten minutes someone reported bandits at 3 o’clock, but light clouds obscured them from my view. As we banked right to intercept, we passed through the clouds and I got my first look at the day’s trade. I was alarmed to see more Huns than I could count about five miles ahead and heading directly for us. Vast numbers of Dorniers were being escorted by Me109’s.

We climbed to get some height advantage which would tip the odds slightly and hoped that the 109s would stick close to the bombers. In moments we were on top of them, our squadron having been selected to take on the 109s, which outnumbered us by eight or ten to one. We dove down on them splitting up the group, some of us trying to cut out a Jerry for himself to chase before we were ganged up on. Almost immediately Yellow 1 appeared to be lining one up in his sights but didn’t notice another yellow-nose barrelling up behind. I called for him to break, which fortunately he did in time to dodge canon fire.

The scenario before me was overwhelming, airplanes were everywhere and flying in all directions, making it difficult to sight in on one bandit while watching the hordes of others that were threatening to roast our arses. It was difficult enough to not be knocked out of the sky by another Hurricane, let alone avoiding being shot down by the enemy.
Red three plummeted past my port wing on fire followed closely by a 109 who nearly collided with me. I gave him a squirt as he swept past but made no significant hits.

I seemed to fly around for ages trying to pick a fight, only to have to abandon it to escape being pegged by two others. At this stage I was flying mostly on instinct. Green two’s voice over the RT warned me that two 109s were closing in on me from behind. Before he had finished the sentence I had begun to cut the throttle, pull around sharply and ram the throttle to maximum again – quick reactions being rather more important now than making the right move – and watched tracers dart past me, followed soon by the Messerschmitts who could no longer manage to line me up. I noticed one of the pilots giving me a hand signal indicating where he thought I would end up, which made me even more determined not to let that happen. They both continued on, supposedly having bigger fish to fry elsewhere.

Red 1 swung up behind a sluggish Jerry and popped him with a half second burst which must have hit the gas tank, as he exploded in a blaze of fireworks. The RT crackled in my ear again, warning that the 109 top cover was heading down to claim what they perceived as easy meat. Friendlies were scattered everywhere around the sky, but despite calls for help, most of us were ourselves rather engaged.

Over my left shoulder I could see three Huns with me in their sights and approaching rapidly. I wasn’t far enough away to try to get them to overshoot, so I banked away sharply into a slight climb and forced the throttle through the gate. Their momentum was making them close rather faster than I would like. Tracers flew past me and shells ripped through my fuselage and right wing – I wasn’t going to manoeuvre my way out of this one.

I did a split-s into a spiral dive while working the throttle to create a smoke trail from my engine, praying that my enemies would take the ruse. I spun for several thousand feet until after I had gone through a bank of cloud before I levelled out and pulled up again apparently alone, happy to be counted in German statistics as a probable destroyed.

By the time I had climbed to rejoin the battle, both bombers and fighters had disappeared out of sight minus 5 of their aircraft. We regrouped and returned home to lick our wounds. It was humbling to note that I had barely fired a shot in this scramble, but I suppose I should have counted my lucky stars that I at least survived to fly again. More than can be said for 7 of our poor buggers