Folks,

OK, for those with the stomach for it, here is episode 3. I do hope that the squeamish amongst you will forgive me my shortcomings as a writer even after you cross your eyes and get a second glance at your lunch. This was SNAFU's favorite story, or at least he claimed it was. I am bragging of course, but you will not be impressed, instead, I fear this will, in all likelihood, just ruin his envied reputation for superior taste in writing.

Just One Drop
Episode 3
By: JRT
Original HWH
Page 4
5/28/01

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. Every 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 ahead 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.

To be continued.