Folks,

It isn't often that I can make someone's day. I am sure that everyone will be delighted to see that we have at long last posted the final episode of "Just One Drop". You will be pleased not because you were anticipating a good read. You are shouting for joy because of precisely the opposite. I can brag with full confidence that reading this last episode will be better than going to your dentist for a root canal without anesthetic. OK, if only marginally.

Just One Drop
Final Episode
BY:JRT
Original HWH
Page 4
5/28/01

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 were waiting.

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 see Johnny fall. I was forced to watch many more brave young men, friend and foe, fall that day. They fell like little drops of rain into the immense, cold sea.

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 bastards, 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 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. Touching her son’s arm 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.