Folks,

I managed to get down those 3,000 crumbling steps that twist deep into the bowels of the HWH archives today. The stench Dux referred to has dispersed. The air wasn't fragrant as lilacs and rose petals but it was almost breathable. I noticed one of those beaver sized rats giving birth to a pile of naked, squirming vermin. Looks like their population is on the rise again after that deadly battle with those hungry crocks decimated their ranks. Mercifully I was not bothered by the man sized vampire bats on this visit. That concerned me until I remembered that I had garlic on my breath from our delightful Italian dinner.

Here is what I retrieved from the depths below. A story by Yarbles who apparently wrote this and destroyed his keyboard...I can find no other posts.

Mission Scramble
By: Yarbles
Posted 9/28/05
HWH Continued Page 112

Date: July 12, 1940
Time: 07:30
Weather: Heavy fog below 5000 feet

Group: 11
Squadron: 151
Plane: Hurricane IA

Mission: Scramble! Large formation 70+ heading towards convoy near Fairlight

Result: What a rough mission. Word comes quickly from FC that radar and the ROC have detected a sizeable LW force heading towards our sector. Probably after our poor trawlers. How dare the mighty Luftwaffe jeopardize my supply of fish and chips! We scramble. I was quickly reminded that we are idiots. We stay up until the wee hours of the morning drinking, singing the latest songs from the Hit Parade until the bar tender and his wife have to chase us out of the establishment with their arsenal of cricket bats forged from the hardest hickory.

We run to our planes but of course in the confusion of the early morning fog and drunken stupor of just a few hours before, we look like clowns. Lads are slipping on the early morning dew. Others tripping over chock lines, pot holes and harmless blades of grass. I finally make it to my plane and frantically go through the start up procedure. Fuel switch, brakes, primer, pitch - all square. I fire it up. She chokes, spits and grumbles. Finally, the engine is alive and pushing the throttle to 30% to keep her from stalling. I then see my entire squadron hammer down the grassy field to take off. I’m the last one again to get airborne and my section leader lets me know all about it. ‘Red 3 - where the hell are you! Form up!’. I struggled mightily to get the Hawker airborne just missing the tree tops. She gets up but she creaks, buffets and the strain of the airframe is very audible. Up she goes and I'm the last again to form up with the squadron. We head out, full throttle towards the coast. We climb to 13,000 feet and get into formation. Everybody is edgy, scanning the skies for any signs of the enemy.

About 10 miles over the Channel near Fairlight radar station, Red leader calls enemy fighters. I never saw them except for shadows flying at me from out of the sun. Next, all I could heard was the scream of 109s flying passed my plane at a high rate of speed. The sound of their Bavarian made engines made me freeze and clench. I was waiting for my plane to explode from their cannons but it didn’t happen. I’m not sure what happened, but I snapped out of the stupor I was in.

At this point, I have no clue who is friend or foe. I soon fly into a cloud looking over my shoulder and I'm alone. How the hell can that be? Just moments ago, there was close to 100+ planes swirling about my canopy, now utter silence and the tranquil clouds. Next thing I realize is that there's a plane scissoring behind me trying to get on my six. He's obviously not a friend. I start to take extreme, evasive maneuvers. I recall the game my leader would play with we during my ‘combat’ training. He would get on my six and tell me to get free while he made 303 sounds over the radio. I rarely escaped.

Well, we both scissor and I eventually force the me109 to overshoot me and soon, he's in front of me but he's all over the place. I have no clue which direction is up or down due to the cloud bank we’re flying through. I soon get the ******* in my sites just for a brief second and spray. I see the impacts across his wing span but he's still far more agile than me. I keep wasting ammo and he keeps leading me on a wild goose chase. We spiral down thousands of feet and I'm on the brink of blacking out and my plane is choking from the lost fuel being pumped into cylinders. I’m not sure if it’s due to the Gs or the bad booze from the night before, but the black curtain is closing on me. I up the oxygen and pull out of the dive to reel back the curtain. I loose him but I eventually catch site of the yellow nosed ******* to my low right. I soon get him again in my sites and I just spray. He never gives a clean shot so I just hose an area around his plane hoping he flies through it. I get lucky and hit his engine. He belches out black smoke and I continue to follow. Seeing that I’ve not proved my self yet to my mates, I wanted a confirmed kill so I followed him to the deck. I soon see him splash down in the Channel but I soon realize his schwarm mates want revenge and I'm being stalked. I head back towards the English coast as fast as the Hurricane can take me. I’m so low to the water that my prop wash is making a wake. The 109s eventually peel off as I approach the shore batteries and I get a most welcomed vector for home base.

After many terrifying minutes flying along the coast checking my six for bandits, I see my home base. I get permission to land and I go in for landing. Not pretty, I flip the plane destroying the engine. I was injured by not severely. It seems I’ll have a few days to rest and refit.