Folks,

I have been away a few days on monkey business. On returning, it is a pleasure to sit here in the coolness of the HWH bar to post the first of two fine chapters of an early work penned by Old Dux way back in the year of our Lord 2002.

Now where is that beermaid? I see her apron on the bar next to that empty glass...and there is her frock on the hook...over there I see a nylon stocking... Are those a pair of men's RAF drawers-woolen hanging on the door knob of the wine cellar?

Hmmmmm. Someone has so carelessly dropped part of their RAF uniform on the floor by that door as well. Hey, I recognize that dress coat with all those dangly, ribbony things on the pocket. DUX! Is that you down there with the beermaid? DUX?

Listen, I hear grunting. I hear panting. I hear a muffled squealing. Perhaps one of Farmer Drubbins' pigs has gotten into the wine cellar again? Dux is probably looking for a bottle of Château Thames Embankment Vin June. Maybe not? Lookee what I have here. No, let's be kind and wait for all the grunting and squealing to subside before I throw open the door and toss in this large firecracker....

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE
Chapter 1
By: Old Dux
HWH Cont.
Page 10
4/20/02

Our glory days at Dunkirk now seem like a scenario from another existence let alone another time, and as I sit here I can only hope that some day soon I can again play some part in redressing our squadron's horrific losses: Either that, or face imminent death out there in the blue-green vastness of the Atlantic.

My tablets, chocolate and water ration have all gone and I have spent a full night and most of the following day in this tiny rubber boat - the only thing between me and a watery grave.

After the sudden death of 141 Squadron in July, we had been held back until the end of August, having to kick our heels while the Hurricanes and Spitfires faced the onslaught of the Luftwaffe. Then, as we became commited to the battle, we started to take losses which completely dispelled any feelings of superiority which might have lingered on after Dunkirk.

This morning we had been scrambled, but spared confrontation when we failed to contact the enemy. Now, in the afternoon, after a desultory skirmish with some JU88's near Southampton, we found ourselves alone and a few miles out over the Channel.

To the east, we could see the tangled weave of vapour trails marking the area of some airborne arena in the vicinity of Hastings. We would need to take great care when skirting this part of the sky prior to loosing height on our approach to our airfield.

Flying a Defiant, alone, over the Channel in August 1940, was no place to be.
Within five minutes, we were turning left on our home bearing and heading towards the coast when suddenly, I spotted a fighter coming towards us and slightly to the right.
It was a 109 and closing rapidly but making no attempt to execute combat manouvres, probably unaware of our presence due to the afternoon sun behind us.

I rammed the throttle wide open and barked a warning to McKeever.
'Mac! One-o-nine passing right and level!'

That's all I had time for. Mac, jolted into action, screamed back.
'Where?...Where?...Where the f...... hell?...WHERE?'

Now there occured one of those remarkable coincidences that can deliver you from the jaws of death and instead, bring about stunning success. By sheer luck, Mac's turret was was already aligned to starboard and in a blind reaction to surprise, fear and frustration, he opened up.

A three second burst sent tracer arching out into the blue void at eighty rounds per second.

The 109 flew straight through it and Mac stitched him from nose to tail.
Vortices streamed from our wingtips as we banked right and I now had a clear view as he nosed down streaming white vapour.

After the hammering we had taken over the last few days, I was determined that we should finish him off or confirm our kill.

Breaking a golden rule of air fighting, I followed him down in a steep dive. Down and down he went, past the vertical and then curving under while inverted as though attempting an outside loop. At this point the nose dropped, and leaving a large letter 'S' in smoke, he gracefully curved down and whacked into the sea in a great geyser of spray.

'Not much doubt about that!' Mac's voice was trembling with excitement.
'I'll say! Something to celebrate tonight - if there's anybody left in the squadron!' I replied grimly.

'Did he bail out?' enquired Mac.
'Don't think so...I'm sure we'd have seen it.' I replied.

TBC...