Folks,

With continued apologies to Zerosan2 and those tediously picky lads from the North who insist upon at least some vague approximation of literature in their late night reading, here is, by default, yet another poor attempt by me to string many individual misspelled words together into coherent sentences.

Be advised that there will be more from me as we go along unless I find additional stories from others in the original archives that have not recently been posted. Let me therefore cordially invite one and all to type out and post an account of your own experiences in the BoB. In the best interest of everyone, those having had quite enough of this mess by me should type a new story and post it straight away. Hint: Dux, a new Olga Saga would be nice.;)

A Good Day
By JRT
Original HWH
Page unknown
8/12/01

It is early September and the Battle of Britain still bitterly rages across the otherwise peaceful skies over a determined England. This September day begins just like so many others. A hot sun is rising to streak the rosy-blue English sky with bright yellow and gold. Clouds of hungry bird’s fly from the large, green leafed oaks at the far end of the airfield and spread out in a wide black arc. Their little shadows flit swiftly across the tall, wet grass and along the weed covered, broken down stone wall to go on toward an unknown food source some distance away.

On the stony little farm just a dusty mile down the twisting dirt road that winds past the small RAF airdrome, a wide-eyed little rooster cocks his iridescent feathered head toward the rising sun. Feeling its penetrating warmth sooth away the morning cold the little fellow blinks his glistening dark eyes twice and scratches up the dust. Satisfied that all is well, he flaps his wings lifts off and lands upon a fence post where the gallant fellow crows his thumb-sized heart out.

One small pinfeather shakes loose from the little chap and floats slowly away on the soft morning breeze. On it sails toward a tawny little kitten that paws at it as it rises, flutters a bit and goes safely on by. The shiny little feather continues along on the light morning breeze to finally come to rest near a rickety old wood-framed farmhouse. It settles peacefully against an irregular wall just under a white curtained window that is presently wide-open.

As the first rays of full sunlight pop brightly across the edge of the rough, unpainted windowsill, the light breeze toys briefly with the dirty, gray, gauze-like curtains. On it flows to ripple softly over the cool, well-worn muslin sheet that still covers parts of my sleepy body. Roused but unawake, my empty stomach begins to grumble. Stretching my arms wide I take a deep breath and wiggle my toes against the cool sheet. I think this will be a very good day. Resisting no longer, I open one blue, bloodshot eye. After a moment or two, I finally rise sleepily from my warm bed.

Philosophy is not one of my strong points, particularly early in the morning. And yet, as I stand at the chipped porcelain washbasin and flush cold well water over my sleepy face I think to myself that every day is really a good day. Some days are just much better than are others. Donning my RAF officer’s uniform, I head for the farmer’s well stocked kitchen and a delicious country breakfast. So far, there is nothing at all to indicate that today will be any different from so many other good days.

After several huge helpings I am most indecently stuffed. With thanks, and a happy wave, I bolt through the open door for the short bicycle ride to the airdrome. To stave off malnutrition along the way I am chewing on a fresh buttered triangle of thick toast. A loose plank squeaks a hoarse goodbye as I tread heavily across the wooden porch. Soon I find myself munching along on my rattling bicycle down the rutted old road. After the first curve I turn my back into the warming sun and pleasantly assure myself that there are far worse places to be billeted than a well-stocked English farmhouse.

I pedal hard and pick up speed as I try to stay in the grassy ruts. The quiet airdrome comes into view as I turn the final curve. It is time for serious thoughts of the killing business now at hand. We will fly several sorties today. Thinking on this the fear returns in a wave of barely controlled dread. Of coarse, the reward for continued bravery is great, I remind myself. I know that if I survive to return again that I would be handsomely rewarded for my endurance by yet another superb artery clotting country feast.

This evening meal will consist of farm-raised slabs of beef or pork dripping with fat and surrounded by mounds of fresh vegetables. All will be most agreeably washed down with gallons of a honey tasting home brewed beer the likes of which I have never before had the pleasure of tasting. Did I mention that the farmer has a gorgeous and very accommodating teenaged daughter? Coasting through the fresh painted gate I return the guard’s salute and as I turn onto the edge of the grassy field I think to myself that if it weren’t for the damn Germans I could actually get to love this war.

It is much later in the morning now and my flight of twelve battle-worthy Spitfires and several flights of Hurricanes are sandwiched neatly between two dense cloud layers. We are eagerly falling toward angles 18 and a broad formation of enemy bombers. Out of the layer of cloud directly above us Red 2 happens to notice a yellow nose attached to a mottled gray 109 pop out. Another and then another follows this 109. Shouting the warning Red 2 boldly turns into the enemy and we all follow. The worthy Hurricanes can finish off the bombers, we have other fish to fry.

The lead 109 streaks past to my left and below as I squeeze off a burst that pours a stream of hot lead into his trailing wingman. Pulling back on the stick and applying rudder I roll over and follow the leader down toward the enemy bombers that are being suitably harassed now by the brave boys in the Hurricanes. Straining to keep my vision from blurring I catch sight of the still diving 109s. The leader is turning toward the bomber stream. His wingman is trailing a long cloud of black, oily smoke. This mortally wounded 109 will continue past the bombers to the waiting ground below. The enemy leader has spotted a Hurricane well positioned to the rear of a lone He111. The bomber is taking quite a beating as I see the lead 109 begin bearing down on the unknowing Hurricane. There is not much time for me to intervene.

Pushing the throttle to the stops I risk passing out in the dive or losing both wings. Either of which, I assure you, could go a long, long way toward ruining my good day. I already see that I will not get there in time. The 109 completes his first pass at the doomed Hurricane and covers it with a virtual torrent of 20mm cannon fire. I watch in horror as the humpbacked craft buckles and then it falls burning. As I search hopefully for a chute only a long black scratch stretches across the cloudy sky. The smoking He111 fills my sites now and I pour enough hot metal into it to build several sizeable locomotives. Already sieved by the dauntless Hurricane, down it plunges to share the same fate.

Yellow tracers passing my windscreen remind me I am not alone and that the lead 109 has taken umbrage due to my successfully finishing the attack on the dying He111. Giving and expecting no quarter we begin the “dance of death”. If you survive long enough you learn to size up your opponent very early. We are an even match. Perhaps I am a bit better. Several minutes and what seems like thousands of twists, loops, turns and maneuvers have passed now and I find myself enjoying the view from the “cat bird” seat just above and behind my new pal the German leader.

I focus on the big gray fighter filling my gunsight while Fritz is in the desperate process of ticking off the truly important things in his soon to be abbreviated life. Right now Gerry is probably looking over his shoulder at me and thinking: Last Will and Testament signed, check, GI insurance paid up, check, Last letters to girlfriend, next of kin, etc., check, will Adolph feed my dog? You get the picture.

As I adjust the throttle I kick my rudder to keep the 109 firmly centered in my sights. This is no deflection shot. Little sparkles and flashes pop along the wings and fuselage of the slowing German fighter as my .303s find their mark. Large chunks and shiny pieces of metal fall from the stricken enemy crate as I deliberately walk my shells toward the cockpit. Suddenly the wheels of the now smoking German fighter fall down and its airspeed is greatly checked. I slam back the throttle to keep from overshooting. His wheels are down and he is flying slow, straight and level. I know that this is supposed to be a signal of surrender, but is it? Dare I believe it? The doomed enemy craft flies on, losing speed and altitude now. He is a sitting duck. I follow close behind him and I stop firing. There is no honor in continuing. This man is as helpless as if he were dangling in a parachute.

I fly much closer. As I survey the helpless mass of flying junk I marvel that it is still in the air. Why does the pilot not jump for his life? I fly closer still. I am to the left and directly abeam now. Looking across over our wings, I gaze directly into two piercing steel-gray eyes. The face of the 109 pilot I see looking questioningly across at me is both bloody and somehow undefeated. There is no hatred or recrimination as far as I can see. In his place I would be rudely giving someone the finger, making faces and sticking out my tongue. This man is made of sterner stuff. One look into his eyes and I have absolutely no doubt; this man would continue the fight if he could. His eyes also tell me that I am in no danger from him now, perhaps later if he gets home. Another glance at what is left to carry him home reassures me that he will not make it to the Channel much less back to France.

He knows that he is going down. Why does this courageous and unfortunate man not bail out before it is too late? Very soon we will be too low to do so safely. Is he fool enough to think he can get home or that I would allow him so to do? The questions are all answered for me as the pilot motions in a way that conveys quite clearly that his hood is solidly jammed. There is no easy escape for this man. Perhaps there will be no escape at all. Like two warbirds in tight formation we fly along together for a time just looking across at one another. We once were sworn enemies. Now due to unusual circumstances we have silently agreed upon a wordless pact across two wings that we will fight each other no more today. Now we are simply two human beings trying to survive the war. The lucky one is hopefully watching the other fight desperately for his life. He is losing that fight.

Dropping below the second cloud layer I realize that we are too low now for a safe bail out even if one were possible. A quick look over at the wounded German tells me he is completely aware of this as well. Suddenly his head droops and the fighter swerves. I avoid a nasty collision by pulling away just in time. Coming closer once again I see that he has regained consciousness and is busy with his shot up controls. His determination to live and superb flying ability force me to admit my grudging respect for this man.

I am watching closely and rooting for this pilot to make it safely to the ground. He turns his head toward me and a look of stoic resignation is in his eyes as his tortured engine finally stalls and he loses enough air speed to continue flying. I can do nothing but pull away and watch. I swear that I saw the doomed man gave me a small left-handed salute as he fell from my view. I admit that I said a silent prayer. As I followed him down I was biting my lip.

The 109 seems to be falling completely out of control. If he did not pull up now, or do something I could see that the whole mess would soon be strewn all over the countryside. At the last possible moment the damaged craft righted itself, floated between two enormous trees, over a fence and crash-landed in an oily hail of dirt and debris that plowed a furrow of fire and German aircraft parts across a farmers wheat field for at least 300 meters. Roaring across the field I see several figures running toward the scene of the crash. I can’t help shouting with joy at this man’s triumph. What a great day this is. A very good day, indeed.

I slowly bank my Spit around a large orchard and over a big, red barn for another victory pass over the crash site. A victory I willingly share with my fallen foe. I have every hope now of seeing the pilot out of his craft and safe. That is the exact moment that I see the fire start at the wing root and flash across the fuselage and cockpit. By the time I can bank completely around again to fly past at below treetop level the whole craft is just a smoking, solid mass of flames.

I begin my RTB. That might have been me down there. Perhaps it will be tomorrow? But today is a good day. Indeed every day is a good day but today it seems was a far better day for me than for him.