Folks,

Dux....Dux?....DUX! There is something Christmasey waiting in your rusty mailbox.... Earth calling Dux..? R U there?

Well, it seems that Dux has been visited by too many ghosts of Christmas past and now spends his evenings in church or else he has secreted himself away with Olga someplace where no one will be bothered by the screams.

Whatever the case may be, it seems that I must kick start this old thread one more time. So here is a very little something that you will not get much of a kick out of and that, hopefully, if read quickly, will not entirely ruin your holiday spirit.

A Duel of Egos
By: JRT
HWH Cont.
Page 12
5/13/02


JRT flinched as dust and rust, particles of mud, flecks of paint and most anything else not glued down fell from the cockpit floor onto his wrinkled face. Now, as the cockpit came into shadow, he found himself in level but inverted flight. His Spitfire was sailing along fairly smoothly thought he, considering it had several large holes in each of its broad wings.

The tail plane had one neat perforation through it as well although JRT was unaware of that. Slowly he scanned the sky below him for signs of the mortally wounded enemy fighter. There was nothing to be seen of the ME110. Only a pair of dark smears that contrasted sharply with the blue-white clouds was visible. Two streaks of oily, black smoke twisted down hundreds of feet into the nearest cloud. That was two for the day.

Off to the East and high over the Channel, another fighter pilot was also having an excellent day. Major Eric Von Bustenhalter, one of the Luftwaffe’s highest scoring pilots, watched as the Hurricane he had just finished off fell out of control toward a watery grave. To his disappointment there was no parachute. He banked his brand new Emil toward the sunny West and thought he noticed a slight sluggishness in his controls. Referring to all the newly painted hash marks on his tail plane, the successful Major laughingly thought to himself that perhaps the sheer weight of all that extra paint might be slowing him down. Actually the sluggishness he noticed was due to a few well-placed hits by .303 shells from the doomed Hurricane. Scanning the skies ahead, the alert Major noticed a streak of black smoke and then a small glint of light higher up. He gave his 109 full throttle and began to climb toward that spot in the sky in a well-calculated manner that would soon bring him somewhat above the spot and right out of the sun. Momentarily, he lost sight of his quarry.

Seeing nothing below him, JRT rolled his Spit over and turned his attention to the darkening clouds to the East. Just as he was about to relax and turn toward home his straining eyes locked upon a small speck climbing toward him. Instantly alert, JRT pushed his throttle forward to the stops and climbed into the sun. Having reached what he considered to be the perfect location between his climbing adversary and the sun; JRT rolled his purring Spit into a dive toward what he’d recognized as a swiftly climbing BF109E. There seemed to be some imbalance in the wings of his Spit. This most likely was due to the battle damage. JRT thought no more about it because he seemed to have good enough control for this easy slaughter. Apparently unaware of the danger falling upon him, the 109 pilot made no attempt to alter his course as JRT fell out of the sun with blood in both eyes and certain victory clinched in his teeth.

Just before he was sure he was going to crash right into the German fighter, JRT began to fire. As he fired he rolled his Spitfire and passed inverted under the 109. One shell from each gun had been fired and that was all there was. He found himself pressed down in his seat as he zoomed up again with the 109 right on his tail. This fellow was good and JRT knew he was in for the fight of his life. The sticky part was that he was totally out of ammunition. What a stupid, dangerous, deadly mistake to make he admonished himself mercilessly as he side-slipped left and then right looking over his shoulder at the yellow nose that was gaining on him. It was time to think about that backup plan.

Major Von Bustenhalter just had time to scream in surprise and then he snap rolled his 109 to follow the attacking Spitfire as it passed close underneath his fighter. The RAF fighter had completely surprised him coming right out of the blinding rays of the sun. What a stupid, dangerous mistake, he chided himself. He should have been easy meat. The Gods were with him today for as far as he could tell, only one shell had struck his precious new Emil. Just one .303 shell had struck his radio mast, completely carrying it away.

Now he was in hot pursuit of the audacious RAF fighter and there was absolutely no doubt what-so-ever in the German Pilot’s mind as to the outcome of this duel. Slowly, even though the Spitfire was making well-timed evasive maneuvers, he was gaining on it. Unable to beat the 109 in a dive or a climb, the Spitfire pilot had wisely chosen a climbing turn as his defense. Each time Von Bustenhalter pulled his nose around to get his sights on the tail of the Spitfire the agile RAF fighter slowly turned a bit more sharply. They were going round and round.

JRT was flying as if his very life depended on it, and it did. He could not shake this blasted 109 off his tail. This fellow couldn’t have much fuel left; perhaps he would give up and go back to France? No such luck, JRT had to admit that it looked like he would be doing a swan dive into the Channel long before then. Pulling harder he began to feel signs of a blackout coming and as he turned tighter and tighter the Gs increased beyond the limits of his endurance and his head sagged to one side as he slumped down in his seat. Almost at once, the Spitfire eased off its sharp curve to the left. As the G load decreased, JRT slowly began to regain consciousness. His clouded mind began to ask questions his darkened eyes could not yet answer.

Suddenly, as Von Bustenhalter held in his stomach and fought hard against the fierce G forces created in his tight turn behind the Spitfire, he noticed he was gaining again. Slowly he was pulling right in behind the fleeing Spitfire. At last the Spitfire fell right into his sights and he now had a perfect shot. The excited German Major selected both guns and cannon and then pressed down hard on the firing button.

Coming around at last, JRT knew he was about to die. Before he could react, there were several hard bangs as cannon shells began to inch their way toward his cockpit. Something snapped and he found that he had no rudder. His controls were shot through and useless. JRT was completely at the mercy of his German rival who was showing no mercy. The RAF pilot reached for the hood release just when something unbelievable happened. The shelling suddenly stopped.

As a hail of his machine gun and cannon fire began to chew up the stricken RAF fighter ahead of him, Von Bustenhalter began to smile. This duel should have had a different ending my friend, it should be you who flies home the victor tonight, he thought. Then something happened that he was unprepared for, he too ran completely out of ammunition. The Spitfire continued along in spite of missing much of its tail and part of a wing. It was not maneuvering at all. Perhaps the pilot was injured or dead? Unable to continue the fight Von Bustenhalter pulled his 109 up alongside the battered and obviously helpless Spitfire.

Although he seemed to be in no immediate danger and his ride was still flying straight and level, JRT was just about to try for the hood release again when a movement off his port wing caught his attention. A BF109 sporting a bright yellow nose and an unbelievable number of hash marks on its tail had pulled abreast and the pilot was eyeing him with interest across the broad wings of their two fighters. The German was a big man, and fair-haired. He had on a blue flight suit and brown goggles. As the two enemy pilots eyed one another across a gulf that was far more distant than just the two wings, there was somehow an understanding between the two flyers that they would fight no more today.

With a half-salute the Axis pilot banked away and disappeared from JRT’s view. Now that the RAF pilot knew he wasn’t going to be shot to pieces he had more important things on his mind. Things like getting over land and getting out of this death trap while it still had two wings. He would do so and consequently live to fly and fight again. The crash of JRT’s Spitfire would go unseen and uncounted by the Germans. Thus probably saving Von Bustenhalter an extra ounce or two of paint on the tail of his fighter.

About half way across the channel Major Von Bustenhalter noticed something serious was wrong with his Emil. His controls were mushy and he was losing speed. Losing speed meant he was also losing altitude. One of the few .303 shells sprayed by JRT had damaged the 109’s engine. Quickly estimating that he would not reach France at the rate he was descending, Major Von Bustenhalter pulled the hood latch release and standing in his seat, the stick held tightly between his legs, he rolled his fighter on her back and fell into space. All this happened well out of sight of any RAF observers, therefore, no claim was ever made for a kill by JRT. Major Von Bustenhalter was in the cold water less than an hour. His dye marker had spread around him only a few yards before he was picked up, completely uninjured, by a fast motor launch.

So ended the duel of egos. The high scoring RAF pilot, JRT, so sure of victory in the beginning that he carelessly forgot a very basic rule of combat that almost cost him his life. The German aristocrat, Von Bustenhalter, undefeated in battle and so confident of triumph that he also overlooked the same basic rule of combat that also nearly forced him to pay the supreme price.

Thus you the reader are and I am the only witnesses to how the duel of egos really ended. It ended with both men having their arrogance shattered when forced to bail out of their destroyed fighters. All the while they are thinking they have lost the fight, when, as we alone now know, ironically, they had fought an almost even battle that ended in, at worst, a mutually victorious tie. As the French say “Such is War”.