Yes, from all your acounts you had little reason to regret his passing.
TimDog:
Welcome back. Well done too. Looks like you have everything you need to enjoy BoB including imagination.
Inspired by all this renewed activity on HWH here is something that has been sitting in the oven for a spell waiting for me to finish it up and plate it.
For Maggie:
Nothing Worth the Wear of Winning
They were two young men, boys really, living in extraordinary times and forced by circumstance to do extraordinary deeds. One was a Canadian the other British. While going through vigorous pre-war RAF flight training together the two lads had become inseparable friends. Now they were flying Spitfires together in the same squadron, same flight same war. Their friendship was surpassed in strength only by their in-flight combativeness and their competitiveness on the ground.
Let�s call one Peter, Pete for short, and the other one Georgie. Of the two men Pete the Canadian was the more physically powerful and the better flyer. Georgie was the smarter and the better educated. Both were excellent fighter pilots, each man with 3 confirmed kills to his credit. Hardened by days of deadly combat and burying the dead, there developed a bloody competition between the two friends. Pete claimed his kills were greater because they were larger fighter/bombers, Me110s. Georgie strenuously disagreed saying his were harder to get since they were smaller, more agile fighters, and deadly 109s at that. This was usually followed by friendly laughter. Not always.
Sometimes the argument waged hot and bloody across every pub that would still allow them to enter it within 20 miles of their base. There was much swearing, eye poking and blood letting. Were it not for the physically overpowering and numbing effects of drink someone might have gotten seriously hurt over time. And yet, night after night when the barman called time and though black-eyed, dripping blood, spitting teeth and limping after another long night of hard fighting and harder drinking, each buddy leaned heavily upon the other as they slowly made their weary way back home to base. It went on like that for weeks. Fighting with the enemy all day and with each other and any happless soul who got between them for most of the night.
It is with all this brotherhood seasoned with mayhem in mind that we join the two friends as they soar high above the green fields of England on a bright, clear day in search of the dark crosses of the hated enemy. This morning Pete is nursing a nasty cut lip bearing knuckle and ring prints precisely matching that of Georgie�s right fist. Georgie on the other hand is not unscathed either. He is not exactly feeling his best as his cracked ribs are aching from the effects of being kicked several times by a very heavy and particularly large brogan shoe, size 14. If you have been following along reader, you will not then be much surprised to discover that our Pete possesses two rather large feet both sized 14.
The Merlins purr powerfully pulling their Spitfires through the cold thinning air at 12,000 feet then 13, 14. Inside the green and brown, broad winged fighters pilots squint as their goggled eyes search for fine black specks in a endless expanse of blue white sky. Necks ache already from turning toward deadly ghosts that mercifully are not there. The greenhouse effect formed by the closed cockpit that allows sunlight to heat the air inside causes sweat to run in rivulets down swiveling necks and over foreheads down into straining eyes. The enemy is near now, but where.
Sixty plus bandits at 11:00! Pete is usually the first to spot the enemy and he does so today. The controllers have positioned the defending flights perfectly. The RAF fighters have the advantage of both sun and altitude. Twenty more bandits at 12:00, angels 14 (fighters straight ahead and at our altitude)Georgie announces. Red flight you take the fighters, we�ll take the bombers says lead!
Soon Pete has positioned himself above and behind a yellow nosed 109. Georgie is right beside and just behind his friend protecting his six. Pete opens fire and his .303s converge upon the hapless 109 from radio mast to engine cowling. There is an audible BANG! And huge clouds of black smoke billow from the fatally stricken German fighter. As it rolls over the hood opens and the pilot falls free, his chute streaming impotently behind him. The day is clear and he has a long way to fall. We can watch for what seems an eternity to us and is perhaps an eternity to him.
�That�s four Georgie!� screams Pete forgetting proper R/T procedures. Elated that he has now pulled ahead of his friend in their hotly disputed competition to get the most enemy shot down Pete listens for his wingman to grudgingly acknowledge his latest success. There is only the usual garbled static and chatter over the R/T. Turning in his seat Pete realizes he cannot find Georgie anywhere. Pete is now completely alone in the sky without even a speck in the distance to keep him company. Pete calls over the R/T but gets no response. An ominous feeling closes in to shroud the sunny cockpit with shadows of abject fear and dread. All thoughts of the kill and the competition are forgotten.
Yellow tracers pierce the gloom chasing the dread away and filling Pete�s mind with pure terror. A quick snap roll and Pete has his fighter in a steep dive. This is a big mistake and he knows it. The 109 can out climb and out dive the Spitfire and as if to considerately confirm this very fact the helpful 109 driver sends more tracers to sparkle and pop all over Pete�s fighter. There is a gut wrenching explosion and most of the Spitfire�s starboard wing goes absent without leave. By the time the port wing gets the same rude treatment our boy Pete (whom you will remember is not considered the wiser of the two lads) has taken the broad hint. Pete has clambered out of his dying warbird and has taken the silk elevator he has so thoughtfully brought along for just such an occasion.
There is a sharp snap like a clap of thunder and Pete finds his world oscillating from one hazy horizon to the next. As the swings subside Pete holds onto the vibrating shroud lines with one shaking hand and rips the useless goggles from his head with the other. As they are torn from his hands by the wind Pete sees the 109 pass in a wide arc like a hungry, circling shark. Three times it does this coming progresively closer each time. Then it peels off so close he can look down into the wheel wells. The shark-like fighter disappears in the general direction of France. Pete is �alone� once more as he slowly descends toward the little green square that, from this height, only vaguely resembles a large pasture.
It is midnight and a long bumpy lorry ride before Pete finds his weary way back to his base and to his bed. As was expected Georgie�s bunk is empty when Pete forces himself to check. Overcome by grief Pete flings himself upon the empty cot and unashamedly he cries himself into a dreamless stupor.
It is about 3 AM now. It is here that our story picks up. As you will recall (or just look up one paragraph and re-read it from there) our pal Pete, overcome by the pain of losing his best buddy has fallen on Georgie�s empty bunk and sobbed himself blotto. It is here that our story leaves the realm of mere fiction and goes right on into the ozone rich territory known as legend. Pete is slumbering fitfully when he is awakened by a heavy weight that smells like someone has placed a beer barrel on his heaving chest. Grasping it with both hands Pete is amazed to find not wooden staves and iron bands but soft, pliable human flesh. As he struggles to rid himself of this unwanted burden there are pitiful screams of pain, surprise and blue profanity falling mercilessly upon his ears. The sounds, particularly the cursing seem vaguely familiar as Pete finally wrestles the flailing screaming mass off the bed and onto the floor. Now there are even more curses coming from the dark heap on the floor than before.Then quiet again. Afraid he has killed someone, Pete rushes to the light switch and turns it on.
There lying crumpled on the floor in a pool of his own bodily fluids is a happy but stinking drunk and obviously alive Georgie! Pete was more than overjoyed. Unable to get a sensible word of explanation from his friend Pete helped Georgie into bed, clothes and all, and spent the balance of the night wide awake wondering what tale of survival his friend would tell in the morning. One thing was certain, he was not going to tell Georgie how overwhelmed with grief he had been, and he couldn�t wait to rub in the fact that he was one up now in their competition.
Dawn came hidden by clouds so low and thick that even the birds were wisely suspending all flight operations. Pete rose early and rushed to be there when his friend awoke. Sure enough Pete found Georgie and his well-practiced batman busily at work trying to get Georgie�s aching head into good enough shape to report for duty with its body. The two men had a painful but happy reunion. Each had thought the other lost. Once the pleasantries were exhausted and each man assured of the undying friendship of the other Pete thought the time had come to discover what happened to his friend and to rib him a bit about his fourth kill.
As they sat down for breakfast Pete asked Georgie what had happened to him. Pete rubbed it in a bit as he said that he lost Georgie as he was making his FORTH kill, a BF109. Where had Gerogie got to and how did he get shot down? Patiently Pete waited for his friend to complete the difficult task of slathering a large mass of scarce jam on a thick slice of toasted bread. He was astonished by the answer he received.
Shot down? Dear fellow I wasn�t shot down at all. No indeed, I ran out of fuel chasing a Hun off your miserable tail while you were preoccupied peppering the backside of his little buddy. I believe that mine was an ace of some notoriety, but no match for me, of coarse. I made an emergency landing at another base and the boys there held me at gunpoint and forced me to celebrate my FORTH victory with them. Oh my aching head, did we ever celebrate? Don�t thank me for saving your sorry arse Old Chum. Not a bit of trouble really. No bother at all until I found that some drunken blighter had taken over my birth this morning as I stumbled into bed. I gave the fellow quite a thrashing I can tell you. Slept like a baby after that Old Sport. How about you Pete, you say you got one more probable as well? Lost your ride too I hear. They say that the battle that ensued was one for the RAF record books putting both pilots and at least two mess men in hospital for a week.
Both men survived the war and their competitive friendship, married sisters and living in the USA they remain friends to this day. You may be wondering who won the bloody competition? You will have to ask each man. Be prepared however for some laughter and precisely the opposite answer from both.
"From quiet homes and first beginning. Out to the undiscovered end, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends."
Hilaire Belloc
------------------ "Blessed are they who expect nothing. For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"
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[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 09-09-2002).]
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 09-09-2002).]
