I flew one sortie last night and I just got back with mud on my boots again. This is always a sure sign I've RTB without something I left with.
We were vectored to intercept a small flight of un-escorted He111-H3s headed for Kenly. Acorn and Tennis flights from 65 and 501 sqdrns. were chosen once again for this bit o' fun even though we had already had more than our share of "fun" already this week.
The bogies were spotted from our position at 14,400 ft., about 4 miles from Redhill. As we dove upon them from out of a sheltering sun they seemed oblivious to the mortal danger reaching out to crush the very juice of life from them. As we ploughed right down through the suddenly aroused and splitting formation I got a good lead on one of the big bombers and set it's port engine alight. Again and again like ravenous sharks we circled just out of range and then we darted in as individuals or in twos and threes to torment the enemy and kill him if we could.
I sent one Heinkel to rest on English soil for the duration and I had that other "smoker" for a good day's tally. I had also collected two wings full of holes from my reckless disdain for German marksmanship. This finally forced an end to my share of the "fun" and I began looking for home. Next, just to add even more excitement to an already exciting day, I ran out of petrol and suddenly noticed how profoundly quite everything gets when the Merlin isn't running anymore. It is a deathly quiet in my experienced opinion. Since I was near Redhill I started looking for landmarks but there wasn't time for sightseeing. I found a soft spot to set down and ended up as a tree sandwich caught between two big oaks with space just wide enough for one wing and, lucky for me, the cockpit.
I was able to get out before the fire engulfed the wreck and I staggered to a farmhouse for help. Those who are familiar with my record in the air will remember that this is not the first time I have staggered to a farmhouse.
Our chaps came by in a big lorry to collect me this morning. When I related my prowess in the air, my bravery under fire and the one point landing adventure they made some very rude noises and generally whooped it up at my expense. They all agree that I've finally earned the Iron Cross this time as I have pranged so many Spits in the past that I truly do deserve it.
After all that, I became depressed because I did not relish the rocket I'd likely soon be getting. The ride home was simply awful, we hit every bump and every pothole. Someone passed around a bottle of anesthetic and soon the bumpy ride was miraculously smoothed. PO Gibbs says there is a new bar maid down at the Drovers. Her name is Ilsa and everyone thinks we're just made for each other. I'll check her out tonight, I guess, unless I'm under house arrest again for malicious damage to Crown property. Hmmmm. It is simply not like these randy blokes to be so generous with a new barmaid. Oh, well, perhaps I'm just a bit too suspicious? Ahhh, the bottle has returned to me and it has one luscious swallow left in it. Here's to the next man who dies!
There must be some way I can blame SNAFU for this disaster... there simply must be. It was his plane I cracked up after all.
------------------ "Blessed are they who expect nothing. For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 11-02-2002).]
