homepage Forums Air Combat & Civil Aviation Battle of Britain + Battle of Britain II Here's what happened (Continued)

Folks,

Here we have another instance where SNAFU's seasoned leadership and our own extraordinary maturity allow good humor rather than animosity to rise to the top on our friendly thread. That's another way of saying let's just call it a draw and we'll both breathe a lot easier.

Yes, SNAFU, let the games begin. And in answer to your wishful question regarding a possible re-match, whether it is in the sweet sixteen, in the final four or even the championship game I think it would be wonderful for Duke to play Maryland once more....providing there is a different ending that is.

Did anyone see anything in the local papers about Dux dying from alcohol poisoning or being shot by an irate husband? He'd never be bested in combat so something else must have happened to him. He hasn't reported in for some time now and I fear the worst.

Here is another story not really worth repeating.

A Lovely Craft
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/7/02
By: JRT

The Spitfire is a lovely craft indeed. It has a rather smallish interior and I love the way I seem to fill it up. My shoulders rub both the sides of the cockpit and my pointy little head is only a quarter of an inch or so from the canopy above. Once I'm inside, it feels as though I am actually part of the thing. I am part off it, in fact, because I'm the thinking part. Well mostly.

The Battle of Britain rages on. At the ready from 30 minutes before sunup to 30 minutes after sundown we lead a grueling existence. Today, just at sundown, we are being scrambled to intercept the enemy who is coming our way fast, right up the Thames.
The fitter has the powerful engine started. Another man holds out a parachute. I jump up on the wing; step up and in while sticking your arm into the harness. Pull those straps down tight. Engine oil, dope, hot leather and sweat, it is always the same smell. No one can hear over the screaming Merlin engine so I give them a cheerful thumbs up so they'll slam the door shut. Flight helmet on, plug in the R/T lead. Engine checks ok. The exhausts flicker out tongues of flame clearly visible in the waning light. I'm off.

I open the throttle and as the chocks are removed we roll bumpily through the tall grass of summer toward the takeoff position trying not to bang over any of the rough bits along the way. We all attempt to line up on the leader. All eyes are glued on him as he gives a nod and away he goes.

Let's go. Take off is straight forward, once we've learnt to handle the hand-operated under-carriage. You have to change hands on the stick as you take off. Our right hand is now on the stick and our left is on the throttle easing it forward gently. Now our left hand is holding the stick as we place our right hand on the under carriage pump and we become airborne.

There is a sudden profound ripple of tremendous power fore to aft as my climbing Spitfire lifts into the air and the wheels retract with a thrump, thrump. My innards are uncomfortably compressed as the rising seat pushes my insides up just a split second after my body. We are free of the earth and it seems that we need not even think where we want to go, we just go.

Acorn leader Intercept 200 plus. Angels 20. Vector 240. A swarm of ominous black dots is picked out ahead and above us. On we climb. Red section line astern. Here we go.
Below, and about a mile away, a hundred or more terrified East End citizens crouch fretfully inside an old school house. There are men, women and children spending a dreadful night here in the dark. Wide eyes stare up into the gloom as their owners just sit there breathing and listening. Some are crying. They listen intently as the soft drone of many engines draws ever nearer and the thud and rumble of exploding bombs begins in the distance. It seems to be coming closer.

There is a loud explosion, then another and another that is right on top of them. A woman screams as a blaze of snarling, searing fire errupts amongst them to suck away their last breath on this earth, some turn to run but there is no where to go.
In a single horrible instant the safety of the school is rent wide open as all the windows are instantly shattered inward and the heavy, bolted doors are blown at chest level right down the crowded corridors. They have become broad, blunt projectiles of death. One more bone jarring near miss and those still living shriek their last oaths as the heavy upper floor begins to slide down upon the one below. As the dust and rubble begins to settle there is no more crying and the choking dust covers all with a ghastly gray. All is silent. Outside, the dust and smoke laden air is filled with a sorrowful, moaning wail as the air raid siren sounds the all clear.

Several days from now, what is left of the shattered bodies will be laid out in an old, dry public swimming pool. It is large enough there for the army of morticians to perform their sad duties and the clean up will go ever so much easier.
They must sort through the pitiful remains as they try to make up single bodies from assorted mangled parts. This will be the most difficult bit of all. One man will liken the morbid task to that of putting together a hundred jigsaw puzzles with way too many of the most important pieces missing.

Above and a mile or so away, the surviving bombers close their empty bomb bays. They are turning slowly toward home now. Many trail smoke and will crash before they reach the Channel. Others will ditch in the cold sea. We in our fighters have done all that we could. The enemy has paid dearly for this raid. We saw to that. We turn for home and a hot bath. The bombers and their escorts have completed their grizzly tasks. The ugly business of war has been done for the day.

Down below, the darkness is littered with bright spots. Some glow far brighter than do others. These are the chemical and gas fires. The East End of London was tonight's target and it is full of docks, much heavy industry and wartime manufacturing.
It is also filled to overflowing with the poor. Hundreds of already dilapidated tenement houses are now reduced to heaps of smoldering rubble and most are brightly burning.

As the acrid flames belch from rubber and chemical mills they rise up to mix with the twisting smoke from what is left of far too many pitiful little lives. Lives that never really had a chance.

War is such a lovely craft.