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

Graphic by JRT 2007

Folks,

The holiday season is upon us. In a few days I will once again post our traditional holiday story "A Celebration with Friends". For those of you who may have managed to read that story previously, it will give you a very good excuse to ignore it and for those who may not have had the missfor...badluc...er.. opportunity to read the several ragged chapters of holiday cra...worhles...delightful prose, it will be, shall we say, a memorable occasion. Bring your Draminine tablets and a sturdy barf bag.

Just as he once did as a lad across his little desk whilst attending Miss Feebles School for the Artistically Gifted but Chronically Untidy, Dux has certainly carved a name for himself here at HWH.

His Olga Sagas are second to none in wit, wisdom and biting satire. His amazing enclycopedic knowledge of all manner of aircraft has always astounded me. My own abilities at aircraft recognition pale in comparison. I recognize the Good Year Blimp when I see it and that is about the extent of it. Perhaps that is why no one besides the loyal Dux seems to want to be my wingman in BoB?

Uncanny Aircraft Recognition
By: JRT
Original HWH
Page 7
7/3/01

We find JRT in his trusty two-seater training Spitfire. He is speaking over the R/T to his student pilot, who is fresh out of the hospital.

Kindly pay close attention as we climb to 20,000 feet and smoothly level off. You should appreciate the fact that it was not an easy task getting that fussy old military sawbones to allow you to leave the hospital so soon after our last eventful flight. A little thanks would certainly be in order and you might refrain from making those terrified faces every time we hit an air pocket or adjust our heading now and then.

I understand that you are reasonably dubious and somewhat jittery. After our past near-fatal experiences in the air I would not be at all surprised if you were a total basket case. As I had suspected, you are made of sterner stuff, my friend.

And so, once again you trust me with your life and limb in the war-torn skies over Britain. This time, I assure you, you really will not regret it. Good news, now that we are flying straight and level at about 20,000 feet in our cozy little Spitfire, you may remove the gag from your mouth and I’ll help untie the rope. That’s much better isn’t it? If you’ll relax now and enjoy our ride this will be a pleasant experience for both of us. Aren’t you glad I insisted on bringing you along?

Just off our port side you’ll notice another Spitfire is just now rising from behind and below us to position itself on our wing. This is the brave Dux, our much-suffering but absolutely reliable wingman. We will not be able to contact him. In your struggles you broke our radio. No matter, we use hand signals on such an occasion.

Dux is there to make certain that the enemy does not give us a nasty surprise. Oh, yes, the enemy is up here somewhere too. Why are you attempting to scratch your way out of this perfectly good airplane? Kindly stop pressing your nose against the Perspex hood. You are leaving an unsightly streak. Calm down.

Still want out? Better not put too much faith and trust in that dirty old parachute. It is one of my old chutes and therefore has been used so much it is pretty worn out. Do not look at me in that tone of voice. You will have no need of it during this flight, I promise you.

Our mission today is a simple CAP or Combat Air Patrol over our little RAF base. If you will look down as I lower the wing in a gentle bank you can make out the runway we took off from just below us right now. Look to the left of that small cumulus cloud and you’ll easily pick it out. Are you airsick already? Please adjust your flesh tone, greenish yellow is not a particularly attractive shade. Yes, we do have a barf bag; however, it may not have been cleansed since your last eventful visit. What was that? Old man, that comment was uncalled for.

Stop complaining and look up and just to the right of the blazing sun. Yes the sun is hot. The sun is always hot. Was that a fact unnoticed by you until this very moment? As I said, look up and follow my finger. You’ll just be able to make out a large flight of our Hurricanes coming toward us out of old Sol’s brilliant summer glare. You doubt that they are Hurricanes? If there is one thing I am particularly known for it is my uncanny ability to identify aircraft at long distance.

You do see them now, don’t you? They are little black specks. Well, if it makes you feel any better, they aren’t Hurricanes, perhaps they are Defiants? Ummmm, no, not Defiants either. I must say old boy, it is unlike DUX not to call out when other aircraft are seen in our patrol area. Oops! Yes, thank you for reminding me in your distinctive, trembling voice. I had forgotten that our radio is kaput. Well, let’s look a bit harder. You should be squinting your eyes as we gaze into the blinding sun. Perhaps they are a large flight of friendly Beaufighters?

You say DUX is gesticulating wildly? Pay no attention to him, he does that now and then for no apparent reason. He is a nervous chap I suppose. Ummm, perhaps they are Blenheims? No, they’re single engine craft and just too small. I’ve got it now, they’re Se5s, no, Sopwith Camels….I think that’s it.

Wait, you say you seem to recall that Sopwiths were biplanes? You are correct. This can’t be a flight of Sopwiths then. They’re definitely monoplanes and a funny gray in color. Do we have any mottled gray fighters? These ships are sleek looking little devils and they are coming on fast, too.

You say DUX is pulling out his hair, pointing at the sky and repeatedly crossing his neck with his index finger in a slashing motion? Hmmm, that’s not one of our regular signals. Remind me latter to tear a suitably large strip off the old lad’s hide for not using the proper hand signals. I’m a stickler for important things like that and he well knows it.

Wait, these fellows are all falling right at us now. One, four, eight, there are twelve of the little blighters. Take it easy. Get off your knobby knees and stop beseeching Heaven. There is no danger whatsoever. It is only a mock attack by friendlies, so we’ll just play along. Isn’t this exciting?

Hold steady for a few more moments and we’ll be able to easily identify them. You say DUX has had a conniption fit of some sort and his plane is no longer visible? This is not at all like the boy, something must have gone terribly wrong with his engine. Remind me to go easy on him about that other minor infraction.

We’ll act as if we have not seen the RAF boys as they come in for their pretend attack on our undefended arse. Do not worry, they will not dare fire upon us. We are perfectly safe. We are much safer, I suspect, than the unlucky DUX. He is probably making a dead stick swan dive into some rural patch of England filled with cow manure about now. Too bad, he will miss all the fun.

Sorry, what did you just say about all their guns flashing? Tracers? Did you say tracers? I cannot hear you old man, please remove your head from between your knees and speak clearly...