SUNDAY NIGHT
WOW
I had spent all afternoon watching Battle of Britain, 633 Squadron and A Piece of Cake one after the other to try and pick up a few tips. (When I debriefed my mates at work on the mission they said I should have watched Dambusters instead,...now theres an idea!!!!)
Where was I? oh yeah it's Sunday afternoon and the wife is getting pissed off with me because I keep looking at my watch every five minutes waiting for H-Hour. If you're in the Army thats 2100, If you're in the Navy thats 2 bells, and if you're in the RAF thats when Mickey Mouse is pointing straight up and Minnie Mouse is pointing to the left. (assuming you've managed to put your watch on the right way up !) By the way did I mention that I am in the Royal Navy Fleet Air Arm and not the Poofy RAF ? :-) You might have seen me attempting a carrier landing on AW, its a stealth carrier of course, we are in the 1990s after all. And dont be fooled into thinking I fly a FW, it just looks like that, its really a Seafire (or is it a SeaFury ? (spotters please inform)).
It's 10 to 9, the wife breathes a sigh of relief and I log on, at the third attempt, slight sweat! My stomach has a butterfly farm in it, my palms are sweaty, I wipe my brow with my white silk scarf, polish my goggles on my tie (Chap has to be dressed right in case he has an accident and lands unexpectedly in a convent !) As I walk into the officers club I spot all the Buff pilots in the corner, you can spot them easily, all their fingernails are bitten down to the quick and they have that wild eyed thousand mission stare. The fighter pilots by contrast are clustered around a large mirror behind the bar, some are waxing their moustaches and the rest are dipping into a pot of brylcream with their combs. A thought crosses my mind, if we could remove all the rear view mirrors from the Spits we might get them to concentrate on the job in hand a bit more, can't mention it to the CO of course, he's one of them.
We all shuffle through to HQ and gather round the sand table, a couple of the younger pilots start making a castle, damn their so young, where does fighter command get them ? After a short bit of banter we wander out to dispersal and climb into our kites. Trav is late as usual, and totally dismayed to find that his really is a Kite, he sniffs a bit and starts to unwind the string, little does he know the consequences of his being late. I tune the wireless into 505, briefly catching a burst of Virgin FM on the way. GO, GO, GO, shouts the Flight Commander and I ram the throttles fully forward, the aircraft surges forward like a Morris Minor and as I pull back gently on the stick I think of the ones I've left behind, .........yes its Trav again, he's got his tail wrapped around the wind sock, will he never learn that his life could depend on that flimsy bit of paper ! I am still pulling back on the stick as we reach the end of the runway !!!! finally just as I am about to change my trousers the old gal unglues herself from the tarmacadam and lifts gracefully into the air. The great adventure has begun.
As we settle into a steady rate of climb and turn onto our mission heading I flick on the Radar and marvel at the fact that it hasn't even been invented yet ! Clever little boffins we have on our side. At this point my heart leaps, and pounds with pride. So used am I, to seeing a scattering of green dots that I am totally mesmerized by the two large groups of green dots now infesting my radar, slowly they merge into a huge amorphous blob. (got that one out of the big word dictionary) What a sight, what must it look like to the enemy, the answer is painfully obvious, it looks like a turkey shoot. I swallow nervously and look over my shoulder at the two empty gunners positions, damn the useless recruiters, the Navy has the right idea with the pressgangs, never did me any harm I muse. Suddenly one of the green dots drops off the screen, Bunter's rubber band has snapped under the strain, rotten luck.
As we pass 20 thousand feet enemy fighters start to gather round us like vultures (present company excepted of course). A new thought crosses my mind, why doesn't Netscape Mail manager have a spell checker ? I shake my head and concentrate on the job in hand, suddenly they swoop in, the fighters do their best of course, but those damn mirrors are a terrible distraction to them. Calamity, the Flight Commander goes down, I get on the radio and gather what's left of our pitiful band around me, I hate to step into the FC's shoes like this,.......he takes a size 7 and i'm a size 12. By now our fighters are far behind us, as we few, we happy few, we band of brothers........sorry wrong film, we carry on, upwards and onwards, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. Suddenly the fighters are on us again, I dive left, weave right, but its no good, my kite was never designed to take this sort of punishment, one of the wings rips off and my plane takes on the flying characteristics of a piano. I dash of a quick rendition of "we'll meet again", and take to the silk, watch out for that first step,..its a Lulu. As I pull the cord I find my parachute is useless, rotten luck, ive picked up Jocks washing by mistake, the air is filled with tartan skirts and frilly pink knickerbockers, a sporron flys off to the South as I reflect on my old parachute instructors maxim. It's not the fall that kills you, it's the hitting the ground.....that's what kills you !
For me the battle is over, but the war is still to be won.
Old Kraits never die, they just hiss off !!!!!
Remember the squadron motto,...........Mine's a Lager ?
Blue Skies
Happy Landings
VULTURE
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