Eskimo,
You had better watch your six, good buddy
! That's not the way it happened at all. Besides, I've never even met the good general!
I was on a secret, hush-hush, low-level recon mission somewhere in enemy territory. For security reasons, I can't tell you what I was doing or exactly where I was going. Suffice it to say that it was very, very important. Why else would they risk such a valuable pilot as myself on a mission so dangerous?
Anyway, I made my way a tree-top and boulder level over the eastern mountains and was making my way northward over the coastal plains when I heard the dreadful sound of small arms hits and a couple of loud BANGS. I never saw the troops who got me, but they must have been very good shots. I was traveling at over 360 IAS and right on the deck. Very good they were, or very lucky. The bottom line is BOTH engines started coughing and sputtering and emitting gray smoke. I knew I was in for a rough landing on a very short field!
I climbed for what altitude I could grab and had a look around. These coastal areas are pretty tough on landing gear with all the scrub brush that grows there, but this time luck was on my side. There in the distance, about 2 miles off, I saw some cultivated land. These fields would do nicely for a belly landing.
About that time, my number one engine quit. Skewing wildly to the left, I worked the trim and the controls to regain control about the time number two bit the dust. I was committed now.
Luck was still with me, for my glide slope put me just past the near end of the plowed field. Must have been corn there earlier in the year for the stalks still protruded from the dirt clods that formed the furrows. I held her steady and eased her down very, very slowly until I literally slid into the dirt. I worked the rudders wildly trying to stop myself before I hit the hedge-row at the other end of the field and managed to stop about twenty-five yards short of smashing myself into oblivion. It was just about then that I noticed the wet spot in my crotch.
I had gotten off a mayday call before I crashed so I knew help was on the way. That was pre-arranged when the mission was planned. What I didn't count on was the radio being damaged during the crash landing. I could get a few words out now and then, but mostly what I transmitted was static. At least, that's all I could hear, so I presumed that's what I was sending.
I saw a small fire on my right side, but after careful inspection, I realized that it was posing no threat to me or the aircraft. Still, I figured it would be better if I got out of the plane. Here was where my luck ran out. I had bounced the plane in a bit when I hit the ground and now the canopy was warped just enough that the door wouldn't pop open like it usually did. It seemed I was stuck inside until help arrive. Help, or the bad guys, whoever got there first. Thank god that fire was no threat!
It wasn't long before I saw dots in the sky to my south. I hoped against hope that it was the rescue force, not an enemy patrol looking for something to shoot. As it turns out, the radio wasn't damaged beyond hope, because I heard the familiar voice of one of my squad-mates telling the rest of the rescue force that he had spotted me and was surveying the area for a place to land. The country road next to the field would make a dandy landing strip.
The rest of the story is pretty much as you describe it except for: A. I was not drunk. I have carried that bottle of scotch on every single mission I have flown in this theater. It must have broken during the crash or been hit by a small arms round. Believe me, I was terribly disappointed to realize that the spot in my crotch was NOT pee. An B, my chute got tangled up in the wreckage after you accidentally pulled the rip chord trying to extract me from the cockpit. If you had let me get out on my own after you pried open the hatch, everything would have been just fine.
As for the trip home, I was beginning to wonder after the third attempt to go back to my crash site whether or not you had popped the cork on your own bottle or something. The medic finally reassured me that you were acting under orders and that if I didn't calm down he would use the rest of the morphine to calm me down. The last thing I remember about that flight was me screaming a string of profanities and then a slight sting in my leg and then a beautiful pasture with a most marvelous little stream running through it and … and … a blonde …
buhdman, out
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Walt (buhdman) Barrow
(formerly lt-buhd-lite)
The Buccaneers - "Return with Honor"
home.earthlink.net/~wjbarrow
