The Spitfire pilots lounged in the sun.
“Hope Jerry has the day off,” said one. “We’ve got the bleedin’ Oldman as flight leader today.”
“We’re hitting the bottom of the barrel, lad, and that’s the plain truth,” said the other. “That old blighter hasn’t even flown a Spitfire in the past few years, so goes the gen. Couldn’t find his own navel, if you ask me.”
“Right you are,” replied the first. “And it’s a fact that he’ll bring us in behind and below any squareheads we do manage to bump into. Aye, and didn’t my mother tell me to stay on the ground where sensible people belong.”
The siren wailed. The two pilots glanced silently at each other, then rose and ran for their planes.
Thanks to TrueKill for organizing last night’s mission. It bore a remarkable similarity to what I’ve read of the real thing. We took off too soon, with no clear idea of where we were headed, ran low on gas and landed for more. Took off again, found ourselves way east of the raid. With judicious adjustment of throttle and RPM we managed to get there with a little fuel, still low and to the rear of the 88s. By odd turnabout, the Hurricanes seemed to have dealt with the escort, so that the Spitfires could work their mayhem. I hope they did, because N7's Ju88 formation sawed off my left wing, and I plunged to earth way after my bed time.
Thanks to The Few who were patient and dedicated enough to follow a leader who obviously had little concept of how to manage things. I had a great time.
- oldman