This started off as my latest effort in the 75-word challenge. It isn't quite as I envisaged it, but then they never are, are they? Anyway, here we go:
Homecoming
I almost got through the War. Almost.
I’m a fighter pilot. We have a bad reputation, but people forget one thing; there is a fierce joy in aerial combat, something that hasn’t been felt since the Middle Ages and maybe not then. The feeling that it’s you, your machine and your weapons – and nothing else – up against someone else equipped basically the same. Although this has been said far too often, it’s something like the stories of the knights of old. And the same sort of chivalry exists, too; things like not shooting at a pilot who’s lost and bailed out.
Not everyone feels the wild joy of combat, but I think that it’s those who don’t who die first. To really use your plane, it has to become an extension of your body and you have to like doing it. Sure, we got scared; but it’s the sort of fear that makes you feel more alive than ever. Who was it who said that, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result”?
It was late 1944. Some of us had been fighting for four years, but now the tide had turned and the dangers were different. Mostly, now, a bombing raid was escorted by the new fighters that actually had the range – and all we did was burn petrol and wear out engines, for the Luftwaffe had almost given up. But the flak batteries still had plenty of ammo, and people still died.
On the last raid, my squadron was about to turn back having reached the limits of our range; drop tanks had been dropped, and fuel was just about enough to get back. And then we ran into a heavy flak concentration that must be new for it hadn’t been mapped. Things started getting hairy.
One particular shell burst close that the blast knocked me out for a time. When I came to, I seemed to have somehow got turned around; I was heading roughly west, instead of east, and was out of the flak. I also seemed to have lost my squadron.
Well, I had been about to turn back anyway – so after trying without result to reach my squadron on the radio, I kept on going. I could see the glint of the Channel far in the distance.
After a few minutes of this, I picked up an escort. A very odd one, for I’d never seen this colour scheme on any Allied planes. My escort was a single Spitfire, painted in blinding white, with an even odder pilot. The canopy was pushed back, and the pilot’s unbound long blonde hair was blowing in the slipstream.
Time wore on. The sun sank in the West, and my escort and I reached the coast. Nature was really putting on a show; above me the sky was empyrean blue, with clouds of many colours; flamingo pink, burning orange, carmine red. And far in the West the Sun sat like the bonfire of the Gods. The sea, also, was extraordinary; the colour of molten bronze towards the west, and directly ahead deepest ultramarine. Not at all like the normal grey blanket of the Channel.
My escort waggled its wings, to attract my attention, and turned north. I followed, and very soon afterwards crossed the coast. The land, too, was spectacularly coloured; green as a carpet of emeralds.
And then it was time to descend, and to land. The base was not one I had ever seen before; the roof of the biggest building there, I supposed the hangar, was shiny like polished metal and the building was almost perfectly round. The last rays of the setting sun made it shine the colour of blood.
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The landing went well; in fact, much better than any landing I’d done before – the field must have been as smooth as a stately house’s lawn.
I got a surprise when I rolled to a stop. There was a crowd there to meet me, all in party spirit; people in dishevelled uniforms, clutching tankards and bottles of beer – and a good many of them with one arm around a girl. Something very odd indeed was going on here!
And then I started realising what was going on. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I began to realise there was something going on – when I started seeing people I knew were dead.
My escort pushed her way through the crowd. Very definitely “her”, at that. Blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, statuesque and dressed from head to foot in white leather, with pagan symbols (I thought Norse) picked out in silver on it. This vision finally spoke.
“Welcome. Within there is a feast and many good companions. Will you join us?”
There didn’t seem to be much to say to that, or to do – except to follow the crowd into the hangar, which turned out not to be a hangar at all but a gigantic feasting hall. Inside were tables laden with all the foods that had been in short supply and rationed for years, and many barrels – obviously of ale and such, for people were coming away from them with foaming tankards. There were many girls here, too, and let’s just say that they were friendly.
The hall itself was quite a picture. The roof was held up with many pillars, all made up of gun barrels and aircraft landing gear all welded together – and the roof, high above, was obviously made of aeroplane wings.
It was quite a party. I met many friends I hadn’t seen for years and thought I’d never see again. Eventually, I found a place to sleep it off. Next morning, despite the huge amounts of rich food and strong drink, I felt better than I’d felt in years. And then I finally realised for sure what had happened, when the Tannoy burst into life.
“666th Squadron, Valhalla’s Own – Squadron Scramble!”
Homecoming
I almost got through the War. Almost.
I’m a fighter pilot. We have a bad reputation, but people forget one thing; there is a fierce joy in aerial combat, something that hasn’t been felt since the Middle Ages and maybe not then. The feeling that it’s you, your machine and your weapons – and nothing else – up against someone else equipped basically the same. Although this has been said far too often, it’s something like the stories of the knights of old. And the same sort of chivalry exists, too; things like not shooting at a pilot who’s lost and bailed out.
Not everyone feels the wild joy of combat, but I think that it’s those who don’t who die first. To really use your plane, it has to become an extension of your body and you have to like doing it. Sure, we got scared; but it’s the sort of fear that makes you feel more alive than ever. Who was it who said that, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result”?
It was late 1944. Some of us had been fighting for four years, but now the tide had turned and the dangers were different. Mostly, now, a bombing raid was escorted by the new fighters that actually had the range – and all we did was burn petrol and wear out engines, for the Luftwaffe had almost given up. But the flak batteries still had plenty of ammo, and people still died.
On the last raid, my squadron was about to turn back having reached the limits of our range; drop tanks had been dropped, and fuel was just about enough to get back. And then we ran into a heavy flak concentration that must be new for it hadn’t been mapped. Things started getting hairy.
One particular shell burst close that the blast knocked me out for a time. When I came to, I seemed to have somehow got turned around; I was heading roughly west, instead of east, and was out of the flak. I also seemed to have lost my squadron.
Well, I had been about to turn back anyway – so after trying without result to reach my squadron on the radio, I kept on going. I could see the glint of the Channel far in the distance.
After a few minutes of this, I picked up an escort. A very odd one, for I’d never seen this colour scheme on any Allied planes. My escort was a single Spitfire, painted in blinding white, with an even odder pilot. The canopy was pushed back, and the pilot’s unbound long blonde hair was blowing in the slipstream.
Time wore on. The sun sank in the West, and my escort and I reached the coast. Nature was really putting on a show; above me the sky was empyrean blue, with clouds of many colours; flamingo pink, burning orange, carmine red. And far in the West the Sun sat like the bonfire of the Gods. The sea, also, was extraordinary; the colour of molten bronze towards the west, and directly ahead deepest ultramarine. Not at all like the normal grey blanket of the Channel.
My escort waggled its wings, to attract my attention, and turned north. I followed, and very soon afterwards crossed the coast. The land, too, was spectacularly coloured; green as a carpet of emeralds.
And then it was time to descend, and to land. The base was not one I had ever seen before; the roof of the biggest building there, I supposed the hangar, was shiny like polished metal and the building was almost perfectly round. The last rays of the setting sun made it shine the colour of blood.
[FONT="][/FONT]
The landing went well; in fact, much better than any landing I’d done before – the field must have been as smooth as a stately house’s lawn.
I got a surprise when I rolled to a stop. There was a crowd there to meet me, all in party spirit; people in dishevelled uniforms, clutching tankards and bottles of beer – and a good many of them with one arm around a girl. Something very odd indeed was going on here!
And then I started realising what was going on. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I began to realise there was something going on – when I started seeing people I knew were dead.
My escort pushed her way through the crowd. Very definitely “her”, at that. Blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, statuesque and dressed from head to foot in white leather, with pagan symbols (I thought Norse) picked out in silver on it. This vision finally spoke.
“Welcome. Within there is a feast and many good companions. Will you join us?”
There didn’t seem to be much to say to that, or to do – except to follow the crowd into the hangar, which turned out not to be a hangar at all but a gigantic feasting hall. Inside were tables laden with all the foods that had been in short supply and rationed for years, and many barrels – obviously of ale and such, for people were coming away from them with foaming tankards. There were many girls here, too, and let’s just say that they were friendly.
The hall itself was quite a picture. The roof was held up with many pillars, all made up of gun barrels and aircraft landing gear all welded together – and the roof, high above, was obviously made of aeroplane wings.
It was quite a party. I met many friends I hadn’t seen for years and thought I’d never see again. Eventually, I found a place to sleep it off. Next morning, despite the huge amounts of rich food and strong drink, I felt better than I’d felt in years. And then I finally realised for sure what had happened, when the Tannoy burst into life.
“666th Squadron, Valhalla’s Own – Squadron Scramble!”
