OT - WWII Fighters - You can call it a gloat....
Hoa Dinh in Union City
>A few days ago there was an intersting thread on WWII P47 Fighter. I have to admit that my woodworking skill, not very good to start with, is still much better than my knowledge of WWII Fighters. Growing up in the war, however, I do have great appreciation for soldiers.
Today I came home when my son David was editing his writing assignment for this month's test (he's homeschooled), "Write a short story of an internal confict." I think it may strike a chord to some of you heros. Here it is, lifted directly from his laptop. Keep in mind that this is by a 11 yr. old seventh grader.
True Courage
Lieutenant Warren Dickwood sat in the cockpit of his Lockheed P-38 Lightning, deafened by the roar of the two huge piston engines on both sides of him. The steam gauges twisted and turned, following the fighter�s movement perfectly. Warren looked out the bubble canopy and twisted his neck. All he could see were the bright, shining sun and the green shapes of other P-38s. His first mission seemed like the training missions he had just taken where he would simply take off, fly around the peaceful countryside, and turn back.
He gave a soft sigh as a fluffy cloud streaked behind him. He remembered what his father had said before he had departed for England to fly with the US Army Air Force. Be brave. Don�t shrink from duty. Remember, Warren, you are fighting for both the lives of your comrades and for the life of democracy. Don�t forget that. His head was still pondering these thoughts when the radio crackled to life with the voice of his flight leader Captain John DeLaine: �Twenty Merschessmitt Bf109s at ten o�clock high. All cleared to engage.�
Waking from his thoughts with a start, Warren twisted his neck left, scanning the skies for planes. A formation of twenty fearsome fighters was roaring down towards him. �Roger�, he replied. �Preparing to engage�. Quickly pressing a few buttons to prepare for the upcoming fight, Warren jerked the stick left and kicked the pedal. The agile fighter banked and turned steeply, its engines roaring in protest. He saw a deadly wall of tracer fire from the fearsome Merschessmitts and dived away from them. He was well aware that one well-placed hit from the Bf109�s powerful cannon could shred his plane to pieces but had forgot that his plane was vastly superior to the Merschessmitts. He saw the 109s dive after him, still firing their guns. The bright yellow tracers flashed above his canopy. A single tracer from one of the 109�s cannons flashed inches away from his wing, whistling like a siren.
Thankful that the lethal shell had missed its mark but still fearful that another could strike, Warren flipped his Lightning inverted, reversed direction, and rolled right-side-up. Pulling the stick to rise, he sped away for his base, away from the deadly hail of death. He felt his heart beating hard. His instinct told him not put himself at a risk, however small, to shoot down an enemy fighter or even to protect his flight leader; he just wanted to go home. With a frantic push of the stick, Warren sent his fighter screaming over the skies, away from the battle, away from the glory and pride of shooting down an enemy plane, away from the happiness of saving a good friend.
Later that day, back at the base and in the mess hall, Warren was eating a sandwich when he came face to face with his flight leader. Captain Delaine was not pleased. He half-angrily and half-frustratingly said, �Lieutenant Dickwood, why did you flee the airspace? You said you would defend your country with bravery and courage at all costs! Bravery, indeed! I got three machine-gun holes in my wing just because you weren�t there to shoot those planes!!!� The furious captain stomped away, not waiting for an answer from the bewildered Warren Dickwood.
That night, Warren lay in bed, thinking about what he should have done. Surely nobody, not even the hardened and strict captain, could expect him to endanger himself! It was then that those quietly but firmly said words came back to him. Be brave. Don�t shrink from duty. Remember, Warren, you are fighting for both the lives of your comrades and for the life of democracy. Don�t forget that. Warren lay there, pondering these words when he understood what he had to do and what he had done. He felt ashamed of and angry at himself. What if the captain had been killed? He had to fight the enemy and help his friends. He could not let them be there, alone, without a protecting comrade. He now understood why his instructor had repeatedly mentioned two-person maneuvers in flight training, why he was part of a four-person squadron instead of a solo flight, why he had been told to always help his leader. He had to move from the peaceful life of a desk job to the toughened job of a soldier.
The next day, Warren took off in the same P-38 Lightning, but this time he had learned what bravery and courage really meant. He would face the enemy, even if it meant being shot down himself. As soon as he heard of enemy Merschessmitts, he slammed the stick towards them and began firing. The high G�s of tight turning pressed Warren against his seat, but he thought of only helping his comrades. As his four machine guns rattled and his single cannon cracked across the sky, he saw one of his friends being tailed by an enemy fighter slipping in from above. He immediately followed, blasting his cannons into the enemy plane until it went up in flames. A surge of joy came into him, for he had saved a comrade.
When Warren came back, Captain DeLaine clapped his hands on Warren�s shoulder and said �Well done and thank you, you have saved me. I hope this will be an example of your future service and courage�.
Warren slowly broke into a smile, and simply said �Thank you for the commendation, sir.� But in his heart he kept these words and understood that even though he had not done much for the military effort, he had helped a friend and saved a life.