Scirocco - Prologue: Desert Wind (page 1)

"It's going to be another hot one Sir," Tillie said as he and his assistant finished replacing the valve cover on the Hurricane's engine. It was hard to imagine, standing there shivering in the dawn twilight,that in only a few hours the temperature in the North African desert would be high enough to fry an egg.

"Indeed, Tillie. Like everyday, huh?" I replied. I smiled up at the mechanic on his scaffold as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned.

"Are you coming to breakfast?"

"Aye, sir. Soon. I just want to finish a few things here." Catching my yawn, he yawned himself then frowned at me for passing it on.

I laughed and waved as I headed off to the mess tent. Thinking of the heat being hot enough to fry eggs reminded me what breakfast was. Dried eggs and spam. Gah. No wonder I was losing weight. The sound the of the morning's air patrol caught my attention momentarily as it echoed softly in the distance. It was a reassuring sound.

I snapped a salute to the flags as I went by the makeshift parade ground, then noticed the Base Chief Warrant Officer bellowing orders to the lads of the Base Defense Force as they went through their weekly BCWO inspection. Even in war there is no escaping the weekly inspection.

There is something awe inspiring about British Regimental Sergeant Majors and Chief Warrant Officers that seems to be missing from their Canadian or American counterparts. No matter how hard they try, the Canucks and Yanks just never quite carry the same level of authority and contempt that a British army RSM does. Especially if he's a Scotsman like CWO McPherson, who at that moment was red faced and cursing "the gods that allowed the birth of..." well you get the point. RSMs and CWOs have a knack for being incredibly abusive without ever being profane. That would be vulgar and, according to CWO McPherson, no RSM/CWO should ever need to be vulgar. It is unbecoming.

I stood and watched the inspection for a few moments, then quickly pulled my hands from my pockets as the BCWO turned to me.

"Good morning Sir!" he bellowed at me in his thick highland lilt. "Are your hands cold this morning? Would you like a pair of wee mittens? I am sure one o' these fine young bunnies can part with a pair".

"G-Good morning Chief," I stammered. As a pilot and Flight Lieutenant, I technically out-ranked him, but there is not a man of any rank, on any base anywhere in the world who does not fear the BCWO. He is the highest ranking non-commissioned officer on the base and HE IS GOD. Even base commanders know where the real power lays.

"The boys are looking sharp this morning," I continued with a weak smile.

"What? This sorry lot of dung slingers?" the BCWO's eyebrows rising in disbelief. "Ha!" He snorted, but gave me a small wink as he turned to hurl more insults at the formation. While he had to keep up appearances, he knew as well as I that these boys had saved our asses and aircraft from German and Italian attacks on more than one occasion. They were tired, hungry and hurting, but they never complained. Morale on this base was still pretty good, even though the war in this part of the world was not going very well.

* * *

I had just about reached the mess tent when the raid bells started clanging.

"They do this on purpose you know. Jerry likes to ruin our breakfast." Johnny had a small tight smile as he turned to run back toward the airstrip. Johnny was probably the base's best Hurricane pilot. This Tennessee bred farm boy, on loan from the US Army Air Corps, had already scored seven kills in his twelve .303 cal gun equipped Hurricane II-B against the far superior Messerschmitt BF109, and had 11 Junkers Ju87 Stuka Dive Bomber's and Heinkel HE11 medium bombers, painted on his fuselage. Nineteen kills in air to air combat.

It's an impressive score.

Scirocco - Prologue: Desert Wind (page 2)

Like me he was just arriving for breakfast after his three hours of sleep, although he was later scheduled for a few hours of Combat Air Patrol, where I was not. His real name was Michael McGregor, but he had earned the nickname "Johnny Walker". JW is the famous Scotch Whiskey from his home state and also his preferred drink.

I perform Close Air Support, better known as ground attack in my Hurricane II-D, so CAPs and Intercepts are not usually part of my routine. Even so, I bolted after him. All aircraft scramble during a raid, including the ones from my squadron. It's not that our tank busting 40mm cannon equipped Hurricanes can do much in an air raid, they can't. They are too slow and too heavy to be effective in a dogfight, but it is considerably worse for them to be on the ground. At least in the air you have a fighting chance.

I found Tillie ashen faced when I reached the maintenance hanger, a look of panic distorting his normally calm features. "We got five planes in the hanger Boss! Five. They can't fly." Usually there is only one plane in the hanger, two at most, but yesterday was a particularly bad day for the base, with three planes lost and nine damaged in combat. Five were still in for repairs, including mine.

The maintenance hangar is one of only a few hard buildings on the base. It was converted from an ancient storehouse with a blown out front. It is where major battle damage repairs and engine overhauls are done.

The Hurricane II-D uses a Rolls-Royce Merlin Mk22 engine rated at 12lbs maximum boost. There is an emergency override that will allow you to take it to 16lbs boost, but it risks engine damage. I had to use emergency power late yesterday afternoon to complete a split-s. The maneuver allowed me to escape a Jerry BF109 that was chopping my bird to shreds, but the aircraft was now in the old storehouse repair hangar for both battle damage and a mandatory engine inspection.

The plane was unserviceable until those repairs were complete, so I was going nowhere. Worse yet, shortly after this recent campaign started resupply of aircraft and spare parts began to slow, and replacements have since become few and far between. We now found ourselves in the somewhat sad and desperate situation of having more pilots than planes to fly. We could not afford to lose any more. These planes were easy targets sitting here grounded. This was not good. I had no desire to be reassigned to the infantry so they had to be protected somehow.

Adrenalin has a way of slowing time. It's the oddest feeling. Everything becomes sharp and focused and people seem to be moving in slow motion. I looked around me as time stood still.

I examined the semi-static gun positions and saw that they were arranged to protect the flight line and CP fairly well, but not the old storehouse. Yet right now that old storehouse was our most valuable asset. Scanning further I saw one of the four mobile M3 Half-Track anti-aircraft guns the Americans had loaned us was positioned in what looked to be an area well covered by other guns.

I turned to Tillie. "Follow me!" I yelled.

I knew we had less than two minutes before the first wave of Stukas arrived. We needed to move that truck and get the M3's guns into a position better suited to defending the makeshift hanger. As Tillie and I ran toward the M3, Stathmore, my wingman, caught up to us. Stathmore was a Canadian who, like so many others, had sailed to England to join the RAF when the war in Europe broke out.

"What do you need me to do?" he yelled as we ran toward the truck.

"See those two big plow tractors?" I pointed further down the flight line and waited for a nod. "Bring them both out to the infield in front of the hanger, about 50 yards out and 10 yards apart," I continued. Stathmore's plane was also in the makeshift repair hangar so he was soon running like the wind, yelling to his mechanic to get the other tractor as he ran.

Tillie and I arrived at the M3 at the same time as its gun crew. I hopped into the driver's seat and fired up the engine as Tillie climbed into the back with the crew, explaining to the confused boys that we were commandeering their vehicle for a higher purpose.

As the half-track lurched forward with a screeching rumble, I watched Johnny and his squadron roar down the runway, their Hurricane II-Bs at full throttle.

Scirocco - Prologue: Desert Wind (page 3)

"I would rather be with you," I muttered under my breath as we turned to position the half-track closer to the makeshift hangar. Once we were in place, the gunnery sergeant hopped out of the back and grabbed my arm as I climbed out of the cab.

"We're sitting ducks out here!" he exclaimed and swept his arm in a manner that emphasized the openness of our current locale. Before I could answer, the two plows rumbled up with Stathmore at the controls of one them, grinning like a fool. I guess being from a big city he had never before driven a tractor, so he seemed to be enjoying himself. I could not help but smile back.

"Where do you want 'em?" he hollered over the noise of their big diesels.

"Put one over here," I yelled back, pointing to the left of the half-track, "and the other one on the other side. Raise the blades up, half way up! Like shields!"

Turning back to the gunnery sergeant I paused and scanned the sky.

"Here they come," I yelled as I pulled the him into the back of the half-track for protection.



Looking at the sergeant again, I pointed to the grounded Hurricanes in the old storehouse. "I know it's open here, but we need to cover those birds. I am hoping that by being here we might cause one or two bombers to stray." I had to talk louder and louder as the scream of the Stuka dive bombers grew. "It's a risk but there is nothing else to do. I am hoping these plows will provide us some additional protection. Maybe they won't, but I got to try."

We both ducked out of instinct as Johnny and his group of II-Bs flew fast and low over our heads, gathering speed to make a quick climb for intercept. "Take your crew and go with Stathmore back to the shelter," I finished, "I'm staying. Just show me how to operate this thing!".

"Not a chance, Sir!" hollered he as he motioned his men to take their positions. "You need us." The words had barely left his mouth when the four .50 caliber heavy machine guns on the truck opened up in their distinctive "brakabrakabrak" sound. I turned to see the tracers streaking upward toward a Stuka that was already in its dive. The Stuka was forced to maneuver to avoid getting hit and his bombs went well wide of the hanger.

Johnny must have noticed what we were doing; hence his low pass directly over us. I felt a little better knowing that he was up there looking out for us. It was a joy to watch him pounce on the Stuka after it was forced to dodge the M3's .50s, and an even bigger joy watching it crash. Johnny must have damgaged the Stuka's elevators as it never even made an attempt to pull up.

The base was only a few days old, yet the Germans seemed to know exactly where and what to hit, and they hit in force. While short lived, the bombing was intense and the fighting fierce. The raid only lasted a few minutes but it seemed to go on forever. Tillie and I kept scanning the sky, trying to identify only the immediate threats to us or to the hanger.

I have to give credit to the American gun crew as they somehow managed to listen to both me and Tillie, and followed our sometimes overlapping directions. While we in the M3 got no kills of our own, the gun had the desired effect. It forced the Stukas to abort their runs on the hanger to avoid being hit or reposition to try to attack us directly. In either case, Johnny or one of his wingmen seemed to be always there to take the offender on as we drove them off.



As the Stukas left and the returning Hurricanes landed, a stunned silence fell across the base. Smoke rose from dozens of fires and very few tents were left standing. The hangar, luckily, never took a hit. Not one. All five planes, though now covered in dirt and debris, were otherwise intact. We lost no aircraft, pilots or ground crew that morning. The two plows will have to be buried among the honored war dead though, as they were both shot up beyond repair. They managed to take the brunt of the hits away from the M3, and luckily only one of the gun crew was lightly wounded.

Thank God for small miracles.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P1

"The day is not over yet," said the base's commander as he paced slowly up and down in front of the large map of North Africa in the briefing area. Group Captain Arnold W. Shewsbarry-Gee III. Honored. Decorated. Old-school. A man of principle. A man of character. He is well respected and has earned his place among his men; he will not ask a private to fill his bunker's sand bags, he does it himself.

"This morning's fun was only Jerry's way of making sure we were paying attention," he continued in his usual soft-spoken and refined manner. "As some of you may know, Rommel has been recalled to Germany." He had to pause as cheering drowned out his voice. He waved his hands to get the gathered pilots to quiet down while Wing Commander Freeman, the base 2IC (Second In Command), handed out some photographic prints containing fuzzy pictures of a tank. They were obviously taken from a gun camera.

"Back in December, Germany deployed a new heavy tank to Africa called the Tiger," the GC continued. "Its front armor is impenetrable to our 75mm Anti-Tank rounds. Its side armor will stop the round if its range is more than 500 yards. While it's a slow and lumbering beast... what was it Avi, 25 mph?..." he did not wait for a confirmation from the WC before continuing, "and very prone to mechanical breakdown, it is devastating when it engages our units with its 88. One Tiger tank crew has reportedly been responsible for nearly a dozen of our own armored units lost, including two Churchill and one Sherman tank." The Group Captain paused his slow pacing and looked up at us, scanning each of our faces. There was definite concern in his.

"Even though the tank has been here a few months, its been mostly absent from the the battle field in any number. Until today. This will be the first encounter with it for many of you." He again paused as the pictures were being passed amonst the men. Low murmurs of conversation filled the space as the pilots discussed the pictures.

The Group Captain let us have a few moments to ourselves then continued on. "The Italian 1st Army, which includes remnants of the Afrika Corps is now under the overall command of the Italian, General Messe, with direct command of the AK by the German, General Von Arnim. They are fighting back," he said as the group fell silent again. "They have started a new counter-offensive to try to push us back, probably to give themselves some breathing room to regroup. We are not certain at this time what their objective actually is. What we do know is they have orders not to surrender. They are to win at all costs."

The shock of that news resulted in another murmur of conversation. "This has been a grave cause for concern. Early this morning forward units of the 8th Army were ambushed by well entrenched and fortified units of the German 15th Panzerarmee," he said tapping on the map for emphasis.

"Now then, a sizable pocket of our boys are cut off and surrounded near Gabes and Jerry is chewing them to pieces," he said, stress causing his voice to tighten, "Lads. The quest is no longer one of victory for the boys. It is one of survival. They have found themselves in a rather dire pickle and they need our help. We are going to give them that help, by George!"

He paused a moment as a truck passed by. Loose equipment was bouncing around in the back, and it was making a lot of noise as it went over bumps. I looked over to where the BCWO was sitting and saw him making a note. I had to smile a bit. There was just no escaping the BCWO's notice and I pitied the lads in the truck. My musings ended when the GC began to describe the Allied Forces intentions for the upcoming battle.

"We will be working in support of ground elements from the 8th army in a coordinated relief effort. A simultaneous assault by armor and air will punch a hole in their southern line and provide a back door for our troops." He pointed to the middle of eastern Tunisia, near the Libyan border, on the map with his omni-present riding whip. "Once freed, the trapped units will be moving fast. They will be abandoning most of their equipment and using only what they need to escape."

The GC's eyes took on a hard look. "For this show, we're going to try to Blitzkrieg the Germans... do to them what they have been doing to us. Hit them fast, hit them hard. Never give them time to think or respond." The GC took off his pith helmet and balanced it on the corner of the map stand. Running his hands over his head to smooth his hair, the GC walked over to where the Wing Commander was seated and rested his hand on the WC's shoulder.

"Wing Commander Freeman and I will be briefing each of your Squadron Leaders on the details and they will of course brief the rest of you. I just wanted you all to hear it from me just how important this mission is. It must not fail."

With that the Group Captain stood strait and still, and gave a slight nod. "That will be all".

Wing Commander Freeman stood, turned and called us to attention. With a sharp command he dismissed us to go prepare.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P2

"What's the "Gee" in the GC's name mean anyway?" Johnny asked as we walked back toward the flightline. At 07:30 it was already hot. We were both talking our flight jackets off and loosening our ties and buttons now that the cool of the night was gone.

"Um, 'Son Of'" I answered, "Like a 'Mac' or an 'O'. It's a Welsh thing I think... not positive though."

"Huh," was all Johnny had to say on the subject. We walked quietly for a few moments, as we headed for our aircraft and ground crew stations.

"So how's your bird looking?" he asked, eventually breaking the silence. I was so deep in my own thoughts it actually startled me a bit.

"Tillie says it's as good as new. There should be no reason to miss the takeoff." I grinned while Johnny pursed his lips in thought.

"I am going to make ten today," he said after a short pause.

He scratched the stubble on his chin and went on. "The BF109 I got this morning makes it eight fighters. If it gets as crazy out there today as I expect, then I should be able to bag two more, don't you think?" He looked at me with an odd, cold smile. I could imagine that smile on his face when he was in a dogfight. It would well match the cold precision of his attacks. He and his wingmen were becoming local heroes; they had the highest kill-board score of any wing.

"No doubt," I replied. If there was any Hurricane pilot who could do it, it was Johnny. I looked at the various types of aircraft on the flight line then looked back at Johnny. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a little concerned about these new tanks."

"The Tiger?"

I nodded. "How are we going to stop them?" I asked, sounding a bit more earnest than I wanted, but not more than I felt. "If 75s bounce off what are our lousy 40s going to do?"

The smile left Johnny's face, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I dunno," he said grimly. "You probably won't even dent 'em." He stopped mid-stride and looked at me intently. "You know I got your back? I'll try to keep your topside clear." He paused a moment, looking intently up toward the sky with a bright fire in his eyes. Then, as fast as it came, the look was gone. It was the oddest thing.

"Everything has a weakness," he continued calmly a moment later. "Find theirs then kill the bastards. But if you can't, well, just try to stay alive."

With that he turned and walked toward his own plane's spot on the flightline. Strange boy, I thought to myself as I watched his receding back. Try to stay alive? Heh. That was a given.

* * *

I found Tillie buried in the access panel behind the cockpit of my Hurricane, which was, much to my chagrin, still in the makeshift hangar.

"What's going on?" I asked, trying hard not to make it sound like an accusation. "I thought you said it would be fixed by now."

"Looks like a stray bit of shrapnel caught the radio sir. We're replacing some parts. Should be good as new shortly," Tillie answered, his voice partially echoed by the radio compartment.

Tillie is an Aussie. He is also one of the better mechanics around. He has managed to keep this and many other planes flying on nothing but spit and bailing wire. He has found ways to improve the performance and cooling of the Merlin engine and given all of us an added edge in combat. I'm sure a regular Hurricane would not have survived the trip home yesterday, and even after my abuse there was less damage to my engine than one might have thought.

"Come 'ere a sec sir, I want to show you something," he said as he finished fastening the access panel back onto the fuselage. Leading me toward the Vickers gun pod under the port wing of the plane, he bent down and shuffled under the wing.

"See this here panel sir?" he asked, pointing to an area beside the pod on the wings under-surface. I nodded and he continued. "Well, just to the other side of that is the ammo for the gun. Me and my lads was taking a look at it and we realized, with a couple of modifications, we might be able to give you a few more rounds for your cannons."

He suddenly stopped. "What the...?" Reaching down he picked a wrench out of the dirt near the wheel.

"Oye!" He yelled under the wing to where the other mechanics were working on the damaged cargo door of a Curtis C-46 transport. "What did I tell you boys about leaving the tools laying around? S'truth! Someone is gonna get killed if a prop throws this on runup!" A runup is when they tie the tail down and run the engines at full throttle for a test. Tillie tossed the wrench over the tail of the Hurricane and it landed back on the workbench to a chorus of "Sorry Tillie!" from the men.

"Crikey," he said in exasperation, shaking his head sadly.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P3

"Sorry about that Sir." He turned and looked back up at me. "Anyway, it would mean leaving a couple of small panels off, but we might be able to squeeze four or five extra in, bringing your total to maybe 20 rounds a gun. It'll probably slow you down a bit, but it sounds like you may need all the fire power you can get."

He grabbed the gun barrel and used it to help straighten up. Tillie took his cap off and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stood looking at the wing for a moment longer.

"We have already planned out the mods," he continued while replacing his cap and moving behind the tail to the other side. I followed him around back while he pointed to the other gun. "It will only take ten or fifteen minutes to accomplish."

"For both?" I asked.

Tillie nodded. "I just need your permission to make 'em and test the guns."

"Granted," I said. "Get set up while I clear it with the Squadron Leader. Try to rig something up to cover those panels if you can, we're going with a light fuel load and any extra drag will hurt us."

"Yes Sir." Tillie always called me "Boss" in front of other pilots or in private, but always "Sir" in front of the enlisted men. I don't really know why.

Half an hour later came the "bup bup bup" sound of the live fire test. Tillie's crew used a Hurricane that was too damaged to be ready for the battle today. At least that way if the test failed and something broke, nobody's serviceable plane would be affected.

In all, three complete tests were carried out. Five extra rounds turned out to be a bit optimistic, but Tillie did manage to squeeze in two more per gun that would reliably fire. While this may not seem like a lot, when you only have 15 rounds per gun to start with, an additional two rounds is more than welcome. Half an hour after the tests all the remaining IIds on the line had the mods and extra load installed. He even managed to get the panels back on.

* * *

While Tillie was busy testing and then applying the mods to the rest of the II-D fleet, we were being briefed on the upcoming mission by the Squadron Leader. At 10:30 local time, we were to depart to engage a column of Tigers that would be moving in advance of a larger column of armor heading to reinforce Von Arnim's noose and prevent any escape by the allied forces.

We would be supporting elements of the 8th Army armored divisions to cut off this reinforcement. Once that column was destroyed the 8th army would turn back north. There was a pocket of allied light armor trapped between the German advance and a cliff face to the west and north. A weakness in the German lines had provided an avenue of escape to the south if it could be exploited.

"So to summarize, Stathmore's and your wings will be covered by Johnny's II-Bs. Now, we all know Von Arnim is not a complete dummy. He may have a surprise or two waiting in anticipation of such a move by us. Von Arnim's Tigers and their support will be moving fast. They will not likely be where we plan on them being." The Squadron Leader looked as worried as we felt. "The reality is the bulk of our forces are engaged elswhere and will not be able to get there in time to stop the German and Itialin reinforcements. We are pretty much on our own."

From the latest recon photos the SL gave us, it appeared that we were quite seriously outnumbered and outgunned, but if those reinforcments were not stopped, the trapped divisions wiould surely be destroyed. It seemed like it would take a miracle to even survive this, let alone succeed.

We were to spend the next couple of hours preparing for the battle. It may seem strange that a rescue would take so long to get organized, but the reality was, the trapped divisions we were going to help rescue were relatively secure and were in a reasonably defensible position for the moment. They simply could not break out. Fortunately, neither could the Germans break in. Once we had killed the reinforcements, we were to end that stalemate; in our favor.

The extra weight and drag that both the guns and the engine dust filters produced shortened the range of the Hurricane considerably, so we were waiting until the reinforcing columns were a bit closer before moving out. This would hopefully to give us a bit more time over the battlefield.

Even still, it was going to be tight. We were not going to use auxiliary fuel tanks to extend our range. The hurricanes were already at a disadvantage against the far more maneuverable German aircraft, so we all wanted to arrive to the battlefield as light as possible to keep our own maneuverability up.

From the rumors coming back from the front lines, it looked like the axis powers (the Germans and Italians) were in a total retreat but were fighting fiercly, like a cornered animal. This made them dangerous. As is often the case for any warrior before a fight, the pilots engaged in the usual pre-combat routine. Some of the men wrote last letters to their loved ones, others sat silently and prayed. Me? I helped Tillie clean the gun barrels on some of the other aircraft to keep my mind off the coming battle.

For Johnny, I think the only thing he really cares about is the score. During the lull before the flight, he just lay on his wing tip, whistling a soft tune and soaking up the sun. How he could stand the heat was beyond me, but he seemed to thrive here. I guess those Tennessee fields get pretty toasty in the summer so maybe he is used to it. I watched him as he lay there whistling awhile. His head and eyes were making the slightest movements and I realized he was replaying past dog fights back in his head, analyzing them like a chess master would a past game. He noticed my gaze and flashed me that cold smile again.

"Ten," was all he said and closed his eyes.

At 09:15 we were strapped in and warming up the engines in preparation for takeoff. The 8th army had already engaged the forward column of Tigers and had taking a beating, so we were moving early. The noise from a 12 cylinder Merlin engine with straight exhaust manifolds is rather profound, but to a seasoned Hurricane pilot it was music. It's a tough and sturdy engine that survives a lot of damage. I sat there feeling the slow throb soothe my tired muscles. In another time it might even begin to lull me to sleep. This feeling would not last though. Once I throttle up the relaxing throb becomes a bone numbing scream. When that happens, everybody for a mile around is suddenly wide awake.

Tillie finished the last of his pre-flight check and with a final tug at my harness to make sure it was tight (any tighter and he would be breaking bones) he climbed down off the wing. With a thumbs-up and a quick salute, he pulled the wheel chocks and I began my taxi to the strip.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P4

I felt ill. Fear was playing with my insides in a way I did not much like. My hands were slick inside their gloves, tension making my palms sweat. War plane pilots and flight crew do not often die quickly, but get to watch their impending death for a very long time. If they survive, massively broken legs, internal injuries and severe burns are the most common injuries. A lifetime of pain is all you have to look forward to after that.

This morning's raid on the base was so fast there was no time to get scared. Sitting in the cockpit waiting to fly was a different story. I shook my head to clear it. I figured I had better get it together and control myself or I was surely going to make a mistake that would cost me my life. As I ticked off the items on the pre-flight checklist I was soon distracted enough to forget the fear and focus on the job at hand.

The Hurricane is a simple aircraft and the checklist was completed all too soon. Because the fighter version of the Hurricane flown by Johnny and his mates had greater speed and range than the attack version I was flying, Johnny and his wing were to launch first and take up station over the airfield as a protective measure while we rolled into position for take-off.



"Off we go, lads!" The Squadron Leaders voice crackled over the radio. "Check your barometers. Jerry is a lot further away than we first planned, so watch your fuel."

I wiped the endless dust from the inside of the windscreen once again. The desert heat was way too extreme to leave the canopy closed, so the dust kicked up by the huge props covered everything, inside and out. It was insidious and nasty but the sun made it a necessary evil. The other choice was heat stroke in a cockpit that was 175 degrees. Even with the canopy slid fully back, it was incredibly hot and my legs felt on fire. I could not wait to get in the air.

As our escorts finished their takeoff and proceeded to their rendezvous point, Stathmore and I rolled into position and waited for the clearance flag from the controller. In peacetime, this part of the flight, the takeoff, would be filled with anticipation and excitement. In a war torn dust bowl, it is a living hell. The heat, noise, dust, and danger all combine to make life such a miserable experience that it is hard to imagine. The pleasure you might have experienced when flying a lazy Sunday tour is instead a feeling filled with terror.

The Hurricane is a fairly well behaved plane on takeoff, the gear is wide set and the wings provide pretty decent lift. Cockpit visibility is actually good for an aircraft with traditional "tail dragger" landing gear, thanks mostly to the slim, sloping nose. The main thing to consider is not stalling a wingtip on take-off as the tip will drop fast, followed by the sickening screech of the ground meeting metal in places it was not designed to meet. Damage will likely occur and an accident is a good possibility. An "accident" is the RAF's polite way of saying crash.

With over 1200 horsepower and a very large three bladed prop there is a tendency for the aircraft to want to roll or twist in the direction of the spin of the prop. This is called torque induced roll. To further complicate matters, when an aircraft is on the ground, the roll induced by torque will be prevented from occurring by the landing gear. This is good. But, as we all know from high school physics, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

As the force is transmitted to the landing gear, the gear of course resists this motion. Because the energy has to go somewhere, it is redirected into a yaw, or turn in the direction opposite to the spin, much like if you were to re-direct one of the axis on a gyroscope. Needless to say this makes taking off somewhat more difficult than you might at first guess. We compensate for this by using a "trim" tab on the rudder that is adjustable from the cockpit prior to flight.

Now add the dust. The dust while sitting waiting for takeoff was one thing, the dust kicked up by the aircraft taking off is another. If there is a little wind, then sometimes the dust clears enough to see the whole runway. Most of the time there is no wind and I think it is only an act of God that has kept a disaster from occurring. The second group is usually somewhat blind and has to trust that the planes ahead of them have taken off fine. You are never really 100 percent sure, though. The desert camouflage paint scheme on the Hawkers works too well sometimes.

If the dust blinds you momentarily on takeoff, it is really easy to become disoriented and it will happen very fast. I have had to learn to force myself to maintain a steady hand, watch my attitude indicators and not react to false perceptions of changes to the aircraft's attitude that I think I feel "in the seat of my pants".

The compulsion to correct for the feeling can be overwhelming, but often if you do you will make a mistake that could cost you your life. You have no time to recover from a mistake and the Hurricane can accelerate to pretty high speeds very quickly so every takeoff in dusty conditions is fraught with significant risk.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P5

When I'm finally wheels off, I then have to consider getting the landing gear up, resetting the rpm and boost for climb. Once the gear is up I need to readjust the trim so the aircraft is tuned to be neutral in flight. On occasion, when there is MEs and FWs buzzing around, my attention is often distracted by them and the aircraft might not be trimmed as well as it should be right away. It's a hazard of the trade I guess.

There was no wind at all that morning, so we had to close the canopies just prior to take off or risk being sand blasted by the prop wash. It gets hot in the pit faster than you can imagine and, even with my goggles on, grimy, salty sweat was soon stinging my eyes. Days like today were incredibly hard on the engine's air filters. The dust clogs them so fast that as much as 20 percent power can be lost if the engine stays too long in the dust cloud. Because of this, take-offs are usually fast and distance from the plane in front short, even without the extra motivation provided by the risk of Jerry dropping bombs on us.

The reality of the dangers present during takeoff and the threat of combat is always there in the back of my mind. These things do sort of take the fun out of flying.

Sort of. It's not all bad. There are perks.

* * *

Once the gear is up and the plane in a stable climb, I slide the canopy back and get some fresh air. The temperature cools considerably the further you are from the ground and it is a welcomed relief from the heat below. Feeling the wind blowing on my face and seeing the wide open skies a sense of freedom, belonging and purpose fills me, and for a short while I forget about the coming battle. Up here everything makes sense, I can see where it all fits. Even the ant-like people scurrying and hurrying below seem more real somehow.

Stathmore joined on my wing and we climbed to 1500 feet as we headed for the rendezvous point. I scanned the skies and located Johnny and the rest of the fighter cover heading for the one of the few clouds present in the sky. Ideally our escort wing would stay hidden in cloud banks to try to take any attacking Germans by surprise from above. Unfortunately the desert does not often have a lot of cloud banks so most often it becomes a matter of trying to position themselves to intercept incoming German fighters or to get to any place in the attack formation quickly if the Germans catch us off-guard. It is a damn big sky and you would be amazed at how small things really are on this planet. An attacking plane will remain unseen until it is almost upon you unless you have a lot of strong eyes constantly scanning the sky for threats.

Twenty four attack planes joined formation at the rendezvous and banked west toward the Initial Point, which is where we turn and start our attack run from. The IP was about 160 miles away so the flight there would take almost an hour.

The dust filters and gun pods created so much drag and extra weight the Hurricane IId cruising speed was less than 180mph at 1500 feet. We would have enough fuel to get there, but it would not leave us with a lot of time over the battlefield. Fuel consumption during combat maneuvers is exponentially higher than during cruise, so I guessed it would leave maybe ten minutes for attack and escape with a ten minute margin of error. I shifted my weight around a bit and settled in for a long flight.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P6

An hour in the cramped space of a fighter plane's cockpit causes me to begin to stiffen up. Being stiff is not very helpful in combat, where fast reaction times and pilot survivability correlate, so I try to do as much stretching and exercising as I can within the limits of the cockpit during the flight. There is not really a lot of room to move around much, but compared to the Messerschmitt BF109 cockpit I saw, we have it easy. Those were tight quarters.

At about the 100 mile mark we picked up a strong, dusty headwind. It stayed with us for more than 15 minutes, but eventually the wind dropped off and we could at least get back to normal cruise speed. This made me happy. My tail bone was falling asleep. I tried to shift and wiggle some more.

Tillie likes to make sure the seat harness is really tight. I guess he fears I will fall out of the plane or something, but when they are this tight it makes it near impossible to move and my shoulders were starting to ache. On a shorter flight I don't not mind, but 'tight' was not working well for me on this flight. I unlocked the Sutton Harness and breathed a sigh of relief. I just hoped I could get it locked again when I entered combat.

The headwind had not just slowed us down, it had caused fuel consumption problems as well. We had needed to add throttle to compensate for the drag the head wind added, which of course burned more fuel. Worse yet, the dust carried by the wind clogged the filter even more, which resulted in a further loss of efficiency.

We were under radio silence until we reached the IP, so Wing Commander Freeman used hand signals to tell his wingman to enter into economy cruise mode. His wingman relayed the message to the next in line and eventually the whole flight had dropped its rpm to 2400 and reduced boost to 4lbs.

This lowered our fuel consumption considerably, however it came at the expense of speed, or more precisely, time. We now risked being late and not coordinating our attack effectively with the waiting ground forces. Maintaining speed, though, would virtually guarantee that we would not make it home and we would have to ditch our planes in the desert. Not a happy thought.

As the IP approached, time had the opposite effect it had when on the ground during this morning's raid. Now it was moving too fast. There seemed to be no time to really prepare. I was not ready. I did not want to die therefore... I did not want to be here. I would very much liked to have been somewhere else. Anywhere else.

* * *

"Tally ho boys," came the cry across the radio. "Eight Jerry fighters, ten o'clock, at 6000."

I looked up to see four of our ten escort planes break off the main group and dive southwest. Looking toward where they were heading I could not see anything, but as Johnny's wing was a lot higher than us, they had a much greater overall range of view. I relocked the Sutton harness, grimacing a bit as it chaffed a sore spot on my shoulder.

Ho boy, I thought to myself, four Hurricanes against eight vastly superior German fighters; likely either the Messerschmidt BF109s, or the FockeWolfe 190s. It was suicide. What were we doing here? This is stupid. I wondered if Johnny was one of the four. I hoped so, at least then it wouldn't be a slaughter.

"Six more, one o'clock," came another call. "Four Heinkel 11's, two o'clock high."

Crap, it keeps getting worse. Fourteen fighters against ten, that still leaves four to attack us, and four bombers free to make a run on our own tanks. We're not exactly equipped to dogfight or intercept. There was no real expectation that our escort fighters would be able to thin out the German defensive fighters much, they were simply too outclassed. The goal was to keep defenders engaged long enough for us to complete our run without having to dodge both flak and intercepting aircraft. With the odds in their favor, and German bombers in range that seemed not very likely to happen.

As we reached the IP, we turned on our gun cameras (they are the only way to confirm a kill), illuminated the gun sight reticule, and set the master switch to arm the big 40mm cannons strapped under the wings. The trigger is not a trigger per se, but a button on the top of the throttle lever that you press with your thumb. There is a second button on the top loop of the control stick that is used to fire the machine guns on the IIbs or the aiming guns on the II-D.

We take very short bursts with the cannons. With only 15 rounds in a gun that fires 100 rounds a minute, well, you can imagine how quickly you run out. The recoil is violent and the entire aircraft shakes like a struck gong on each shot. Worse yet, prolonged firing risks slowing the plane considerably, which increases your chances of being shot down, also considerably.

Stathmore and I were in the third wave. The WC and the first wave would attempt to make a coordinated attack run focusing on the German Anti-Aircraft defenses. They would then break off while the second wave pressed in to maintain the pressure and probe the armor itself for weaknesses.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P7

Ordinarily we would be in the second wave and would attack the weaker elements in the column, like some of the lighter Panzer tanks and self-propelled artillery, that being what our guns are best for. The 60lb warhead, 3" rocket equipped Hurricane II-As would take on the slow moving heavy armor in the third wave, then the entire group would retreat and the process would start again. We normally make between three to five passes depending on the situation and the courage (or stupidity as the case may be) of the flight's leader.

This time we were trying a new tactic. We would run in flights of four, with the two leads being in 40mm cannon equipped Hurricanes, and their wingmen having the big 3" rockets. All efforts were to be focused on the Tiger tanks as they were the real threat to the trapped allies. Secondary targets were to be ignored.

While we called the formations "waves", in reality each wave was hard on the heels of the other, and battle was engaged almost simultaneously by everybody. Miraculously the escort fighters were holding their own against their German counterparts. The aircraft we were flying may have been "seasoned", but so were the pilots flying them. Our boys made the less experienced German pilots pay dearly for their youth.

Confidence goes a long way toward keeping you alive in situations like a war. Often it's hesitation and indecision that kills you, so we were all sort of buoyed and emboldened by the realization that we could focus a bit more attention on the armor below and not the fighters above. I guess we got lucky, because if the skill of the German pilots had been of a caliber similar to our own, the battle would probably have been over already.

Watching the WC and his 'Wave One Specialists' or WOS, as they're affectionately called, always sent a small thrill down my spine. The WOS were a handpicked group of fearless individuals who like to smile while looking death in the face. Their job was to kill AA. When not in combat, they did nothing else but practice intricate and flowing patterns out of a "coach's play book" that the WC had developed. The "plays" were designed in such a way, and they worked so well together in combat, that it seemed there was always a plane on top of every AA gun emplacement within seconds. It was like a mesmerizing dance at times.

The WC liked to go in with the WOS as it gave him an idea of overall battlefield conditions right from the beginning. His battle commands were always accurate and well informed thanks to this. Avner "Avi" Freeman, 26, is an American from New York City who joined the RAF in 1940, prior to America's entry into the war. He was Jewish and had relatives living in many parts of Europe and Palestine. He had heard news of atrocities in Germany and Poland and wanted to fight back. His talents as a tactician were soon discovered and he rose quickly through the ranks. It is assumed by many that he will not likely go any higher than WC as he is not a British citizen or subject. I suspect it's because he is Jewish. I hope I and they are both wrong.

The Wave One Specialists were doing their usually spectacular job, but there was more than twice the AA defenses than recon had led us to believe would be present. Maybe this was the surprise the Squadron Leader mentioned. There simply weren't enough WOS planes to suppress this level of anti-aircraft fire. The sweat that was covering my body was no longer due to the heat; it was now cold. This was going to be a rough ride.

* * *

"Nine," crackled Johnny's voice in my earphones. A grim sort of satisfaction gripped my heart and I nodded to myself. Good, he was still alive and killing Jerrys. I did not have a lot of time to watch the dog fights above us, nor was I paying much attention to the radio chatter. I was intent on listening for orders and taking stock of the combat situation in front of me. The WC had made a first pass and was now directing each of our individual flights of four aircraft to specific targets. Stathmore and I lined up on a row of Tigers near the back of the line and began our run.

Usually we would have come in lower and then popped up to do our attack, but geography in this region prevented that. It was going to be a flat run followed by a shallow dive. We were going to lay two or three round on each of our targets and then check the results.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P8

As the Tiger tank came into range, I popped of a couple of rounds and noted their total lack of effect. High Explosive (HE) rounds did not even scar the armor on the tank and the hardened steel alloy Armor Piercing (AP) rounds just bounced off. This was futile. I could only hope Stathmore's rockets would have better penetration. His rockets used "shaped charges" that are designed to focus the explosion of the warhead into a jet like stream that will blow a hole through the armor. These did not work either, and the tanks just kept lumbering on.

As we turned for a second pass, our "free run" ticket was canceled; some of the ME's had broken away from the dogfights and turned their attention on us. I only discovered this as I watched small holes appear on my right wing. There was no sound, no flashes of light, just the appearance of a series of holes.

Now, I do not know how other people react to being shot at, but I react in the following way: It annoys me. Profoundly.

Being jumped by a fighter from above and behind scares me so badly that fear turns, not so much to anger but into contempt. Pure disgust. Almost like it's a personal violation. I do recognize this is an odd attitude to have I suppose, as I would do what Jerry does if I was in their position. But, still it does not stop the profound annoyance I feel when it occurs, nor the desire for payback.

"Son of a...!" I exclaimed as I witnessed the new design the German pilot was stitching into my aircraft. As I had nowhere to go but up, that's exactly what I did. With a kick of the rudder and punch on the throttle I yawed out of my bank and rolled into a steep climb. The German's next burst missed the wing as I twisted about the aircrafts axis. This maneuver is somewhat dodgy as I risk entering into a stall that I cannot recover form at this altitude. The problem is anything else would have left me fully absorbing the German's next gun burst.

Sure enough, as I reached the apex of my odd rolling, climbing twist, the airspeed bled off too much and the left wing began to fall. Of course the carburetted Merlin engine was not happy with this situation either, the odd angle and sudden negative G force causing the engine to stumble.

I throttled back and pulled the stick hard toward me. The Hurricane's already nose-high attitude was such that traditional stall recovery would probably put me into the ground or slow me so much that the German fighters would pick me off like a fish in a barrel. I hoped I had enough momentum to drop over backward, letting gravity grab the nose and pull me along with it. It would leave me in an inverted position, but there was no way the German on my six would be able to stay with me.

Unfortunately, I lost too much energy in the maneuver. While the recovery had sort of executed as expected, the stall continued too long and the nose fell until I was pointing almost straight down.

Then the craziest thing happened.

As the nose settled and the aircraft gathered speed, the top of a Tiger came directly into my reticle ring and stayed there. It was a perfect shot. Even though I was probably about to die in a horrible crash, I figured "what the hell". I pressed the trigger and held it there, some crazy nonsense about going down in a blaze of glory and all that crossing my mind.

To my amazement the rounds penetrated the top deck of the tank body near the radiators and it began to smoke. I was so surprised by what I was seeing that I completely forgot about my dire predicament for a moment. I watched what seemed to be a series of small flashes and then the tank lit up in a spectacular explosion.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P9

As shrapnel from the blast blew chunks out of my windscreen, prop and wings, the importance of what I was seeing dawned on me. So did the importance of attending the job at hand, which was trying to get this aircraft flying and not falling. It might be a good idea to avoid the rising fireball as well. I needed to buy myself enough time to relay the discovery about the tanks weak spot back to the rest of the group. I franticly fought the plane while yelling over and over into the radio mic, trying to communicate something sensible in the seconds I had left before the plane went in.

I think the momentary distraction I had when I noticed the tank going up may well have saved my life. I had lingered a bit longer in that straight down attitude without trying to fight it, which probably gave me a bit more speed. A few moments before impact, and just as the Hawker was about the be engulfed by the fireball, the plane began to fly again and I regained some control.

There really was no way to save the plane. There was no escaping that reality. I was way too low and way too steep to recover. Maybe, though, just maybe I could prevent myself from going straight into the ground. I applied a small amount of elevator and right rudder to try to flatten the plane. It worked and I managed to get the aircraft almost flat and it was moving faster forward than it was down as I hit. Remarkably, the plane held together and I skidded and bounced along the desert floor with out breaking up. I just prayed nothing caused me to flip. If I flipped now I would surly die a horrible burning death.

Thankfully, the aircraft stayed on its belly. Once the plane settled I knew I had to find cover and get away from these tanks and this battlefield as fast as I could. There was the very real risk of getting caught in the crossfire or, perhaps even worse, I could be captured. Neither of those was an acceptable outcome in my mind.

I released my seat and chute harness, then reached up to grab the windscreen frame to help climb out of the cockpit. I intended to make a run for an outcropping of rocks about 500 meters to my south.

* * *

Not going to happen.

As I started to pull myself up out of the seat, it felt like someone suddenly slammed me in the tail bone with a sledge hammer, and I dropped back into the seat with a gasp of pain. The force of the crash impact must have hurt my back. The shock of the impact must have dulled both the pain and the realization that a human being is not going to simply get up and walk out of a plane that just hit the ground at a hundred miles an hour.

As the shock wore off, the pain arrived. I could barely breathe and my legs were becoming numb. I laid my head back against the headrest, closed my eyes for a few moments and tried to catch my breath.

I could not stay here. The sun was already turning the cockpit pit into an oven. I would be a pork roast in no time. As I opened my eyes and looked out the dusty and now cracked windscreen, I began to make out the blurry, gray outline of a large, troop carrying Panzewagen driving right toward my position.

Aww, for Chr... Geeze... It was Jerry. Great, not only was I going to spend my life crippled, I was going to be doing so as a Nazi POW. The gods hate me sometimes, I swear.

The Panzerwagen turned to a cloud of dust and disappeared.

Odd.

I must have pondered this event for what seemed a lifetime. What just happened? Was it a mirage? A ghost? Was I seeing things; not seeing things? Had I blocked it out in my fear, refusing to acknowledge the coming doom? Then, accompanied by a roar, the entire aircraft shook with the force of the passing Hurricane that was no more than 20 feet off the desert floor.

Stathmore! Bless your heart man!

As his Hurricane passed over and climbed out it was joined on its wing by two other Hurricanes, one of which rolled into formation in a way that could only be Johnny. Stathmore must have seen me go in and my wingman was now checking to see if I was still alive. He had killed the German half-track to make sure I had time to get away if I was. My heart filled with such profound joy and gratitude I knew I had to show them I was OK. I had to get out of the crashed Hurricane and try to move toward our force's lines. Stathmore gave me a chance, I intended to take it.

I wish I could say I heroically gathered my strength, climbed out of the cockpit and walked back to my lines. That is not what happened. I gathered my strength alright, but the climb out was so painful and took such an effort that tears were rolling down my face by the time I finally got enough of me out of the cockpit so that I could slide onto the wing. It took even more tears of effort to then slide off the wing and down onto the desert floor. I laid there sobbing and nauseous for a while, grateful nobody was there to witness my lack of composure.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P10

I was feeling pretty sorry for myself at that moment. As is often the case though, self-pity turned to anger, and anger in circumstances like this can also be a source of strength. As my fury at the fates took on a will of its own, pride took over and I said to myself, "Get up. You are not dying in this stupid desert in such a stupid way."

With that I forced myself to my feet and somehow got my rapidly numbing legs to move. Every inch was agony. It wasn't long before pain replaced the anger. Hope began to fade. I only barely noticed Stathmore wagging his wings excitedly on his next pass in support and recognition that I was alive and moving.

I made it 50 feet, perhaps, when my body gave out and I collapsed to the ground. I tried again to crawl a few more yards, but I was done. There was nothing left to give. I could no longer feel or move my legs. I just felt a cold numbness in my lower back and blazing fire in my upper as a thousand hot daggers stabbed me between the shoulder blades over and over. Every breath was agony.

Hope died.

I woke to see the heat wave distorted silhouette of a twin engined Beechcraft C45 coming to a halt a hundred yards away, slow motion scenes of ground attack and air to air combat taking place silently behind it. Blackness came and went.



The dark shape of a man dropped to the ground from the open doorway of the landed plane, dust rising around his boots in a tight swirl. Poor guy, I thought to myself deliriously, this is not a good place to stop, the hotel has no pool.

It seemed that one moment he was hundreds of feet away standing by the Beech, then the next moment he was bending over me, checking my pulse.

Without a word, the shape picked me up and half carried, half dragged me to the waiting plane. I gathered the last of my strength to help him get me up and through the cabin door. The plane was moving again before we were fully inside and the door was closed.

* * *

I remember nothing else for the next two days. When I regained consciousness and looked around, the base seemed to be in a state of complete confusion. The field hospital was being packed up in a hurry and people were being loaded into trucks. A medic saw I was awake and came over to my stretcher. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice sounding very far away.

I awoke again and saw trees through the torn canvass moving by above me. I was in a truck, a makeshift ambulance from the looks of it. I felt the bounce as it went over some bumps and winced in pain. Billy and Stathmore were in the truck. The same medic from the hospital tent was tending a couple of other patients strapped to stretchers like me.

"You ready to stay with us a while, chum?" Stathmore asked when he saw I was looking around the truck. He and Johnny both smiled and the medic turned from another patient in the truck.

"Hey there," he said softly. "Back in the world of the living I see." This medic had the most comforting voice I have ever heard. I bet he was a knockout with the ladies. I was jealous.

I tried to ask for water, but my throat froze with the effort and I choked on the words. The medic, long used to this, was ready with a small canteen.

"Drink it slow, small sips. You have had nothing to eat or drink for days." I did not have the strength to argue. The medic noticed the look in my eyes and he smiled. "Don't worry. Doc says you are going to be fine. Other than a really nasty concussion, you bruised your spine and bent a few a few ribs. The feeling should return to your legs in a couple of days as the swelling goes down. You'll be back flying again in no time, I'm sure.

I nodded, relief flooding every fiber of my being. I reminded myself to never again complain about how tight Tillie straps me to the plane. I had no recollection of hitting my head; then again, I realized I had no recollections of the moment of impact at all. But, given that the pain I felt was mostly in my head at that moment, I had no cause to doubt him.

Scirocco - Chapter 1: Desert Raid - P11

Johnny answered my next unspoken question. "We're moving back," he frowned. "The Germans have advanced further and retaken a lot of territory." Looking down at me from where he was seated he suddenly smiled his cold smile.

So he made his ten. Good for him. I was about to feel rather pathetic, what with the rapid loss of my plane and all, but before I could wallow too far into the self-pity Stathmore interrupted me.

"You're a bloody hero, did you know that?" he said with a sincere look on his face.

I cocked an eyebrow and rasped out, "Me? All I did is crash."

Johnny and Stathmore both nodded and then, unexpectedly, they laughed.

"I have never seen anything like it," Stathmore said, his eyes gleaming. "There you were, completely bent out of shape." Johnny was nodding beside him in agreement. "No bloody hope of recovery, we all saw it, even the WC saw it. You were all flopped over looking like a dead fish."

"We all thought you were gonna crash on top of that tank. Instead...," Stathmore clapped his hands and stomped his feet in glee, "instead you line him up and shot him. You shot him!" Stathmore was beating on Johhny's shoulder in his excitement.

Johnny was simply sitting there nodding and grinning. I was too embarrassed to stop and correct them. I wanted to tell them that I had nothing to do with it, that it was all an accident really, and everything I had tried actually went quite wrong.

"Even though you were almost sure to die, you opened up on him! Crazy!" Stathmore finished and wiped his eyes.

"Ballsy man," Johnny interjected. "Really ballsy".

Stathmore nodded toward Johhny in agreement, then turned back to me and continued. "When the Tiger blew and we saw you fighting to recover, we all heard you yelling, 'We gotta Stuka the rads, we gotta Stuka the rads, we gotta Stuka the rads'."

This caused both Johnny and Stathmore to break out into further peels of laughter. I guess they found my panic amusing. The medic looked over with a a half-smile on his face, then turned his attention back to the other patients in the truck.

"You kept yelling about the rads over and over as your plane fell all the way to the ground, then the last thing we heard was 'oof'" Johnny laughed, picking up where Stathmore left off, adding a visual element to the story with his hands. Pilots throughout time have loved to demonstrate an aircraft's maneuvers with their hands. You don't even really have to listen. Just watch the hands.

"Everybody started attacking them from the top," Stathmore said. He and Johnny were tag teaming the story. "The tactic worked like a charm, and soon the Tigers were going up like fireworks. It was amazing." He reached over and gave my shoulder a tight squeeze.

I blushed. "There was nothing amazing about it. I lost my stinking plane," I croaked.

They both laughed.

"That you did," Johnny said. "But... Well, if I had known you had moves like that I would have spoken the to WC to get you transferred over to us in the fighter wing long before now. That twist-out was sweet. It would have worked too... if you had, oooh...," Johnny winked at Stathemore, "... 1500 more feet...?"

"... and no AA...," chimed in Stathmore.

"... or 109s." added Johnny.

We all laughed.

Sadly, thanks to the cracked ribs, laughing caused me to gasp in pain at the same time. Each "ha" came with a companion "ah". Of course (curse the Gods) I was left sounding a bit like a donkey. This caused even more laughter from my companions. It was not long before the quote, "We got to Stuka the rads, eeh haw eeh haw", was a running joke on the base.

Oh well. I guess it's a sign of their deep admiration and respect.

Ha! Yeah right.

I'll never live this down.