Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Adventure
- Published: 09/16/2013
The Adventures of John Cartright, RAF Pilot
Born 1977, M, from Singapore, SingaporeChapter 1
FRANKFURT
They had crossed the English Channel now. Seven Spitfires and five Flying Fortresses, aircrafts from the Sixth Division of the Royal Air Force flew steadily in formation against a slight North-west headwind. They were on route to bomb Frankfurt, Nazi Germany.
The stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. A half-moon glowed overhead, as if to bestow the British airmen good fortune.
It was a mid-summer night. But up there twenty thousand feet in the air, it was chilly. The steady vibration of the steel of their aircraft and the drone of the engines were the airmen's constant companion. The airmen could make out the silhouettes of trees and farmhouses down below. Once or twice they might have passed an old fort or church.
After three hours of non-stop flying, the pilot at the tip of the formation signaled to his fellow airmen with a wave of his hand. The other pilots each gave the thumbs-up as a return signal to their leader.
The lead pilot then banked his Spitfire to the left. The other aircrafts followed. They were coming over the outskirts of Frankfurt now. The pilots scrutinized the ground carefully. They were looking for tank, aircraft or ammunition factories.
A large building appeared at the base of a hill. Two large trucks were parked outside. The Spitfires dived, first the leader's Spitfire, followed by the other six Spitfires. They resembled eagles, which had spotted their prey, and were now swooping down for the kill.
The flying fortresses maintained their course and altitude. They would circle around later to deliver their bombs.
The Spitfires continued to dive. They spread away from each other, just like fingers spreading in an opening fist.
The pilots began to make out the Swastika signs on the building and trucks. Three smaller barracks, which had been hidden by tree-tops, began to become visible.
The roar of the Spitfires above the Nazi camp was deafening.
"Flieger! Flieger!" cried the Germans in alarm.
The German soldiers raced out of the barracks. But it was too late. Bullets rained heavily in every direction. Blood and flesh sprayed from the Nazi soldiers, as they fell to the ground. Some of the Nazi soldiers tried to scramble back into the barracks. Others fired their pistols futilely into the air. They were no match for the Spitfires. The bullets from the Spitfires rained hard and fast, impelled by the additional momentum of the Spitfires' downward dive.
One of the Nazi trucks exploded in a fiery ball of flame. Its fuel tank had been hit by a stray bullet. The blast reverberated within the camp. The ground trembled and shook.
The Spitfires pulled upwards. They ascended quickly and cleared away from the airspace above the Nazi camp. It was now time for the Flying Fortresses to deliver the sledgehammer.
The five flying Fortresses had by now circled around. Each Flying fortress had a pilot and a navigator, who also acted as the ammunition man. The ammunition men took aim and began to drop the bombs.
The bombs fell with precision. Each bomb contained twenty-five kilograms of TNT. One of the bombs landed on top of the large building. A deafening roar followed. The camp was enveloped momentarily by a blinding light, as an enormous mushroom of fire developed.
It was relentless now. The barracks has also been hit by bombs. They were engulfed in huge balls of flames. It was a merciless attack, on a merciless enemy.
Chapter 2
DOGFIGHT
The Spitfires and Flying Fortresses flew in perfect boomerang formation, gallant and triumphant after their successful assault on the Frankfurt ammunition factory.
In Spitfire Number Three sat John Cartright. John was barely twenty and had only six weeks of training at Grenoble before this mission. The adrenaline was ebbing from him, and the excitement of the Frankfurt assault had given way to a tense and thoughtful caution.
With any luck, the sixth Division pilots would return to England in another three hours, or possibly less, for the North-west wind was now assuringly on their backs.
John glanced out of his cockpit to the airplane on his right. The pilot of the other airplane, Spitfire Number Four, grinned at him. He was Sam McNeil. John and Sam had known each other for only two months. They had attended flight training together at Grenoble, and were now firm friends. The fate of England rested on young men such as these.
They flew for nearly two hours, over northern Germany towards England. They passed over the little town of Breslingen, not far from the German city of Hanover. Little did they know that Breslingen contained a secret airfield of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force.
The news of the devastating and crippling attack on Frankfurt at reached Breslingen Luftwaffe command just barely an hour ago. The Luftwaffe pilots were thirsting for revenge. Two hours past midnight, ten Messerschmitts, the German fighter planes, roared into the cold air.
The Messerschmitts were sleeker and aerodynamically more streamlined then the Spitfires. Each Messerschmitt was painted greenish grey and was barely visible in the dark sky, only the menacing Swastika painted on both sides revealed its identity.
The Messerschmitts seemed to appear out of nowhere. The British airmen were completely caught by surprise, but they were not daunted. German bullets whizzed by in the night air.
The British airplanes broke formation and attempted to engage the Messerschmitts nearest to them.
John and Sam acted in tactical co-ordination. John fired first. A spray of Spitfire bullets pelted the chassis of the Messerschmitt nearest to them. One bullet penetrated its cockpit and shards of glass burst into the air. The Messerschmitt began to lose control and descend. Sam, in turn, aimed for its fuselage and triggered his joystick. Spitfire bullets hammered mercilessly into the wretched Messerschmitt and it erupted into flames.
John and Sam noticed three other Messerschmitts relentless on the tail of a Flying Fortress Number Four just below them.
John radioed Sam, "Sam, let's go up and attack those Messerschmitts from above."
"Good idea!" Sam replied into his radio.
John and Sam ascended rapidly to gain altitude. They climbed steeply for a hundred meters before looping the loop. Their Spitfires formed perfect beautiful arcs against the starry sky. Both John and Sam were now racing downwards. They aimed their Spitfires at the Messerschmitts trailing Flying Fortress Number Four, and released a round of bullets.
The wing of one Messerschmitt broke off in mid-air and it spiralled hopelessly to the ground. John and Sam directed their gunfire at the remaining two Messerschmitts. The engine of another Messerschmitt exploded and it began to descend rapidly. The third Messerschmitt was also riddled with bullet holes, and it swerved away, giving up its attack on flying Fortress Number Four.
John and Sam were rather pleased with themselves. Just then, John heard the splatter of German bullets on the rear of his Spitfire. John turned around to assess the damage. His tail rudder had been blown off.
"Sam, I have lost my tail rudder!" John shouted desperately into his radio.
"John, I see it too," Sam said into this radio. "You won't be able to manoeuvre against the Messerschmitts."
"What should I do now?" John's voice trembled over the radio.
"Don't parachute out. They will shoot you in mid-air. Dive your airplane down and try to land," Sam advised. "Dive now! I will cover you."
John's Spitfire hurtled into the abysmal half-darkness below. He would attempt a crash landing over German soil.
"Godspeed," Sam whispered into the radio.
Dear Reader, there are another 7 chapters available on www.booksie.com/andrew_chan
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.chan.927
The Adventures of John Cartright, RAF Pilot(Andrew Chan)
Chapter 1
FRANKFURT
They had crossed the English Channel now. Seven Spitfires and five Flying Fortresses, aircrafts from the Sixth Division of the Royal Air Force flew steadily in formation against a slight North-west headwind. They were on route to bomb Frankfurt, Nazi Germany.
The stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. A half-moon glowed overhead, as if to bestow the British airmen good fortune.
It was a mid-summer night. But up there twenty thousand feet in the air, it was chilly. The steady vibration of the steel of their aircraft and the drone of the engines were the airmen's constant companion. The airmen could make out the silhouettes of trees and farmhouses down below. Once or twice they might have passed an old fort or church.
After three hours of non-stop flying, the pilot at the tip of the formation signaled to his fellow airmen with a wave of his hand. The other pilots each gave the thumbs-up as a return signal to their leader.
The lead pilot then banked his Spitfire to the left. The other aircrafts followed. They were coming over the outskirts of Frankfurt now. The pilots scrutinized the ground carefully. They were looking for tank, aircraft or ammunition factories.
A large building appeared at the base of a hill. Two large trucks were parked outside. The Spitfires dived, first the leader's Spitfire, followed by the other six Spitfires. They resembled eagles, which had spotted their prey, and were now swooping down for the kill.
The flying fortresses maintained their course and altitude. They would circle around later to deliver their bombs.
The Spitfires continued to dive. They spread away from each other, just like fingers spreading in an opening fist.
The pilots began to make out the Swastika signs on the building and trucks. Three smaller barracks, which had been hidden by tree-tops, began to become visible.
The roar of the Spitfires above the Nazi camp was deafening.
"Flieger! Flieger!" cried the Germans in alarm.
The German soldiers raced out of the barracks. But it was too late. Bullets rained heavily in every direction. Blood and flesh sprayed from the Nazi soldiers, as they fell to the ground. Some of the Nazi soldiers tried to scramble back into the barracks. Others fired their pistols futilely into the air. They were no match for the Spitfires. The bullets from the Spitfires rained hard and fast, impelled by the additional momentum of the Spitfires' downward dive.
One of the Nazi trucks exploded in a fiery ball of flame. Its fuel tank had been hit by a stray bullet. The blast reverberated within the camp. The ground trembled and shook.
The Spitfires pulled upwards. They ascended quickly and cleared away from the airspace above the Nazi camp. It was now time for the Flying Fortresses to deliver the sledgehammer.
The five flying Fortresses had by now circled around. Each Flying fortress had a pilot and a navigator, who also acted as the ammunition man. The ammunition men took aim and began to drop the bombs.
The bombs fell with precision. Each bomb contained twenty-five kilograms of TNT. One of the bombs landed on top of the large building. A deafening roar followed. The camp was enveloped momentarily by a blinding light, as an enormous mushroom of fire developed.
It was relentless now. The barracks has also been hit by bombs. They were engulfed in huge balls of flames. It was a merciless attack, on a merciless enemy.
Chapter 2
DOGFIGHT
The Spitfires and Flying Fortresses flew in perfect boomerang formation, gallant and triumphant after their successful assault on the Frankfurt ammunition factory.
In Spitfire Number Three sat John Cartright. John was barely twenty and had only six weeks of training at Grenoble before this mission. The adrenaline was ebbing from him, and the excitement of the Frankfurt assault had given way to a tense and thoughtful caution.
With any luck, the sixth Division pilots would return to England in another three hours, or possibly less, for the North-west wind was now assuringly on their backs.
John glanced out of his cockpit to the airplane on his right. The pilot of the other airplane, Spitfire Number Four, grinned at him. He was Sam McNeil. John and Sam had known each other for only two months. They had attended flight training together at Grenoble, and were now firm friends. The fate of England rested on young men such as these.
They flew for nearly two hours, over northern Germany towards England. They passed over the little town of Breslingen, not far from the German city of Hanover. Little did they know that Breslingen contained a secret airfield of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force.
The news of the devastating and crippling attack on Frankfurt at reached Breslingen Luftwaffe command just barely an hour ago. The Luftwaffe pilots were thirsting for revenge. Two hours past midnight, ten Messerschmitts, the German fighter planes, roared into the cold air.
The Messerschmitts were sleeker and aerodynamically more streamlined then the Spitfires. Each Messerschmitt was painted greenish grey and was barely visible in the dark sky, only the menacing Swastika painted on both sides revealed its identity.
The Messerschmitts seemed to appear out of nowhere. The British airmen were completely caught by surprise, but they were not daunted. German bullets whizzed by in the night air.
The British airplanes broke formation and attempted to engage the Messerschmitts nearest to them.
John and Sam acted in tactical co-ordination. John fired first. A spray of Spitfire bullets pelted the chassis of the Messerschmitt nearest to them. One bullet penetrated its cockpit and shards of glass burst into the air. The Messerschmitt began to lose control and descend. Sam, in turn, aimed for its fuselage and triggered his joystick. Spitfire bullets hammered mercilessly into the wretched Messerschmitt and it erupted into flames.
John and Sam noticed three other Messerschmitts relentless on the tail of a Flying Fortress Number Four just below them.
John radioed Sam, "Sam, let's go up and attack those Messerschmitts from above."
"Good idea!" Sam replied into his radio.
John and Sam ascended rapidly to gain altitude. They climbed steeply for a hundred meters before looping the loop. Their Spitfires formed perfect beautiful arcs against the starry sky. Both John and Sam were now racing downwards. They aimed their Spitfires at the Messerschmitts trailing Flying Fortress Number Four, and released a round of bullets.
The wing of one Messerschmitt broke off in mid-air and it spiralled hopelessly to the ground. John and Sam directed their gunfire at the remaining two Messerschmitts. The engine of another Messerschmitt exploded and it began to descend rapidly. The third Messerschmitt was also riddled with bullet holes, and it swerved away, giving up its attack on flying Fortress Number Four.
John and Sam were rather pleased with themselves. Just then, John heard the splatter of German bullets on the rear of his Spitfire. John turned around to assess the damage. His tail rudder had been blown off.
"Sam, I have lost my tail rudder!" John shouted desperately into his radio.
"John, I see it too," Sam said into this radio. "You won't be able to manoeuvre against the Messerschmitts."
"What should I do now?" John's voice trembled over the radio.
"Don't parachute out. They will shoot you in mid-air. Dive your airplane down and try to land," Sam advised. "Dive now! I will cover you."
John's Spitfire hurtled into the abysmal half-darkness below. He would attempt a crash landing over German soil.
"Godspeed," Sam whispered into the radio.
Dear Reader, there are another 7 chapters available on www.booksie.com/andrew_chan
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.chan.927
- Share this story on
- 6
COMMENTS (0)