Aces
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Tiny Autumn Leaves
Falling From the Sky
Tears of Long
Summer’s Passing By
Joy of Winter
Coming from the Sky
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Lightning Flashed. Little to no visibility. The Tempest howled, the engine roared, and the sky shook with a mighty crack of thunder. Pit-patter across the glass.
“You can’t fly in this! No one can fly in this! Are you trying to get yourself killed!?”
Blink.
Was that?-
Yes.
Tilt fifteen degrees, bank into the turn. Curve downwards, following the natural directions of gravity. Slide back up with the gravitational swing into a flat bearing. Barometer at eleven thousand.
Arm the machine guns.
Lead nose to match enemy curving movement. Adjust for tempestuous wind speed and travel time. Don’t forget to watch for stalls.
Flash. Lightning. Echoing roar. Thunder.
“A challenge is a challenge. Weather good or poor, visibility perfect or dismal, I intend to fly today.”
Squeeze trigger. The pit-patter of rain intermingled with the sharp, hissing snaps of .50 caliber machine guns, red tracers filling the air, flinging themselves at remarkable speeds across the stormy morning. Bap-a-bap-a-bap-a-bap-a-bap.
The Yellow nose jinked left, pulling into a rapid, steep dive. Follow, maintain pursuit speed. Fingers on the trigger. Hunting machine guns attempting to strafe the rapidly descending yellow nose amidst the stormy gray sky.
“Sunset, this is insane! I don’t care how good of a pilot you think you are, there are damned good reasons you don’t fly in a storm!”
A quick flick to the right of the yoke, as the Yellow nose banked hard up and right- the Messerschmidt had always been the faster, more maneuverable fighter- it was an interceptor, after all, much different than her P-51 escort fighter.
“You’re not even a dogfighter dammit! You’re an escort pilot- a glorified fucking taxi! She’s an ace! A triple fucking ace! Fifteen kills and counting! You trying to die or something!?”
The yellow nose had vanished. A moment of fear. Gripping terror. Jink left. Yellow tracers. Pull up.
Up and over. 180 degrees in half a second.
The two cockpits passed within feet of each other. For precious few seconds, the two oxygen-masked pilots met each other’s goggled gazes.
Pony met Griffon.
Gilda Grendel. Die Himmeljägerin- The Sky Huntress. Disputably Griffonia’s top ace pilot since the days of Von Richtofen, the Red Baron. Seventeen confirmed fighter kills. Triple Ace.
Sunset Shimmer. Equestrian Army Air Force Pilot. Bomber Escort Fighter Pilot. Two confirmed kills to her name.
Twitch of the yoke to slide from a stall to a controlled descent. More yellow tracers. 20 milimeter cannon for the most part, if the steady thum-thum-thum-thum was any indication.
Fast Ascent from the dive.
Messerschmitts were always faster.
Cut engine.
Pit-patter of rain. Pit-patter of the twenty millimeter cannon. Slide back into the safe rumbling storm. Let the Yellow-nose rush by.
Steady breath. Calm Heart. Assess damage.
Engine- good. Tail- Good. Left wing- good. Right wing- Minor damage. Self-
Self-
Blood.
Look up at the cockpit. Drips of rain splashing against flight goggles. Holes in the cockpit.
“Lit-tle-”
No, that’s not right.
Check self.
Chest wound. Too low. Gut wound? Maybe. Seriousness?
Can’t be a bullet. Too small for a bullet. Just glass. Shattered oxygen tank. Have to stick lower than 10,000 feet. Have to maintain safe oxygen levels.
“Hey, Sunset! Are you even listening to me?!” Hands on hips. Annoyed posture. Typical, anymore. “Sunset!”
“Look at that beautiful weather, Twilight. Like a miracle.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?!”
“It’s perfect, Twilight.”
Dip back down. Strip Oxygen mask. Useless at this point anyways. Barometer- six thousand.
Target sweep.
Check Rear. Check left. Check Right. Check-
Hard right bank down. Twenty millimeter. Rushing wind of a Messerschmitt. Bank into line to pursue.
Follow the Yellow nose. Squeeze trigger. Dancing red tracers, spinning around the yellow nose.
Some pilots called it ballet. Others a tango. A beautiful dance of death across the skies of Gaia.
Follow through the Yellow Nose’s sweeping curve. Glowing tracers. Smoke. Rain. Thunder and Lightning.
Turn. Fire.
Turn. Fire.
Let her run. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.
Empty.
Exhale.
Empty. Click-clack-click-clack. No ammunition. Dry belt.
Turn.
Turn.
Just stay behind her. Don’t get in her front. Cannon will shred the P-51.
Turn. She knows. Turn. Turn. Turn.
Steep Dive. Pull up. Twist right. Stay on her. Breath in. Wince. Glass was hurting, badly.
Can’t lose her.
Steep Bank Up and right. Circling. Circling. Circling. The Tempest Howled.
Falling behind. The Mustang wasn’t built to intercept. To Dogfight. It was an escort.
God, what a perfect storm. Like a miracle.
Pit-patter. Pit-patter. Flash. Boom. Pit-pat.
“Sunset...What do you mean?”
“The last time I was in such a perfect storm...it was Nineteen Forty.. I was in a Supermarine Spitfire. On a Beautiful, Tempestuous, stormy day. My eighth sortie in twice as many hours. No ammunition in the guns. I was going to ram the next fighter I saw.”
“Sun-”
“Ten in the morning. August Twelfth. I saw angels. Halifax bombers. Fresh from a raid. So I flew escort for them. Got them home. Then I headed home. Well. Britain, at least.”
The Messerschmitt was behind her. Twitch left and bank. Jink off right. Flip downwards. Twirl opposite direction.
The Messerschmitt was behind her.
Pit-patter. The rain fell. The Tracers flew.
Beautiful.
Cannon shells arced by her cockpit. Soon replaced by the tell-tale growling, snapping hiss of 7.9 ammunition. Out of 20 millimeter.
Look down. Blood. Fresh. Look back. Smoke. Lightish gray.
Barometer one thousand.
7.9 through the waist. Painful. Hard to shift weight.
“Ti-ny Autumn leaves.”
Curve downwards. Follow Gravity. Inhale.
“Fal-ling sof-tly by.”
Nine hundred. Eight hundred. Seven hundred.
“Tears of all the long.”
Six hundred. Five hundred. Four. Three. Two. One. Fifty.
“Sum-mer’s pas-sing by.”
Pull up.
The waves were beautiful. Tumultuous. Crashing against each other. Angered from the tempest gracing the sky above.
The Rhine River.
How beautiful it would be to sail down the Rhine river.
She could see the startled artillery gunners. The frightened anti-aircraft teams. Shocked and surprised the fighters were dancing above them in such a perfect storm. Slide beneath the bridge. Twenty-five feet.
“Joy of on-set win-ter.”
She checked her gauges. Quarter tank fuel and dropping. No ammunition.
“Cal-ling from the sky.”
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. The P-51 Mustang sank for a split second. Beautiful. A miracle. The perfect storm. The Landing gear shot down. Flick of a switch. Left wheel angled incorrectly. Impact with the Rhine River.
Hissing 7.9s. Dripping rain. Sorrow. Tears. Pain.
A snap. Jarring Rattle.
The Landing wheel flicked back, torn from the landing strut. One bounce off the surface of the river.
Into the Messerschmitt’s cockpit.
The yellow nose jerked.
Then hit the water.
Then sank.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Adjust bearing.
Home.
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“Never in the Field of Human Conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
Winston Churchill, 20th August 1940, during the Battle of Britain
