Hello Everybody !

C

catch22

Guest
My very first post :) {Gladys says HI !:wavey:}. Looks like I've stumbled onto a good place here full of WW1 aviation nuts:jump: But it could do with a few instructional sticky "tips" and "how to" threads. And maybe a few movies. Say ! how about we start up a short story contest or something ?

I'll start it off with this ....

The Aviator.
​
Angry puffs of smoke spat from the fuselage as debris, guided by the prop-wash, spun off into the whirling vortex. Another short burst from the crouched figure behind and a small flame flickered to life lustily feeding on the vapourised petrol streaming from the stricken aeroplane. Within seconds the aft section exploded into a fiery rage and the tail detached itself almost lazily as the aircraft entered a jerky, stomach churning spin. The victorious aviator watched with cold, narrowed eyes as the occupant of the flaming coffin ejected into empty space, arms and legs clawing at the air as if to find a foothold and safety.

There was no sorrow for the victim. No pity or sympathy. Nothing. 18 months of active duty in the RFC had seen to that. The naïve and tender young chap of late 1915 who so enthusiastically threw himself into the hands of the flying corps to fight the good fight had aged a lifetime. His sallow complexion and tortured squint behind wrinkled eyes belied his chronological youth. He remained unmoved as the lower left wing of the fallen aircraft crumpled upwards and tangled with the ribbed remains of the upper as the uncontrolled kite plummeted, steeply now, toward its unstoppable destiny.

The aviator’s complacency was suddenly thwarted by a searing jolt in his right thigh as an ice pick of pain tore through the flesh. Simultaneously, the right centre-plane struts shook and splintered as brilliant flashes of tracer shattered the windscreen and kicked the rudder bar violently from his feet. The aircraft lurched nose-upwards in sympathy with the aviators pain and flipped into a side-slip before entering a steep spiral descent. The blood in the shattered leg coursed into a fur-lined boot threatening to escape its confines as the aviators’ howling screams of agony distorted the weathered face and vanished into the slipstream unheard forever by humanity. The hostile aircraft watched …. and waited.

The upper centre-section began to shear and wobble alarmingly as the weakened struts struggled to hold against the airflow. The flying wires sang in an ever higher pitch. The dazed aviator struggled to hold her as snapped flying wires trailed uselessly in the horizontal. Is this it he thought ? Is this all there is ? Home ! My piece of England. Shall I ever see her again ? At that moment a twin stream of spandeau hate smacked into the fuselage behind the aviator scorching the fabric and splintering the wooden frame. Instinctively, the aviator, banked steeply and pulled the stick toward his gut. The aircraft twitched …. creaking and groaning in disarray and discomfort. The aviator began to black out. Semi-consciousness was a blessed relief. Blood now seeped into the cockpit floor.

And yet the hostile aircraft remained aloof…. patiently working itself into a position to deal the final blow. Slowly it crept into place, cocked and ready. Closer .... closer. The figure crouched, hands on trigger, lining up his victim in the sights. There were no evasive movements … just a thin plume of white smoke trailing from the aviator’s aircraft. A finger pressed lightly on the combined trigger and the machinery of death burst into life zeroing in on the aviators cockpit. The aviator jumped, as if surprised, back straight as a die, and then slumped hitting his head on the cockpit side. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, as his lungs shattered and useless, collapsed. His last breaths were laboured blood drenched snorts. His eyes began to wallow and roll upwards. His aircrafts’s wings folded back. It was the end. Eternity was close. All was silent and strangely comforting. A feint smile disrupted his bloody lips as he mumbled his last words …. Gladys …. Gladys …. Gladys .....
 
well hello mr 'Catch22' nice to meet you......you sound like an awfully decent chap, do keep up this writing lark and who knows, perhaps you could turn your hand to producing some in game videos too.....you might be quite good at it, you never know






:icon_twi::icon_twi::icon_twi:






but seriously, good idea, let's get the creative juices flowing again.
 
why welcome to the forume mr two two.

i will be editing and correcting any spelling mistakes especially with newcomers.:d:costumes::icon_lol:.

PD
 
"There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone. "

Hmm I think i'm in it :costumes:

cheers
 
Angles1100 said:
"There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone. "
Hmm I think i'm in it :costumes:
cheers
Click to expand...

You gotta have the music
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi6wNGwd84g

No good without the music :d
 
Quite right GG.

Appreciate the link.

best

nio
born again SOH forum member

:costumes:
 
As Lloyd Bridges would say...

I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue... :banghead:

OvS
 
the saga continues...

( catch 22) ……………..His last breaths were laboured blood drenched snorts. His eyes began to wallow and roll upwards. His aircrafts’s wings folded back. It was the end. Eternity was close. All was silent and strangely comforting. A feint smile disrupted his bloody lips as he mumbled his last words …. Gladys …. Gladys …. Gladys .....

The twin Spandu’s spat out their message of death. The tool of the Grim Reaper was at it’s best, sparing little in it’s path, particularly the soft flesh of a pilot. The young German circled over his fallen wingman, the horror of burning to death, put into another memory, a curt nod, then a smirk for the enemy, another vanquished for the cause. The script of War is not a thing of beauty, as the pilot found himself somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Over Flanders Fields. It was the way of life and death, the hunter became the hunted, with spoils, such as they were, to the victor.

Fritz VonRommel, flying his Fokker DR1 had his 18th such victory. Following the Dicta-Boelcke, he felt assured of surviving these skirmishes, and celebrating another day. Such a contrast to the rest of us, who watched the days turn to weeks, the weeks to months, and then our reward of a birthday to be celebrated with loved ones. Such idealism was not present, as there was still the matter of the return journey to the Jasta base.

The throttle was thrust forward, as the Oberursel engine was immediately obedient, the propeller cutting through the cool air. Height was the objective now so as to avoid a similar ending as the British Pilot. His Driedecker (Triple wing) boasted the best climbing characteristic of any of the First World War aircraft. As such, it was a superior defensive machine, and also deadly in the ballet of death when turning inside your opponent, circling a path to victory.

The DR1 was revered by others’ too, more notably Verner Voss. He demonstrated perhaps with too much bravado, and not enough humility, the ability to out climb the opponent. With the ability to literally climb out of a skirmish with the British, he inexplicitly returned to the melee, thereby relishing the lopsided odds in favour of the British - 8 /2. History revels the rest as it being a deleterious decision spurned on by the exuberance of youth.

Fritz although castigated into the same impervious compulsions as young Voss, was acutely aware of his role. He pushed his machine up into the sky, slicing through the dark brooding clouds. At 3000 meters he felt a slight ease in the emptiness of his stomach, as he used his young eyes to scout the horizon for signs of trouble. He was over German lines now, having being careful to scrutinize his maps diligently. The Dr now inclined its way through the light cloud cover. The brown green earth coming up to meet him, as the base, now clearly visible, opening it’s arms to welcome him home. Aware of the propensity of the DR to do the inevitable ground loop, he maintained a vigilant control of the craft. He was down safely, another victory of sorts,there was perhaps a slight change in his demeanor, the savage memories of today’s event would unfold later on his report. But, as he approached the tent housing his craft, he allowed a moment to drift into the future of tonight. He was due for a 2 day leave, so a welcomed break from the onerous mental and physical strain of War. A feint smile curled his lips as he thought of his cousin, bringing her new fraulein friend to the biergarten…………….Gladys.
 
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