1275psi -> RE: Letters from a Prime Minister (2/19/2016 4:12:54 AM)
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April 15th The day is nothing like Jack ford ever imagined a fighter pilots would be like. It begins early, almost before dawn. There are 30 odd Wirriways operating from this same strip. They depart first. Then, its the charge down the strip, the climb to no more than 500 feet, a thousand some times. Frantic getting the gear up, and then, then into the attack. The Japanese 2nd tank regiment is spread across the desert no more than 10 miles from the end of the strip, dozens of little black beetles, resolutely driving north east, determined, it seems, to out flank Kalgoorlie. They are damned difficult to hit. The wirriways have literally dropped a hundred bombs on them, and missed a hundred times. But from a hundred feet, 50 feet, damn well nearly 20 feet, the strafing Kittyhawks are getting into the game. Jack gets the gear up, banks, banks, picks his target......this little buggar has a flag. Dives, weaves, the ground flashing underneath, the beetle growing, tracer hammering, the bullets ploughing the desert, striking, flashing, the tank literally disintegrating under the blows, the guns hissing empty, hauling back, zooming up, breathing again, and joining the cue to land again. Half an hour later, Jack takes to the air again, to do it all again, and again, and again.......
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