1275psi
Posts: 7979
Joined: 4/17/2005
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12/3/42
Its been a long journey to this
That long, long struggle at school –battling the mathematics, the physics.
The fight to turn skinny muscles, a weak frame into a rippled figure, strong and straight.
The endless miles jogging, alone.
The endless nights studying, alone.
The actual achievment of being selected –against all odds
The struggle of recruit training –where, for so much of it ( for really we are such a racist people ) you were alone
The brutally of the training, where pain, despair and doubt were your constant companions.
But the triumph –of your solo –achieved,, of course, alone.
And now, here in the cool of the tropical morning, the jungles bursting into bird song, the sun a mere promise of a glow on the horizon, you prepare to go to war, fighter pilot.
Alone.
You, the cockpit, the enemy and nobody else.
And you would not have it any other way.
There are 4 of you, dressing quietly, chute, map boards, flask, pistol, vest, heavy flight suits, down bulging.
Leather creaks, and it is quiet in this room, quiet except for the breathing.
Fighter pilots have a lot of time to think about the day ahead……………..
A few nods to each other
‘ready?”
yes, you are ready.
You walk deliberately to the KI-44 –its stubby wings glistening from the morning dew –and already the humidity –as minor as it is now –makes you sweat.
The ground chief gives nothing away –nor do you –there is enough tension , enough tightness in your chest as it is.
He nods –bows slightly –and you nod back.
‘Lets be off then”
casual –yet ……………
alone.
Alone you climb in, settle in.
The straps are coming over, the chief efficient, quiet, and you are in place.
Eyes scan, all is good, the stick feels good, good in your hand, and the around the world goes well.
And as hard as you can try to contain it –the excitement rises.
“contact!’
And the great blades turns, holds, kicks –and blurs into the bellowing world of the fighter –and now you really are alone.
Taxi –rough strip –bouncing, bouncing, and you swing her, side to side –blind to all ahead –following the strips edge, and full rudder, hard brake, and aligned.
Last checks –and the sun is rising, flooding you, flooding light and life over you.
And then –the red flare rises –and you cannot think about it anymore –and the engine bellow, blares, roars, and you surge forward, grass blurring, bouncing, lightness, flying, flying, climbing, gear up, and it’s the whole damn world, the enormous sky, and to hell with all below as you climb into the eternal blue.
Four fighters –and the sky
20000 feet, and burma is but a green ocean below –endless , fading into the nothingness of the tropical haze –and the sky is cold, cold, and you barely feel it.
You feel her in your hands, eager, responsive, and you look, look for the enemy.
But the skies above pegu are empty today –the B17’s are elsewhere, and you fly undisturbed.
Too short, and the return begins, and the strip soon looms, down, careful, careful –good, well done! – and the chief is there –smiling.
Your combat debut
Nothing special.
But you have done it –alone.
The Charges son, Lt Fuchida- flying in the (famous?) 47th sentai - conducts an offensive sweep in Burma.
12 pilots for 4 planes –his opportunities may be limited at the moment!
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RE: The little ship that could. - 
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