“Flaps – DOWN 5.  Mixture – FULL RICH.  Propellor – MAX RPM.” Like the previous hundred flights, my hands found the worn knobs and levers, checking the position of each.  Yelling, my co-pilot struggled to get the checklist out over the loping idle of the twin Pratt & Whitney Twin Wasp engines fastened to each wing.  The whole plane vibrated and rattled, as if it were still waking from a long slumber.  “Number two is running a little hot” I muttered.  The baby-faced co-pilot probably wouldn’t notice the engine running hot if it was on fire.  Experience told me that the pitch on the right side was a bit off. 

That was nothing:  Last flight, both engines were pegging the EGT temperature gauges, and felt as if they were running on half the cylinders.  My old man would whip me crazy if he knew I’d let an airplane run like that…

“Sport-two-zero, cleared for takeoff runway one-zero.”  The voice of the Belgian ground controller snapped me back to the task at hand.  My hands glided onto the throttles, and checked the controls, one last time; I’d hate to find a control problem after we’ve left terra firma.  I eased the throttles against the stops and released the brakes.  The Twin Wasp engines roared as they whipped the three-bladed propellers through the air.  30mph.  The tail came off the ground as I could see our back-lit shadow ahead of us bounce down the grass.  80mph.  I smoothly pulled back on the yoke, and the rough jarring of the ground was replaced by the smooth glide through the western European air. 

My co-pilot jammed the landing gear handle into place, and raised the flaps as we made a slow, climbing turn to the north-east.  Over the headset came the voice of our lead escort Defiant3, “Sport-two-zero, your cover is on your wing.”  He and BlackC5 would see our safe departure from Brussels Airfield and protect us from any enemy aircraft flying BARCAP in the area.  We had reports that the route would be heavily defended, so we weren’t taking any chances.  Up ahead, RAF’s 92 Squadron would meet up with us over Rally-Point Alpha, over the town of Leuven at 6-thousand feet to guide us into the drop zone.  Tonight that town was St Trudien.  We had been fighting for it for the last couple of days, and the High Command decided they needed the paratroops to finish it off.  Behind me sat some of the elite members of the 101st Airborne.  If anyone could get the job done, it was them.

All of a sudden, I hear the scream of BlackC5: “Sport BREAK!” I yanked the Douglas over into a left turn and pulled with both hands.  My body compressed from the G-forces and my vision started to grey.  I reversed my turn, which in such a large aircraft takes what feels like an eternity, and pulled again.  Tracers whizzed past my side window, and I felt the aircraft shudder as the bullets ripped through the thin skin.  The Messerschmitt Bf109 passed by so closely, I could hear it over the combined 2,400hp of my own engines, and could see the pilot in the cockpit.  Defiant and BlackC5 were in hot pursuit behind it.  Knowing we were just a sitting duck with no cover and no airspeed, I pushed the nose over, my straps being the only thing holding me to the seat, and dove for the deck.  I pulled up a scant 1,500 feet above the ground and kept my hand on the throttles, jamming them against the stops until the stalks started to bend. C’mon girl, don’t let me down now.  The landscape blurred by us at over 230 mph and the whole aircraft shuddered violently.  I dare not let up, I dare not let the men down behind me.  The door opened behind me and Vozz stuck his cheeky head in: “You alright up here?”  Not taking my eyes off the landscape ahead of me, I replied: “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”  Sparing a quick glance back, the rainbow stains on his sleeves indicated Sircuddles vomited on him.  Otherwise, everyone was safe.  The German bastard poked some holes in my bird, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Finally, as if an eternity had passed, a familiar voice came over the radio: “Sport-two-zero, 92 Squadron on 55.”  Thank God!  We were approaching Leuven and my buddy Gizz was right where he said he’d be.  I told him we were on the deck and on the run, but at that point, the beautiful elliptical wings of a Spitfire graced my left side.  Pretty thing a Spitfire:  Like a woman, it has curves in all the right places, and has a punch to put you in your place, but is graceful as a swan.  Those Brits sure know how to build a plane… “Sport-two-zero turn left heading one-zero-zero for vectors to St Trudien.”  That was Sgeneral, a good friend and an excellent pilot.  I knew we were safe at least until we got to the target.

As we approached the target, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the sky a brilliant palate of orange and blue, while the ground below faded into shadows.  Up ahead, explosions ripped the ground and tracers filled the sky. At least Gizz and his gang cleared the way of enemy aircraft… Better get ready for the jump.  My co-pilot, as if reading my mind, started yelling the pre-drop checklist: “TRIM – SET; JUMP LIGHT – RED; SPEED – 180mph…”  As he finished the checklist, I cinched down my harness, preparing for the hell we were all about to enter.  As we got closer to town, I could hear the troopers in back checking gear and calling ready: “Twelve okay, Eleven okay, Ten okay…”  We’ve been spotted… Tracers flew by the airplane and lit the cockpit like hundreds of flashbulbs at a Hollywoodland awards ceremony.  Please God, ten more seconds… The enemy AA gunners started to find their mark, striking the aircraft with 20mm and 40mm shells, all of them passing through the thin skin.  BAM! What the…? One found its mark and blew a hole in the tail!  My co-pilot flicked the jump light green and I started the long count to 30:  the time it took to get the men out of the plane. one…two…three… More shells found their mark, but all of them mercifully passed through. twelve…thirteen…fourteen… BAM!  A 20mm non-explosive shell blasted its way through the front windscreen, tearing a hole through it and my co-pilot.  DON’T LOOK…twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…  The wind howled through the busted windscreen as I banked and yanked the aircraft off its heading.  I dove for the deck and started on my egress-route back to Brussels.

I glanced over to my co-pilot who was writhing in pain, but alive.  As if things couldn’t get worse, good ‘ol Number Two chose that moment to give it up.  Black smoke billowed from the exhaust as bits of pistons, rods, and engine tore away.  My right hand shot forward as I feathered the prop and cut the mixture.  With any luck, it won’t catch fire.  I frantically started to search for a place to land.  I could see troops below me, fighting for their lives, but who’s side were they on?  Not taking a chance, I extended the flaps one notch to get a bit better glide out of my sick bird.  700 feet. I gotta put this down some… THERE!  I spotted where the ground troops had set up our forward base, just ahead and to the left.  I kept all my inputs smooth and controlled as the landing gear came down. Three Green.  Flaps – full.  The checklist burned into my memory read itself out.  There was a narrow road next to the tents, and while applying copious rudder correction for my one engine, I set it down.  The plane plowed through some bushes on the side and came to rest about 50 feet from the main compound.
I pulled the mixture on number one, sat back, and closed my eyes.  My left hand was still gripped around the yoke, as if rigor mortis had set in.  My legs were shaking uncontrollably and my right hand was numb.  Thank you lord.  As the medics took my co-pilot away, I finally took account of the plane that we just arrived on.  Clusters of holes peppered the green, metal sides of the aircraft.  Larger holes were in the wings.  Half the tail was gone, and of course there was the windscreen.  Oil coated the area behind both engines, fuel slowly dripped out of the right wing, and the left tire was flat.  She served her purpose, but now it was up to the engineers to destroy her.

I have no idea if any of my troopers made it to the ground, but we took the town.  St Trudien had been a thorn in the Allied side, but we finally emerged victorious.  My co-pilot lived, but would never fly again, and for myself, I knew I had a whole war left to fly – dropping my human cargo where ever it was needed.

Submitted by ''Sport20"

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