It was the middle of the day, and my squadron had been tasked with providing air cover and close air support for the attack on Ciney. I strapped into the pilot seat of my Bristol Blenheim 1, a measly 320 pounds of ordnance riding on the belly...right out in the open. I went through my preflight checks, watching the trio of Hawker Hurricanes that were to be my advance screen lift gracefully from the tarmac in Brussels. 

It took several minutes, but I leveled off about 3000 feet above ground level, knowing I would have to keep low to do my job properly. Support bombing, not carpet bombing, meant I had to be able to see my targets. It took only a few minutes before I arrived at my target.

Ciney looked quiet from 3000 feet, and I gently lowered the nose of the plane, building speed and putting the walled army base under my gunsight, approaching from the northwest. I couldn't see any triple-A, so I lined myself up on a pair of sandbag bunkers manned by MG-42 crews. As I dropped below 2000 feet, I saw the streak of a tracer shell and followed it back to where a German anti-tank gun had just popped off a shot at something. A smile curled the corners of my lips, and I began to raise my nose as I passed 1000 feet, releasing the first two bombs, and then two more a second later, then raise the nose and banked to the right.

"Good hits!" my gunner reported to me, "Two in the base, two near a Pak!" I grinned, gaining altitude slowly, not wanting to lose too much speed, lest there be any anti-air guns I had failed to see. A few moments later, with the distance and altitude I needed, I brought my Bristol around once again, lining up on the army base, moving from east to west.
This time, their AA saw me coming, and 40mm tracer shells began to fly by the left wing. I lowered the nose, then rolled left, then evened out again, putting my gunsight once again on a target, this one a Swedish Bofors gun, nestled in between another Pak and an MG-42 nest. As he disappeared under my sight, I released my remaining bombs, lifting my nose and using my speed to get clear of his fire.

I have to hand it to that Bofors crew. They kept firing at me even as 160lbs of death fell upon their heads. I began to roll so that my gunner could call the hits when a concussion jounced me in the cockpit, and my gunner cursed with pain. The plane shuddered a second time, then, and I knew we were hit bad. Looking out the right window, I could see the number two engine. Smoke was coming from the housing, and the propeller was feathering, merely turning as air passed over it's surfaces. A moment later, my gunner reported that the right side horizontal stabilizer was gone. I glanced at my heat...nearly maxed on the oil temp, and the radiator wasn't doing so good either. I pulled back on the throttle and dialed back my prop pitch to conserve heat.

"S**t," I muttered, fighting for control as the plane began to list and drag, reaching for the trim knobs. I managed to get it flying level, more or less, and on course for home, and got on the radio. "Mayday, mayday, this is callsign Flaxon, I've taken a hit, possible ditch situation." My gunner came down out of his turret, and began going over the map, bleeding from a shrapnel hit to his side. He gave me our exact location, and I relayed it on.

That was when I saw my airspeed dropping. I knew it would drop, but it had fallen below 100 miles per hour, now, and the engines were already running hot. Trading airspeed for lift, I lowered the flaps to take-off position. Airspeed continued to fall, and finally settled at 82 miles per hour. I relayed this information back to the barn, and they informed me a squadmate, callsign Sixtoes, was being dispatched to see me home.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips, then. Six would meet up with me soon, and while he wouldn't be able to actually do anything to keep my damaged boat from falling apart, if we went down, he could at least give a location for rescue.
Again, my eyes strayed to my gauges, staying there for long moments at a time, watching speed and temperature and heading. Despite my firm hand on the stick and my feet pushing the pedals, both of which were vibrating violently, the plane was drifting off course. Gingerly, I tried to bring the nose to the left, more to the north, to get back on course.

The plane dipped suddenly as I did, and I worked the pedals and the stick, trying to recover, my gunner cursing and yelling in my ear. I fought and struggled, and finally recovered, managing to pull myself around on course.

Sixty six miles per hour. "Oh s**t."  It wasn't going to go well if I kept losing air speed, so I nudged the throttle up, going from a -4 boost to an even 0, watching my temp gauges all the way. I'd lost enough altitude, though, that the prop was grabbing air better and I was getting better cooling out of it too, and my temp stay well below the danger zone. I passed one hundred miles per hour and felt the controls smooth out some.

I figured I was in the clear, then, when my gunner reported a silhouette in the sky above and behind us. I grit my teeth, looking for a safe place to put the Blen down. If that was a 110 and it decided a dead bird was better than a wounded one, we'd be toast. So sooner did I finish this thought than Sixtoes came on the radio, telling me and anyone listening back at the barn that he'd found us. I let out a sigh of relief, glad for the escort as we began to near Brussels.

Six was the first, but he wasn't the last, soon I could see planes converging from all directions, waves from cockpits and calls of encouragement from the radio, cheering me on as I descended. The hangars at Brussels came into view, and I picked out the landing strip between them. I wasn't going to be able to make a clean landing, and I didn't dare try to circle to get a proper angle, so I called ahead to have the field cleared for a hard landing.

I again eased back on the throttle. Slowly, fighting with the plane the entire time as it tried to twist and dip on me, the Blenheim a poor performer at the speeds I was approaching at. A mile out, I thought I'd made a fatal mistake as the nose suddenly plummeted and the tail tried to whip around in front, but I increased power again, recovering only a few hundred feet off the ground. I was coming up short of the runway, but there was a gap in the trees, and I didn't have the energy to try to gain altitude to clear them altogether. I slammed the landing actuator down as the Hawkers pulled up, having followed me in as far as they safely could. The landing gear deployed and the ground steadily rising, I pulled the throttle all the way back and gripped the stick with both hands.

Funny thing, landing under stress like that. I could swear it was the softest landing I ever pulled off. A perfect three points, straight between the gap in the trees, rolling over the rough ground until my wheels found the groomed field of the air base. I shut down the remaining Bristol-Mercedes engine, and blinked for the first time in what seemed like hours.

Submitted by ''Flaxon"

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