Planetfurry BBS

[Henry_Hound]

Yes please, couldn't you come up with a better nickname than that.

[Typhun]

but ive written the next bit of it now...
...and there is only one refrence to that (particularly poor) nickname.


this chapter is still WiP
-----------------------------------------------
chapter 3: HQ commands it...

it had been a month since our first dawn patrol. henry had healed nicely, and had earned himself the nicknmae Pencil, for obvious reasons. the bullets they had removed had been handed to him on his way out of the hospital, and he know, by popular suggestion, wore them on a chain around his neck. i was secretly hoping they'd remind him to be more bloody careful when it came to dogfighting, but, knowing henry, he'd probably only use them as someting to throw at the enemy when his ammo ran out. which it often did.
the squadron had settled in nicely to its new surroundings. the mess had become reffered to as 'the pit' because the floor sagged in the middle slightly, making it impossible to use the impromptu skittle alley properly. this wasn't much of a setback, as not many of the squadron played whilst sober, and they probably wouldn't notice when completely rat-arsed anyway. it had also been personalized somewhat, with the severed tail of one of my vanquished opponents seated on the wall, next the the shattered left elevator and rudder of Henry's aircraft.
everyone was present when i entered the mess that morning. it was not usual for the mechanics of a squadron to mingle with the pilots in a regualr squadron, but here that didn't apply. Cate was slouched in an armchair, sampleing the messes finest coffee/mud (with sugar-don't ask) chatting with james, whilst racky was leaning against the dinner table conversing with Wilburs. jack and mark, the new pilots whod arrived on thursday, were sat in a corner reading a paper each. Richard, the Mess sergeant, was serving coffee and biscuits. he offered me some but i declined.
" ok furs i need your attention" i said loudly

[Henry_Hound]

Oh I guess you can keep it. Good work on it. And I must say that you need to write faster for you have your fans waiting for the next dogfight.

[Typhun]

well, all i can say is im a student. i write when i can. so this could take a while.

[Henry_Hound]

Tis alright. We can wait.

[Typhun]

well, all i can say is youd better, as you dont have a choice....

[racky raccoon]

well there you go Typhun dan askes if there is an opending at the piano hes the fur (aprently he plays... badly)

The Pilot’s Psalm (46th Squadron Special)

The B.E.2c is my bus; therefore shall I want.
He maketh me to come down in green pastures.
He leadth me where I wish not to go.
He maketh me to be sick; he leadth me astray on all cross-country flights.
Yea, though I fly o’ver No-man’s-Land where mine enemies would compass me about, I fear much evil, for thou art with me; thy joystick and thy prop discomfort me.
Thou prepareth a crash for me in the presence of mine enemies; thy RAF annointeth my hair with oil, thy tank leaketh badly.
Surely to goodness thou shalt not follow me all the days of my life, else I shakk dwell in the House of Colney Hatch for ever.

Hush-a-bye, baby

Hans vos my name, and a pilot vos I.
Out mit von Karl I vent for to fly.
Pilots of Kultur ve vos, dere’s no doubt,
Each of us flew in an Albatros scout.
Ve looked for B.E.s for to strafe mit our guns.
Ven last I saw Karl, I knew he vos dones,
For right on his tail vere two little Sops.
Oh, hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-tops.

The Dying Airman

The Young Aviator lay dying,
And as in the wreckage he lay,
To his comrades all gathered around him,
These last parting words did he say

Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain.
From the small of my back take the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again.

Cock Robin

Who killed Cock Robin?
‘I’, said the Hun,
‘With my Spandau gun,
I killed Cock Robin’

All the planes in the air,
Went a dipping and a throbbing,
When they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin,
When they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin.

Haven’t got a Hope in the Morning

When you soar into the air on a Sopwith Scout,
And you’re scrapping with a Hun and your gun cuts out,
Well, you stuff down your nose `til you’re your plugs fall out.
`Cos you haven’t got a hope in the morning.

For a batman woke me from my bed,
I’d had a thick night and a very sore head,
And I said to myself, to myself I said,
‘Oh, we haven’t got a hope in the morning.’

[Typhun]

rackers, you are SOOOO goin in the credits as cheif contributer.....

[racky raccoon]

*blush* why thankyou Typhun, this is an honour indeed

[Typhun]

meh np dude.

[Typhun]

update: done a small bit more to chapter 3, as well as edits to what ive done previously. heres chapter 3 agin, with a bit more.
******
it had been a month since our first dawn patrol. henry had healed nicely, and had earned himself the nicknmae Pencil, for obvious reasons. the bullets they had removed had been handed to him on his way out of the hospital, and he know, by popular suggestion, wore them on a chain around his neck. i was secretly hoping they'd remind him to be more bloody careful when it came to dogfighting, but, knowing henry, he'd probably only use them as someting to throw at the enemy when his ammo ran out. which it often did.
the squadron had settled in nicely to its new surroundings. the mess had become reffered to as 'the pit' because the floor sagged in the middle slightly, making it impossible to use the impromptu skittle alley properly. this wasn't much of a setback, as not many of the squadron played whilst sober, and they probably wouldn't notice when completely rat-arsed anyway. it had also been personalized somewhat, with the severed tail of one of my vanquished opponents seated on the wall, next the the shattered left elevator and rudder of Henry's aircraft.
everyone was present when i entered the mess that morning. it was not usual for the mechanics of a squadron to mingle with the pilots in a regular squadron, but here that didn't apply. Cate was slouched in an armchair, sampleing the messes finest coffee/mud (with sugar-don't ask) chatting with Hexham, whilst Racky was leaning against the dinner table conversing with Wilburs. O'farrel, the irish mouse-rat, was leaning against the wall, surveying the scene. Turner, a Folf and Smith, a squirrel-fox, the new pilots who'd arrived on thursday, were sat in a corner reading a paper each. Fletcher, the feline Mess sergeant, was serving coffee and biscuits. he offered me some but i declined.
" ok. come on, i need your attention" i said loudly. "Cate! shut up!" he gave me a look.
" i recieved this view runner just now." i said holding up an order chit. "with complements from our HQ. apparently theres a hun artillery battery in our sector murdering our advance. naturally as HQ are SOOO concerned, they want it wiped out. And we've been given the job. Know, as most of you will know, attacking any hun ground target is not easy. they've at least 1 regiment of archie on the ground, and as soon as we appaer, they scarper and call up there fighters..."
"for this mission we'll dig the F.E.'s out for the ground attack, and the rest of the squadron will fly cover over our topside. right, ill take one F.E. Henry, you take another..."
"cheers, sir..." laughs all round.
"..and O'farrel"
"roger, sir"
"ill take Turner as my gunner. show him the lines, and give them some confidence over enemy territory. who will you 2 take?"
O'farrel said: " ill take the other" he said, indicating Smith, who looked hurt.
"..and ill take James - sorry - Hexham. you up for that, Hexy?"
" any time, old boy"
"... our armament will be tracer, with 8 Cooper bombs each,"

[racky raccoon]

As i proberly wont be arond PF tomorrow i will say this now:

November 11th in Britain is rememberence day (red poppys all round*)

take time on this day to remember our fore fathers that fort and died for us (no matter what contry they were on. its all the same)

*bows head*

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

thankyou

[Typhun]

i konw it benn three months, but ive been busy. so herews Chapter 4 for all you patient ppl out thier.

CH 4: memories.

"its th only, only way
its th on-ly trick to play.
hes the on-ly hun, your the on-ly pup
and hes on-ly getting the wind right up
so.......
go on and strut your stuff.
till his tails up near your prop
if he only crashes this side in flames
then they only have to beleive your claim
so go on and get him is what they say:
its th only ONLY WAY!!!!!"

that song always calmed me . wether at 6:00am in the morning for a dawn patrol, or at midnight wen the dreams made me wake up howling, it soothed the soul. always.....

the dreams had been getting more vivid recently. with memories of the disastrous flop that was the attack on the hun battery interspersed with the burning horror, of being trapped in his SE, being licked and burned by the flames.......

thier had only been two aircraft returned from that mission: the rest of the squadron hadnt made it. the Archie fire had been intense, and Smythe had caught one on the way in. he hadnt stood a chance, as the largest remaining bit of his SE i saw was the rudder, spinnig into the vast blue sky. but our FE2bs had held the squadron down to a snails pace, now as we were now attacking the remaining SEs were allowed to break off and mill about above. Hexham, who was using the forward Vickers on the gunners of the battery, took a bullet on the way dwon, which removed the side of his face. he was dead by the time i released the bombs.

henries cooper bombs landed short, but mine landed on the magazine, blowing the batrery sky high, and the uplift of hot air almost throwing me out of the sky. but with that we all started for home. Henrys Fe caught fire in mid air on the return journey, but he manged to survive a crash-landing on our side of the lines. his gunner, o'farrel, wasnt so lucky. the 5 remaining SEs, now following us home, were set upomn by an entire staffel of Huns. in the first bounce Walkers machine lost its left wings, and spiraled to its doom, taking the pilot with it. i saw silohetted aganist the sky 2 machines that had collided. they were going down on fire, wrapped in eachothers imbrace, and they exploded about 200ft above the ground. another was spinning, its pilot dead at the stick, and the resiultant G ripp the wings off. it plummeted like a stone.

Fletchers machine flew past mine about 20 yrds away, with a bsche locked firmly on his tail. he wanted Hexham to get the bosche, and hed lined himself up for a shot even Hexham could get. but hexham was dead, his blood congealin in the forward cockpit. and i was stuck here, with no guns. thier was nothing i could do. Fletcher could see me. i shook my head, and he noded in return. at least, i think he nodded. the rounds nearly separeted his head from his sholders. with that his machine began to smoke, rose up on its tail, hung in the air, with the bocshe coming up behind it. it nosed over, began spinnig, and hit the fooloish bosche head on, spinner-to spinner. the explsoion sent shrapnel in al directions. a slinter badly cutting my hand and face........i flew on....... shutting out the war around me, and for the first time, i creid.