Flynn's Final Flight
Just a bit O' Fiction for anyone interested in that sort of thing
When Connor Flynn applied to join the Army Aircorp in 1942 the recruiter told him no, he'd not be able to see over the dash. Connor suggested that the man stand on the flight line and he'd take his hat off with his wingtip.
He finished training top of his class and a year and a half later he was an ace three times over.
Called Scrappy by his friends for his tenacity in and out of the cockpit, the fiery redhead found himself on yet another bomber escort mission. The Luftwaffe knew just how far his wing could fly and wouldn't rise to engage until he and his cohorts were forced to turn back for lack of fuel. Connor had had enough. Enough of the repeatedly failed missions, enough of this endless war, enough....On this day he feigned engine trouble and backed out of formation, then climbed to 35,000 feet and throttled his Jug back to save some gas for the hungry turboprop and he waited. Soon enough the order to turn back came and still he waited. Then the scattered calls from the airmen in the B-17's could be heard, it was time. Easing the throttles forward and smoothly dropping below the clouds he soon found the melee ahead. He made out about twenty 109's and they were having their way with the lumbering bombers who he knew, if this kept up they would drop bombs and head home nowhere near their target and they'd all have to do it again tomorrow. Scrappy dove into the fray and scored five more kills having taken the German's by surprise all the while getting cheers from the kids in the bombers, but eventually he got raked turning for the next pair ahead. White smoke billowed from the engine cowling, a sure sign that water was getting into the oil, and he turned back toward England. He knew that he wouldn't make it, of course, but the fight was over for him, even now two Messerschmitt's were lined up on his tail, but they didn't fire. They were waiting for him to bail out so that they could drill him in his chute. They'd no doubt seen the rows of swastika's painted on his fuselage and were now toying with him. The engine temp light blared red in his eyes and the nose dipped on the crippled plane, "God, I love flying," thought Scrappy, "There's nothi"
Yes, I know that this isn't a P-47, sadly there were none at the McChord Air Show. I wanted to talk about the processing though. My friend Wayne has a painting that's about 30x60 on his wall by Barrie Clark that is just amazing. It is coming out of daylight to the viewers right and flying into clouds/smoke/certain death, it grabs your heart. Look it up, the link is in the first comment box.
Flynn's Final Flight
Just a bit O' Fiction for anyone interested in that sort of thing
When Connor Flynn applied to join the Army Aircorp in 1942 the recruiter told him no, he'd not be able to see over the dash. Connor suggested that the man stand on the flight line and he'd take his hat off with his wingtip.
He finished training top of his class and a year and a half later he was an ace three times over.
Called Scrappy by his friends for his tenacity in and out of the cockpit, the fiery redhead found himself on yet another bomber escort mission. The Luftwaffe knew just how far his wing could fly and wouldn't rise to engage until he and his cohorts were forced to turn back for lack of fuel. Connor had had enough. Enough of the repeatedly failed missions, enough of this endless war, enough....On this day he feigned engine trouble and backed out of formation, then climbed to 35,000 feet and throttled his Jug back to save some gas for the hungry turboprop and he waited. Soon enough the order to turn back came and still he waited. Then the scattered calls from the airmen in the B-17's could be heard, it was time. Easing the throttles forward and smoothly dropping below the clouds he soon found the melee ahead. He made out about twenty 109's and they were having their way with the lumbering bombers who he knew, if this kept up they would drop bombs and head home nowhere near their target and they'd all have to do it again tomorrow. Scrappy dove into the fray and scored five more kills having taken the German's by surprise all the while getting cheers from the kids in the bombers, but eventually he got raked turning for the next pair ahead. White smoke billowed from the engine cowling, a sure sign that water was getting into the oil, and he turned back toward England. He knew that he wouldn't make it, of course, but the fight was over for him, even now two Messerschmitt's were lined up on his tail, but they didn't fire. They were waiting for him to bail out so that they could drill him in his chute. They'd no doubt seen the rows of swastika's painted on his fuselage and were now toying with him. The engine temp light blared red in his eyes and the nose dipped on the crippled plane, "God, I love flying," thought Scrappy, "There's nothi"
Yes, I know that this isn't a P-47, sadly there were none at the McChord Air Show. I wanted to talk about the processing though. My friend Wayne has a painting that's about 30x60 on his wall by Barrie Clark that is just amazing. It is coming out of daylight to the viewers right and flying into clouds/smoke/certain death, it grabs your heart. Look it up, the link is in the first comment box.