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Bomber Boys

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"My luck's gonna change this round. I can feel it. C'mon baby!"
"Aw shut up, yer jerk. Hit me, Charlie."
"
One card. You, Cap'n?"
"Hit me."
"One more, just one -"
"Stanton, you don't shut up, you can go hang out with them damn rookies."
"Alright, alright! Sheesh!"
"Ray?"
"Nope, good here."
"Cap'n?"
"*I* am going to double down. You boys can eat my dust when I'm through with you."
"Ohoho! Looks like the cap'n's ahead. Stan, my man, you gonna stand, or you gonna take another?"
"Oh, I got room for plenty more. Hit me!"
"Whatever,
your choice."
"Excellent! ... ...bloody motherf -"
"Aha, someone's busted, is he? Show your cards!"
"Aw, shut up, Ray."
"You gonna be a man, or you lost your balls? Show your damn cards!"
"
Cap! A little help?"
"You're talking to the one who's getting all your money. Down with your ca-- what is it, Bern?"
"Craig, they're signalling us."


------------------

100 Pictures Challenge #41: Teamwork.

Sometime during the Sketch-a-Day Challenge I thought it would be fun to speedpaint a B-17 Flying Fortress crew hanging out while waiting for a cloud cover to blow over. Halfway through the paint-blobbing, however, I realised that there was no way I was *not* going to turn it into an actual painting.

I was crazy about Flying Fortresses when I was a kid. I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. A pilot. Specifically, a bomber pilot. The fact that (i) I was born in the wrong country (ii) at the wrong time, moreover (iii) one that had not seen active combat in several decades, and furthermore (iv) I was as blind as a bat, and (v) I knew as much about politics as your average hamster, along with a host of other things working against me, never seemed to factor in the equation. Thus it was that all the vacation time that I did *not* spend at the astronomy club was spent writing crappy WWII bomber fiction about a B-17 crew whose plane was called Survivor (go figure). I even wrote myself into the stories - as the belligerent navigator. Which will certainly amuse my real-life friends no end, since they will tell you that I couldn't navigate my way out of a paper sack.

I guess I was just feeling a little nostalgic, lol.

I was trying for a sort of vintage tinted photo feel (you know, all those B&W photos that were manually coloured), with little to no hue variation, so the original's painted in B&W, with a layer set to "Colour" above it. And yeah, I know I've painted a B-17 before. But that was a B-17G. THIS is a B-17F. Not that it'll make any difference to you. :rofl:

Oh, and because my beta wanted to read a story from my books, I managed to find *one* snippet that doesn't quite reek to high heaven. And before anyone gets offended, please remember that I was a 14-year-old idiot once:

------------------

SEVEN O'CLOCK HIGH!

"So I says to the grunt, 'You touch me one more time, and I'm going to give it to you in the-"

"Shut up, Yank," Flynn said rudely. He reached for his throat mike. ‘Cap’n, Arnold’s at it again! Requesting permission to throw him out the bomb bay."

MacPherson’s voice crackled strangely over the B-17 interphone. "Permission denied, Flynn. Casey, stop bragging."

"Or the Cap’n might authorize my request next time," Flynn piped in gleefully, rubbing his gloved hands.

"Yeah. You don’t want us to get flak-happy in the middle of a mission," top turret gunner Reiner added.

Casey Arnold rolled his eyes in dismay and rotated his ball turret 360 degrees. "You jerks are pathetic," he complained. "You wouldn't know a hook from a jab, you los-"

"Right, and Bettger is Joe Louis," Flynn said, grinning, poking his sleeping comrade in the ribs. He looked out of the portside window and waved to the squadron of P-47 Thunderbolts outside. "Comfy out there, little friends?" he shouted. He wiggled his .50-calibre gun around and sighed, "Wish this wretched war was over."

"Doesn’t everybody," Arnold snorted.

Radio operator Stanton Farley was busily making illegible marks on a fresh new leaf of his logbook when a sudden gleam of metal caught his eye. "Bogey, seven o’clock high!" he shouted, reaching for his gun.

There was the clatter of footsteps as the tail gunner ran for his station, and the whoosh as the P-47 escorts broke out of formation to take on the bandits. "Looks like a squadron of ME-109s at three o’clock, breaking to four low!" Flynn said. "What’s the bogey, Stan?"

"Damned if I know," Farley replied, squinting his eyes. "Looks like an FW from this distance but – look out!"

A salvo of bullets came flying in the direction of the radio room just as Scott Reiner swivelled the top turret around to chase down the bogey. Farley threw up his hands over his head instinctively. "What the hell…?" he yelled.

"That was a 190, alright," Reiner confirmed, opening fire and sending a hail of .50-calibre bullets in the general direction of the mystery fighter. He missed. "Damn!" He looked down and shouted. "Bandits three high headed for the cockpit!"

"Quit shouting over the interphone!" the co-pilot barked. In the heat of battle, they all ignored him.

"The MEs are going after first flight!" Carruthers said, looking out of the bombardier’s window. "Geez, where are the P-47 boys when you need them?"

"Take a look at our mysterious FW," Flynn hollered out, firing away. The green tongues of flame spat away into the sky, each one narrowly missing the Gerry fighter. It executed a graceful wing-over and dove for the cockpit, peppering the sky with silver bullets.

There was a sudden explosion coming from the general area of the top turret, rocking the B-17 bomber violently. "What was that?" Bernard McLaren gasped, reflexively grabbing his seat with both hands.

"Call in!" MacPherson bellowed over the interphone. "Navigator!"

"Tail okay."

"Right waist."

"Left wai…" Bettger began.

He was interrupted by Scott Reiner, who snapped in a barely restrained voice, "Top turret here. I’m fine, if you all want to know, but that freaking bastard shredded the plexi…"

"Thank you, top turret. Perhaps you’ll remember to call in only when it’s your turn next time," MacPherson said dryly in response.

"Well, thanks for your concern," Reiner muttered darkly. He revolved the turret. "Pair at twelve o’clock high!"

The FW zoomed into view again, and this time everyone looking starboard could see it. It was a nasty little single-engined A-1 fighter with two cannons and four 20mm machine guns which were blazing furiously. As it strafed, they caught a glimpse of the nose. On either side were painted the blood-red gums of a shark, with its large white teeth bared fiendishly.

"Dakota Harlot is falling out of formation," Dailey Cantrell called out, watching the condemned bomber bank left. Its copilot window was smashed, and bullet holes peppered the starboard fuselage and wing.

"They’ve just radioed us – we’re now in the lead," Farley said, finishing it for him. "Captain, I’m putting you on to Group."

His voice was drowned out by the sound of Robinson’s machine guns spraying the air madly. "Damn it you bastard, why won’t you die!" he shouted in exasperation at the FW, shaking his fist. "Right waist, he’s going your way."

"Copy that," Flynn replied, training his gun on the FW fighter. "Come on baby, come to papa… that’s it, that’s it, that’s it!!!"

He squeezed the trigger hard, sending a hail of bullets that licked the fighter on the tail. Instantly the fighter began smoking slightly. "Gotcha you son of a bitch!"

"You got the fighter?" Reiner said excitedly. "Three ME’s at ten high! Flynn, you got him?"

"Just the tail," Flynn admitted. "But he’s making another pass – watch it!"

This time it was Casey Arnold who opened fire from the ball turret as the FW made an attack from five o’clock low. The bomber’s metal floor throbbed roughly as Arnold’s shells spat out from his twin machine guns. He caught it in the middle of a barrel roll, the spray of wild bullets biting deep into the fighter’s belly. A moment later the Gerry fighter exploded into a giant fireball, spewing fuselage in all directions.

The heavy bomber bounced in the sudden turbulence, smoke streaming through every window. "Everybody call in!" the captain hollered, coughing as he choked on the black soot.

"Tail!"

"Right! Casey, you damn Yank, you were one hell of a shot out there!" Flynn shouted above the roar of the engines.

And then when they emerged from the dark cloud into the sunny sky again, the Me-109s were gone. So were the P-47s.

Tony Carruthers reached for his throat mike. "Captain, this is the bomb run."

<------------------------->

"So it was like, the crazy FW-190 was barreling in from nine low, and he swoops past like this…" Flynn said, demonstrating with his hands as he related to the radio operator of Dora’s Drawers the strange lone FW they’d encountered.They had just returned to the 8th Air Force base at Ridgewell after the bomb run to St. Nazaire. Out of the 20 bombers that had been sent 17 returned, one of them down to two engines. On the whole, it wasn’t all too bad a mission. "… And then the bastard takes out the radio room…"

"The top turret, Flynn, the top turret," Reiner reminded him.

"And then he makes the mistake of breaking low, and I turn my turret, and BAMM! That’s one less Nazi," Arnold said triumphantly.

Jeff Landis stared at Arnold. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You actually shot down the fighter?"

"Yep. Exploded too." Then Arnold saw the strange look Landis and the Dora’s Drawers’ tail gunner O’Leary was exchanging. "What?"

O’Leary took a deep breath. "There’s this old Air Force legend about a rogue FW-190 fighter that bears the same markings as you described, you know. The pilot’s supposed to be something of an ace. Lots of crews have spotted it during some mission or the other to Germany, but no one’s been able to shoot it down. It’s always been too good for the gunners."

"Until now," Arnold bragged.

"Yes… but there’s more to the legend," Landis said uneasily. "That fighter belonged to fighter ace Hans Heinkel of the Luftwaffe – very famous in Germany about two years ago."

"And?"

"That fighter was shot down on December 12th 1942 at Bremen. They blew off the pilot’s head and took out the engines. The fighter exploded into flames not long after. Fragments of the ship were found all over the city."

Flynn gulped. "So what you mean is – "

O’Leary smiled jovially. "Boys, it looks like you just shot down a ghost plane," he said.


© Farlander.
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cullyferg2010's avatar
Ya can always tell whose the ball gunner because he's the smallest guy on the crew.