From B, friend of Boa:
Poetry:
Ode to a Cutthroat
when you fly today
listen to the wind in your head
and heed the elemental-secrets--better left unsaid....
because there's something to be read
on a timely sunny thursday
(forgetting the care but remembering to bring the wine--the
ancient juice of art:
i will sip from the tides of myth)
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
let Destiny come face to face
with Bloodlust
beneath a brilliant blue sky--
like eagles making love with urgency
(before the supreme crash)--
i would like to gather enough wind in a ball:
here i would place my wings;
dare my rivals to a dance--
steady, swooping down with a sensible nose
before lifting up to salute the light--
basking, i realize
it is entirely my choice:
to forever fly or to forever fall
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
it was about kindling the flames of a star
because you needed it for flight...
it was about tempting the aerial
muse
because her wisdom is night...
it was about trust curling up behind your back,
as the MiG quickened under your wrath
(this awesome dream of mine)
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
the sound of the night is a drumbeat sound: da-dum
heartbeat - beating wings
flapping--
anxiously urgent
urgently anxious--
against a shield
of steel: stealing time,
timing a steal
to catch a breath victorious:
blasting...
blasted, lasting victory:
a rolling poof...
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
this high up, it's hard to tell:
whether i'm holding her hand,
or is it she who carries me
up into the
depth of sky,
the boundless
night
sometimes a tender whisper,
sometimes an impassioned cry:
(either way,
her voice I will answer --
to this
coutnry, my servitude and wings I will not deny~)
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
ARREST -- !! -- this night:
electrify
the needy,
greedy sky
with battlelight
TRUST the strength of winged ships:
coax
the hungry
tides
to reach for flight
IMPRESS both Neptune and Zeus
the gods of
the realms you use;
this war belongs to Mars
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
Once upon a Thursday evening,
a little prince looked into his chest of toys.
He tried hard to free his mind from obligation.
On this lazy Thursday evening,
this little prince invited some other girls and boys
to share in his night of ripe imagination.
"Liberate yourself from boring,"
claimed the little prince, "I promise you'll enjoy.
Here are some planes we'll use for our migration!"
They did heed the prince's bidding,
and searched around the room for militant ploys.
Soon thereafter the prince decided: they would be fearsome
pilots:
ruthless pirates of aviation!
©1997 Bernadette Romualdez aka "B"
So you want the story behind the handle <chuckle> I can laugh now, but it was a painful experience, and I was lucky.
For those of you who don't know, I was in the New York Army National Guard for 8 years with the 1st Battalion, 209th Field Artillery (8 inch, self-propelled) formerly based in Rochester, NY. Alas, they are no more. Budget cuts, jerks in Albany (our capitol) and NYC forced a re-org that combined the 209th with the 258 out of NYC, and that's why I got out. Our big guns were replaced with towed 105mm cannon <sigh>
At any rate, to the story. It was the summer of 1988. We were just finishing up the "field" portion of our two week training. I was literally the last one out of the field and pulled into the motor park (our temporary maintenance point) to check on vehicle status and make sure all my folks had eaten. It was already getting dark, and the place was deserted. So I was looking for the sentries.
The two sentries were sitting in the cab of a 2 1/2 ton truck. I pulled my jeep up perpendicular to the truck, about 10 yards away, on a slight slope. The sentry on the driver side started to get out, but his Gas mask got hung up on the emergency brake handle, which released, and the truck started to roll. I jumped out of my jeep, dashed over and yanked on the parking brake before the truck rolled too far. <phew> I thought.
Then I notice a light coming at me from behind. Just as I turned around, my own jeep rolled into me and pinned me against the running board of the truck. In my haste to stop the truck, I FORGOT TO SET MY OWN PARKING BRAKE! The bumper on the jeep had my knee against the running board on the truck.
Since I was at the driver's door, he couldn't do anything, so the sentry on the other side jumped out and tried to back the jeep up. Too bad he wasn't qualified to drive a standard. He put it in 1st gear. OUCH! "The other way! The other way! Put it in REVERSE!" I yelled. <shaking head> "All the way right and back towards you" he got it backed up then.
Can't remember how I got over to the "Doc", but he was just cooking a steak dinner for his crew (now THIS guy knew how to live). The "Doc" had a great bedside manner (I have a few stories about him). For the pain, he gave me a shot of whiskey (no kidding). He gently probed the knee, asked if I could walk on it (I said yes) and he said I would be fine, no serious damage that he could see. If it was bothering me too much tomorrow, he'd send me to the base hospital for x-rays.
The next day I met with my "staff" and after everyone made sure I was okay, the jokes started flying. My Supply Sergeant, Sgt James Snyder, gets the credit with coming out with "Hey CPT Wheel Chock, stop any trucks lately?" And I have stuck with that as a handle since.
The knee is fine. Acts up when the weather changes, but doesn't cripple me, just aches.
So, now you know, the REST of the story <g>
©1997 Eric Karl Heuschneider aka "Wheel Chock"
He recieves his orders, snaps a salute,
turns out the door and heads for the tarmac,
watching the hustle and bustle of the base,
the thought crosses his mind, "Will I be back?".
He walks to his plane, Oh what a glorious bird!,
walking around absently caressing her side,
checking, making sure everything is ready,
memories coming back of when she saved his hide.
He climbs up in into the cockpit,
settles in and starts the prop,
heart racing with the sound and excitment,
hopeing with his help, the B-17's will get the drop.
He taxis down the runway,
gently guiding his plane into the air,
tunes in his radio, and adjusts his control,
looks for his wingmate, they form up in a pair.
He lets his mind wander, memories come and go,
Says a little prayer, "Dear GOD let me make it back,
Let me fly smart, let me fly with control,
let me please, please not get hit by the ack".
He looks around, nerves tight with the tension,
the radio screams "Enemy 10:00 o'clock high".
the blood starts racing, mind goes into auto,
fights with everything he has, he doesn't want to die.
He lines up his shot and hits the trigger,
the cannons burst forth, damn they went wide,
he turns with the enemy, in a eerie dance of death,
has sight once more, the bullets right into the side.
He looks for the rest of the enemy, his wingmate in trouble,
searching high, searching low, left and right,
enemy shooting his buddy, hitting here and there,
he dives in with determination, he wants to end this
fight.
He takes out the enemy, sweating all the while,
radio crackles "Enemy on your 6, watch out!"
zipping and zagging, yoyo's and rolls,
using his wits, he knows he has to win this bout.
He feels the bullets ripping into his plane,
hears the metal screech with protest,
smells the smoke, feels the heat,
he knows he is going down, he did his best.
He hits the button that might save his life,
a wave of panic, then strange calm. He bailed.
"Ok GOD, I'm not dead yet. please just let me land".
his plane, a part of him, is gone, he thinks "I failed".
He is falling, falling, his chute a beautiful sight,
the sound of a plane, like bee's from their hive,
comes into his view, his final thought,
"Damn, I won't survive".
©1997 Sheila A. Saint aka "Sassy Red"
Pass the rum to the left, ammo to the right
Lets fuel the planes, cuz we're flying tonight
Full power. Go! Take off in form
Arc to the east, another mission is born
Steady climb cruise, level at ten
You're on the edge with butterflies again
Dot to the south, heading away
Looks like there are more, over the lake
Out of the sun, into the fray
Lord help the bandit that gets in my way
Lead turn at high G, he cuts to the right
Pull up in a yo-yo and re-enter the fight
He can't get his nose up, this is gonna be fun
Just one more turn and he'll fall to your guns
Bang bang ping, you check you six
That damn Focke Wulf, using boom and zoom tricks
But you've got a Pony with E to spare
A split S extension, he's no longer there
A low running Spit, unaware of the threat
Is flying quite level, something he'll soon regret
Saddle up in position at 600 yards
The bullets fly and tear his airplane to shards
A kill is recorded, now time to attack
N eighty six's almighty flak.
Black puffs all around, but as quick as they come
zo one eight two has been killed, by another Cz bomb
A dweeb in a panzer, you roll in on the ack
And bring the X up, right into his lap
The airfield is dead, the fuel tanks gone
with the ammo and hanger, our job is done
And now you've begun the long flight back
Light the Benson and Hedges, its time to relax
Roll into the pattern, nice landing is called
We'll go back tomorrow. Salute to you all!
©1997 John Clark aka "Mig Eater"
| Back about 10 years ago (Nov '87), I was working for a Flight Simulator manufacturer on college co-op. They were full size multi-engine recip or turbo flight training device/flight simulators housed in aircraft nose enclosures. One day I found this great new desktop flight sim (a real breakthrough at the time) called Falcon from Spectrum Holobyte. We ran it through the flight sim computers then onto a spare monochrome screen. At 12 mHz, these things cooked! |
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| My boss and myself were hooked. Before work, during work, during lunch, and after work, we'd be dogfighting hordes of Commie MiG-21's. Even did a null modem hookup between two machines once with a bunch of head to head dogfights. I won 6 out of 7 engagements. I also got fired six times that day <ggg>. The next morning I found this on my bench and as you guessed, the name stuck! | |