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Weg


Name: MOH_WEG
Favorite Aircraft: Spitfire series
Timezone: GMT +12
Hometown: New Zealand
Languages understood: English
Age: 47
Date of Inauguration: November 10, 2005



“My first engagement was frightening, but my next fight was exhilarating! Here is what happened:

It was in the spring of 1942 and we were flying CAP over a small assortment of RN vessels making passage through the English Channel. Our formation was flying “Finger Four” at 14,000 feet. The venerable Spitfire MkVb was our mount.

After about 20 minutes of uneventful flight, Wing Commander MOH_SODA communicated the sighting of possible bandits, likely Me-109’s, bearing 270 degrees. In solemn, orderly manner we followed his lead towards the enemy.

As we closed, the enemy formation clearly came into view. To my surprise these aircraft were not Me-109’s but Ju-87’s. They were unaware of our presence and continued, “drone like” towards the fleet.

Although no enemy fighters appeared to be in the vicinity of the Ju-87’s, MOH_SODA knew better, and directed us to initiate a hard climbing bank to starboard. As I pulled on the stick and eased the nose of my Spitfire up, I heard the crackle of cannon fire. Snapping my head in the direction of the noise, the blood red underbelly of a FW190 aircraft flashed into view. “Those are FW190’s!” shouted MOH_MagOO over TS “and that “RED” FW190 must be the personal aircraft of the great German ACE Hauptman 67!” My blood ran cold.

The fray had been entered. I nervously glanced about in an effort to pick up my #1 and ensure he was clear. Below me, a FW190 appeared off starboard and made a pass at MOH_Petec, then extended. Impulsively, I dived after him, but his energy was such that he easily extended away from me. Green but determined, I would not give up the chase and foolishly continued pursuit.

This was indeed Hauptman_67. He was no fool. I had been singled out, cleverly dragged from my formation and away from my comrades. Soon he would do his best to teach me about death.

Before long I could no longer see my opponent. He had positioned himself well ahead of me in the low winter sun, and renewed his offensive from that position. His next attack was sudden. I did not see him but heard his approach. In a state of panic, I yarded my aircraft into a tight turn. High G forces squeezed the blood from my brain as I struggled to remain conscious. Tracers ripped past my cockpit and I heard the FW190 roar by. I looked around and saw my foe in a shallow dive. I chased him down but was forced to break off when my Spitfire began to violently shake. Hauptman_67 again extended, zoom climbed to a safe distance, reversed and came at me head to head. I was ready for him this time and executed a textbook split “S” and escaped. He zoomed again and I chased him up. He miscalculated and gave me a window of opportunity. I “cut loose” and saw the sparkle of a few bullet strikes on his FW190 before I ran out of energy and nosed over. Hauptman_67 “hammer headed” and came at me again. I evaded his rounds as tracers ripped by. We closed and started a close quarters dogfight. After a few scissors he managed to connect with a snap shot. Having been struck in the port wing, the aileron response of my Spitfire slackened. I tried to bait him into a turn fight but he would not be tricked. Like the expert he was, he used energy and scissors like a master. Neither of us could connect with our exchanged short bursts of fire. I was sweating it out and thought he must be as well. After 10 minutes of grueling battle, I saw my foes FW190 losing power. Some of my earlier bullet strikes had proven decisive. A slow “yo-yo” gave me an unexpected advantage and a killing shot. A long burst of 20mm Hispano cannon fire ended the fight. I watched as the flaming FW190 crashed into the sea. There was no parachute. I had accomplished the unimaginable and survived.