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"It wasn't magical. I know it's not. It's just a glorified windsock, that's all. Yeah, glorified."
Or so I kept telling myself.
Another day loitering at the airfield. As I shuffled the deck, I glanced up. We were all that stands between a full on German invasion. That's why we need to be ready.
I deal the cards.
"Come on Lady luck, I need to pay my brother back!"
"Darn, another poor hand"
"Woohoo! I'm in the money!"
Every day was the same. It was always like this. Unsure when they were coming. It wasn't the fact that they weren't coming, we knew they were, it was a matter of when.
I looked over at my Spitfire. It alone could tell many a tale. The bullet holes perilously close to the fuselage, the rip in the undercarriage- I had been lucky.
"Tell us about the Windsock, George!"
I sat, my ear trained on the story of how one windsock saved another pilot's life. Baloney! It wasn't true. I had heard different. One man's mistake was another's tale of courage, determination and honour. He was a liar, and he knew it. It was a shame the others were to blind too see it.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"You're a fake! That damned windsock didn't save your life; you didn't listen to me! I told you you had a bogey on your tail, said I was lying. Blamed it on the clouds. Said you couldn't see. There were no damned clouds. It was as clear as the lie you're telling. You were shot down, and ejected. Your parachute happened to entangle itself on the windsock, saving you from drifting out to sea…"
"Hey, wait a darned minute. You said the 'plane malfunctioned George! You're no pilot. You're just as bad as them damned Huns!"
We never did see George after that. Some say he enlisted in the Navy. But again, I know different. He went to the other side. He became a pilot for the Luftwaffe. The traitor.
So when I stare at his 'plane, the very same Messerschmit that I myself shot down, I do not feel guilt, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in knowing that I have killed a traitor, a liar, and an enemy.
---------------
Be weary of evil, for it comes in many forms.
Or so I kept telling myself.
Another day loitering at the airfield. As I shuffled the deck, I glanced up. We were all that stands between a full on German invasion. That's why we need to be ready.
I deal the cards.
"Come on Lady luck, I need to pay my brother back!"
"Darn, another poor hand"
"Woohoo! I'm in the money!"
Every day was the same. It was always like this. Unsure when they were coming. It wasn't the fact that they weren't coming, we knew they were, it was a matter of when.
I looked over at my Spitfire. It alone could tell many a tale. The bullet holes perilously close to the fuselage, the rip in the undercarriage- I had been lucky.
"Tell us about the Windsock, George!"
I sat, my ear trained on the story of how one windsock saved another pilot's life. Baloney! It wasn't true. I had heard different. One man's mistake was another's tale of courage, determination and honour. He was a liar, and he knew it. It was a shame the others were to blind too see it.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"You're a fake! That damned windsock didn't save your life; you didn't listen to me! I told you you had a bogey on your tail, said I was lying. Blamed it on the clouds. Said you couldn't see. There were no damned clouds. It was as clear as the lie you're telling. You were shot down, and ejected. Your parachute happened to entangle itself on the windsock, saving you from drifting out to sea…"
"Hey, wait a darned minute. You said the 'plane malfunctioned George! You're no pilot. You're just as bad as them damned Huns!"
We never did see George after that. Some say he enlisted in the Navy. But again, I know different. He went to the other side. He became a pilot for the Luftwaffe. The traitor.
So when I stare at his 'plane, the very same Messerschmit that I myself shot down, I do not feel guilt, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in knowing that I have killed a traitor, a liar, and an enemy.
---------------
Be weary of evil, for it comes in many forms.
I blame the title.
*moans*
*moans*
They're the big flag-type 'sleeves' that hang on top of flag poles. They indicate the strength of the wind.
Nice little story, but what's a "windsock"?
I'm getting visions of a red and black stocking roaming the streets causing havoc with its out-of-control flatulence.
I'm getting visions of a red and black stocking roaming the streets causing havoc with its out-of-control flatulence.
And yes, the title is supposed to say Glorified...
Heh.
Heh.
"It wasn't magical. I know it's not. It's just a glorified windsock, that's all. Yeah, glorified."
Or so I kept telling myself.
Another day loitering at the airfield. As I shuffled the deck, I glanced up. We were all that stands between a full on German invasion. That's why we need to be ready.
I deal the cards.
"Come on Lady luck, I need to pay my brother back!"
"Darn, another poor hand"
"Woohoo! I'm in the money!"
Every day was the same. It was always like this. Unsure when they were coming. It wasn't the fact that they weren't coming, we knew they were, it was a matter of when.
I looked over at my Spitfire. It alone could tell many a tale. The bullet holes perilously close to the fuselage, the rip in the undercarriage- I had been lucky.
"Tell us about the Windsock, George!"
I sat, my ear trained on the story of how one windsock saved another pilot's life. Baloney! It wasn't true. I had heard different. One man's mistake was another's tale of courage, determination and honour. He was a liar, and he knew it. It was a shame the others were to blind too see it.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"You're a fake! That damned windsock didn't save your life; you didn't listen to me! I told you you had a bogey on your tail, said I was lying. Blamed it on the clouds. Said you couldn't see. There were no damned clouds. It was as clear as the lie you're telling. You were shot down, and ejected. Your parachute happened to entangle itself on the windsock, saving you from drifting out to sea…"
"Hey, wait a darned minute. You said the 'plane malfunctioned George! You're no pilot. You're just as bad as them damned Huns!"
We never did see George after that. Some say he enlisted in the Navy. But again, I know different. He went to the other side. He became a pilot for the Luftwaffe. The traitor.
So when I stare at his 'plane, the very same Messerschmit that I myself shot down, I do not feel guilt, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in knowing that I have killed a traitor, a liar, and an enemy.
---------------
Be weary of evil, for it comes in many forms.
Or so I kept telling myself.
Another day loitering at the airfield. As I shuffled the deck, I glanced up. We were all that stands between a full on German invasion. That's why we need to be ready.
I deal the cards.
"Come on Lady luck, I need to pay my brother back!"
"Darn, another poor hand"
"Woohoo! I'm in the money!"
Every day was the same. It was always like this. Unsure when they were coming. It wasn't the fact that they weren't coming, we knew they were, it was a matter of when.
I looked over at my Spitfire. It alone could tell many a tale. The bullet holes perilously close to the fuselage, the rip in the undercarriage- I had been lucky.
"Tell us about the Windsock, George!"
I sat, my ear trained on the story of how one windsock saved another pilot's life. Baloney! It wasn't true. I had heard different. One man's mistake was another's tale of courage, determination and honour. He was a liar, and he knew it. It was a shame the others were to blind too see it.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"You're a fake! That damned windsock didn't save your life; you didn't listen to me! I told you you had a bogey on your tail, said I was lying. Blamed it on the clouds. Said you couldn't see. There were no damned clouds. It was as clear as the lie you're telling. You were shot down, and ejected. Your parachute happened to entangle itself on the windsock, saving you from drifting out to sea…"
"Hey, wait a darned minute. You said the 'plane malfunctioned George! You're no pilot. You're just as bad as them damned Huns!"
We never did see George after that. Some say he enlisted in the Navy. But again, I know different. He went to the other side. He became a pilot for the Luftwaffe. The traitor.
So when I stare at his 'plane, the very same Messerschmit that I myself shot down, I do not feel guilt, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in knowing that I have killed a traitor, a liar, and an enemy.
---------------
Be weary of evil, for it comes in many forms.