Dogfight

The two-engine fighter plane was returning home after a fruitful scouting mission. It’d been a long night of flying. The pilot’s orders had been to put some eyeballs on a particular stretch of terrain for an anticipated battle. He was in good spirits, always was on the return end a successful run, even on something relatively simple as this one. But wait, what was that way ahead on the horizon?

He and his fellow pilots had received ample classroom training. During down time, visual training was conducted showing images of enemy aircraft and enemy naval vessels. You damn sure wanted to distinguish between friend and foe before they did. The airplane on the horizon, its silhouette indicated an enemy bogie. It was flying in a straight path, clearly unaware there was another aircraft in the quadrant, especially enemy aircraft. He checked his equipment, ammunition levels, positioned himself for an advantageous approach then clicked off the safety for the 20 mm wing-mounted cannons and .50 caliber machine guns. With that, the game began.

He swooped in aggressively and delivered the initial blast from his six .50 caliber machine guns with armor piercing rounds. The completely unsuspecting enemy pilot weathered the strafing before going into evasive action. Bullet holes festooned the portside wing and the aircraft was responding poorly to the pilot’s yoke movements. As he quickly perused the vast array of indicators and devices on the cockpit’s control panel looking for a hint as to what was wrong, the cabin began to fill with smoke. At this point the aggressor made a second approach, let loose with the cannons and delivered a clean hit.

The plane tumbled out of the sky like a badly folded paper airplane. The pilot looked back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his fallen prey, witness the downing and watch for a parachute.

As he looked back he saw a bicyclist tumble off the bike path and lose control of his 10-speed bicycle. Books and a backpack spilled out onto an adjacent patch of grass while the cyclist was awkwardly splayed out on the ground. The downed cyclist confusedly looked ahead at the other cyclist, our fighter pilot. Why, the victor wasn’t a pilot at all, merely a dude on a bicycle late at night causing trouble for another student cyclist.

“What the hell,” yelled the downed cyclist. But the aggressor rode on without response, his bike’s chain faintly sounding off as he pedaled away. It was nearly midnight and he had to return to home base, the dormitories. He had an early class tomorrow and must hit the rack.

-klem

[Inspired by a second hand account told to me by a close friend circa 1986 about a mild mannered acquaintance in the dormitories. He supposedly, the acquaintance, had a few beers one night, felt like some excitement, went for a late night bicycle ride and played fighter pilot with an unsuspecting cyclist. I do not condone unjustified violence, of course, but this fellow, he was of slight dimensions and the alleged behavior was entirely unbefitting of him. That contrast made it much more fun.]