Another Day… Another Tedious False Flag Terrorist Attack…   Leave a comment

So… Very early in the morning March 15.. the beginning of a cycle of shifts, drifting off to sleep listening to Coast to Coast AM, George mentioning a shooting at a Mosque in New Zealand and something like 9 people had been killed.. I mentally rolled my eyes and “here we go again” I thought as I drifted off to sleep… When I woke the next day, the full story was on the radio; Christchurch, New Zealand, 49 people, brutally murdered… The machinery of The Controlled Mainstream Media began to noisily sputter and clank into motion, the manufactured grief and anger spewed forth… Muslims in the cross-hairs for a change, “another senseless Terrorist Attack” … “this wanton indiscriminate violence” … “what is to be done about these crazy right-wing extremists?” … “our innocence is lost” … yada … yada … yada — I made those comments up, but that’s the sort of drivel trotted out when this stuff happens, as it seems to, like clockwork … Sorry people.. I wasn’t paying much attention, I was working Graveyard like I’ve been doing on-and-off for the last 4 years, most of my life these days seems occupied with catching up on my sleep.

 

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But 5 days later, up and at ‘em 14:00 hours on Wednesday afternoon, my weekend beginneth, a cup of coffee with a generous dollop of Irish Cream to celebrate the start of Two Days of Freedom and I flicked through Facebook as I too often do, and Ryan had made a post about some Muslim protest going on in England: (1)

I scrolled down the comments like I do when I’m awake after 5 nights of Graveyards but very nearly braindead, and came across the following.. Together with back-and-forths with people I’ve never met and likely never will. Then, for the heck of it, went to breakthematrix.com expecting as is so often the case, the usual not-too-believable factoids. (2)

“5 Things About The Christchurch Shooting That Prove It Was A False Flag

1. Magic Bullets – Bullet casing disappear into thin air.

2. Magazine (with ammo) laying on Mosque floor BEFORE Shooter ever entered the Mosque.

3. Bodies on ground and fallen before shots fired.

4. Perfect Walls – No damage or bullet holes in wall.

5. Mannequins and the open doorway.”

 

The story we’re being sold by The Controlled Mainstream Media is that one Brenton Tarrant, a disaffected Australian White Supremacist along with 3 other people who have since vanished without a trace, bought some guns, shot up a mosque and in the process murdered 49 people; just before doing so, issued the usual rambling manifesto which I haven’t read yet, but will at some point. According to Received Authority he made a live video of himself gunning down all these innocent people, and posted it on Facebook, where it’s no longer available.

 

Thus I watched the presentation, this being my first real exposure to this story. Other than perhaps the “mannequins and the open doorway” business? Oh my…

 

Then I watched the largely banned video. As per usual some more, the factoids presented are not so unbelievable. The following is my minute-by-minute, almost second-by-second take on the preposterous rubbish that I watched…

 

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2:02 I find Brenton’s taste in music a little curious.. Polka music? Reminds me of “Mario Brothers” for some reason.. Or possibly “The Schmenge Brothers”.. ?

 

2:49 – 3:38 The sound goes mute for nearly a minute as he’s talking. Something “They” don’t want us to hear possibly?

 

4:48 Then the music suddenly changes to “British Grenadiers”? I’ve no reason to think this, but seems to me Polka Music and Military March Music … likely wouldn’t be Brenton’s thing … ? The “Horst Wessel March” possibly, but not “British Grenadiers” for Heaven’s sakes!

 

5:52 Brenton stops, he pulls his weapon as he’s getting out of the car — it’s already firing and steadily? No noise? No recoil? He gets out the car.. it’s still sputtering!? He opens the trunk.. his hands are obviously wrong. Come to think of it? Both his hands and the gun, look like something you’d see in a video game.

 

6:31 We see bodies on the floor of the mosque, as he’s entering. How did they get there first? Also, there doesn’t seem to be any blood anywhere for some reason.

 

6:44 He inexplicably throws his weapon away with a noisy “clank!” Then it’s magically back in his hands again. It’s still firing, all of its own… and making no noise… there is no recoil…

 

6:47 He shoots someone crawling away. They fall flat. But the body doesn’t flex from the bullet impact. No wounds, no instantly ripped clothing, no blood on or around the body. Very strange.

 

6:50 He shoots at someone running away, from point blank range… they easily evade him. In fact, this happens at least twice.

 

7:06 He’s just entered a room for the first time.. But there’s bodies piled high in the corner. How did they get there? They look to be about 20 feet / 6 metres away.. no blood anywhere that I can see, never mind any gaping wounds.

 

7:26 For some occult reason Brenton begins firing merrily away at the wall. But no bullet holes appear.

 

7:36 The shell casings as they exit the weapon? … They just kinda … vanish … ?

 

7:52 We see a body right in front of Brenton’s gun barrel. No wounds, no blood. Come to think of it, I also don’t recall previously seeing that body go down…

 

7:56 He changes his magazine… and fires some more at the wall? Why would he do that? No bullet holes appear…

 

8:18 Where’s that music coming from, and why? They’re playing something encouraging through the PA for him?

 

8:58 He’s exited the mosque. Far as I can tell, he begins shooting down the street at nothing… As the bullet casings pop out of his AR-15, they vanish…

 

9:33 He’s strolled back to the trunk of his car, deposited his old weapon, pulls out a new one and a red plastic jug of something… and that’s the last we ever see of it…

 

10:03 He’s running down the street, don’t even hear him breathing hard, he turns to the left and he shoots… again… at nothing… Come to think of it… we’re now 10 minutes into the video? Why don’t I hear sirens?

 

10:13 He continues shooting at nothing.

 

10:29 Back in the mosque. No bullet holes in evidence from the previous mêlée. Bodies sprawled everywhere. No wounds. No blood. And… no sirens…

 

10:48 He begins shooting at nothing again. Once again: The bullet casings vanish as they fly out of the weapon.

 

11:05 He shoots at bodies, I guess for the Hell of it. Some move a little but not much.. But most don’t. Clothes don’t tear. Wounds don’t appear.

 

11:22 We finally see the first body with blood: All over the trousers.. I’m no expert, but.. seems to me, by now… Shouldn’t there be pools of blood… pretty much everywhere? And still, no sirens?

 

11:24 He shoots at some bodies some more.. They move a bit… no bullet holes appear in the walls…

 

11:47 He runs back out the front (?) door. He starts shooting at nothing some more. I see no police cars in the street, nor indeed any kind of emergency vehicle. Surely the Police should be there by now … Surely the Christchurch Emergency Services  aren’t that inefficient…

 

11:59 I’m sorry, but the weapon, his hands.. they still look like a computer game simulation.

 

12:00 Brenton again… shoots down the street… at nothing…

 

12:09 He shoots at a body lying on the street in front of his car … How did it get there? There was no-one passing by when he got out of his car to begin shooting. But there it is waiting for him when he gets back? … pieces go flying, instantly disappear, but again, no blood…

 

12:31 Brenton gets back in his car, drives over the body he just shot up.. No hump, no bump, no nothing… just as if it wasn’t really there.

 

12:47 He shoots through his windshield — three times! — which doesn’t instantly shatter the first time? Not even the faintest trace of a bullet hole? Nor is there noise of glass shattering?  The noise from his weapon on the other hand seems suddenly curiously muted.

 

13:23 He now shoots through the passenger window.. And some glass — not nearly enough in my inexpert opinion — falls.. IN? As it falls, it resembles leaves, or bits of paper? No noise? At all? As the car moves the shards of glass just sit there as if they’re glued in place? … And still? No cops?.. No sirens?…

 

13:58 He’s driving away.. why does the music consistently remind me of a video game?

 

15:43 Finally hear the faint sounds of sirens… This is Christchurch, New Zealand. A city of 375,000 people, in a First World country — admittedly as far from anywhere else in The First World as you can get, without leaving the planet — but still: It’s taken the cops fifteen minutes to begin to respond?

 

16:03 Meanwhile the video which started with him driving on the left, as you’d expect in New Zealand… Seems to end with him driving on the right…? Yeah, it’s a boulevard.. But still.. something seems wrong…

 

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According to Zero Hedge (3) the New Zealand government has threatened up to 10 years imprisonment for people foolish enough to have copies of this video in their possession.. What has happened in that country to freedom of thought? Medea mentioned to me Facebook has scrubbed copies of it from their platform. Although mention was made of its existence, apparently we’re not actually allowed to see this video. Are they afraid people more alert than me will watch this, and start to wonder at, or perish the thought! Question… “The Official Story”?… Because this video is an absolute farce, it is so obviously phoney it’s ludicrous!

 

But here’s the curious and terrible truth: Had I not read/watched 5 Things about the Christchurch Shooting That Prove It Was a False Flag first, I might have swallowed that ridiculous video whole, and believed it! How gullible could anyone be!? But that, is how easily any of us can be hoodwinked by authority.  For crying out loud, even the premise is absurd! Christchurch, New Zealand? Why there? Rotherham or Bolton in England, I’d expect an attack like this to happen. Or Cologne, Germany? Or Nice, France? Maybe even the Swedes from what I’ve been reading might finally be getting a bit exasperated at their guests’ atrocious behaviour and something like this might have happened in Stockholm. But… Christchurch, New Zealand? This is about as far away from any kind of hotspot as you can get, nor have I heard a peep from there about issues with Moslem Migrants.

 

49 people were brutally murdered we are told. But Brenton’s alleged video is simply not credible. Truth to tell, I now suddenly wonder if Brenton Tarrent is a real person, or indeed, if this “mass shooting” in fact ever happened, that this was not something completely staged by the Intelligence Agencies. And yes, by now I’ve watched at least The Corpse’s (4) pompous flatulence about this … occurrence …

 

There is something very wrong with this story,

and what they’re telling us about it.

 

1. https://www.facebook.com/2042109462785257/videos/315676152425141/UzpfSTEwMDAzMzYzNDIwNTg1ODoxMjc3ODU5NjUwMTkyMTA/?comment_id=127988321665641&notif_id=1553119322332898&notif_t=feedback_reaction_generic\.

2. https://breakthematrix.com/?fbclid=IwAR1Rfi2hMbR2uv5OunCRCPZ7UFmMJIsy4P4n3E13LDeFSaS8jSJMoXT6hsQ.

3. https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2019-03-16/nz-threatens-10-years-prison-possessing-mosque-shooting-video-web-hosts-warned.

4. https://www.cbc.ca/player/play/1459510851903.

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Posted March 20, 2019 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Spitfire Pilot – Chapter Four   Leave a comment



.Flying the Mark IX

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We docked at Liverpool and were immediately entrained for Edinburgh en route to Grangemouth. Why we were returning was a total mystery, but it did little to enhance our morale. Our attitude was so bad that while awaiting developments outside the adjutant’s office we were accosted by a passing sprog* pilot officer we had ignored. “Do you men not salute officers?” he demanded.

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Freddy replied, “Nah, none below the rank of squadron leader. By the way, we are flight sergeants, not just ‘men’.”

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“Are you gentlemen not in the RAF?” came the sarcastic reply.

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“No sir.”

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“What do you mean?” he said incredulously.

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“RCAF, sir.”

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“Isn’t that the same thing?”

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“Not likely — try telling that to our headquarters in London.”

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With that he seemed to lose interest in the discussion and took off muttering about preferring charges for intolerable insubordination. We never heard any more about it.

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When we arrived at the sergeant’s mess, we were delighted to find that the back wall of the lounge was piled from floor to ceiling with cases of our favourite beer, Alloa Export. It was made by a little brewery on the far side of the Firth of Forth and was the nearest thing to Canadian lager that we had encountered in the U.K. When we asked Sunshine, the mess steward, what was going on, he said, “I heard that you beggars were coming back, so I made sure we had enough Alloa Export on hand.” We did our best to do him and the Alloa Export justice.

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When we demanded to know why we had been posted back to OTU after passing out with above-average recommendations, we were advised that this would be for a very brief period to give us some air-to-air and air-to-ground firing training and some squadron-formation flying familiarization prior to being posted out to fighter squadrons.

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For once the RAF was as good as its word and in less than a fortnight I was posted to 165 (Ceylon) Squadron, which at that time was located in Somerset and was equipped with Mark IX Spitfires. It was called “165 (Ceylon) Squadron” because it was originally equipped by funds raised by the island of Ceylon. My morale soared, and I got myself cleared and issued with transportation warrants with all possible haste. We had a farewell party in the mess that night that must have set some kind of record. It ended with wetting Tom’s feet in a plate of beer, then blacking them with soot from the fireplace and walking him up one wall of the lounge, across the ceiling, and down the other wall, with repeating dips in the fireplace to renew the supply of soot. We did not linger after breakfast, having no desire to face the C.O.’s wrath when he learned of our improvement to the decor of the lounge.

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It was with mixed emotions that I set out to travel south to Somerset to join the squadron. Deep sadness at parting from that great gang of friends with whom I had been through so much, and joy and anticipation at the prospect of joining a squadron in Ten Group and getting into action at last. Imagine learning of the squadron pilots’ aerial combat experiences and flying with them in the incomparable Mark IX Spitfire! When I arrived at Taunton in Somerset, it was raining heaven’s and England’s hardest, and I had no idea how I was to get to the aerodrome. However, the station master advised, with a friendly grin, that my best move would be to drop in at the local pub, as some pilots were almost certain to be there. His prediction was accurate and when I introduced myself to an Australian flying officer, he insisted on standing me to “a dirty big pint” and informed me that some of the other squadron pilots were there and would be glad to see that I had “a lift back to the works, later on.”

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Later on was a couple of hours and several “dirty big pints” later, to the point that I was a little concerned that I might not be creating the best impression for an uninitiated squadron pilot. After all, these guys were veteran fighter pilots who had been in action against the Luftwaffe — Supermen, or so it seemed to me in my naivety. They seemed to be very personable and friendly characters, quite genuine and not given to “line shooting” except in a humourous, rather than boastful manner. That evening I met Australians, New Zealanders, and a Canadian. I was soon to learn that the squadron pilots were a veritable league of nations: Aussies, New Zealanders, Canadians (two of us), South Africans, two Free French, and even some English.

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I was treated to a pint by a South African and accepted into the group as though I belonged there. We proceeded to lap up a few pints, when it became obvious from their clowning and singing that they were blowing off steam and relaxing from their stress and tension. It was good to be welcomed into this fraternity of unassuming professionals, but it was apparent that I was going to have to be on the ball if I were to survive. I didn’t realize at the time that this soiree was not unusual, that they were a spontaneous occurrence that erupted every few days, after we had encountered “shaky do’s,” described by the flight commander as “a bit fraught.”

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“Fraught with what, Wattie?” one of the boys had asked.

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“Flack, fear, confusion, and weariness,” Wattie had replied.

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Thereafter, “a bit fraught” described any trip particularly notable for enemy activity and heavy losses.

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There was a reluctance to mention anybody killed or shot down. Rather, it was said that, “He went for a Burton,” Burton being a well-known beer. With losses running at about 25 percent, a great deal of tension could be understood. There was consequently a reluctance to dwell on the fatality of each comrade, but instead to factually relate what had happened and drop the matter. The songs sung in the mess with gusto were usually bawdy or sacrilegious, as though we were flaunting our bravado, which may have been the case. One of my favourites, the squadron song, went somewhat as follows (the chorus was always sung first):

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For he’s a bold bad man, he’s a (three second pause) desperado,

From Cripple Creek, way down in (pause) Colorado,

And he roams around like a (pause) big tornado,

And everywhere he went he gave his war whoop.

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Total silence during the pause was mandatory.

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Any violator was booed and expected to pay for the next round of drinks.

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We went to Coney Island just to see all the sights,

He saw that Hoochy Koochey and the girls all dressed in tights

They got him so excited that he shot out all the lights,

And everywhere he went he gave his war whoop.

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Several verses followed, each more colourful than the preceding one, with the chorus between.

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Pilots of 165 (Ceylon) Squadron with Spitfire in background. I’m the one on the right wearing flying boots with the tops turned down.

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Upon my arrival at the squadron and for a long time thereafter, the weather was continually rainy. Everybody was becoming bored with the inactivity, and I was particularly frustrated, awaiting the opportunity to try out one of those beautiful and powerful Mark IXs, which, the C.O. informed me, were as different from the Mark V as the Mark V was from the Mark I. The Mark V was the latest I had flown up to that point, so I was really anticipating having a go in this Mark IX beauty! Finally one day the weather cleared up and became merely cloudy with a ceiling at about one thousand feet. The flight commander came into the flight shack and told me it would be OK to “go up in SKS,” that being the designation of the aircraft I was to fly!

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“Just do one circuit and bump, for this time,” he said, “and if you want to bring her in over the runway and go around again just to get the feel of her on the approach, then come in to land — that’ll be in order. Anyway, off you go and good luck. Just don’t bend it — there’s a good chap.”

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Out I went, parachute over my shoulder. I climbed up on the wing and dumped my chute into the seat, signalled for one of the ground crew to come over, and then proceeded to strap myself into my chute and seat straps. The mechanic plugged the starter accumulator into the aircraft and I carried out the pre-start check, primed the engine, and then pushed the starter button. The engine burst into life immediately, belching out clouds of black smoke from the exhaust ports along each side of the nose until it had blown out all of the too-rich mixture from the priming, and then it settled down to a powerful rumble, the four-bladed prop dissolved into invisibility.

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I taxied out, carrying out the takeoff cockpit check en route, turned onto the runway, and opened the throttle to takeoff boost. My head was pushed back against the headrest and I was being squeezed against the seat. I eased the tail off the runway and almost immediately the aircraft told me it was straining to get airborne. I eased back on the spade grip and we soared into the air, smoothly and powerfully, a champion. This was unbelievable! The plane was climbing so fast that, not paying proper attention to my altitude and rate of climb, I entered the overcast before I had made my turn onto the downwind lane. Since I knew I was still over the airport, I reduced height until I could see it, by which time I was beyond the point where I should commence my landing approach. I circled the airport and started my approach, levelling out, and lowering the undercart as I came over the end of the runway. The aircraft behaved so beautifully that I had no desire to go around again, so dropped her on for a perfect touchdown. I was nine feet tall! This was everything flying should be. I had thought that the 1600-plus horsepower Merlin engine would beget all manner of vicious tendencies in the Mark IX, but instead it was even sweeter to handle.

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I taxied back to the dispersal and parked on the hardstand without spinning the aircraft around on one wheel — in accordance with standing orders, to save undue wear and tear on the tires. I strolled nonchalantly into the dispersal hut as though that landing was merely routine for me.

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“That was a very good landing, Flight Sergeant,” the squadron leader said. “You did say you hadn’t flown a Mark IX before, didn’t you?”

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“Yes, sir,” I replied, “Mark I, II and V, but not the IX. You are right, sir, its performance is well above the Mark V, and it handles perhaps a bit better, don’t you think?”

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“Oh, yes, due in part to its increased power. We’ll get you up on some squadron formation and attack practice as soon as the bloody weather lifts a bit, then you’ll be ready to go on ops. I think, for the moment, you will fly number two to Flying Officer Armstrong, in Green flight. Keep your eyes open and your finger out and you’ll be all right with him. We’ll get you an aircraft as soon as possible, in the meantime you can use K. It’s F.O. Mollet’s, who’s off on an admin course for three weeks, but for God’s sake don’t bend it or he’ll have your guts for garters. He believes K is so special you’d think it was on loan to him from the Angel Gabriel.”

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“OK, sir, thank you very much.”

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“By the way, K is fresh back from maintenance unit and needs to be taken up for an altitude test. As soon as the weather clears up a bit, arrange with the flight commander to do a height test, get her up to 30,000 at least, and as far above that as she’ll go. Mollet was having some trouble with the second blower cutting in and out between 15,000 and 20,000. Make sure they’ve got the bugs out of it.”

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“Will do, sir. Sounds interesting.”

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“Well, best of luck to you then. Glad to have you aboard and if you’ve any problems that need my help, just let me know.”

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“Very good and thank you again, sir.”

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The next day the weather finally broke and the sun shone on a very wet world. When we disgorged from the air crew transport at the dispersal, the flight commander, EL. Weston, was waiting for me. I gave him a big salute and snapped to attention. He returned the salute and said, “Good Morning, Bauchman, at ease, and by the way, we are not too formal on the squadron, outside the mess, unless the situation calls for it. It’s only necessary to salute first thing in the morning. The C.O. tells me you’re to take P.O. Mollet’s aircraft K, for King, up on a height test today. EO. Mollet was bitching about the second blower not cutting in properly, so you might take her up through 15,000 to 20,000 two or three times. I hope the boffins at the maintenance unit were able to sort it out. Then see how high you can get her to climb. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get off right away. Have you got your chute and everything else you need?”

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“Yes, sir, I’m all set to go.”

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“K is parked on the second hardstand from the top end. Your call sign for the moment will be Drumhead Green Two. The controller’s call is Grandstand. Let him know that you’re carrying out a height test and above angels fifteen (15,000 feet). Report your altitude every 5,000 feet and your maximum altitude before starting your descent.”

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“OK Sir, understood.”

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“Right. Let me know how you get on when you get back.”

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Spitfire about to touch down.

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K leaped into the air with the Spitfire’s usual abandon. Normally, Blighty’s hazy atmosphere limited visibility to a few miles. However, on this occasion it was surprisingly clear, so more and more of the terrain below was visible as my height increased. Consequently, upon reaching 15,000 feet I could see Merrie Old England spread out beneath me from coast to coast, something I had never encountered before.

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At angels fifteen, K continued to perform flawlessly. I reduced height well below 15,000 and climbed to 20,000 two or three times, and the second stage blower cut in and out flawlessly each time. I continued to climb to 35,000 feet where she seemed to be struggling to maintain altitude but, since the airspeed indicator read 350 m.p.h., I decided that this was normal and due to the thinness of the air at this altitude. To me this seemed high enough. I was glad I didn’t have to get into a dogfight in these conditions. It was interesting to see my own vapour trails spiralling from the wing tips. When I called flying control, my voice was pretty weak.

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“Hello, Grandstand, Drumhead Green Two, angels thirty-five, returning to base, over.”

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“Roger, Green Two, out.”

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I thought, well, that’s pretty casual. I wonder if he gets reports from this altitude all that frequently. The least he could have done was request the weather conditions. It’s pretty damn seldom that you can see old Blighty spread out below like a map. Anyway, just for the hell of it, I pointed K straight down and opened the throttle to full bore to see how fast it could go. At about 600 m.p.h. she began to vibrate, bucket, and jump about so alarmingly that I hurriedly throttled back and eased her out of the dive. When I arrived back at the drome and mentioned to the flight commander how the aircraft behaved in the vertical dive he said, “Oh, yes, new experience, was it? She was approaching the speed of sound and apparently at that speed funny things happen to the air in front of the wings which causes severe buffeting.” I couldn’t help feeling, “How casual can you get?” but obviously further comment on my part was not expected. Enough that such flying high jinks were not necessarily frowned upon. What a surprise! Apparently life on an operational squadron had its moments.

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Came the big day. The ceiling was about a thousand feet and the wing commander announced a squadron sweep over France with yours truly going along as tail-end Charlie in Green flight. At the briefing we learned that this was mainly a penetration “do.” Perhaps by brazenly displaying our disregard for Jerry air power, we could needle him into putting up some defence. At the same time we would seek out any troop movements, ground transports, or railway traffic which might give some indication of the enemy’s potential activities. It all sounded very exciting as we synchronized watches and went out to our aircraft. I loved the squadron takeoff. We raced down the runway two by two and circled the aerodrome with each flight in line astern, forming up four abreast with the other three flights. Twelve aircraft snarling defiance in a low-level sweep across the aerodrome before setting out on course, with me in number four position bouncing around in the slipstream of the aircraft ahead and praying that the wing commander, or Winco, wouldn’t get any lower. I hoped Jerry might be induced to put up aircraft to attack us, but there was no sign of enemy aerial activity. This was quite disappointing on my first real venture into enemy territory. I had the hope of maybe shooting down an Me 109 or a JU 88. What a dreamer! There seemed to be a dearth of activity on the ground, when finally the Winco (wing commander) came on the R/T (radio) with, “Where is the mighty Luftwaffe? Are you too yellow to come up and defend yourselves? If you’re so brave and almighty invincible, why don’t you come up and fight like men?”

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Total waste of histrionics! No response on the R/T and no enemy aircraft up to avenge the insult to the Fatherland. A short time later, near the outskirts of Paris, Blue flight called: “Enemy aircraft, three o’clock below, looks like a JU 88.”

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“Roger, Blue One, Blue flight attack.” All four aircraft of Blue flight went down, and by then I could see that it was indeed a Junkers 88, the first I’d seen. The Jerry pilot and his crew must have been asleep, because they made no move to “break” but continued straight and level. We later speculated about what they might have been doing. It looked like they might have been stooging home after some night flight. Anyway, Blue flight attacked, each one in sequence, and the poor old JU 88 just disintegrated. Each member of Blue flight received one-quarter of an enemy aircraft, confirmed.

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A short time later we were “bounced” by a flight of four U.S. Thunderbolt aircraft who had mistaken us for enemy aircraft. I couldn’t help thinking that their aircraft recognition training left a lot to be desired. If nothing else, the Thunderbolt was about twice the size of the Spitfire and its distinctive curved trailing edge wing design closely resembled that of the Spitfire. They could just as well have been trying to shoot down one of their own. The Winco was more than a little put out when they shot his wing full of holes. “Let’s get the bastards,” he called, and down we went after them, like the hunt in full cry. Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, they had bounced us from well above, so that with the speed of their dive added to the normal speed of the Thunderbolt, we hadn’t a snowball’s hope in hell of catching them. However, we did chase them out of France. We last saw them disappearing into a cloud over the Channel. When we returned to base the Winco had a long word of prayer with Group headquarters, but we never heard anymore about it.

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With its eighty-five-gallon petrol tank, the Spitfire was not a long-range aircraft, having been designed principally as a defensive fighter. To increase its range for forays across the Channel, it was equipped with external ninety-gallon “slipper” tanks, called “tins,” which were jettisoned when empty. I was always sure that one day we would make the mistake of going out on the ninety-gallon slipper tank and attempting to return on the eighty-five-gallon main tank. The slipper tank was exhausted first, because it presented a hazard if the aircraft became involved in combat.

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On one occasion, in a sweep over France, my slipper tank ran dry before the Winco had given the order to “drop tins,” so I called him to advise. His response was simply, “Roger, Green Four, change over tanks.” Well, fine, I thought, but did you get the message that we should be thinking about returning to jolly old England, now that I’m operating on my main tank? In the interest of fuel economy, I reduced r.p.m.’s, and lagged behind somewhat until the Winco blasted, “Green Four, close up and maintain position, or I’ll have your guts for garters.” Since I didn’t fancy the image of the Winco sporting my tripes, I had to throw caution and fuel economy to the winds and catch up. I couldn’t help feeling that there was every likelihood that I would run out of petrol before we got back. My guts for garters, horseshit! A few minutes later the penny finally dropped when he gave the order to drop tins. I said a fervent, “Thank you, Lord, now please let’s go home.” When we crossed the coast of France on our return and I still had a little over half a tank of petrol, I thought, “Please let’s not get into a dogfight now and I might just make it all the way.” He had to prolong the agony of making a low-level pass over the drome but, thank God, with a normal pull-up and peel-off, for a continuous line-astern squadron landing. I still had enough petrol to taxi back to our dispersal and park on the hardstand.

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A few days later, on a four-plane, low-level “train busting” sweep over France, we had the good fortune to encounter a long freight towed by two locomotives and defended by two flak cars — flat cars with four anti-aircraft guns mounted on them, one immediately behind the locomotives and the other a little over midway along the train. By this time Jerry was beginning to suffer a serious shortage of locomotives and it was unusual to encounter a freight train of this calibre during daylight. We carried out a ground-level attack, leaving the leading locomotive wreathed in steam. Then the flight leader carried out the unusual manoeuvre of returning to the attack, no doubt because the second locomotive did not appear to be damaged. The gunners on the flak cars were fully alerted by this time, consequently the flak was murderous. We stayed behind the trees while making our turn and return approach, then over the trees and back to ground level. We succeeded in immobilizing the second locomotive, and one of the boys detonated a box car full of ammunition, blowing it up and derailing several other cars. Amazingly, the guardian angel of mad fighter pilots was on guard, and so far nobody seemed to have been seriously damaged.

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One of the boys, Wally, a madcap New Zealander, because of the flak, left it until the last split-second to jump over the locomotive and the stress of the violent manoeuvre caused his wings to bend up at the roots by about five degrees. He presented a most unusual appearance on our return trip. Ten Group hierarchy carried out an extensive investigation into the mechanics of the matter because, supposedly, it was not possible to do this to a Spitfire and survive. Wally said he would like to have his aircraft left the way it was because it was so much more stable horizontally. That did not go over at all well.

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In the absence of determined air defence from the Luftwaffe, we were becoming a little too complacent.

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The squadron was escorting American Flying Fortresses on a daylight bombing attack on railway centres. We were at 15,000 feet, the worst possible place from our point of view, because our second “blower” (supercharger) was supposed to cut in at this altitude, but some of us were staggering about the sky because, for whatever reason, our blowers had decided not to cut in. This was more of a nuisance than dangerous, so long as we were not attacked. We had an excellent view of the pattern bombing, which seemed accurate and most effective. It would be a long time before any rail traffic would be passing through these centres, and Jerry was going to have considerable problems in supplying his coastal defences in the face of threatened invasion.

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The flak was very heavy and we noticed several bomber casualties. Some of the crews bailed out successfully, but other bombers spun or dived in, apparently with all on board. On our return we discovered that we had also lost four of our squadron. We expected them to turn up later at some other drome, but that didn’t happen.

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Later on, in the mess, when someone mentioned to the Winco that it looked like our boys had been shot down by flak, he growled, “Flak be damned, they were bounced, while sitting there with their fingers well in, watching the fireworks. They were bounced by 109s. If the blockheads don’t maintain continuous cross-cover, you’ll be the next to get the chop. We lost four good pilots, four friends and four aircraft simply because we were unforgivably careless. If it happens again, some of you who do return will engage in totally different occupations.”

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* WWII RAF slang: A “new boy” fresh from training – inexperienced (also a “sprog crew” — RB)

Posted January 9, 2019 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Spitfire Pilot – Chapter Three   Leave a comment


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North Africa

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When we all requested postings to fighter command number Eleven Group, the area of greatest enemy activity over the U.K., or otherwise overseas, the Polish instructors seemed to appreciate our attitude because we all received above-average recommendations. We were all posted to North Africa, ostensibly as replacements for the forthcoming invasion of Italy. After a week’s leave in Edinburgh and London, we reported to embarkation depot in Warrington in the Midlands, not far from Liverpool. Both cities had taken quite a pasting during the Battle of Britain.

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About two weeks later, we were loaded onto a local train and shunted a few miles to a dock where, after the usual several hours of unexplained delay, we were loaded onto a tender and ferried to the troop transport which was to take us to Algiers in convoy. At that time German U-boats were very active in the Bay of Biscay area. We were assigned a sleeping space on the third deck down but were pretty well left to our own devices.

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On the third day out, the U-boat attacks began. First we would hear a tremendous whump or feel a great thump and then would see oily black smoke billowing up to mark the death throes of yet another vessel. We were occasionally near enough to see the poor bloody occupants struggling in the water with no ship daring to stop to rescue them. Then the destroyers or corvettes would come chuntering in to the attack, creating sub-surface detonations and fountains of water that marked the explosions of their depth charges. We never knew if the attacks were successful or not, but fervently expressed the hope that they were getting the bastards. We decided that sleeping three decks below the water line was tantamount to suicide in these conditions. We wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out if our transport were torpedoed, so we carried our sleeping bags up onto the top deck and bedded down in or around the life rafts. Nobody seemed to be concerned about this, so we slept there for the remainder of the voyage. We were told later that half of the vessels in our convoy were sunk. During the voyage, partly because of the shortage of washing facilities, we decided to grow beards. In a day or so we began to look remarkably like latter-day prophets. However, the heat became increasingly unbearable, creating a corresponding itch and we were soon clawing at our hirsute mugs like so many flea-ridden orangutans. We decided that beards might be suitable camouflage for sailors but were not at all suited to the oxygen masks worn by fighter pilots. So, we shaved off the beards forthwith.

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What a treat to awaken one morning to see that we were in the strait between Gibraltar and North Africa! The Pillars of Hercules! There it was, history rising out of the water in the form of that mighty, impregnable mountain of rock, and there we were looking at it. Unbelievable! Such are the ways of the service hierarchy that we were not allowed ashore, even though we were anchored in the roadstead for two days while other service personnel and stores destined for Gib were offloaded by tender. There didn’t seem to be any logical reason why we could not go ashore for a look around this famous spot! There was certainly plenty of room in the tenders. However, despite the logic of our petitions, we were met with a steadfast refusal. Typical service attitude. About half of our time was spent waiting for something to happen, which in the end usually didn’t.

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After leaving Gib, we crossed the Mediterranean, sailing into Algiers early in the morning. The sea was dead calm and there was the city, all white and glittering, stretching endlessly along the shore, with mile after mile of sand beaches reaching to the horizon. I stared, transfixed by the Casbah, which seemed one solid mass of buildings blanketing and disappearing over the hill above Algiers. Another image emblazoned on my mind is the huge concrete breakwater that stretched out into the harbour and bore the inscription “VIVE PETAIN” in black letters at least twenty feet high. I couldn’t help wondering about the loyalties of the North African French. I must have overlooked the fact that it had only been a short time since the Americans had driven out the occupying German forces, and maybe there had not been time for the powers-that-be to get around to eradicating this infamy.

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Our vessel was able to berth at the pier, and it was a treat to be able to walk down a gangplank even if we did have to tote our kit. It was hotter than the hob of hades with 100 percent humidity, so we were drenched in sweat before we reached the bottom.

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We trundled out of the dockyard onto a wide street which seemed to lead out of town. To our left spread the blue Mediterranean Sea, mill-pond smooth and dotted with shipping. The temperature was about 110 degrees. In no time at all we were drenched in sweat again. It looked like this might be a continuous state of affairs in this benighted territory. The stench was indescribable — a nauseating blend of rotting fish and seaweed, open sewers, and dirty socks. To our unaccustomed smellers it was overpowering, giving rise to a chorus of gagging and groaning.

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We were intrigued to observe a number of natives wandering along in seemingly aimless fashion, most of them carrying long, slim loaves of bread under their arms and wearing dirty, ragged robes. Every structure seemed dazzling white in the blazing sunshine. Flies! Not a few, but swarms of huge flies. They could not be discouraged from crawling all over us, unlike our Canadian variety which, after a few swats and swishes, will depart. Not so, these — they persisted despite efforts to disperse them. Coated with sweat and dust and wreathed in flies, we took little delight in our all-expense-paid tour of the Mediterranean.

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Our bivouac was located in a lemon grove near the Maison Blanche aerodrome. An irrigation tank there was large enough to become a swimming and diving facility and we spent all available free time there.

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We were in Algiers only long enough to have a good look around the city and to carry out a couple of reconnaissance trips to the Casbah, even though that area was strictly out of bounds. We were careful to go there in groups of four or more, carrying .38 revolvers and bayonets in sheaths on our belts. We didn’t come up against any trouble, despite horrifying stories about locals butchering Allied personnel and selling their I.D.’s, paybooks and dogtags to the Germans. In all fairness, the stories had it that they carried out the same operations against the Jerries.

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One evening I made the stupid mistake of wandering out alone on a beach in the moonlight. On my right was the beautiful moonlit Mediterranean and on my left an irregular sand cliff about seven or eight feet high, topped by a growth of some kind. As I scuffed through the sand, I thought I could hear shuffling behind me, but when I turned around to look, I could see nobody. I continued along and again heard footsteps. Now I became nervous. After I rounded one of the points of the cliff, I hid in a niche and waited. Sure enough, two ugly-looking Arabs, sporting long daggers that glistened in the moonlight, came sneaking around the headland. I raised my revolver and, without aiming, fired twice. They took off up a slope and left two smoking tracks as they disappeared in the distance. I breathed a “Thank you, Lord,” did an about-face, and returned to camp at the double, while maintaining a 360-degree lookout. I never went out alone again in North Africa.

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A couple of days after our arrival, I was lazing in the shade under a fig tree and looking out over the harbour. The water was a beautiful deep blue under a cloudless sky, with shipping riding at anchor here and there. Suddenly the ground shook and the deck of a destroyer rose into the air, sitting atop a column of flame and smoke. It broke into pieces which fell back into the water. I threw myself on the ground behind a low stone wall just as the shock wave roared overhead, stripping all the leaves from the tree and flattening every tent in the camp. Immediately thereafter, cans of cigarettes rained around us — normal-sized Wild Woodbine, not the skimpy, undersized variety sold by retailers. We gathered up a supply sufficient to last us for over a month. Following the explosion, vast numbers of fish killed by the blast rose to the surface and the natives had a field day swimming around harvesting them. We never did learn the cause of the explosion or if any fatalities had resulted from it.

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We were only in Algiers for about a week when we were marched to the local station to entrain for Tunis. Such were the inscrutable ways of service command that we were not allowed to use the Spitfires sitting idle and pilotless at Maison Blanche airfield. Instead, we were loaded into miniature boxcars that bore in large yellow letters on both sides “HUIT CHEVAUX OU TRENTE DEUX HOMMES.” The chevaux had certainly been there ahead of us, for an extended period, and nobody had bothered to clean up after them. The stench and the flies in the oppressive heat defied description. We were provided with “rations” for the trip comprising hard tack (very hard, round biscuits), bully beef (several cases of it), canned baked beans (several cases), and vast quantities of tea. There was no coffee but enough tea to supply several squadrons. It was really the tea that sustained our morale. We cut the top off one of its one-gallon metal containers and every time the train stopped, which was very often, we would throw a couple of handfuls o f tea into the can, then rush up to the locomotive and get the engineer to fill the can with boiling water. Instant tea! On one occasion while we were stopped next to an American troop train going the other way, one of the American soldiers asked, “Hey, you guys got any bully beef?”

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We couldn’t imagine why they wanted to know, but, “Have we got any bully beef? We’ve got a corner on the bully beef market in North Africa, pal!”

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Wanta trade some for some K-rations?”

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Would we trade? Would we? For a few minutes there was a hailstorm of cans flying from car to car, bully beef going one way and K-rations (canned steak and canned bacon and eggs, imagine!) going the other way.

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It was stifling hot in those cattle cars despite the breeze caused by the motion, making sleep a spasmodic affair at best. On top of one end of each car there was a little hut affair that was intended for a brakeman — one brakeman for each car — the luxury of air brakes being unheard of. Some of us decided to sleep on the roof of the car next to the hut, tying a thick roll of sleeping bags to the walkway so that the hut prevented our rolling off the roof one way, and the roll of sleeping bags preventing us from falling off the other way. The breeze on the roof of the car made sleep at least possible.

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One night I woke up to find that the train had stopped. We were enveloped in coal smoke with cinders and hot water raining on us. I started to sit up but the chap next to me said, “Don’t sit up, we’re stopped in a tunnel.”

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“My God what’s the score, then?”

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“I dunno, but I sure as hell hope we get going before we suffocate.”

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Just as I was approaching panic point, the train commenced to crawl and what seemed like years later the smoke cleared and lo and behold, up there above us were the beautiful, beautiful stars! We were not going to suffocate or die from carbon monoxide poisoning after all.

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We gave up sleeping on the roof of the cattle car and a few days later I got the last of the cinders out of my hair. We did continue to sit on the roof during the day — the loge seat being the roof of the little hut. One day a soldier, a couple of cars ahead of us, was sitting on the roof of the hut facing us, with his back towards the locomotive, so he didn’t see the bridge as we approached it and it was obvious that his head was higher than the steel cross bars of the bridge. While we shouted, waved and signalled, he couldn’t hear us and didn’t get the significance of our signals. The cross bar hit his head and flattened him onto the roof, but he sat up; another steel beam laid him flat again. This time he stayed down.

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As soon as we were off the bridge Tom and I ran along the roofs to his car to see if we could do anything for the poor fellow. He was beginning to thrash about as we arrived. We bellowed for help as we held his arms and legs to prevent him sliding off the roof, as the blood was flying from his head. In no time at all several soldiers climbed up from the car below and proceeded to apply pads and bandages from their first aid kits. The victim was losing so much blood that we were afraid he might bleed to death, and Tom said to me, “See if you can get up to the locomotive and stop the train. There must be a medical officer aboard who can help.”

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I dashed along the roofs jumping from car to car until I came to a flat car with several soldiers sitting on it. I jumped down to the flat car and ran to its end. One of the soldiers sensed that there was some sort of emergency for, without a word, he leaned over so I could step onto his shoulders, then he straightened up to let me reach the roof of the next car and continue moving.

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When I arrived at the tender of the locomotive I couldn’t go any further. I tried to get the engineer to stop the train by waving my arms in what we regarded as the stop signal, with no effect. The engineer appeared to understand that I wanted something. When I pointed to my bloody arms then pointed to the rear of the train he caught on, and slammed on the brakes. When I got back to the scene of the accident, the victim was laid out on the ground and was being given a blood transfusion by a medical officer. We were assured that he would live and be all right and would be hospitalized when he arrived in Tunis the next day. The O/C of the train gave us a blistering earful for our bloody stupidity in riding on the roof, forbidding such further foolishness in no uncertain terms, and thereafter was most fulsome in expressing his appreciation and thanks for our prompt initiative in saving the poor fellow’s life.

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When we finally arrived at Tunis, there was nobody there who knew anything about us, where we were to go, or how to get there. The Allied armies were engaged in preparations for following the Axis forces into Sicily, and the area adjacent to the railway station was littered with captured Italian equipment. We decided to take over a couple of lorries and proceeded to get them started.

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“Well, this is fine and dandy,” said John. “At least we don’t have to parade somewhere lugging all our kit, if we only knew where the hell we’re supposed to go.”

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Fortunately, at this juncture a couple of sergeants rolled up on a motorcycle and asked us just what in the bloody hell we thought we were doing. “Ser’nt!” snapped Tom. “When you address me you snap to attention, unless you’d prefer to discuss it with the C.O. Do I make myself clear?”

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Well, would you believe it, the sergeant did snap to attention and seemed barely to refrain from saluting old Tom, who was only a Warrant Officer 2nd Class.

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“That’s a bit more like proper air force procedure, Sergeant. Now would you just be good enough to lead the way on your motorbikes so we can follow you to our destination in these captured enemy transport vehicles, which will save His Majesty the expense of providing transportation for our equipment?”

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A few miles outside Tunis we arrived at a huge barren field comprising several acres of hard-packed mud and dotted with bell tents. The orderly room was located in a circus tent near the entrance to the camp. The adjutant’s “office” was a long folding table buried in boxes filled to overflowing with forms of all types and descriptions. Tue adjutant reigned supreme in the only padded chair, his feet on the table and his wand of office — a fly swatter — in his hand.

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I whipped up a smart salute — longest way up and shortest way down — and said, “Six Spitfire pilots, replacements for Italian invasion campaign, reporting from England, sir!”

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“Oh, yes? You been allocated tents and issued with bunks yet?”

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“No, sir, we have just arrived.”

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“Oh, how’d you get here? I didn’t send out any transportation vehicles today.”

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“We commandeered some captured Italian vehicles that were sitting around the station in Tunis and managed to get them running.”

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“Oh, well done. We can use them. Frightfully short of motorized equipment of any kind here. They took it all for the invasion of Sicily, you know.”

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He turned to a corporal who was industriously pecking away with one finger of each hand on a battered typewriter and said, “Corporal, have we any spare tents and bunks?”

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“Ten spare tents, sir, some issue blankets, grey woollen, but no disinfected bunks. We’re waiting for a supply of disinfectant from H.Q. in Tunis, Sir.”

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“Disinfectant for what, Corporal?”

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“Bedbugs, sir. The joints and crevices of the damn bunks are crawling with the buggers, sir. If we issue them before they’re disinfected, everyone will be eaten alive, sir.”

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“Oh, very well, Corp, see that these gentlemen are issued with bedding and allocated tents, will you?”

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“Yes sir. Right away, sir.”

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As we had approached, Tunis had struck us as being very beautiful, with wide avenues lined with palm trees, and glimpses of the azure Mediterranean sparkling through the trees. But the air force station was a horrible contrast, like something out of a horror movie — acres of bare, dusty ground covered with World War One bell tents, constant dust storms, and clouds of flies, no doubt germinating in the reeking eight-foot manure piles that ran along one side of the compound. We were expected to bunk down on the bare ground and damn the scorpions. I was fortunate enough to find a sheet of corrugated iron about three by eight feet which I mounted on eight concrete blocks I liberated from a well near the end of the compound. I had a bunk!

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After a week of inactivity and refusing to play soccer (about which we knew less than nothing) in the scorching temperature, we received permission from the adjutant to go over to the aerodrome to see if we could scrounge some flying time. We were successful in getting into ferry command on a temporary basis and ferried Spitfires between Tunis and Algiers. On the first trip back from Algiers, I detoured over the Atlas Mountains to see what the Sahara Desert looked like. One look at the unending sea of sand undulating under the blistering sun and I hurried back to the welcoming sight of the Mediterranean. Unfortunately I had no map and no idea of my location, and the terrain didn’t display any familiar landmarks. My petrol gauge was reading “You’ve had it chum!” The keeper of stupid pilots was on the job, fortunately, for there on the horizon was an aerodrome. As I approached it became obvious that it was an American bomber base with Flying Fortresses parked at the perimeter. Perhaps I could con them into donating some petrol to the RAF. I tried calling on the R/T but was not on their frequency. However, nobody seemed to get excited when I made a circuit, landed, and taxied up to the control tower.

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I had a problem convincing the controller that I had not stolen the aircraft, that “that iddy biddy airplane” was a Spitfire, an RAF fighter aircraft, and that in the RAF a great many of the aircrew, including pilots, were non-commissioned officers. Once I had convinced them of my bona fides, I asked them if they could let me have a tank full of petrol.

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“I reckon you mean gas, do you?” I assured them that indeed I meant gas and that the Merlin engine would operate unharmed on their octane rating.

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“Well, I dunno — ’bout how much you reckon you gonna need?” I guess he was thinking in terms of the quantity required to top up a Flying Fortress, because when I told him eighty-five gallons he guffawed and said, “Hell, man, we use more than that just to fill up the gas truck. You hang on here ‘n I’ll be back before you get your gas cap off.”

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Just about as quickly as he said he would, he returned with a petrol bowser twice as big as the Spitfire. After he had filled the tank, I asked if he wanted me to sign for it. “Hell, no, that weren’t enough to justify all the paperwork it would need. If I tried to record that, the C.O. would bust me lower than a second-class private for causing unnecessary office work.”

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When I asked the direction to Tunis, he pointed and said, ‘Bout two hundred kilometres thataway. When you get airborne, continue in the same direction as the runway and in a couple of minutes you’ll see the Med, then just follow it to your right till you hit Tunis. I’d get you a map only it’d take longer to talk that out of the quartermaster than it would for you to get to Tunis. If you just follow my directions you’ll be okay.”

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I followed his directions and, sure enough, in a few minutes there was the good old blue Med, so I followed it “to my right,” with the Mediterranean sparkling and deep blue on my left, until very shortly I raised Tunis.

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When I finally got back to camp I had a lot of ribbing to endure for getting lost, and had to convince all concerned, from management on down, that I had not incurred any expenses for His Majesty for services rendered by the United States Army Air Force and that I was not lost but had merely reached the limit of the fuel endurance of the Spitfire.

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Ferrying aircraft helped to dispel the overall feeling of uselessness, but it became increasingly obvious that we were not going to get into action in the Mediterranean theatre of operations. This, coupled with our accommodations, brought morale to an all-time low. Passive resistance to daily routine — except for occasional flying — became the rule. News of this must have reached RCAF hierarchy in Tunis, because we were ordered back to the U.K. along with a contingent of Aussie air crew who had also managed to obtain a reprieve. We didn’t object to the one day’s notice and that night all hands were engaged in hasty packing. One of the boys, having run out of candles, lit a small bonfire in the tent for light. It wasn’t long before the SPs arrived with orders to “Put out that lighht.”

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“Fuck you, Joe,” said John. “We’ve got orders to break camp and leave at first light. Scram before we throw you into that pile of shit, head first.”

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When we all fell in alongside in readiness to carry out his threat, the SPs figured discretion was the better part of valour and took off at the high port. We heard later that this affair caught up with John after his return to the U.K. when a not unsympathetic CO advised John that he had been forced to give him a reprimand.

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We were scheduled to travel by rail,”HUIT CHEVAUX OU TRENTE DEUX HOMMES” class. We advised the officer in command of the train that we had been ordered to ferry aircraft to Algiers and would await the train there. We received his reluctant and envious consent. We had to wait a couple of days at the airport until there were enough Spitfires and Hurricanes for all of us. However, despite the delay, we still arrived in Algiers two days before the train. It seems that they had held up for a couple of days while their locomotive was “borrowed” by a station master to carry out his extensive shunting requirements, after which they were allowed to continue their journey.

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Two weeks later we were back in England. On the trip back, all my kit, including my logbook, was lost. The ship it was on was torpedoed; fortunately, it was not the same one we were on. During our voyage the potatoes intended for our consumption went rotten, so every day we were given rice in place of potatoes — ground rice for dessert, rice with tripe and onions. What a revolting gastronomic mess! We managed to buy plum jam made in South Africa, and biscuits — probably made in 1914 — which largely formed our diet during the ten-day trip!

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Posted December 31, 2018 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Reflections on The Feast of St. Stephen the Martyr   Leave a comment

So.. A blog post for the end of the year, the 26th of December as I write this. “Boxing Day”, but far more important to me now: The Feast of St. Stephen the Martyr, who prayed for the people stoning him while Saul of Tarsus held the coats of the mob as they did it. What to talk about? What indeed? The following is a grab-bag of things that have little to do with each other, other than I became acquainted with them as calamity was visited on me… And they somehow feel related…

 

“And Saul approved of the murder…”

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Things have gradually settled down again after the wild, wild bloody ride visited on us as the Songhees – without so much as an apology – tossed 150 people to the four winds, some of them well into their 80s; to add insult to injury those of us who could not move our homes were forced to sell them to Tribeworks Creative for $1.00 each lest we be sued for demolition fees… I never got my dollar… For a brief moment we had hope for surcease from pending legislation issued by Premier Horgan’s new government regarding British Columbia’s mobile home parks, but – Tough Luck Suckers! – it only applies to mobile home parks on Provincially-governed land, the Songhees come under Federal jurisdiction… Consequently a letter from my Comrade-in-Arms Beregond to our former part-time ski-instructor, substitute drama teacher and now Mr. Dressup-playing Prime Minister only resulted in a snarky response from one of his henchthingies – what we called in the Military a PFO* – telling him to apply for British Columbia’s Subsidized Housing Program; it wasn’t the Federal Government’s problem, they didn’t give a shit, they weren’t prepared to do anything.

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Mind you, the Henchthingy didn’t put it quite that indelicately..

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Thus it was more than a little offensive to listen recently to Songhees’ Chief Robert Sam’s pious whining on CFAX about the injustices done “The First Nations” whilst simultaneously approving of the heinous destruction of historical markers after the door to his office was unceremoniously slammed in our faces.

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* “Polite Fuck-Off”

*…..*…..*

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Meanwhile I gathered from somewhere that in 2017 something like 15,300 illegal migrants traipsed across our porous border with America; Justin was more than happy to supply them with $50,000 each of our money plus medical care plus housing plus clothing plus food.. The bill to the taxpayer for the $50,000 per head just by itself comes to $765,000,000. (The links I found after the fact – research on the Internet is a dicey business at best – are a case of “worse and more of it:” 1,2)

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But for the residents of Triple Oaks Mobile Home Park? Nothing. Indian reservations (I’ll be damned if I’ll use the politically-correct “First Nations” any longer) are considered foreign countries “doncha know Dear” ?

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*…..*…..*

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“We are not calling for the slaughtering of white people, at least for now.

What we are calling for is the peaceful occupation of the land and we don’t owe anyone an apology for that.”

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— Julius Malema, leader of the neo-marxist Economic Freedom Fighters Party of South Africa

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In other news despite the gathering clouds in South Africa and the predicament of the White farmers (and, one would think, shortly the rest of the Whites as well) again I gathered from somewhere our Somali-extracted Minister of Immigration Ahmed Hussen loudly proclaims there is no issue there.. Nothing need be done.. 

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Russia however is taking in 15,000 White South Africans… (3.)

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Peter Dutton, Immigration Minister of Australia was attempting to fast-track immigrations of Boers into Australia as well… (4.)

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“Not calling for slaughter, at least for now”…? “Peaceful occupation of the land and we don’t owe anyone an apology”…? When what you really mean is you’re going to steal the property and livelihood of these people at gunpoint, rape their wives and daughters for good measure while you’re at it? It doesn’t matter the whites of South Africa were there long before the blacks: go read some history! It doesn’t matter this is a move identical to what happened in the Ukraine in the ‘30s and Zimbabwe in the ’80s with a practical guarantee of the same results: Famine and hyperinflation. What, in the name of all that’s Good and Holy, is this? Everywhere Marxism has been attempted (and South Africa’s ANC is Marxist) the result has always been, bodies piled halfway to Mars, a century on and this discredited filth for reasons I intend to get into later simply will not go away… But our Minister of Immigration says there is no cause for concern… 

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Move on folks.. Nothing to see here…

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*…..*…..*

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Further to the sudden tsunami of migrants at our borders.. America’s borders.. Italy’s, Germany’s, Sweden’s, France’s, The Netherland’s – whichever country’s welfare titty has the sweetest milk to suck until it’s utterly deflated – came news of the newest Olympian Pronouncement on such matters, The UN Global Compact for Safe, Orderly and Regular Migration. (5.)

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No big deal we are told. The Mainstream Media to my knowledge never spoke of it, I only learned of it courtesy of Right-Wing Polemicist Stefan Molyneux who had many grave things to say about it in a Youtube presentation nearly an hour and 20 minutes long. (6.)

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A friend of a friend of mine on Facebook also told me, as did Wikipedia, that it’s no big deal, it’s “non-binding”. OTOH Wikipedia also said:

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“However, as with similar United Nations agreements, it will be a politically binding commitment.” (7.)

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Interesting weasel words. But having read the Compact, I published the following on Facebook on December 14:

.. my perception of this document is it is dissembling, deceitful and dishonest in the extreme. What it proposes, as far as any citizen in any advanced Western Democracy is concerned, borders on insanity. To implement its strictures right off the top will require the creation of a supra-national bureaucracy – a secret police in point of fact – with powers of monitoring and intervention far beyond the Gestapo, and given the nature of the Internet, they will have that power. Further, it represents a financial boondoggle of unimaginable proportions: Who will pay for all this? And pay! And pay! And pay! AND PAY!! Let’s not kid ourselves about this situation: It gives third world migrants carte blanche to enter any first world nation of their choice: And that nation has to pay for their transit. And pay for their domicile when they get there. And pay for their food. And pay for their clothing. And pay for their documents should that be necessary. And pay for language training. And pay for vocational training. And pay for Consular visits. And pay their legal fees should it be necessary. And oh yeah?! Pay for medical and dental care! The UN Compact gives migrants to a country greater rights than the citizens who live there! The wording of the entire document is deliberately and I suspect maliciously ambiguous where it isn’t actually vague; interpretation is wide open to abuse. More worrisome than what is written, is what hasn’t been written: Any criticism of it can be considered a hate crime.. But the penalties aren’t specified.. What are the consequences for the accused? We don’t know… and if it is implemented, fairly safe bet all Western countries that have signed it, will be financially devastated within 5 years. Without a word of exaggeration, this represents a threat to our civilization, this compact must be abrogated IMMEDIATELY!

It won’t of course, and nothing Stefan had to say from what I’ve read is in any way exaggeration much less distortion… Apparently Justin and Ahmed did yeoman work on this… thing.. (8.)

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*…..*…..*

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Sunday April 22 Medea and I did our final packing up of the Nerdnest and departed for her friend Ariadne’s In-Law suite, which I’ve dubbed “Henneth Annûn” in reference to Faramir and his guerrilla force’s refuge in enemy territory … From 1,400 square feet and a bit of land around it to 1,100 square feet and no driveway or laundry facilities, most of our stuff is now in storage, some of it we had to abandon. The stuff we couldn’t store is crammed into this tiny space, not unlike living in a shoebox.. My cousin Idril in 2016 gifted me a new roof and an addition, now she’s out of pocket $30,000 for nothing. I’m out $130,000 and my home. I bought that place with my inheritance, thus it represented my parents’ last gift to me. My home was stolen from me, along with 140 other people and there is no help for us. Guess somewhat like White South Africans, as White Canadians born in this country we’re the wrong identity group to be allowed compassion. But at least we don’t have to worry about “rubber necklacing.”

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At least for now.

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Sunday May 6 Medea came home in rather a weepy state, the ministers of her church having asked her gently to step down from sacred duties until she rectified her Fallen State.. of 13 days.. I in turn told her: “this won’t do, let’s get a civil wedding done as soon as possible”.. Two weeks later we were hitched in a three-minute ceremony in her church’s multipurpose room..

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End of June I purchased a 5-string acoustic bass guitar from Long & McQuade which I’ve been plugging away at ever since, so far to not a great amount of progress.. My goal with same being to be able to play in a couple of years well enough to be in a bar band / play in a duo or trio for coffee houses, to that end bought as well a 25-watt amplifier, plenty powerful enough for small venues… Reason I’m doing this is to learn about all the kinds of music so studiously ignored by the teaching faculty of Cranialrectalinversion University of Halifax, Nova Scotia: Popular Music.. The stuff people pay money to listen to, is welcomed in clubs and parties.. That kind of stuff.. (9, 10.)

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That, and it’s not quite, but almost, entirely unlike the oboe…

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Late August, exigencies at my work the nature and organization of which I will not discuss in this blog resulted in my being moved back to graveyard shifts.. Think I’ll just stick with them, it’s a tradeoff between political stress or biological stress, but the political stress won out: Less potential attention from The Man – that being our client – which is almost always not a good thing …

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November 3 thanks once again to the exigencies of life on planet Earth, other commitments and good old fashioned procrastination we finally got married “in the eyes of the Lord” at St. Victor and an Angel.. Medea likes it for its traditional appearance and the fact it has a small but genuine pipe organ and a bell… which I forgot to ask be pealed at the usual recessional, Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March”. So we almost had a wedding with all the Bells and Whistles… “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” was our processional, but Clytemnestra declined to give her mother away.. Frere Jacques was supposed to press the record button on my video camera but somehow it didn’t quite happen and all that remains in my memory of the fateful day I plighted my troth for the second time in my life is rather a blur..

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*…..*…..*

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Thus ends 2018, as I pick myself up, dust myself off, attempt to recover from the latest kick to the crotch from Life while troubled by news of events on the edge of my awareness, which have precious little to do – for the time being at least – with my efforts to rebuild my life, make something of myself in the time that remains.. I’ll finish with some words of Paul Craig Roberts, which have some bearing on recent events…

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“Every year two or three readers write to educate me that religion is the source of wars and persecutions. These readers confuse religion with mankind’s abuse of institutions, religious or otherwise. …

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Liberty is a human achievement. We have it, or had it, because those who believed in it fought to achieve it … people were able to fight for liberty because Christianity empowered the individual.

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In recent decades we have lost sight of the historic achievement that empowered the individual. The religious, legal and political roots of this great achievement are no longer reverently taught in high schools, colleges and universities or respected by our government. The voices that reach us through the millennia and connect us to our culture are being silenced by “Identity Politics,” “political correctness” and “the war on terror.” Prayer has been driven from schools and Christian religious symbols from public life. Constitutional protections have been diminished by hegemonic political ambitions. Indefinite detention, torture, and murder are now acknowledged practices of the United States government [The American Government is by no means singular in this – RB]. The historic achievement of due process has been rolled back. Tyranny has re-emerged.

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Diversity at home and hegemony abroad are consuming values and are dismantling the culture and the rule of law. There is plenty of room for cultural diversity in the world, but not within a single country. A Tower of Babel has no culture. A person cannot be a Christian one day, a pagan the next and a Muslim the day after. A hodgepodge of cultural and religious values provides no basis for law – except the raw power of the pre-Christian past.

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All Americans [Actually, all of us in The West – RB] have a huge stake in Christianity. Whether or not we are individually believers in Christ, we are beneficiaries of the moral doctrine that has curbed power and protected the weak.

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Christianity’s emphasis on the worth of the individual makes such power as Lenin claimed, and Washington now claims, unthinkable. Be we religious or be we not, our celebration of Christ’s birthday celebrates a religion that made us masters of our souls and of our political life on Earth. Such a religion as this is worth holding on to even by atheists.

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As we enter into 2019, Western civilization, the product of thousands of years of striving, is in decline. Degeneracy is everywhere before our eyes. As the West sinks into tyranny, will Western peoples defend their liberty and their souls, or will they sink into the tyranny, which again has raised its ugly and all devouring head?” (11.)

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Oh my God!! Complimentary things being said of Christianity! How utterly distasteful and vulgar.

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Links:

1. https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/refugees/asylum-claims-2017.html

2. https://globalnews.ca/news/4150878/danielle-smith-illegal-immigration/

3. https://www.rt.com/business/432375-russia-south-africa-farmers/

4. https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2018-05-22/100s-white-south-african-farmers-apply-australia-humanitarian-rescue

5. https://refugeesmigrants.un.org/sites/default/files/180713_agreed_outcome_global_compact_for_migration.pdf

6. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WRszRZBfYw&t=458s

7. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Global_Compact_for_Migration

8. https://torontosun.com/opinion/columnists/malcolm-the-un-migration-compact-spells-radical-change-for-canada

9. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GnG7R93hfw

10. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WY66elCQkYk

11. https://www.paulcraigroberts.org/2018/12/24/the-greatest-gift-for-all-4/

Posted December 27, 2018 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Spitfire Pilot – Chapter 2, Part 2   Leave a comment

Posted December 16, 2018 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Spitfire Pilot – Chapter 2, Part 1   Leave a comment



Posted November 24, 2018 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized

Spitfire Pilot – Chapter 1, Part 2   Leave a comment

Posted November 15, 2018 by Capt. Roy Harkness in Uncategorized