By Baker Street
The pilot was flying his machine high up in the clouds. He was out for a regular sortie with his squadron over the countryside and coastline. He could feel the power of the Spitfire with its Merlin V-12 engine as he sat in the cockpit. Far beneath him the landscape was dotted with rural buildings and the criss-cross pattern of cultivated land. From up here it was a perfect picture of rolling green hills and farms. The clouds wafted by in thin streaks of cotton wool as he flew on. The planes took a broad sweep and a turn as they set out across the coastline searching for any sign of enemy aircraft. The beaches and cliffs shone white from down below and the waves rode in like endless teams of tameless white horses. It was a quiet day; the sun was clear and blinding and the sky was a sapphire blue. The trees and grass swayed gently in the breeze down below. The powerful engine of the plane roared with perfect loud hum as it flew on. The aircraft sported of perfect aerodynamics with smooth and well-rounded lines. The pilot had many hours of flying time behind him and had also served in combat missions. He was an experienced pilot and was in harmony with his craft. Man and machine was one as the Spitfire roared on. From down below country folk watched as the machines flew with the sight and sound of freedom. They were the pride of this nation and an honour to their people. Up above the aircraft flew on and made one last pass of the region, before slowly disappearing westward back to their base. Nowadays the skies were full of sights like these and aeroplanes passing overhead. To serve in the air force was the ambition of many a young man. Faintly the specks of the last planes faded over the horizon, but very soon they would be called upon to fly another sortie.