There was a more elegant method to dispose of a V1, if a fighter could move into a position alongside it. The pilot edged his wing over the top of the that of the V1, thus destroying the lift on one side of the flying bomb. That sent the V1 into a steep bank and out of control, but without the need for physical contact between the two aircraft so there was no damage to the fighter.
(Late Mark Spitfire Aces 1942-45, by Alfred Price)
But it is a curve each of them feels, unmistakably. It is the parabola. They must have guessed, once or twice -- guessed and refused to believe -- that everything, always, collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second chance, no return. Yet they do move forever under it, reserved for its own black-and-white bad news certainly as if it were the rainbow, and they its children...
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posted by wabashbdw at 9:19 AM on January 13