Second flight was a scramble over the channel where we ran into a flight of 109's. I was trying to climb with them when one dove on me and shredded my right wing with cannon fire. I looked at the damage model, remarking to myself on the detail, before heading for home and bailing out along the coast. My next sortie was tangling with a wily and squirrelly 110, whom I finally shot the engine out of and watched from a safeish distance as he made his way down to the cold waters of the channel, where I had been just a sortie before.
The older I get, the more I realize I don't need to be Han, Luke or Leia. I'm just happy to be rebel scum...