Ground attack. Well, perhaps it is best, with my wingman still without a kill and only one sortie under his belt. Hans has one of the starlings as well, and we line up with our bombs underneath.

Open radiator, 20 degree flaps, and start the engine. The control tower clears us immediately, though a Storch is overhead, flying in the same direction, and there's some truck traffic. Hopefully they know we have the right of way.

The Italians are bringing along bombers and fighters as well, and we're to join up with them.

Everyone's at idle, temperature looks good, and I advance the throttle, rolling long to take off and fading left to set a circle to allow everyone to form up.

The Italians are low ahead, flying JU-88's from the look of it, heading straight away down the coastline.

The radio crackles to life, and the Storch wings over back towards the base. Those aren't Italian bombers outbound, they're British bombers coming towards me! My eyes are saucers as I see four Beauforts flash past my right wing, followed by two Hurricanes diving behind them.

Banking right, I see Hans on takeoff just as the bombs drop. A huge flash and dust in front of him and I wince - only to see him fly right through it! They missed him!

The Hurricanes bear down on the Storch and I pursue back over the runway, heedless of the tailgunners of the bombers above me, full throttle, but I am too late. The Englanders murder him and his copilot and bank right.

I follow, furious, and close on the number two British plane over the water. He splits to the right, his lead to the left, and I close. My first shots are off, catching only his tail, the second burst wide, and force myself to relax. Closing, he tries desperately to evade, barrel rolling and going dangerously close to the water, but I am with him. He attempts to force scissors, earning some machinegun rounds as he crosses my nose. I roll with him, hitting him with two bursts of machineguns and cannon. The stress of his last barrel roll was too much against the damage I was pouring into him, and the wing separated, splashing up next to his watery grave.

Looking back, his number one was 600 meters off and closing fast. I climbed right and kicked rudder as he closed, slipping and forcing the stream of red tracers to miss. He went past my tail on the left, and I reversed rudder, rolling low and coming back high against him. He pulled into a hard turn, doubtless losing sight of me, and climbed. One hundred meters, twenty degree deflection on a rising shot, and his engine erupted into flames as I hammered him with cannon. I saw the parachute in the air, and bitterly hoped the sharks would eat him.

A Hurricane flashed over me, and I pursued, coming over the beach. There were two other planes as well, high and diving in. Bands on the fuselage - friendlies! I shot once at long range to get the Hurricane to turn with no effect. The two other planes - a German and an Italian, rushed forward, attacking.

Hans' strained voice filled my ears - he was in trouble! Looking to the water, I saw a stream of ugly black smoke coming from an aircraft and two other planes behind, high and turning to dive. I reversed course; the Hurricane over the beach was well escorted, and my flight was in trouble!

Cutting over, I confirmed it was Hans that was smoking and the British were in pursuit. They turned into me, and I nearly head on, showing them my presence. They needed to come after me, not my wounded number three.

They ignored me, winging hard to get onto Hans' six.

I had a tough decision - go after the British lead and spoil his attack and risk his number two shooting me in the back, or play it safe and work from back to front. Red tracers streamed out from the lead to encircle Hans.

I slipped hard, flying obliquely, and fired at the English leader, scoring hits but not downing him. It was enough to break his tail. Tracers flashed past my own cockpit, and I rolled to avoid them, ensuring that I would go in the direction of the number one.

The British pilot must have thought that I would naturally break off and work his wingman, and moved to strike down Hans. But I was lost of my senses and pressed forward, firing my cannon into his plane and sending him to the bottom. His own number two moved in, but from poor position, and I dove low and then rolled high behind him. He crashed into the ocean after a short burst.

Hans glided to the beach, ditching next to the fitter's shack by the ruins, and I called for my wingman.

The kid was high over the airfield, hammerheading while a Hurricane strafed the airfield. Attack! I yelled, and followed him as he finally slashed downwards. Staying off his right wing, I witnessed some of the worst gunnery every performed. Ten degree diving deflection on a level target and he shot from too far a range and missed every round on a three second burst.

Sighing loudly, I lined up and fired a quick burst into the Hurricane, forcing him to roll and turn right against the coast and the rocky ridgeline. I cut him off and fired my machineguns again, damaging his engine and forcing him to roll away from me. By some miracle he avoided crashing into the ground - I'm sure he picked up the scrub brush here in his tail wheel! and curved north towards his lines.

I called for my wingman to rejoin to put him in good attack formation, and then ordered him to attack the Hurricane. I would force him to shoot down this Tommy, even if I had to deliver him on a silver platter.

Again my starling missed! I slammed my left fist against my leg and lined him up again, telling him to rejoin, and damaged the Hurricane even further, making him less able to manuever. Perfect position...Attack!

Incredibly, the Hurricane was again untouched! I was wondering what more was needed - an orange paint scheme to go with the flight path of a towed practice sock, perhaps - and had him try again.

We were nearing the front lines, marked by a wide valley, and the Hurricane would be a perfect target. I ordered him to strike, trying to sound patient.

Machinegun and cannon erupted from the 109 from zero deflection from two hundred meters closing on a level target - and still he missed.

Fortunately, the Hurricane was forced to maneuver at the last (most likely to avoid being collided with), and brought himself too low to climb back over the cliff face in front of him. He smacked the rocks and shattered pieces of his plane slid to the floor below.

I landed at the base hastily.

Hans was uninjured. His wingman scored half a kill (it was he with the Italian I left to their business). My wingman was credited with his first half kill. Had he hit with even one of his rounds I would have given all of them to him. I wrote down his name - Joesph Meuller, and put a secret mark by his name in my log that would remind me he is an incompetent, and therefore a threat. Hans' starling, if he survives the week, might be worthy of learning his name.

====

The British pilot in the hospital tent was sitting up, alternating between a grimacing look of pain and one of amusement. The doctor and nurses were busy treating the minor casualties of the bombing raid, ignoring the Englander, the three shapes under sheets laying next to the door, and myself.

Still in my flight gear, stomping into the ward, he gave me a startled look, first to my eyes and then to the pistol on my webbing. He sat up straight as my hand went past it and into my pocket.

I sat down next to him and offered him a cigarette and my lighter.

"Oi, Fritz, you look like we put you through the ringer!"

I nodded, lighting and cigarette, and looked at him.

Younger than myself, but older than some rookie, his brown eyes were cut with the very same wrinkles from staring into the sun looking for contacts. I reached into my side pocket and pulled out my flask.

One drink for me, and I handed it over.

He hesitated, then accepted.

"Bloody schnaps," he grunted afterwards, and handed it back.

"I hear the Americans are coming," I replied, "and so soon we will have their whisky to drink to go with French wine and Polish vodka."

He laughed.

"Just don't count on Scottish single malt, Fritz."

"Jedermann," I smiled, offering my hand.

"Miller," he said as we shook.

The head nurse rushed us, furious.

"No smoking! What's this? No drinking! Do you want to kill him! Get out!"

"Shut up," I offered as an alternative course of action.

She picked up a length of wood near the stove with a look of murder in her eyes.

"Herr Oberst, raus!"

"Best go, mate, she's the Attila of Huns!"

I stood up slowly, and walked casually from the tent.

=====

The next mission was a simple patrol along the coast. No contact for once; we wondered that night if the British hadn't taken a holiday.

The squadron commander called me into his office, a partition of the tent off the briefing room. I had a feeling I knew what it was about.

"Hans, take a seat," he said kindly as he returned my salute.
"Yes sir."
"Oberst Jedermann is doing well in the infirmary," he began at once, "he is physically uninjured."
"Excellent!" I said, meaning it. Oberst Jedermann had saved my life on my first combat sortie, taken me as a wingman until he felt I deserved to take a lead of my own. He has even trusted me with conducting training for our new pilots!
"The doctor says it is simple shock and some dehydration; he has been sedated."
"Ah."
"Hans, tell me what happened."
"Ja wohl," I started, then paused to collect my thoughts, "we were escorting the Italian bombers at 3,000 meters altitude, making an S around their path to stay with them but keep up combat speed. They began their attack when we spotted some fighters low."
"Did Jedermann see them?"
"No, sir, I did, and he ordered the immediate attack."
"You say he didn't spot them?"
"He couldn't. He was turning the wrong way and they were under his wing."
"But you could."
"Yes sir, I was in the number three spot and hadn't started to follow yet.
"There were four of them, and we dove to the north to intercept. The Oberst reversed in his dive, unfortunately, and no doubt confused by the Italians who were scattering all over the damned place."
"They say they were continuing the attack on ground targets, heedless of the enemy."
"Clueless, more likely!"
"That's enough of that talk."
"So, he began to climb just as two Hurricanes were coming up behind him. I'm sure he spotted them, as he steepened and slipped vertically, avoiding their fire.
"They were right on him, sir, dead six, no deflection, and I was sure he was a dead man!"
"Really?"
"Absolutely! And then he did the most amazing thing - he snap rolled his aircraft in the vertical in the opposite direction, tumbling it in the opposite direction! There was no way the Englanders should have missed him, but not a single round struck his aircraft!"
"Go on."
"Well, the plane departed flight, naturally, going into a flat spin!"
"The 109 does not go into flat spins."
"Sir, his Messer went into a flat spin at around 2,000 meters altitude, straight down at an amazing speed! I was sure then that this would be his death. The Oberst was clearly going to black out, and I don't know how, but he was moving the controls of his aircraft all about and even gunning the engine to get out of it, with the British flying about him, trying to shoot him!"
"They were shooting at him while he was spinning?"
"Oh yes! But again they couldn't touch him, and I was dealing with my own Hurricane and couldn't help. To be honest, I didn't think he'd recover anyway!"
"But he did recover from the spin."
"At around a thousand meters the spin became more normal, but too fast to stop by any other pilot. I saw his flaps come out and then his gear - you understand sir, he lowered his gear at five hundred meters!"
"Perhaps he had lost his senses."
"Impossible! At five hundred meters the spin resolved itself, bringing him nose first to the ground, nearly inverted. I still can hardly believe what happened next, and I saw it!"
"And what was that?"
"The Oberst retracted the gear and nosed up in controlled flight at less than 100 meters altitude, and pulled up his flaps, turning back towards the enemy!"
"And did he engage the enemy?"
"Sir, he immediately shot a Hurricane down, climbing from underneath and blowing the wing right off of it, and assisted with the downing of two more, directing us to the last one that was pursuing the Stukas!
"He called for us to form up, as the enemy was either destroyed or departed, and when at ten kilometers from the airfield, ordered us to land."
"His own landing was remarkable."
"Yes, I saw that, too. Undoubtably his aircraft was damaged from the stress of that spin, and he flared too high."
"It's estimated that his landing speed was under 150 kilometers per hour! It's a miracle that his landing gear did not break!"
"Sir, it appeared as though the brakes were locked shut, or a large rock chocked him, as he was wheels down on the sand and the nose simply came forward."
"He rode the propellor hub for five meters before the aircraft flipped onto its back, Hans," the commander said smoothly.
"I understand it is not destroyed, sir."
"Actually, it's out of action for two weeks; the engine will have to be rebuilt, the tail is damaged, and the cockpit had to be cut away to remove him."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you for your candor, Hans. Do you have anything else you'd like to say?"
"Well, Oberst Jedermann never paints kill stripes on his aircraft, and my count is probably off."
"Yes?"
"That Hurricane, was that number forty?"
"Thirty nine."
"Och. I keep counting that one that he gave to Mueller!"
"It is his kill. Mueller's gun footage shows him firing just before the Hurricane crashed into the cliff face, and Jedermann's own film was somehow destroyed, so we have to go on his statements."
"Yes, sir."
"I have a question, though, that you may want to consider, thinking as a future squadron leader, and you need not answer now."
"I'll do my best."
"Jedermann's beginning to show signs of fatigue. After this mission and his hospitalization, what would you, as commander, do? The doctor says he should be taken off of flight status."
I didn't need to think about it. I gave him my answer immediately, as it was obvious.


=======

The morning sun shined through the open tent flap and onto my face, waking me. I was in the infirmary ward, still in my flight suit, barefoot, with my gear on the floor beside the cot I was laid out on.

"Good morning, you #%&*$#!" said the English pilot, grinning from the bed across from mine, "I see you lived through the night!"
"So I have."
"More's the pity. I fancy one of your boots and wrist watch. Mine's broken."
I sat up, aching over my whole body, and tossed my watch to him after unfastening the band.
"Thanks, Fritz!"
"Jedermann," I corrected, "Oberst Jedermann."
"Lay down!" shouted the nurse from across the room, "And no talking!"
"Bring me two glasses, nurse!"
"And no smoking!"
"Excellent idea!" and I withdrew my metal case from my breast pocket. It had an odd dent across it, and I had to force it open. Throwing a cigarette to Miller, I lit my own before tossing the lighter to him.
She stormed out of the tent and immediately returned with the Squadron Commander and Hans behind her.
"Bloody hell!" Miller exclaimed, "They've brought the CO in on a smoking violation, and quick!"
"Shut up," ordered the commander.
"I know I picked the right side to fight for..." he said sotto voce before laying down and turning on his side away from us.

"The doctor, Herr Oberst," began the commander, "thinks you warrant a medical suspension."
I could feel the blood run from my face.
"Hans and the others in the flight had a different idea of what to do with you."

And I was awarded the Knights Cross with Swords.

=======================

(A week later)

Finally we're doing things properly; rather than going up in single flights of four, we're putting up three flights to give us air superiority. We'll patrol beyond the front, almost to their airbase along the second ridge, fly the back end of the front, and then cross back over in from the coast.

The Intelligence Officer has once again shown his incompetence; he's going on and on about "drawing the Brits into the sky" while enforcing radio silence for the last week. When I asked him why we haven't been putting up a lot of traffic he looked at me like I was a moron and actually said that we didn't want to let the enemy know what we were up to!

At best we'll catch the regular patrols they send out rather than committing their forces for the showdown we need to have to cull their numbers.

Better still, he's suggested we fly in the mid morning, putting the sun to the high east and at our disadvantage.

We formed up in good order, stacking from 2,000 to 2,500 meters diagonally to around 4,000 meters across. The clouds were intermittent and below us, topping at 1,500 meters.

It was, as I predicted, a very lonely flight as we crossed the front lines and I made the turn behind their lines towards their airfield. The second staffel cracked the radio.

"May we engage the bombers below you?"

Ach! Nervy Brits! They had stuck to the cloud cover underneath us where our first flight couldn't see them!

"Attack at will," I said, sounding as bored as I could.

We turned back to watch the three bombers fall in shreds to the desert floor, and I called for the flight to reform.

Crossing the front lines, four dots ahead on the horizon. The number two staffel was in best position, and I released them to engage.

What a mess! The British were in three flights of four, uncoordinated, but we weren't much better, and it was a confusion of planes wheeling at 1,000 feet spitting tracers at each other. I split-S for a Hurricane that flashed over me, banked left, then right, and fired at 100 meters from forty degree deflection, rising. He burst into flames as I rolled clear of him. A smoking Hurricane was in front of me, climbing to disengage, as two more moved against Hans and his wingman in the third flight.

It was nothing to apply slight rudder, five degree deflection, rising, to chop the smoking Hurricane in two, cut left, and engage the Englander on Hans' tail. The last of my cannon sent him into the rocks below.

Someone was shouting into the radio in a panic, so I looked about to see another Hurricane take a wild ninety degree shot at one of ours. Fat chance of getting hit, yet this Lion of the Desert was squealing like a stuck pig.

What a merry chase! The pilot realized that he had the attentions of no less than six of us, and whipped his plane all about the skies, no doubt relying on the adreneline to keep the blackouts at bay as my fellows took turns sending withering fire at him. I stood back to watch as they repeatedly were denied solid hits as he toyed with the ground.

An Emil nearly struck the ground in pursuit, and I jumped into the fray to finish this fellow off before one of our own killed themselves.

Lacking cannon, I was reduced to trying for a cockpit shot, ninety degree deflections as he tried desperately to scissor. His engine began to smoke and he rolled low in a wadi, hoping to have me overshoot and give him a chance at my belly, but instead I elected to roll right and cut back in left, handing him a full twenty seconds of machinegun fire for his trouble.

He tried to go high, but his machine was spent. Too slow, too little power, and the sands claimed him on its rock lined ridge.

We landed without incident.

Three bombers, twelve fighters (two and two halfs for me) for a loss of one. That stupid Mueller crashed during the melee with no others around him, no doubt in a panic. I will have Hans write the letter, calling it practice; in fact, I could not write flowing prose for him without becoming physically ill.

==========

Putting my head in the hospital tent, I saw a familiar face sitting next to the wounded British pilot - Herr Oberst Karl Straub, fresh from the Fatherland!

"Willi! I heard they had sentenced you to this hell!"
"Klaus, what did you do?" I asked, grinning, "Was it the wife of anyone I know?"
"Miller here says you have been fraternizing with the enemy," he said, switching to English.
"Ja," I admitted, "It does me good to see the low quality of their pilots."
"Stick it up yer arse, Hun," Miller said, as if offended.
"Why is he still here?" Klaus asked.
"Oh, no transport, and he's a Sergeant; no priority for him."
"And you are in no hurry to send him off."
"Actually, I don't have any authority," I admitted. "I'm a flight leader and forbidden to command anything more than that."
"Rebekkah?"
"Ja wohl."
"Well, it was a matter of time only," he said, resigned, then lightened "But cheer up, your new Executive Officer is a fine fellow with a keen sense of looking out for those who perform for the Fatherland rather than simply fit in the check marks of National Socialism."
"Oh, no."
"Yes, Willi, you've not gotten rid of me!" he stood clapping his hand on my shoulder, then turned to Miller. "I've been hounded by Jedermann since Spain. Everytime I get a posting, no matter how far away I think I am, here he always is waiting."
"Bloody good for you," Miller deadpanned, "but did you bring cigarettes?"

We laughed.

======

A few days later Klaus and I shared a quiet moment next to a small fire we had set next to the ocean.

"You look tired, Willi."
"Give it a month here, you will, too. There are bed bugs and sand to keep one awake."
"No, I mean really tired. The Commander is concerned you're losing your edge."
"Forty three confirmed kills in two months, Klaus. I'm pulling my weight."
"Maybe too much. I have a little mission for you."
"There are no brothels here," I grinned, "Unless you count the sheep of the Islamic herders. It's not my style anyway."
"No, a 'recon' mission to a little oasis to the south of the base. There is a ruin there and a rough airfield."
"Surrounded by British flak batteries, no doubt."
"No, but I hear the water is cool and clean," he laughed, "I want you to fly down there, land, and scout out whether or not it is suitable for an emergency base, or at least a recreational area for our troops."
"Who am I taking with me?"
"Nobody but yourself. There is a shortwave radio in the small hut just inside the compound, and rations, a generator, and a grammaphone with contraband records in the main tower. Listen to some verboten swing, relax, and call me every day at 1100 and 1900.
"It's an order, Willi."

The next day at noon I took off for the oasis, being met by a flight of three unescorted JU-52's at the midpoint to my destination. I made a mental note to meet the pilots. This is the second time I've seen them flying in an area where the British patrol in strength unescorted; they must be madmen to do such things.

Circling the oasis, I frowned at the site. Trees, trees, and more trees. Finally I picked out that a narrow strip of palms had been cleared coming off of a draw. I'd be threading the needle on this one.

The radio crackled faintly with the sounds of combat, but it was far away from the sounds of it, and I settled in on my approach. Full flaps, gear down, slip down the wash in the ridge line, avoid the brush in the center, and gently touch down, ignoring the trees standing off of my wingtips. I ran her long, gentle on the brakes, and spun her around to face the other way at the end.

=======

Two days later, sunburned and feeling very much at ease with myself (regardless of the slight hangover from a discovered bottle of whisky), Klaus was on the radio to demand my immediate return.

It took me two hours to find the crank handle for the starter - some idiot had placed it under the seat in the cockpit - and another half hour to figure out how to get it out without damaging the canopy.

The take-off was much better than I had hoped for, and I returned without fanfare or adventure.

Great Stuff!!!!!!!!! THanks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Beautiful writing Herr Oberst! As you point out, the real key to immersion is within us and our own capacity to inhabit the sim world. This campaign creates a remarkable location.

Just reread the last report. That touch about the crank handle was a good one. Makes the LW seem much more human when people misplace things. this was a very relaxing, almost soothing report to read all in all.
I'm amazed how many people have read this already. Obviously word of your writing prowess gets around. I enjoyed your TS article, BTW. Very pertinent and fun to read through.

Brilliant read.

Nice job, but as a native german speaker I'm not fond of some errors in the use of the language...


If you want to straighten out some terms, I'll be glad to help.

Native German speaker myself here, and I couldn't care less about any slight errors in the use of language - it has been a most entertaining and delightful read, really excellent! Vielen Dank, Herr Oberst!

Heretic, you may have a problem....the only smatterings of German I learned was from my schwaben parents.

Sunday comes a very important episode, a thrilling ride with a plot twist involving our one legged Flight Sergeant.

Swabians!

Aaaaaargh!

*Runs away in fear and terror*