I'll put the actual mission in tomorrow....

I was wondering if anyone was actually still reading this monster.

Keep 'em coming

This is wonderful. Brilliant writing talent.

Respectfully

krise madsen

When did this sneak up here? I hadn't noticed the last installment until just now. Good writing as ever, Dart. Keep them coming if you can spare the time. If not, I'd at least like to know how you thought about the end of the campaign.

I was beginning to wonder if the pressure of events were starting to take its toll on me. Certainly I found myself taking longer than normal preparing for the sortie, fingering the gear as I put it on. My steps from my tent were slower and closer together than I wanted them, and my eyes were on the ground before me.

I turned the corner to the flight line and saw my plane, Vunner standing to the ready to assist, and the rest of the pilots standing by the ladders, facing me. Even the two maintenance flights that were only to orbit the airfield held sentinel for me.

An amazing thing happened. Emotion drained from me as the heat from the sun warmed me completely, and I was walking briskly to my aircraft, head up, accepting the hand up to the wing root from my grinning mechanic.

The growl and whine of the engine that started true rumbled through my body and I managed a weak grin as the canopy locked into place over my head.

I was calm and without fear, for I was home.

The mission was a sweep of the front lines in strength, protecting the bridgehead over the river and consolidating our hold over the town that was still burning from combat.

Hans lead the second flight of four above us and to the west, while we split the beach at 2,500 meters altitude. Ganz tucked into my right wing, and we scanned clear skies as we approached the patrol area. The sun lay high before us to the east as we squinted around it, though, so we were on high alert.

The radio crackled cries for help. The maintenance flight had been bounced just south of the airfield and were struggling to shake them off! I moved in a slow turn to look back for tracers, debating whether to go to their assistance.

"Tommyhawks out of the sun!" Hans shouted and I looked back to my right. A flight of four P-40's slashed through their formation, scoreless, but they extended and climbed back up for another attack.

I immediately called for our flight to engage, and we wheeled right. A terrible mix of planes instantly formed into a mess that I couldn't sort out from two thousand meters. As I made it to the combat, a P-40 flashed in front of my nose. Rolling right and diving after it, I closed to 200 meters, twenty degrees deflection as he started to climb.

"Oberst, break right!" Ganz cried out. I rolled hard, cut right, half roll left and flinched as his plane rushed a wing length past me. I had cut him off and nearly forced a collision. Machinegun and cannon ripped through the British plane, smoke pouring from the engine, as he kicked rudder and dove to the right.

"Out," Ganz simply stated, and I slipped right behind the Tommyhawk and finished him.

Climbing into a right hand turn, tracers flashed over me. I rolled into a split S and a left hand turn, looking back to both sides.

Nothing!

Where was he?

I called for help, and Hans' voice confirmed he was making his way towards me. I broke right out of instinct, and a Tommyhawk dove behind me, a Bf-109 in chase. I moved to assist, but wasn't needed - Hans riddled the P-40.

Looking down, I saw a Tommyhawk low below me, making for his lines. I called it out to Ganz, who was high of him, and watched as he rolled down to quickly dispatch the Englander.

Like so many times before, the skies that were so full of the enemy were suddenly empty.

Forming up, we regained altitude and made back towards our base.

"Bailing out!" called a pilot as we saw tracers to the south. The maintenance flight! I had completely forgotten about them. We continued to climb and made our way along the coast to the south.

The two P-40's crossed above us at an altitude of 4,000 meters. We were a full thousand meters short of them! They ignored us and continued on, no doubt at full throttle and max climb themselves.

It would not stand.

Ganz and I turned about to follow, climbing on their low six to keep out of their vision. Radiator two fifths open, full throttle, slowly gaining, I looked down to confirm a half tank of benzene in my tanks.

Minutes ticked by as we crossed 3,800 meters altitude and Hans called out from our left that he had found two stray British planes and was engaging with his flight. We wished him luck and continued on.

Eight hundred meters and closing, grindingly slow, the P-40's were on to us and continuing to climb away, hoping to make the cover of their anti-aircraft screen.

Six hundred meters back and two hundred meters lower, I aimed high - forty degrees deflection - and squeezed off a burst of machinegun fire. Incredibly, I struck home!

The lead plane broke left, panicked, and we pounced.

Diving hard, the P-40 stretched the distance. The amazing dive speed of the Tommyhawk had me swearing as I was forced to watch him shrink in my sights. Ganz whooped in my helmet's speakers as he brought down the wingman and I cut my dive angle.

As the Tommyhawk pulled up, I got a snapshot that missed by centimeters, but forced him to turn hard left, burning off energy.

I dove beneath him in a rolling turn and rose on a fifteen degree deflection shot at two hundred meters. Shredded chunks of aluminum fluttered through the air and he went level. I saddled up behind him, one hundred fifty meters and five degree deflection and pressed the machinegun's trigger.

The canopy flew into the air and the pilot immediately followed.

We formed up once again and returned to base, taking stock of the mission.

Of ten total planes in the air, four were lost outright and two damaged, if one included the four machinegun holes we found in my elevators, to a loss of eight on the British side.

Hans had bailed out on the lines, and we expected his return shortly and celebrate the three kills that were to be credited to him (which included to half kills).

One and a half kills were credited to me, and two and a half to Ganz.

I made my way back to my tent and lay down on my cot, exhausted, and fell straight to sleep.

[sorry, no screenies, but the track was corrupted!]

I'm glad you continue your fantastic job providing us with a great and inmersive history....

Thanks!

Eeeexcellent, keep em coming.

I walked into the supply tent with a rucksack over my shoulder, waiting patiently for our officer and his NCO to finish with a minor disagreement over the placement of gas masks until throwing it on the makeshift counter they had set up.

“What’s this?”
“Flight suits,” I replied, “Put them on.”
“Are we flying?” the Feldwebel asked, hopefully.
“Not today,” I deadpanned. “Put them on.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an Oberst and you’re not.”

Shrugging, they began to remove their shirts.
“No,” I said flatly, “put them on as you are.”
“These are winter flight suits!” they complained.
“Yes, they are. And you are going to wear them for an hour, which is less time than my pilots are forced to wear them.”
“I understand, Herr Oberst,” the junior officer began, “the supplies haven’t-“
“Put. Them. On.” I interrupted.
So they stood, silently, sweat pouring off of them as I made them count minutes down.
“You may remove the suits,” I said, satisfied.
“With all respect-“ the officer started, but I once again interrupted.
“Until my pilots receive appropriate summer flight suits, I will make it policy that you two will wear these during the entire time one of our flights are in progress, from take off to landing. I will select which flight you will be wearing the suits for.”
“We expect a shipment of summer flight suits in the next few days, Herr Oberst.”
“Then your discomfort will be temporary.”

The next morning I stopped by the infirmary tent, carrying a small sack. Flight Sergeant Miller was propped up in a chair outside of the door, eyeing me with interest.

“Guten Morgan,” I greeted him.
“Hello, Fritz,” he shot back, “What’s in the bag?”
“Care package.”
“Red Cross comes in a box.”
“This is not from the Red Cross, you insolent Englander,” I growled back, throwing it in his lap.
“Cigarettes, matches, crackers, and a tin of meat paste,” he inventoried, “Am I going somewhere?”
“Not you,” I answered, “though you may not be here much longer.”
“No blindfold in here, so I take it I’m to be shot in the back of the head?” he asked, baiting me.
“Don’t be stupid, Miller,” I shot back in a dismissive tone, “I’m being repositioned.”
“Reassigned to a labor battalion?” he asked, hopefully.
“Hardly,” I laughed, “though it’s none of your concern. I simply thought to leave you with a few luxuries before I leave this base.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a German officer, and we believe in treating people correctly.”
“And the Polish and Czechs?”
“As I said, we treat people correctly, not equally.”
“Sounds like a lot of tripe,” he observed, then spat onto the sand to his side.

We matched glares.

“I heard you lost one of yours,” he said, breaking the impasse.
“Yes, he was forced to bail out on the lines and has not returned.”
“Then we’ve got him,” Miller concluded.
“Probably not,” I countered, “he’s probably holed up with the locals and making his way back.”
Miller looked at me with amusement.
“You’ve better hope our boys got him rather than the locals. They’ll strip him of anything they can use and leave him in the desert and you know it.”

The Executive Officer came running up to me.
“Jedermann, what the hell are you doing?”
“Talking to Miller.”
“The flight to the new airfield left half an hour ago!”
“What?”
“Don’t you know the time? Where is your watch?”
Miller held up his left arm, pointing at it with his right.
No use in running – late is late – I walked to my tent with Klaus in tow, geared up, and had him turn the crank to start the engine.

The flight was routine, excepting two things:

A group of Ju-52 cargo planes flew in from the coast, scaring me half to death! I aborted final, full throttle, to intercept, thinking they might be bombers!

No ground crew were out, so I was forced to taxi to the dispersal area myself on an unfamiliar airfield after a very respectable landing right at the stall (I was concerned that the runway would be hazardous). Owing to the fact that one cannot see straight ahead when on the ground, I nearly ran straight into a parked Bf-109! I finally made my way to the right place.

The commander welcomed me without any additional comment.

I called back to a very relieved supply officer that the cargo planes were unloading a crate labeled “Suits, Flight, Summer/Tropical.” The manifest indicated that they had been transferred from Norway.

excellent read - great job m8

this whole AAR needs to be compiled into one sticky without comments

One of the best AARs I've read in a while.

I second the sticky.