Well, the other half of the family are Schwatzwalders.

I figured folks would have picked that out with the Ravensburg reference.

I'll have to find out a way to work Bad Schussenried into the tale.

Ain't that just the same?




Old school buddy from there getting assigned to the squadron?

Heretic, the hats are waaayyyy different! Hint: look for the ones with the red, avoid the black.

Erm....okay...

Behold the Bollenhut!

http://www.media-bw.de/en/thema/734127_90ca9e3cb2.jpg

Sunday finery, as a single man one should look for the red hat and avoid the black ones.

[back to the missions, which I'm going to write out of order, switching the next two]

The Intelligence Officer pulled me aside outside of my tent, a strange expression of both pleading and arrogance on his face.

"You've been talking to Flight Sergeant Miller," he said, with a hint of accusation.
"I think of him as a trophy of sorts," I replied as smugly as I could.
"There is a problem with him, Oberst."
"Go on."
"We can't find a record of him anywhere in our files."
"I doubt he has a Luftwaffe passbook," I said with a wink, "Try cabling London rather than Berlin."
"That's just it, our agents in England can find him listed nowhere."
"Well, he's just an old Flight Sergeant; I doubt he's made the dispatches. They had him flying a Gladiator, after all. Probably a third rate reservist called up for duty in the backwater of the war."
"It could be, but we're not sure."
"And this is a matter for me how, exactly?"
"I want you to talk to him some more, find out more about him, see if he's who he says he is."
"Who else might he be?"
"The British are missing a Squadron Leader, a Major. They are saying it was a routine crash, but one that happened on the same day as Miller's capture."
"I doubt that the Englanders would risk a Squadron Leader by having him in a Gladiator. And Oberleutnant, there is no such thing as a routine crash. Please remember that, as you are speaking to a pilot."
He stood there as if I had slapped him.
"Very well, I'll talk to Flight Sergeant Miller."

I saw him propped up in a chair outside of the dispensary, enjoying the morning shade.
"Oi, Fritz, care for a smoke?"
"You have been given cigarettes?"
"Now that you offer," he said with a grin, "I accept."
I couldn't help but laugh, and after tossing him my pack and a lighter, tilted my thermos towards him.
"Tea?"
"Bloody hell, you're joking!"
"The front is moving," I said casually as he offered his cup, "this should tell you the direction."
He frowned.
"I have been to England, you know, in flight training before the war."
"Shame you didn't break your neck."
"I almost did, but in a motorcycle accident," I admitted, "I was unused to whiskey at the time."
"London pubs will do that to you."
"Actually, it was in Birmingham, of all places," and he snapped his gaze to me at the mention of the city, smoothly trying to cover it by taking in a long draw of smoke. Curious.
"Have you ever been there?"
"Never," he said flatly, deadpanned. Poor fellow, lying simply didn't suit him very well.
"They've got you out of bed," I observed, changing the subject, "you are healing well."
"I'm not growing my leg back, if that's what you're asking. You bast*** made sure of that."
I laughed. The man was nothing but gruff talk and insults; I truly liked him.
"I've a sortie to fly, Miller, presents to deliver to your boys that came all the way from Berlin, and don't have much time to chat. Enjoy the day."
"Happy crashes!" he called out as I walked away.

The Oberleutnant was pins and needles as I walked into the briefing tent.
"Herr Oberst..." he said, jumping up from his seat.
"Relax," I said, "he's from Birmingham in England, and such a terrible liar there's no fear of him being so clever as to hide his identity. Cable Berlin and have them check the rolls of those called up from there; I'm sure he'll turn up."

======

The mission today is an accursed ground attack. The briefing started out as all the others - five minutes of propaganda, as if we couldn't see what was going on. Great advances along the front, the British in full retreat from their side of the river, and the final blows to their rout assuring complete victory. Just as they have been for the last two weeks. And yet we do not hold one square meter of the opposite shore.

The glorious bombers that have been murdering the Tommies by the thousands have done such a wonderful job that we are strapping bombs under our fighters to attack ground targets rather than escort the bombers themselves. I suppose it's been such a grand success that they'll be escorting us!

Enemy contact is determined as possible, they said. Hans gave me a look and rolled his eyes. We had long taken all estimates and tripled them. "Unlikely" means "Likely," "Possible means "Probable," "Probable" means "Definate," and "Definate" means...well, they've never said "Definate." I doubt they would say we would definately see an enemy aircraft - even a parked one - if we were attacking their airfield!

Hans would be leading a flight patrolling south of the target area, while I would be taking mine, loaded with bombs, over the target area. The Italians would be striking a half hour before us, so look out for their planes returning from the area.

We laughed out loud, and felt ashamed for it. Their Bredas would be easy prey for Hurricanes and Tommyhawks if they got caught, and had long odds of making it back from the mission. I can't say anything bad about the bravery of their pilots, but I wouldn't trade places with them for anything.

So I found myself on the sand once again in one of Flight Two's Emils with a cursed bomb underneath.



We took off in good order, and soon were in formation nearing the target. Naturally, it was "Possibly" covered by multiple fighters that were "possibly" shooting down Bredas as fast as they could fire .303 machineguns:



But since the flow of the battle was away from us, I decided that we should dive, drop bombs, and then zoom climb back up and join the real battle.





My wingman exclaimed that my bomb had hit the road and trucks exploded (why wouldn't it?), and I climbed and rolled the aircraft over, too late to save a Breda from being engulfed in flames:



Continuing the roll, I brought my guns onto a Tommyhawk and tore the right elevator from him with my cannon:





Turning my attention away from him, my number three was shouting that he was shooting down an Englander, and I looked over in horror to see he had neglected his prey's wingman!



It was a long shot, 400 meters, 30 degree deflection diving, but my shots rang true and he was clear, the British plane dropping out of view.

Hans' voice rang over the radio, "He's down, Professor," and I smiled under my mask. He must have heard the fight and come as quickly as he could. I didn't look around for him, as I had more than enough to worry about, having drawn the enemy's full attention:



I rolled it over hard in a modified split-s, more of a curving dive to avoid him, watching as he went low under my left wing.



I reversed directions and glanced back - he had zoomed under and to my right, extending - and was shocked at the sight:



The Hurricane was on me in perfect striking range, lining up on me. Desperately I rolled to cut across his sights, giving the greatest deflection against his certain gunnery, but it was no use!



Machinegun rounds peppered my aircraft, chipping the armored glass in the front, punching holes in the flat of the canopy; I pressed myself hard against the seat and incredibly was spared from being holed myself. I reversed the roll, coming high and then down hard, putting him in my sights.

Diving, five degree deflection, 200 meters, and I fired with machineguns and cannon:



A snapshot, less than a second, but enough to cause him to limp away from the battle.

I climbed high, throttle at eighty-five percent to cool the engine, suddenly alone, and spotted two planes moving to my left. Hurricanes!



Slowly I worked my way into their blind six, closing as the turned along the coast, looking for us:





Half a second more and I would collect the wingman, but out of bad luck he glanced back and saw me!



Diving hard and to the right away from me, I pressed on to his leader; I simply could not surrender altitude for one plane only to leave another higher!



The leader dove hard, no doubt warned off, but this time I pursued!

Two hundred meters, fifteen degrees deflection, diving...



Rightfully panicked, he dove as hard as he could, trying to avoid my fire:



One hundred and seventy meters, five degree deflection left, diving, and he went straight into the sea:



Hans spoke in my ear. "Very nice...I finished his brother to your right!"
"Danke."
"There's one more ahead...shall we collect him?"

Truthfully, I had had enough. My arms were like soft taffy and my eyes were stinging from sweat. I was certain I was out of cannon rounds and low on machinegun. But still, Hans had more than enough to finish any job I might start.

"Contact eleven o'clock," I said.
Hans laughed over the radio that "This should be easy. The Tommyhawk is missing an elevator!"

It can't be, I thought to myself, that pilot would surely have returned to base.

True enough, though, I climbed into his blind six and fired from three hundred meters, ten degree deflection, climbing:







Out of cannon, my machineguns sparked along his fuselage.

Diving hard, I pursued, closing to point blank range:



I grinned as the perfect shot presented itself. Forty five meters, five degree deflection. Maximum velocity of my machinegun rounds to penetrate any armor and his engine:



I pressed the trigger....

....and my guns were dry.

Shouting profanities, I rolled high and to the right. Hans slipped in neatly and finished him off.

We landed without incident.

Two confirmed kills, one damaged, one shared. Some trucks destroyed.

My flight survived all pilots, two damaged and withdrew without telling me, the third became lost over the desert during the battle and returned with no rounds expended.

I will find out which of them it was and find out how this could happen.

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

[question: do the pics A) show for everyone, and B) add or detract to the story?

Pics are showing fine for me. I was feeling tense as I read this one. I think the pictures are great and help us to visualise the combat. Must be a lot of work though and come to think of it, they do take away somewhat from the 'speed' of the narrative. Of course they make up for it with visuals so it's a coin toss really.
I REALLY liked the start of this one and especially the briefing section
-"The glorious bombers that have been murdering the Tommies by the thousands have done such a wonderful job that we are strapping bombs under our fighters to attack ground targets rather than escort the bombers themselves. I suppose it's been such a grand success that they'll be escorting us!"
Looking very much forward to the next gripping isntallment!

Pictures are coming in fine , adds a little color to the show. Excellent read and you might get me going .... as soon as I tear myself from FMB.

[Mission stuff next time....gotta take time out to build in some back story]

Standing on the wing, looking at the shattered canopy that lay open on its side, I glanced downward to see the sand beneath the airplane through the floor of the cockpit. It was a miracle I wasn't hit by the .303 rounds. The plane would be back in action tomorrow, though, as it wasn't anything that salvaged parts and some patching wouldn't fix.

The paint was new, but I saw that this was the aircraft I had flown on my sabbatical to the oasis - the same scratches were on the instrument panel. Suddenly I remembered that I had placed a small package underneath the seat, and checked for it....still there! Scooping it up and placing it under my arm, I headed for the maintenance hanger in search of my oversized mechanic.

"Vunner!" I called out as I crossed through the open doors, "come out!"

Silence.

He must be in the mess. I turned to walk back when I heard a small noise in the back of stacked crates in the corner.

Pulling my pistol, I crept forward. My mouth went dry and my heart thumped. This is not Spain, I thought to myself, and you are not behind enemy lines. I tilted my head around the corner, tense.

A pilot was sitting on a ten liter oil can, his head buried in his hands, still wearing his flight gear, motionless. I stepped out fully, pulled another can out, and sat next to him. Suddenly aware of my presence, he raised his head and looked over.

And promptly fell on his rear from trying to stand up too quickly!

I grinned but did laugh as he brought himself to his feet and then to attention, staring straight ahead.

"My apologies to the Oberst," he said firmly, "I did not hear you approach."

I looked up at him, not moving from my seated position. His eyes were puffed, and his cheeks rubbed to a blush.

"Sit, Leutnant," I said, not unkindly, "relax. I owe you an apology for sneaking up on you."

Incredibly, he did just that, his back and shoulders bowed as if in defeat. He stared at the floor beneath him.

"First mission, Leutnant....?" I asked as more of a statement.
"Schiller. Ja wohl," he said, and looked as if he might begin to cry right then!
"You know, we all are terrified our first mission. Eventually one simply becomes scared near to death."
"I don't believe you," he blurted out, "it's just something superiors say. Hans, I mean Oberleutnant -"
"Squealed like a stuck pig the whole of his first combat sortie," I interrupted, "as he will freely admit."
"But you don't understand, Oberst Jedermann, I..."
"You ran away without firing a shot, and then claimed to have gotten lost."
"You know?"
I laughed.
"Do you think you're the first to do so? You're not so special, Schiller."
He looked up at me.
"At least you didn't try to cover it up by firing your guns into the sky."
His eyes shifted back to the floor.
"I thought the gun camera would give me away."
"Och. Most footage shows nothing but sky, didn't you know that? Half the footage that is of claimed kills doesn't have so much as a cloud in it! My fourth confirmed kill was at sixty degree deflection and the camera got none of it! It was another plane's photos that proved it."
"Still..."
"Listen, Leutnant, I'd rather have a pilot that is scared on my wing rather than some fool who isn't. We had just the young pilot like that not two weeks ago, full of bravado and talk without a brain in his head. Eager to fight, diving in without thinking, firing with his balls instead of his brains."
"Where is he?" Schiller asked.
"Dead, and I can't say I shed tears for him. He was a danger to everyone in the flight."

Schiller's grey eyes looked up once again at mine.

"Do you want to fly?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied immediately.
"No, Leutnant, I mean fly as a fighter pilot."
"Yes," he said again, then looked to the ceiling, "if anyone will have me on their sortie after this."

I made up my mind instantly.

"Well, nobody is going to have you as a wingman, Schiller," I said sternly.

He snapped his eyes back at me, a mixture of suprise and anger, but said nothing.

I let the silence hang for a moment, standing up.

"Because as of right now, you are my wingman, do you understand?"
"Ja wohl, Herr Oberst, he said, bringing himself to his feet.
"Get out of that gear, wash up, and get some food and then rest - but not before telling Oberst Straub I've reassigned you. Tell him it is for 'Polish reasons' - you needn't know what that means, just pass the message along. We fly again tomorrow, and I need you on your top form."

There is something about how a man walks when he feels he has been given a new lease on life, a certain measure in the step, that is undeniable and recognizeable, even from the rear. Leutnant Schiller had such a gait.

===========

Entering my tent, I was suprised to see Vunner sitting in chair, feet propped on my cot, asleep.
"ALARM!" I yelled as loud as I could, with the expected results.

That was two I got to fall on their rears today! Three more and I'll be an Ace!

Rather than popping to attention, Vunner gave me a dirty look as he set the chair back up and sat back down. I threw him the package from the airplane, which he caught, looking interested.
"Stole it from that oasis," I remarked, "Swing record, bottle of whisky, and some figs I took off a tree."
"Danke sehr," he said.
"Bitte. Now why in God's name are you in my tent and not in the hanger getting my plane repaired for tomorrow? I don't want to borrow one they've got laying around."
"There's one of your 'starlings' in my hanger, though judging by the way he was hiding, I'll take him for an igel."
"Oh, he's no hedgehog, Vunner; he's a pilot."
"I just wanted you to know where he was so you could ground him or send him away or whatever you do to cowards. He came back without firing a shot, blubbering all the while and acting scared."
"I already talked to him, as I was in the hanger looking for you."
"And...."
"And he's my new wingman, Vunner, so I'll hear nothing more bad about him."
"But...."
"And you'd better let the other enlisted know that I will take any slur against Leutnant Schiller as an insult against myself. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Herr Oberst."
My good friend and our Executive Officer, Oberst Klaus Straub, poked his head into the tent.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked, "I just had an interesting conversation with one of our new pilots..."
"Why is everyone so concerned about my new wingman?" I smiled, softening my voice, "Vunner was just asking about him."

"I'd best be going, sir," Vunner said, standing up.
"Very well, Vunner," I accepted, then added, "but I was wondering if you might have some whisky I might borrow, as I think I may need some tonight."
"I happen to have a bottle right here, sir."

"Why can't I ever get an NCO like that?" Klaus bemused as I accepted the bottle and reached for two glasses.

======

0200 hours

The barest sliver of light came from under the tent flap to the dispensary as Staub and I approached it unsteadily.
"Shush," he said too loudly.
"Oh, shush yourself, Klaus," I shot back as he weaved into me.
The nurse was standing in our way just the other side of of it, arms crossed.
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"She's a vampire," Klaus advised, "they don't need sleep."
"That's stupid, she's here in the daytime, too."
"Maybe she's not very good at being a vampire."
We both laughed.

"Raus," she said firmly, pointed back to the door.
"Moment, bitte," I slurred, pushing past her and sitting on Miller's bed and his arm, judging by the way he jerked over to the other side.
"Oi," he exclaimed, "get off me, you drunk Hun bast****!"
"Miller," I said, "we are on to you."
"Yes, we know everything!" Klaus added as he nearly fell over, grabbing the end of the cot in time.

The Flight Sergeant looked at once scared and defiant.

"It was a clever rouse, claiming to be a Flight Sergeant," I continued.
"But it was only a matter of time until we found out who you really are!" Klaus chimed in.

The nurse, overcome with curiosity, couldn't help herself.

"Who is he?"

"This, nurse vampire, is...." I said, but the effort of trying to keep a straight face wouldn't let me speak.

"Air Marshall Hugh Dowding," Klaus finally declared, and we both fell to the floor, laughing.

Getting to our feet, we saluted Flight Sergeant Miller and weaved our way out, the nurse hitting us with her clipboard.

I do not remember making it back to my tent.....

The tale is well written with that peculiar bit of humor that only Dart can convey. Well done! Can't wait to read more of this.

Hat's off also to FlatSpinMan for setting the stage our tainted Oberst is playing on. S!

~~~

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