Cant wait!

"I am running out of patience."
-A. Hitler, 1938
-FlatSpinMan, 2007

Okay, okay, I'll do it tonite! Sheesh, I was out of town....

Shaken from the explosion, I barely noticed the shadow cross over my cockpit, and continued my climb, turning to the left.

Hurricanes!



I called out to Ganz to watch out, and was chagrined to hear him whoop that he was diving in on one....the lead Hurricane...leaving himself open for the wingman!



"Break! Break Ganz, Break!" I called over the radio.
"One second and I've got him!" Ganz called back.
"One second and you're shot down!" I yelled, my voice cracking. Was I to lose my entire flight?

I rolled right and then left as the British lead went left and right, helping his number two get a bead on Ganz. I cut hard and hoped to get in a quick burst..



I fired across his nose just in time, forcing the wingman to break left. Time to extract some revenge...





Continuing my turn left to hopefully keep Ganz alive, two Hurricanes were turning over the ridge towards me.



I had little choice but to meet them, hopefully crossing to their side and then a half-roll onto their six.

But they weren't interested in passing over or to the side of me. They charged head on!



At three hundred meters I let fly with my cannon, they with their machineguns. It was all a blur of the vibration of the guns, flying debris, and then a hammer to my face that nearly knocked me unconcious...



One eye open against the pain and I had the image of a Hurricane not 25 meters from my nose, nearly inverted, as I squeezed hard on the trigger and closed both eyes.



Everything was red on my goggles, my head aching, a strange numbness under my mask and warm liquid filling my mouth, making it hard to breathe. The mask came away in my hand without effort, falling from my face and I spat red on the console.

Blood. A lot of blood.

No time for that, though, I looked over and reflexively turned the aircraft. One of the Hurricanes did not survive our merge, and I saw him strike the desert:



My face had gone numb, perhaps from the cold of the altitude, though my eyes were swelling rapidly.

Time to go home.

To my north, however, lay what looked like seven reasons why I would be delayed:



They pounced on me at once, and I found a Hurricane 150 meters from my tail, turning for a shot:



A stream of bullets rattled against my aircraft and a soon a trail of fuel from my right tank. His wingman joined in the chase, and I found myself in the reverse of a position I had had with the English so many times before:



I broke hard right, then left and dove, hearing the screams of someone that sounded very much like myself as the g-forces pressed on my head, throwing blood down my neck and into my coveralls.

"Help...I need help..." Ganz cried out.



I felt light headed, almost as if I were watching from outside myself, as I turned into the fight, thinking nothing at all. A Hurricane flashed above me as I pulled up from under the trio:



I lazily turned into the Hurricane and pulled the triggers:







It was as if I were dreaming, the echo of Ganz's cries for help sounding a million kilometers away, as I turned left to see them turning onto him:



I only saw a silhouette of an aircraft, and closed:



Missing badly, I closed, firing once more...



A small voice was calling out that I was shooting at him over the pounding of my own heart and it snapped like cold water in my face that there were two radiators under the wings of my target - I ws shooting at Ganz!

I broke left and low, making for home.

A formation crossed in front of me, big unusual planes that seemed odd and still familiar...



I rolled right sloppily to see they were Bredas trying to escape the melee!



I leveled out and began a gentle climb to the north and home base. I do not recall anything of the remainder of the flight save a glance at my final approach:



They say I managed to land the aircraft successfully, though I nearly hit an aircraft that was attempting to taxi to dispersal.

=========

I awoke in the hospital tent in the evening, with a huge bandage on my face and the otherworldly sensation of morphine floating me between thin sheets. Blankets strung around the bed walled me off, and I croaked for some water.

The doctor slipped into my makeshift room, grimaced, then smiled.

"You are a lucky man, Herr Oberst," he said.
I simply looked at him.
"A piece of the armored glass struck you in the face."
"Nose," is all I could say.
"The tip of it was gone, sliced right off, along with a centimeter of the cartilage. I've stitched you up and we've given you a liter of blood to replace what you'd lost."
"Ganz."
"Returned to base safely. He says you saved his life by warning him of an Englander on his tail by shooting at him."
"Schiller."
"Dead."
And I wept. I do not know if it was for him or for me. But I wept, a deep quiet sobbing that rang a sorrow I had never known before.




[edit]

Happy little sortie, wasn't it? Now do you know why I've been putting off writing it, besides being busy as all get out?

Poor Schiller. C'st la guerre.

And to think in a month the USA enters the war and his wife is in New York City.

Poor guy, the war doesn't seem to be going so well for him.

Damn Dart, this is primo stuff!

So when's the next installment?

[one week later]

Verwaltungsaufgabe

If ever there was word that sends chills down a pilot’s back, it’s that one:

Administrative duty.

Still wearing a ridiculous bandage that wraps around my head to cover my swollen nose, I was finally released from the infirmary after three days of laying on my back and quelling the thirst that comes with the morphine.

It is a horrible inconvenience, getting in the way of everything from eating to smoking. I’ve set it alight twice!

The commander has set me to cleaning up the training records and the inventory, both which are impossible tasks. The officer in charge of instruction before me clearly was putting anything down to keep appearances, pre-dating training to “keep ahead.” He himself received the required training on hygiene four days after his death from a strafing attack – which isn’t as impressive as being instructed by an officer that had been killed the week before that.

Who knows, perhaps the training was conducted in the heavens, and everything is perfect!

Most of the lies have been set to some sort of correctness; I’ve marked those that were beyond hope as “Missing/Destroyed.”

The inventory is another matter. Since we’ve become a traveling circus accountability has become impossible. Some things are left behind, others found from previous squadrons of all nationalities – our side and the enemy’s – to where we are operating with a mishmash of tools, plates, stoves, and tents.

The mechanics have taken to adopt a jealous protectiveness to their tool boxes that borders on insanity. In order to keep peace, I have taken to private inventory with each of them by surprise. Otherwise they hide their most treasured tools in order to keep them a secret! Some are lacking a third of their required set, while others have two or three of everything (and additions from Italian and British sets). I was somewhat proud to see that Vunner, my mechanic, fell into the latter category. We’ll have to crosslevel some of it, naturally, but I imagine it will be at the point of a pistol.

The kitchens are a nightmare. I had never noticed during my meals that most of what is used isn’t from the Fatherland. Italian stove, British pots, local plates. I ignored it for the most part – who cares if the coffee comes in an RAF mug so long as it’s worth drinking!

The infirmary was perfect, naturally, except for some stretchers of international origin.

Hans returned yesterday from a sortie that left him unable to get out of the cockpit on his own. He took on four Hurricanes over the river by himself, getting one before being riddled with .303 rounds. Ganz jumped in the fray, and after some ten minutes they managed to escape, downing two more of the British. It wasn’t until after dinner and a few rounds at the officer’s tent that he regained his swagger. Ganz remained quiet throughout the revelry, which was unusual for a young pilot that had saved his flight leader and chalked up a victory in the bargain.

“It’s all luck,” he said to me to the side of the party.
“What’s all luck?” I asked.
“All of it,” he frowned, “it’s all luck.”
“No, Ganz,” I assured him, “it’s not all luck. Skill counts.”
“A stray flak round, a flash on a cockpit glass, a jammed gun – it’s all luck that makes one live or die.”
“That is why we never fly straight, keep looking around, and mind the maintenance, Ganz,” I replied, “to keep the risks down.”
“The last Hurricane, he should have killed me.”
“What happened?”
“I cleared Hans’ six and looked back to see the Hurricane right behind me in perfect firing position, but he didn’t fire. I saw his face plain as yours, and he was furious that his guns weren’t working.”
“Probably out of ammunition.”
“Luck.”
“No, he was unskilled and wasn’t keeping track of how much he fired!”
“Lucky for me he didn’t.”
“In two ways, Ganz.”
“Two?”
“Yes,” I explained, “Lucky for you he lost his head – and lucky for you that now you will always know how much ammunition you have left!”
We both laughed.
“Ganz, I believe we make our own luck for the most part. The rest is up to God.”
“Don’t you worry?”
“Why should I?” I lied, “I’ll have you to bail me out if my luck runs out!”

I don’t think he was convinced.

The stitches across my nose are to come out when the swelling goes down in a week or so. The doctor did a very good job. The scar will be ugly, but the tip of my nose remains on my face.

The deal I have struck with the commander and the flight surgeon is that when I can put on and remove an oxygen mask three times in a row without having tears involuntarily roll down my cheeks I will be placed back on flight status.


Our forces have pushed across the river, and the British are putting up a desperate fight to keep from being routed. Their new tactic of ensuring local air superiority with separate but supporting flights is becoming more difficult to deal with, especially since we’re spread thin trying to support the general advance. Meanwhile, I stay on the ground counting spoons and checking pockets for hidden sets of pliers.


[another week later]

Finally I am back in the cockpit! I passed my little “test” yesterday thanks to Nurse Attila and a local anesthetic she administered in secret. I don’t understand why she came to me with the idea and the syringe, but it worked like a charm. Our flight is to remain below 3,000 meters altitude regardless, so it won’t matter; besides, Nurse Atilla gave me an injection a half hour ago.

I took the bandage off before strapping in, causing Vunner to give a shout. It’s still a blue and red mess, and swollen a third larger than it would be!

Excellent.