Well done Dart! For a moment I was thinking you unlocked a secret mission or I missed the sequel.
Brill as always.
D_T

Excellent as always!

Excellent Dart. I was curious to see what Miller really was. I had him pegged for a VIP. Thanks, too, for showing off the RAF base. I built it up so much as I had intended to make an RAF counterpart for this campaign. Unfortunately I just don't have the time. I can only play for about 2 hours a week these days.

From the number of hits this AAR has recieved I'd say you're definitely doing something right. I'd love to see what you make of my Battle of Britain campaign, which also features Jedermann. This was a hint, in case anyone was unclear about that.

Thanks for the AAR's. I have just finished this excellent campaign. I was playing Monday evening and finished my mission. I hit the apply button to load the next mission, but the video came up instead.... the one about remembering the fallen with the aircraft flying the "missing man" formation.....then I realized it was memorial day!!!!!

Thanks FSM for a great campaign!

I've just been reading the last few pages of your AAR. What a terrific read ! I love how you built your story around the campaign, giving more depth to the characters.

If I may suggest, knowing you are a big fan of the Hurricane, give "RAF Pilot - France" (by the same genius author) a try. The briefings are so damn well written there's everything you can hope for to build a story around - and a pretty unconventional at that ! - with some rather... out-of-the-ordinary missions and 'colorful' characters. The general visual atmosphere is in perfect accordance with what I personnally expected for the time and area depicted, and the base-building work is just outstanding once again.

Someone else already had the idea, so I'll just second it : put the entire AAR together and post it as a sticky or feature on the front page.

Cheers

Nico

Thanks for your kind words.

Since I'm stuck in a hotel room at Fort Knox, I might as well write up the next mission; unfortunately, no pictures!

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

Morning came late for me, as I woke only when my batman shook me at the shoulders. The heat in my tent was stifling, and the sheet over me drenched with my sweat; for all the boiling of the sand, I find no way to fall asleep without some sort of cover!

No time to check on Hans, I made straight away to the briefing tent. To my shock, I was denied the usual anonymous entry of a place on a bench closest to the door - it was smiles and handshakes, with a few clapping! It was all quite disconcerting, and I was at a loss over the demonstration.

The word had gone out over my mission last night to pick up Hans, which had apparently increased in skill and daring with every second of the telling. I did my best to smile a little and raised my hand in an effort to get them to stop, and sat down. It would not do to show the disappointment and anger I was feeling.

Hans lay dying in the hospital tent and they have the gall to smile and clap. For what? My own flying of a Storch? As if that mattered at all! How stupid have we all become in this horrible place, that we would celebrate a good man's split skull? If he dies at our airfield or the British one, is he not just as dead?

Shaking off my maudlin thoughts, I listened to the briefing. More bombers and ground attack aircraft coming in, these our own, hulking He-111's and sturdy dive bombing Stukas. We are to meet them and escort them into the airfield. Strict radio silence has been called for, as they will be unescorted for most of their journey. We'd rendezvous with them 100 KM to the south of the airfield.

Ganz on my wing, Riechter and Schmitt as three and four, we formed up quickly in the air and made off toward the link up point. I waggled my wings to put the flight line abreast: I wanted all eyes forward to spot the bombers, as my mind kept wandering back to the sight of Hans slumped in my arms as I put him in the Storch and his head slumped forward on the flight back to the airfield.

Shaking my head to keep focus, I glanced left to spot landmarks on the ridgeline for a position check. Fifteen kilometers on our way, with a fight between flying correctly, the lull of the vibrations of the aircraft, and my own preoccupations tiring me long before we had just started.

A black smudge in the sky over the ridgeline....the bombers! And under attack! How is it that we had failed so miserably in timing the mission?

No use for radio silence, I keyed the microphone and ordered the flight to engage at once. Two Tommyhawks making for the bomber, which was slowing from the formation, and the Stukas in the front racing ahead as quickly as they could. Surely there would be more, but this pair is all I could see.

The British did not see us for their sport with the bombers, and they were lining up for a run with four hundred meters between them. Ganz cut hard on the lead while I rolled high and behind the trail P-40. Five degree deflection, 300 meters range, closing, and I pressed the guns.

Miss? Miss? I swore out loud as I had clearly underestimated the range and the Englander dove away. Enraged, I dove at him, throttle to full, closing as the altimeter spun from 2,500 meters to 500. Two hundred meters, fifteen degrees deflection, climbing, and I pressed the triggers again.

Miss. Again! The enemy broke hard right, corkscrewing into a wadi and back out to the left. Part of my mind was telling me to climb high and roll down on him, but my rage was on a boil and I matched his moves, closing in, throttle at full emergency, and I fired without thinking as we pulled high g back up from the rocks. A lucky hit to his left wing and the faintest stream of fuel.

Barrel roll left and he broke against my nose. Risking a high speed stall, I pulled the stick with both hands and rolled with him and came hard left with him. The rumble and whine of the engine, the creaking of the wings, the vibrations of everything running through my bones all disappeared; the pound of my heart in my ears was masking all sounds; even the pain and ache in my still healing nose vanished as the only thing I could see was the tight circle of the enemy plane high in the cockpit ceiling.

Every muscle in my body was tensed as tightly as I could make them as he rolled back to the right and dove once again, a hard wing over that was more desperate snap roll than planned maneuver. My right leg fought against my left as I forced the rudder pedal forward and slid through the turn to follow.

Fifty meters, and I could see the pilot's eyes looking back at me through his goggles as he jinked desperately. Firing as my nose crossed him in what would rake his plane along the fuselage, I rolled high to avoid collision and the expected debris.

More fuel from his left wing, but the fuselage untouched! He climbed against me in close vertical scissors, but I continued the roll and climbed underneath him, twenty five meters range. I could see paint on individual rivets and minor scratches on his plane! Lost of all reason, I fired with machineguns and cannon, slipping right in a climb.

The P-40 erupted metal and oil, the left elevator whipping past my windscreen as the rest showered around me. I continued to the right, nose up, left wing down, as the pilot slumped behind a ceased engine and cartwheeled along the rocks and scrub of the desert.

Coming to my senses, I looked around to clear skies and gauges that put numbers to what my returning hearing was telling me - I had cooked the engine.

Half throttle and a demand for a report from the flight.

"Alles clar!" Ganz reported, cheerfully, "Three Englanders down!"
"Bombers?"
"One damaged, the rest over the airfield."
"I am returning to base," I said gruffly, "Continue to patrol over the airfield."

I took up a pattern over the strip, slowing and descending, forcing myself to relax. Pain washed over me, along with a great fatigue. Every part of me burned and ached and felt as if it were made of lead. My legs were trembling uncontrollably, all strength gone from them. It was with great effort that I held the rudder to keep my plane in straight flight, and rolled long. Boiling glycol steamed up from my wings as I reduced it to idle as she crunched the sand to a halt.

Vunner ran up to the aircraft and lept onto the wing next to me. With great effort I unlatched the cockpit frame and remained seated. He leaned over me and unlatched me from the seat belts. He reached into his pocket and pulled a handkerchief out, gingerly wiping my face and telling me to relax. I had failed to put my goggles on at the start of the engagement, and the stress of the fight and altitude change had lead to a stream of tears running down my cheeks. Very odd; it had never happened before or since that moment.

He leaned in further and shut the engine down.

"She's done," I said simply.
"Ja," he replied, "Stay here a moment."
As if I had the strength to climb out on my own!

A Kubelwagen approached with my good friend Klaus behind the wheel along with another mechanic, waved over by Vunner. They pulled me from the aircraft and helped me into the vehicle. From there straight to my tent, where they helped me off with my flight gear and laid me on my cot, propping me up into a sitting position.

Klaus pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette for me, sticking into my mouth. I leaned my head back and took a long drag on it, allowing it to fill my lungs.

"Better?" he asked.
"I just pulled too many g's against that Tommyhawk."
"Cooked that Messer as well."
"He was a very good pilot, and I had to break the wire to get him."
"I'm sure he was, my friend."

There was a long silence.

"You abandoned your flight, Willi."
"I was engaged."
"They called repeatedly for you on the radio."
"I did not hear them."
"Willi, do that again and you will be grounded."
"Oh," I said angrily, "are you speaking now as my friend or my Executive Officer?"
"Both."
"Very well," I grunted bitterly, "Do as you must."

He stared at me and I stared right back. I didn't give a damn at that moment about him.

Standing, he moved to the opening of the tent and turned.

"Hans is awake and alert. The British had sedated him for some reason, which is why he looked so terrible last night when you got him. He had a full breakfast and the doctor believes he will recover from his wounds, though maybe not qualified for flight status."

I sat up fully, groaning from the strain of muscles that were already stiffening.

"He asked for you," Klaus deadpanned, "I will tell him you will see him later tonight, after you have rested."

I leaned back, rolling my eyes to the top of the tent, and the curtain of sleep dropped heavily on me.

master story teller

S!

[edit]

The bad part about my computer's repair was a reformat - losing the campaign in the process. But I downloaded it again and am playing them singly, picking up where I left off. This really isn't an issue, as I've long built a base of characters to go with the missions and don't give a hat about scores.

Anyhow, as always, it's a rough draft (probably has some spelling and grammar errors), no pictures or .ntrk as they'd be just perfidious:

[/edit]
=========


I don’t know when I fell asleep after Klaus left. I only remember looking at the tent wall and having it blur away. But now I was awake, my neck screaming at me for falling asleep sitting up, and an internal debate on whether my aching muscles (that were compelling me not to move) or my pressing bladder (which was insisting I get up) would win over each other.

It was night, and from the feel of the air well past midnight. One of the oddities of the desert is that one can almost tell time by scent; there’s a sweetness and a texture to the air that comes out during the third watch that retreats with the sun that is somehow visceral, defying description.

My battered travel clock reflected 0330 hours, confirming this. With a groan I stood up and made my way to the latrine, trailing bootlaces behind me. Still and quiet, blacked out, the silhouettes of planes and tents barely filled by a blanket of stars, I was halted by the display on my way out. Not a cloud to hinder the explosion of the Milky Way and the rest of the Heavenly Host, consuming me with the vista. A strange calmness washed over me; never had I really ever seen a night sky like this, laid out in all its glory, bright and dim and subtle smudges that seemed never ending. How small we are! I thought, and moved only when the strain of looking up with sore muscles became too much to bear.

My pace gentled and I walked softly across the crunching sand and gravel to the dispensary tent. Nurse Attila rose from her chair and met me in the aisle, saying nothing and everything with a nod as she led me to where Hans lay.

He looked alive. I feared the waxen glaze and seemingly positioned posture that so many wounded take when they sleep that make them look dead, but Hans lay there, mouth open and to the side, leg cocked under his sheet, and one arm draped over his abdomen. His color was normal below the bandage around his head.

“He’s unconscious?” I asked.
“Sleeping normally,” she responded, with a smile. Clearly she was pleased on his improvement from when I brought him in.
“Hans!” I called out in a loud voice, “Wake up!”
“What are you doing!” she said just as loud back to me, “Let him sleep!”
“I want to talk to him,” I replied in a louder voice, “and I want him to wake up.”
“You will leave here right now, Herr Oberst,” she nearly yelled, making the last sound as if it were a curse word.
“Both of you shut up,” Hans said with a cracked eyelid, “I’m trying to sleep here.”

In spite of herself, Nurse Atilla laughed.

I pulled up a stool next to Hans, putting my hand next to his on the edge of the bed.

“You look like hell,” he said to me, flatly.
“Better than you,” I replied.
“I’d rather this than to have my nose chopped off.”
“They sewed it back on.”
“With a pig’s snout!” he grinned, “it’s horrible!”

We laughed again, the laugh of those who have escaped death and are delighted by it.

“They say I’m here for a week, then back to Germany,” Hans informed me, bringing things back to the matters at hand, “for medical leave.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, but maybe a month.”

The doctor, alerted by the nurse, entered the tent.

“Herr Oberst,” he said politely, “it is very late and the other patients must sleep. Can I ask you to return during the daytime?”
“Ja wohl,” I conceded, standing up. I had seen what I wanted to see – Hans in full mental fitness and high spirits.

I stopped outside the tent door and looked up once again at the royal decorations hung above this terrible, mundane place. There is beauty indescribable over us, hiding behind cloud and harsh sunlight, I mused as I made my way back to my cot, sleeping contently until a runner poked his head in two hours later to awaken me for the next day’s mission.

=====

Whatever calm I might have gained from the previous night evaporated into outrage at briefing. An Artillery Battery was positioned in the hillsides overlooking the broad, flat valley was pounding our troops with pinpoint accuracy - and had risen to be a top target priority for our newly arrived Stuka bombers.

Unfortunately, the precise location of the Battery was unknown, so they were sending out reconnaissance aircraft to find it. Fighter aircraft. Singly. Such insanity could only have come from higher headquarters, as it was an invitation to be shot down.

My father had been an Artillery officer in the Great War and had taught me the odd skill of finding where artillery was placed by means of looking at the craters from the impacted rounds. One inserted a stick in the fuze hole of the crater, determined the direction the stick pointed (towards the gun), and by means of looking at several different craters performed a simple resection on the map.

Instead of relying on (or asking) the Artillery officers in the field to perform such simple work, the Luftwaffe was risky men and machine to fly about unsupported and look for them.

My suspicions that this came from higher up was confirmed when the squadron commander announced that he would be flying the second of two Bf-109’s this morning. I did agree with him that it should be the two of us – commander and senior flight lead – that perform the suicidal.

The Stukas were to strike in the afternoon, which was a relief, as within minutes of realizing they’d been spotted by air the British Artillery would be relocating. Since it was large, towed guns, there would be a fair chance of catching them.

Biting my tongue, I made my way out to my plane, marching at a quick pace with my map waving in my left hand, a small pair of field glasses in my right. Vunner saluted me with a grim look as I approached.

I returned his salute, relaxed, and smiled, putting my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t look so serious, Vunner,” I chastised, “it’s just a little sight seeing!”
“So long as it’s not a ‘familiarization’ flight,” he grunted.
We both grinned. It seemed like years ago when we first arrived and had been shocked to have heavy contact on what had been routinely billed as localized terrain orientation missions.

The aircraft started at once, and I noted that it was the same I had used the day prior. Vunner and his crew must have changed engines out in very short order, or had worked very late!

Getting clearance to take off immediately, I circled the airfield once to watch the squadron commander lift off cleanly and head towards the coast to his search sector. He chose the most dangerous of the two we were to take, ghosting the front lines along where the Tommies would be crossing on their way to our rear.

I headed along the ridgeline at right angles to our lines. A look at my map had shown that I’d be flying dangerously close to the British airfield. I decided to fly at one thousand to fifteen hundred meters altitude, low enough to see a poorly camouflaged battery (or their ammo trucks), but high enough to have some room to maneuver when I was bounced.

Fifteen minutes past my first waypoint the Commander came on the radio, confirming that he was in contact with enemy fighters. I cursed in my mask, unable to help, and looked around constantly. Occasionally I scanned the ridgeline using the field glasses; the minor turbulence and confined cockpit made them almost useless, though.

To my left front, flashes winked at me from the ground in a saddle – anti-aircraft fire!

Never shoot at an aircraft needlessly, I recited from the manual, as it only draws them to you!

Sure enough, laid out in a lazy W formation with an observation team slightly lower down, was a six gun heavy Artillery Battery, guarded by three twenty millimeter anti-aircraft guns.

Not only were the gunners on the ground overly hasty, their fire was poorly aimed, and I corkscrewed from fifteen hundred meters, ensuring it was the only Battery present. The lack of any camouflage netting told me they were shooting and displacing regularly, and I decided to give the Luftwaffe some nice pictures to go with my marks on the map.

Keeping my left wing pointed at the guns and low, I circled in closer and then rolled it over towards them, diving low of the positions. The gun camera was turned on as I pulled up and along the gun line.

The fire from the ground was uncoordinated, so after a quick extension that gained my altitude back, I repeated the track from a different direction, taking more film. This time I let loose with some machinegun fire and laughed at the sight of the crews scattering about for their hidey-holes! I was low enough to see the frightened faces of the British Soldiers (most were not wearing shirts or helmets) as they bailed left and right.

My egress put me in the direction of the enemy base, below the top of the ridgeline and only ten kilometers from it. Scanning around and finding no Tommyhawks diving on me, I impishly decided to have some fun and visit them.

Staying just a few meters above the terrain, I snaked along valleys, popping just over the dip of a saddle just off their aerodrome. At four hundred kilometers an hour and ten meters altitude, the air defenses didn’t have time to draw aim on my inverted Messerschmitt as I crossed their tents and aircraft.

Rolling back over after I made my transit, I ducked down below the ridge on the other side and made towards our base.

My landing was uneventful, though I had forgotten to turn on the gun cameras during my airfield fly-over. On reflection, I decided not to mention it to anyone.

The Commander returned safely as well, having shot down one P-40 before escaping from the rest of the enemy flight.

Great to see you back. Top read as always.

Excellent, your thread keeps me visiting this forum always.